Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  “He was murdered, Ms. Clarke.”

  “I realize that, or why would Dallas and Peabody be in my office? And that’s precisely why I won’t demand a warrant. I do want just a moment to talk to my legal people. I’ve owned Discretion for sixteen years, and we’ve never had anything like this happen. I want to make certain I do the right thing for everyone involved. If you’d just give me a minute.”

  When she hurried out, Eve nodded. “She’ll give us what we ask for.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, because she wants to. She liked him—at least the way you like a longtime, regular customer. We’ll get what we came for.”

  So Eve settled back to wait.

  11

  Eve shoved her way over the bridge to Brooklyn, weaving through, leapfrogging over the thick river of vehicles heading in the same direction. The river clogged when neck-craners slowed to study the delivery truck and sedan with crunched fenders along with the police cruiser dealing with the encounter in the breakdown lane.

  Eve cursed them all for idiots, hit lights and sirens, pushed into vertical for a whooshing half a mile. During which Peabody clutched the chicken stick like a lifeline.

  “Do they hope to see blood and bodies?” Eve ranted. “Is it: Oh look, honey, an accident. Break out the freaking popcorn.”

  Once they crossed the bridge, Eve eased back a bit to follow the computer prompts to the address in Cobble Hill—and Peabody flexed her aching fingers.

  It proved to be a lively street with a scatter of restaurants, a few shops, a small park where a number of people walked dogs or watched kids risk broken bones on playground equipment.

  Marcella’s mother had the ground floor of a triple-decker with its own little patio off the side. It also boasted a narrow driveway currently occupied by a dark blue town car.

  Eve pulled in behind it. “That matches the basic description of the car the wit saw at Pettigrew’s. Run the tags,” Eve told Peabody as they got out.

  “It’s registered to Bondita Rothchild.”

  “Might be interesting.” Eve walked to the door, pushed the buzzer.

  The woman who answered was tall, slim, and blond. Not Marcella, Eve thought, but by the family resemblance, related.

  “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.” Eve offered her badge.

  “Yes, we’re expecting you. I’m Rozelle, Marci’s sister. This is just horrible. Marci’s a wreck. Claudia—that’s our friend who was with us—is back making her tea because Marci won’t take a soother. I just … I’m sorry, I guess I’m a wreck, too. Come inside.”

  The entrance opened into a generous living space where someone had turned on lights and lamps to combat the gloom from the insistent drizzle outside. They’d lowered the privacy shades as well.

  Marcella sat on a sofa, a chocolate-brown throw over her lap, and cuddled close to her mother.

  Bondita, spotting Eve and Peabody, wrapped a protective arm around her daughter. They all looked exhausted.

  Another blonde, this one tall and curvy in black skin pants and a flowy white shirt, hurried from the back with a tray.

  “Our friend, Claudia Johannsen. These are the police, Claudia. Go ahead and take Marci her tea.

  “You drink this now, Marce.” She used the firm tone of a veteran schoolteacher, a determined mother, or a sturdy nurse. “We’re all here for you. You drink some tea, too, Bondi. And you come sit down and have yours, Roz. Officers, can I make you some tea?”

  “Lieutenant, Detective,” Eve corrected. “No, thanks. Ms. Horowitz—”

  “Since that’s two of us here, why don’t you go with first names,” Rozelle suggested. “It’s just easier.”

  “All right. Marcella, we’re very sorry for your loss. We understand this is a difficult time for you.”

  “Difficult? Difficult?” Her voice pitched up three registers on the three syllables. “Is that how you think it is for me? The man I love is dead!”

  Okay, Eve thought, it’s going to be one of those.

  Before she could continue, Sympathetic Peabody shifted into gear. “Marcella, we want to help. We’re here to do everything we can to find out who did this to the man you love. As hard as it must be for you, we know you want us to find those answers, so we need your help. Thaddeus needs your help.”

  “Thaddeus!” Marcella wailed it.

