Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  Mira, her sun-tipped mink-colored hair falling in a curly bob, stood by her AutoChef. Spring obviously inspired the trim lilac suit, the shoes of a few shades deeper with skinny heels so clear they looked like glass.

  She’d added small purplish dangles to her ears, a trio of thin, braided chains around her neck, and as always, looked simply perfect.

  She smiled at Eve, her soft blue eyes warming. “I’m just making tea—and yes, I know, but I think you could use something calmer than coffee by this time of your day. You’ve been at it since before dawn.”

  “She likes to kill early, after a long night.”

  “Yes, I’ve read the reports.” Mira gestured to one of her blue scoop chairs as she brought over two delicate cups of floral-scented tea.

  “Now.” She handed Eve one, sat, crossed her very fine legs. “You say she, and I’m going to agree the killer is female, a justice seeker who believes she’s enacted that justice by the violent murder of men who have misused other women.”

  “The violence escalated with the second victim.”

  “It often does, as we know. And executing—as I believe she sees it—two men in two nights is not only vindicating, but exciting.”

  “Could she have had a more personal issue with Pettigrew?”

  “It’s certainly possible, but if she kills again, somewhat less likely. She killed him not first, but second. If there are more victims it’s less likely, as the more personal would more likely be saved for the end. The crescendo, so to speak.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have an end in mind. McEnroy was a kind of practice. Can I pull this off? Yeah, I can, so move on to the personal target.”

  Interested, Mira sat back, lifted her eyebrows. “Do you have a reason to believe that?”

  “Pettigrew’s ex-wife rings some bells for me.”

  “What sort?”

  “Her reaction to his murder? Way over the top. Divorced two years, right? And this is a guy who cheated on her, then dumped her for the younger skirt, and basically swindled her out of the company she’d built. For this guy she’s a weeping wreck? I don’t buy it.”

  “Some love regardless of the insults and injuries.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. But no.” The more she rolled it around, the more certain she felt. “Just no on this one. I can’t tell you exactly why, but just no. Add a shaky alibi, but one that’s corroborated, sort of. She has considerable e-skills and Pettigrew’s accounts were skillfully hacked. Big house, private house, plenty of room to do dirty deeds.”

  “You believe she’s your killer.”

  “At this point, yeah. I have to look at all the angles, but, if she’s not the killer, she’s not altogether right. Just off somehow.”

  “Keep me apprised there.”

  “I will. Otherwise, the killer has the connection, one way or the other, with this support group. No way she just happened to target two men with women they’d … misused in that group.”

  “So it may be more than one involved.”

  “We’ve seen it before, but … I don’t think the woman heading the group would have missed this sort of violent pact forming. And it feels like a single killer. It just feels as if it’s one who enjoys putting on the mask. Being this lure for this target, this lure for the next. When she hits again, she’ll present herself as his particular fantasy.”

  “Lady Justice,” Mira added. “Yet another persona. Singular as well. Add the poems. Poetry tends to be highly personal to the poet. Yet the sheer physicality, the logistics, make it difficult to say, with confidence, the killer acts alone.”

  “Not alone. Someone’s driving. It may be a partner, a hireling. It’s certainly someone she trusts not to betray her, so I lean toward another female first. Men are the betrayers.”

  “Yes. She’s been betrayed or abused by a male. It may be a father or father figure if that betrayal was sexual.” Mira paused a moment, sipped tea as she studied Eve. “Is that aspect giving you any difficulty?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  And until Mira had the answer to the question, Eve knew, she’d persist. So, get it out and done.

  “I know what it’s like to be raped, to be helpless, to have the rapist be my father. I know what it’s like to kill, and kill violently. If it brings that back, I can use it. I will use it. Finding who killed these men, whatever they did in life, is my job. I have to do the job, or even after all this time, Richard Troy wins.”

  “If you have any trouble, I hope you’ll come to me.”

  “I’m here now. But I’m okay.”

  And wanted to close that particular door.