  “Stop now.” Bondita hugged her, rocked her. “Stop now, Marcella, or I’ll have to make you take a soother.”

  “Nothing could make me stop feeling. How could this happen? How could this happen to Thad?”

  “It’s our job to find out,” Eve told her. “There are questions we need to ask you so we can go out and do that job.”

  “You talk to the police now, Marce,” Claudia insisted. “We’re here with you.”

  “I’m sorry, sit down, both of you.” Bondita waved a hand. “My husband and I managed to raise a son and two daughters without ever having the police at the door. None of us are behaving well.”

  “I want to know what happened to Thad.” Once again Marcella’s voice rose up, pitch by pitch. “I deserve to know!”

  “Mr. Pettigrew left the residence you share with him last night at approximately nine P.M.”

  “He told me he was staying in,” Marcella interrupted.

  “That may be, but he left the residence at that time in the company of an as yet unknown female.”

  Her slumping shoulders shot back, stiffened. “He did not!”

  Eve just pushed on. “He left with said unknown female, and with her, got into what is described as a dark town car.”

  “But you said— Mom, didn’t she say his—his—Thad was home when he …”

  “His body was discovered by a neighbor out walking his dog early this morning, outside the house. His verified time of death was two-twenty this morning. The nine-one-one call from the neighbor logged in at three-forty-three.”

  “Where was he all that time?” Marcella demanded. “Did he come back home, then someone broke in, and killed him, and left him outside?”

  “Mr. Pettigrew wasn’t killed inside the residence.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s my job to know,” Eve snapped back. “He opened the door to the female because he believed she was the licensed companion he had booked for the evening.”

  “That’s a lie! A lie, a terrible lie, and I won’t listen.”

  To Eve’s bemusement, Marcella literally clamped her hands over her ears.

  But when she started to lurch up, her mother held her in place. “Sit still, Marcella. Be quiet. Can you prove that?”

  “We’ve verified it, yes. He made the booking yesterday. It appears his system had been hacked, and the booking was canceled. This individual took the place of the LC he’d hired. Subsequently, she drugged him, led him out to the waiting car. He was taken to another location.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this. Thad would never, never do that. He would never cheat on me.”

  Really? Eve thought. Unlike the way he cheated on his wife with you?

  “You’re stating you were unaware Mr. Pettigrew regularly used the services of Discretion, a company that facilitates customers who wish to hire licensed companions.”

  Marcella’s eyes streamed like a toddler’s after being told she couldn’t have candy. “He never did that.”

  “He used their services for at least nine years.”

  The tears dried up, and a mutinous expression replaced them. “Maybe, maybe he did before we fell in love, but—”

  “And has continued to use their services every few weeks up until his death.”

  “You’re trying to ruin everything for me.” She bunched her fists, actually shook them. “Saying horrible things to ruin my life. I want you to go. Get out.”

  “That’s enough, Marcella. Claudia, would you take Marcella back to my bedroom? She needs to lie down.”

  “Of course. Come on with me, Marce.”

  “She�
�s lying, Claudia.”

  “Let’s just go lie down. You have to rest. It’s an awful day.”

  She tugged Marcella up, got a firm arm around her.

  “You’re a horrible person,” Marcella spat at Eve.

  As Claudia pulled Marcella out, Bondita pressed her fingers to her eyes. Rozelle shifted over, stroked her mother’s arm.

  “I apologize, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Not in my home.” She dropped her hands, took her daughter’s. “She believed she loved him, believed he loved her. She’d made him the center of her world. Learning this will be nearly as shattering for her as his death.”

  “Were you aware he used LCs?”

  “I was not. I’ll admit I wondered if he’d stray, or simply tire of Marcella. She’s young, and naive, and, well, demanding. But he seemed genuinely devoted to her. They seemed happy together. Are you saying this woman, the one who posed as an LC, killed Thaddeus?”

  “Yes.”

  “It makes no sense. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to kill Thaddeus.”