  “McEnroy was a predator,” Eve continued, “and it would have satisfied me to take him down, to see him live out the rest of his life in a cage. Pettigrew? Weak, greedy, a liar, but there’s no evidence he physically harmed anyone. Just cheated and cheated on his spouse, then continued to cheat on the woman he cheated with. Maybe a crappy human being, but not one who deserved what happened to him. I can stand for both of them.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you you’re looking for a mature, goal-oriented killer. A female, at least thirty, probably somewhat older. Controlled until she has her target subdued. Controlled enough to stalk, to research, to plan, to prepare, to lure him. Once she has him bound, unable to defend, that control is let off the leash. She has the endurance to physically torture her victims for hours, the emotional distance to ignore their screams or pleas, as there’s no sign they were silenced during the torture.”

  “She’d want to hear them beg and scream.”

  “I agree. Their punishment sustains her, their pain feeds her. The castration is the last stage, unmanning them, literally. And allowing them to hang, from the medical examiner’s report, like meat, until they succumb to blood loss.”

  “Why does she bring them back to their residence? She could dispose of the bodies altogether, or dump them—since she has to have transpo—miles away. But she risks, in both cases, bringing them back, leaving them outside, taking the time to leave them, and the poem, in plain sight.”

  “She wants them found, and quickly. Doesn’t it show their loved ones who they were? What they were? It shows the city, the world they were punished for their deeds. By her. I believe she’ll be both pleased and upset that she’s now being hunted by a pair of female cops. She’d appreciate your power—female power is essential to her psyche. And she’ll be unhappy that, as women, you don’t see she’s doing what needs to be done when she would consider you colleagues.

  “I suspect she has no man in her life now, nor does she wish to have that sort of connection. She may have female friends or companions, but men? Animals to be butchered, predators to be hunted. She believes in what she’s doing, and so is only more dangerous.”

  “She’s not done.”

  “No, I don’t believe she is. If she has a job at this point, it’s likely something she can do alone, or where she can flex her hours.”

  Shifting, Mira uncrossed, recrossed her legs. “As you noted in your report, she must have a place, a private area where she can carry out her torture, where she can take these men without being detected. I also agree with Morris. She has some medical skill or has practiced the castration. The amputations were much too clean and precise for them to be done by a novice. Additionally, our ME’s belief that a ceremonial-style blade was used says the castration—the unmanning, as you put it—is the main mission.”

  With a slow nod, Eve thought it through. “The hunt, the lure, even the torture, those are as much for her entertainment as punishment. The purpose, the point, is severing their manhood, removing that, taking that, so they die without it. Sexless.”

  “Yes.” Mira smiled as if at a clever student. “Exactly that.”

  “She’s able to project the persona, the image of what each of her victims wanted. That’s part of the game, the entertainment,” Eve added. “She’s the attractive, available redhead McEnroy would invite into his
privacy booth. Then the type of LC Pettigrew favors so he let her into his house. I think with Pettigrew it would have been quick. Hi, come on in. But with McEnroy there had to be some flirtation, some verbal foreplay. This wasn’t a business transaction. She had to be what he was looking for. And even though it was quick, she had to be what Pettigrew expected.”

  “She studies them, adapts.”

  “Acts?” Eve leaned forward. “I’m wondering if she has acting skills, experience, abilities. She has targets, and not just these two. They won’t all be quick and done like Pettigrew. She has to entice, lure, meet specific expectations to put the men she selects into the situation where she can take them out.”

  “That’s certainly possible,” Mira agreed. “But she believes in her mission, her goal. She prepares—that’s the control. She becomes—that’s part of the preparation. No doubt she practices. She has time, she has the space and the means. The wardrobe, for instance, the hair, whether wigs or styling, the transportation, the drugs. All that takes means. She’s made an investment.”

  Mira tilted her head. “Does this, too, apply to Darla Pettigrew?”

  “Yeah, the means, the acting skills—potentially. The shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “One of the other women told me she came off rich—expensive shoes. She’s got the private home—a big one where she lives with her grandmother. The grandmother’s recovering from an illness, and in addition you can see they’re tight. That’s the shaky corroboration on the shaky alibi.”

  “And does Pettigrew have acting experience?”

  “Not that shows, but the grandmother does. Big-deal actor. Eloise Callahan?”

  “Really?” Shifting again, Mira blinked. “Yes, a very big deal. She’s brilliant, revered. And she’s quite the activist, too.”

  “She knows Peabody’s grandmother, they did the activist thing together.”

  Mira let out a light laugh. “That shouldn’t surprise me a bit. Callahan’s also well known for her philanthropy. From what I know of her it’s hard to picture her involved in torture murders.”

  “She doesn’t have to be involved, directly. It strikes me that the granddaughter may have picked up some tips over the years. Acting, makeup, wardrobe. Even, what’s it—staging. The whole thing is full of drama, right down to the poems and the name she’s given herself”

  “Yes, there’s a flair for the theatrical. Is that how she struck you?”

  “No. The opposite. Quiet, unassuming—even, I don’t know, plain. But she overplayed the grief and shock. It just hit wrong. It looked, sounded, genuine, but it hit wrong. It’s all I’ve got,” Eve admitted with a shrug. “She hit me wrong.”

  Sitting back again, Mira took a moment to process. “Well, she would be in the age group I’ve profiled. She would have means, and motive, and the privacy. She attended the support group. You have ample reason to consider her a suspect.”

  “Right now, she’s prime. But I can’t get a warrant on a hunch.” Eve rose, and as she set the cup aside found herself surprised she’d actually finished the tea. “Thanks for the time.”

  “Be careful. She’s vicious,” Mira added. “Once that part of her is unleashed, she’s vicious.”

  “Hey, me, too.”

  As Eve headed back to Homicide, Darla ran a few errands. With the rain, both she and the day nurse agreed to cancel Grand’s walk. But Darla enjoyed the rain, strolling in it as she stopped in the bakery for Grand’s favorite cannolis, moved on to the market for some fresh fruit.

  She’d used the excuse that she needed to get out, to walk, to keep busy to help settle herself over Thaddeus. Both Grand and the nurse, she thought as she examined bunches of the tart green grapes Grand liked, had been so understanding, so sympathetic.

  God, she loved that.

  She’d seen the hints of pity, too, for a woman discarded and betrayed who still loved, and could grieve for the man who’d hurt her.

  She enjoyed the pity quite a lot.

  But they’d never understand how true love and deep hate could live in the same heart.

  Thaddeus hadn’t known her. After all the years she’d shared her bed, her body, given him her trust and devotion, he hadn’t seen her through the disguise.

  He hadn’t known until, in the last moments of his life, as the blood drained from him, she’d taken off the mask. He’d looked so puzzled, she remembered—fondly—staring at her as life poured out of him.

  And he’d said her name, finally said her name, Darla, like a question. His last word had been her name.

  And that, oh that, had been delicious.

  “Excuse me.”

  Darla came back to the moment as another woman nudged her impatiently.

  “I need to get by.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. My mind wandered.” With an apologetic smile, Darla shifted, chose some grapes, some berries.

  When she finished in the market, she stepped back outside. Opened her umbrella, gave it a little twirl.

  She felt lighter than air!

  She hummed a bit as she walked, as she replayed her scene with the police. Perfect, just perfect, in her recollection. The shock, the grief, the struggle for composure.

  So much fun! She hadn’t known how much fun she’d have.

  Maybe she’d worried, just for a moment, when she’d realized Grand had come down. But then that had turned out perfectly, too.

  To have her sweet grandmother—and the acclaimed Eloise Callahan—vouch for her, essentially relate the same story, the same timeline.

  And how smart had it been to run up to check on Grand when Thad-deus passed out. The police could hardly suspect her of killing anyone when she had her much-loved grandmother to tend to.

  She had to admit it was fun to match wits with Eve Dallas. It felt as if they were characters—the leads—in a vid. Only she was directing it, too. And writing it. She’d designed the costumes (at least her own).