  “No,” Rozelle agreed. “It doesn’t make sense. We had this trip planned for weeks. And he surprised Marci with the extra day. He asked me to arrange it, a surprise because, apparently, she complained she wouldn’t be able to get all the treatments she wanted in the two days. I couldn’t get the extra day because they were fully booked— then there was a cancellation, so I grabbed it. She was so excited.”

  “When did you book the extra day?”

  “Just two days ago. It was really last minute, so Claudia had to scramble to work in the extra day. Thad even arranged for champagne and flowers in our suite.”

  “You all had rooms in the same suite?”

  “Yes, it’s a two-level, their best. Marci treated—or, realistically, Thaddeus treated us to the suite.”

  “I need to go up to my daughter.”

  “Bondita, before you do, can you tell us the last time you used your car?”

  “My car? What does that— Oh my God! You think … We weren’t even here!”

  “It would just help to have that information.”

  “Two days ago, for my volunteer work. And to run some last-minute errands before the trip.”

  “Who else has access to your car?”

  “My husband, of course. He has his own, but we have the codes to each other’s. Before you ask, I know he was home because I spoke to him last night, just a check-in, around midnight. He had friends over for a poker party—something he likes to do if I go out of town. We spoke, not long, as they were on the last hand of the night. He had at least six people here, you can check.”

  “Thank you. We will if we find it helpful. We appreciate your time.”

  As they rose, Peabody spoke up. “We could give you the names of some good grief counselors. It might help Marcella.”

  “Yes. Rozelle, I want to go up to Marcella.”

  “You go. I’ll get the names. She wouldn’t have had a clue,” Rozelle said quietly as her mother went out. “Marci, I mean. If she had, she’d have told me, or Claudia. Maybe not Mom, not right away, but she’d have told me or Claudia.”

  “Why not your mother?” Eve asked.

  “Because she knew our parents didn’t really approve, at least at first. Thaddeus won them over, for the most part. He really seemed completely devoted, made her so happy, indulged her. But he was older, divorced, and they’d hoped for something, someone different for her.”

  Rozelle paused, pressed her fingers under her eyes.

  “She’ll get over this,” she said. “She doesn’t think she will, but she will. Once it gets through he’d cheated on her, she’ll get over it, move on. She’s young. But for now, a grief counselor would help.”

  After Peabody gave the names, Rozelle showed them out. Eve studied the town car as she walked to her own.

  “It’s not going to fit. You’d have to figure, if the family—speaking of which, she mentioned a son, so let’s find him—but if the family’s covered, why use this car? People in the house, maybe going in and out, they’d notice if the car came and went. So it’s not going to fit.”

  Eve got behind the wheel, took a moment. She shook her head, pulled out of the drive. “She’s a girl.”

  “Well,” Peabody said. “Yeah.”

  “No, not a woman, not a female. A girl. The youngest of the family, and they baby her. You can see it, the dynamics there. Maybe she loved Pettigrew, maybe at least she thought she did, but the older sister’s got it right. She’ll get over it, move on. She’s not going to torture, mutilate, and kill two men because the one she lived with hired LCs. That takes purpose. She doesn’t have one.”

  “That came loud and clear,” Peabody agreed. “And I’m going to say she struck me as the type who’d squeal if she saw blood. I can’t see her slicing off a dick.”

  “People take care of her. She doesn’t take care of people—for good or ill. They also didn’t talk about the big gorilla.”

  “What big gorilla?”

  “You know, the fact that she cheated with Pettigrew on his ex when she wasn’t his ex. He cheated with her, but everybody was real careful not to mention it. Like the big gorilla in the room everybody pretends not to notice.”

  “Oh, oh, elephant. It’s the elephant in the room.”

  “That’s stupid. You can’t ignore a freaking elephant who wouldn’t be able to fit in most rooms anyway. Plus, there’d be massive piles of elephant shit. Try not noticing that.”

  “I think that’s actually the point of the saying.”

  “Which just makes it stupid. You could pretend to ignore a gorilla because some people bear a freaky resemblance thereto.”

  Considering that, Peabody pursed her lips. “I knew this guy at the Academy who sort of did.”

  “There you go. In any case, they all avoided that area of discussion, and they’d all know. Just like they all know she’ll go through the hysterics, then settle down and move on. But let’s check on the brother anyway.”

  Peabody worked it while Eve fought the traffic wars back over the bridge.

  “He was at the poker party,” Peabody reported after a brief conversation on her ’link.

  “Should’ve figured it.”

  “He left about eleven because he had an early series of meetings today. And he’s at a conference in Connecticut right now. He left this morning about seven. I did a run while I talked to him, Dallas. He comes off pretty squeaky clean. One marriage—eight years in. Two kids. He doesn’t have a license to drive, doesn’t own a vehicle.”

  As Eve avoided contact with a compact that swerved into her lane, she snarled. “A lot of people shouldn’t have one.”

  “Grew up in New York, moved to Hoboken after the first kid from the timing on his data.”

  “It’s not going to be him. They’re not going to be involved. Just not enough there for the level of violence. It’s a vendetta.”

  She pulled into the garage, thrilled to be finished, for now, with the hordes of people who shouldn’t have a license to drive.

  “I’m going to say it again. You don’t have to do this thing with Tibble.”

  “I’m going to say it again,” Peabody countered as they got out of the car. “Your ass, my ass.” She made a fist, pumped it. “Pan.”

  Eve just shook her head.

  They rode the elevator as far as Eve could stand it, squeezed out when a bunch of shiny new uniforms trooped on, herded by the grizzled vet she assumed had drawn the short straw for leading an orientation.

  She hit the glides. “Check in with EDD, see if McNab’s made any progress.”

  The more she had to present, Eve thought, the better.

  “He’s into it.” Peabody read the reply on the ’link screen. “Hack confirmed, but it’s multiple. So far he’s got them going back for sixteen months. He hasn’t been able to pinpoint. Can’t ascertain as yet if it’s one hacker or more.”

  “Good enough for now. The
killer cyber-stalked him.”

  They switched back to an elevator for the rise to The Tower. Tibble’s offices soared high above the streets, and the desks of the cops who worked them. But Eve had reason to know that distance, that height, didn’t remove New York’s Chief of Police and Security from those who served and protected.

  But those who rose that high had more than law and order to oversee. They had to deal with politics, with optics, with media perception.

  She acknowledged that reality, more or less accepted it, and often thought: Better them than me.

  She paused outside Tibble’s office where his admin manned a workstation with two screens, a D and C where several lights blinked insistently, a ’link humming incoming even as he talked on a headset.

  “Hold, please.” He turned to Eve and Peabody. “Just one moment, Lieutenant, Detective.” He tapped his headset. “Sir, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody are here. Yes, sir.” He tapped again. “You can go right in. He’s ready for you.”

  Eve opened the right side of the double doors.

  The wall of glass showed the world of New York washed in the light drizzle of early spring rain.

  The room itself, wide and deep, held a sitting area, a massive wall screen, a solid desk, high-backed visitors’ chairs.

  The two men in the room sat at their ease. Commander Whitney filled a visitor’s chair with his wide shoulders. Gray threaded liberally through his dark hair, and the lines of command scored his face with a kind of stoic dignity.

  Tibble, long and lean, took the desk with the drenched city at his back. He wore his hair close to the skull of a face as long and lean as his body. His eyes skimmed from Whitney to Eve to Peabody, and showed nothing.

  She’d heard he was hell at the poker table.

  “Lieutenant, Detective, have a seat.”

  Though she preferred giving reports, or receiving a dressing-down, while on her feet, Eve followed orders.

  “As you should be aware,” Tibble began, “I rarely summon my officers to The Tower over a complaint. However, since this complainant has opted to reach out to me, personally, as well as the mayor, Commander Whitney and I agreed we should have a conversation.”