  And she already had the next act written.

  Walking home in the rain with her market bag, her bakery box, she smiled, even did a little dance inside her head.

  All those years, she thought, all those years with Thaddeus, she’d been so devoted, so faithful.

  So weak.

  She’d created a company—herself! Used her brain, her skills, her energy to make it into something solid. Not earthshaking, but solid and respectable.

  She’d done that.

  And she’d let him take it from her, just as he’d taken her self-respect. At least she’d learned from the group that she wasn’t alone. In fact, she wasn’t nearly the worst case. So many women used, abused, betrayed.

  They had a champion in her now. She’d given them Lady Justice.

  She swiped into the house, put her umbrella in the stand, her jacket in the closet.

  After carrying the marketing to the kitchen, she ordered the droid to make tea while she herself arranged the fruit, the pastries on pretty plates.

  A treat for Grand.

  She checked the time, deemed it perfect. Grand would have finished her physical therapy, and would be settled in the upstairs parlor.

  She wheeled the cart into the elevator. Inside she arranged her face into what she thought of as a brave smile—keeping her eyes just a little sad.

  When she wheeled the cart in, Eloise and the nurse sat already deep into a game of Scrabble.

  “Cannolis.” Eloise rolled her eyes. “There goes the waistline.”

  “Not yours, Grand. I bet Donnalou worked you hard.”

  “She’s a slave driver.”

  Donnalou, a tiny woman with a quick laugh, just shook her head. “I can barely keep up with her these days. And she’s already hit me with a seven-letter word on a triple.”

  “Then you both deserve a treat.”

  “Sit down with us, Darla.”

  “No, you two go ahead.” Darla bent over to kiss Eloise’s cheek. “I’ve got a few things to do. Keeping busy’s the best right now.”

  “Don’t push y
ourself too hard, Darla,” Donnalou advised. “You look tired.”

  “Don’t worry. I might take a lie-down while you’re here. We’ll see. Now, Grand, don’t you trounce Donnalou too hard.”

  “No promises.”

  Laughing, Darla got back in the elevator. And took it all the way down to her lair. Keeping an eye on the monitor and the Scrabble game, she checked to be certain the droid had thoroughly cleaned the floor, the restraints. And of course Lady Justice’s uniform.

  She double-checked her supply of drugs. More than enough for one more, she decided, but she might need to send a droid out to score. Especially since Grand, thank God truly on the mend, would need a slightly stronger dose of the sleeping draught to keep her safe and dreaming through the night.

  She’d send the droid she’d named Jimmy—mid-twenties, tough face with a small scar on the right cheek. He could meet the dealer later that night, refresh her supplies.

  She imagined her own doctor would prescribe something to help her sleep—given the circumstances. But she really didn’t have time for that.

  She needed to select the costume for the next scene.

  13

  When Eve walked back into the bullpen, Jenkinson’s new obscenity of a tie greeted her. When he signaled her over to his desk, she scowled at it.

  “Why, I ask sincerely, would a grown man, a cop, a veteran detective of the NYPSD wear an atomic-green tie with screaming yellow rubber duckies all over it?”

  “They’re not screaming, they’re quacking. And it’s what you call whimsy.”

  “It’s what I call felonious assault on the eyes. Did you get the notes and names from Natalia Zula?”

  “Yeah, we got ’em—and her daughter was home.” Though he sat and Eve stood, he managed to look down his nose at her. “She said my tie was mag. Just saying. You got the discs on your desk. And check it.”

  He thumbed back toward Reineke, his usual partner. Obliging, Reineke hitched up his pants leg to reveal screaming yellow rubber duckies on atomic-green socks.

  “Jesus, you’re coordinating now?”

  “Just the luck of the draw,” Reineke claimed. “Anyhow, Zula and her kid were both cooperative. Some shaken up at the idea one of the group might be killing people. The kid wants her mother to come in, give you a thumbnail shrink sketch on the members. Mom’s conflicted.”