Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  “She may have to get unconflicted.”

  “They’re tight,” Jenkinson put in. “We got the feeling the daughter was going to work on the mom about it.”

  “I’ll take that for now. Thanks for the assist.”

  She went to her office and plugged in the disc.

  She scanned the names, the notes attached to each. Some of everything, Eve mused. Rape, abuse, emotional bullying, cheating partners, dumped by lovers, scammed, slapped, screwed over, beaten, belittled, badgered.

  Some, by the notes, angry, some depressed, others guilt-ridden or ashamed. A lot of desperation and shattered egos.

  Natalia had noted down if the woman mentioned children, her job, another relationship, a friend or family member, and whether those were supportive or combative.

  She’d added whether or not the woman had reported the rape, abuse, or assault, if the woman had removed herself from the situation or remained in it.

  Careful notes, Eve decided, and always nonjudgmental. Might pay to have her come in, give those thumbnails to Mira. Shrink to shrink.

  Pausing, she took time to shoot a memo to Mira asking her if she agreed, and if so, would she contact Zula.

  Then she read, with interest, the notes on Darla.

  11/59: Husband left her for younger woman (had an affair with same during the marriage). Husband currently living with younger woman. Divorce entailed the sale of the company she’d built—his demand. Discovered he’d manipulated a majority share. Now living with grandmother.

  Appears educated, bright, financially stable.

  Appears emotionally shattered, feels worthless, unattractive, undesirable, foolish, bitter. Still in the grieving stage over death of marriage, broken trust, sexual betrayal.

  Briefer notes illustrated progress or lack of same, mood, ability to connect with others in the group through the early part of 2060.

  3/60: Appears stronger emotionally though cannot yet let go of her anger and sense of betrayal. I see a definite and encouraging bond with others in the group, a willingness to listen, sympathize. She no longer breaks down when she speaks of her own situation, but speaks with bitterness of her ex and the woman he left her for. Credits her grandmother for giving her support and strength.

  Anger, bitterness, Eve thought. That she could buy. And that didn’t jibe, to her mind, with the floods of grief.

  5/60: More interactive, more easily offering support and sympathy to others. Stated, emotionally, the group, the other women have helped her find purpose again, find self again.

  7/60: Am told confidentially by Una that Darla gifted her with several thousand dollars to assist Una in renting an apartment. Showing generosity and friendship, a willingness to offer a hand up.

  12/60: Brought small gifts for the group for the holiday meeting. Seemed very upbeat—though expressed some concern re grandmother, who is feeling poorly. Left early.

  And that was the last entry. Sitting back, Eve thought it through.

  She could play it two ways. One, the group support, the healing time, and blah blah brought Darla out of her hole, helped her shake off the negative feelings, focus on the positive. Helped her bond with other women and lift herself back up to a productive life.

  Or, as she put her shattered self back together, listening to the other women—the betrayals, abuse—she re-formed into something twisted. Began to see herself as a kind of champion—an avenger.

  Finding her purpose.

  “And nothing here, just nothing here to push that either way.”

  She gathered her things, went back to the bullpen and Peabody’s desk.

  “Whatever it is shut it down, or bring it with you to work as we go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To light a fire under Dickhead at the lab. I want to know what Pettigrew had under his toenails.”

  Peabody scrambled up, grabbed her coat. “I’ve been crossing the names Jenkinson and Reineke got from Zula with McEnroy’s list of victims and targets.”

  “And?” Eve said as they walked.

  “Some matches—it’s just first names, so I expected to match some. I thought I’d reach out to Sylvia Brant at Perfect Placement, see if she’d give me full names on the matches. Go from there.”

  “Good angle, do that.”

  “Just me?”

  “If there are more than ten, I’ll take half, otherwise you push this angle.”

  “You don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

  “It could. Definitely could,” Eve countered as she suffered through the confines of a crowded elevator. “We have two already crossed. On one hand, the odds would say it’s a long shot for another. But offices have gossip trains, and somebody else might have gotten on, tried the group after the two we know of left.”

  “Because they’d have mentioned another if they knew another.”

  “Right. So it’s worth looking.”

  “What’s your angle?”

  “I want that substance, then I need to think. Some of the women in that group filed police reports. Not all, not even close, but some did. So I’m going to see what I can dig into there. First names, reported crime or offense, what other information comes out of Zula’s notes. She lists their first attendance, so that gives a time frame. And I’ll push Zula for more if I need to.”

  “Do you want me on that?”

  “I’ve got Mira on it, actually. You take your angle. Work it here, or take it home.”

  “You’re still looking at Darla Pettigrew,” Peabody commented as they—finally—pushed out into the garage.

  “Just something there—and Zula’s notes didn’t make me think otherwise.” In the car, Eve paused a moment. “First vic—a rapist, a vicious, ugly son of a bitch who drugged, raped, and threatened women. Second vic—cheated on his wife, then ends up with the woman he cheated on her with. He likes to bang LCs. He manipulated—and we can even say cheated—the ex out of a lot of money. But he doesn’t reach the level of vicious and ugly that McEnroy does. So why is he next on her list? Why is his torture more violent?”

  “Okay. You’re going with it was personal because it was Darla.” Peabody considered as Eve drove out of the garage. “But it could just be timing. He was next because she could get to him next. And the level of violence is characteristic escalation. Especially since there was no lull between.”

  “Also true,” Eve admitted. “All of it.”

  “And it could be the level of the crime or sin or offense—however she looks at it—isn’t the point. It’s all the same to her.”

  Eve frowned over that. “That’s good.” Though she hated to admit it. “That could be true.” Still, she picked at it. “And it may be the timing goes to, yeah, who she can get to—and who she felt closest to in the group. Who she felt deserved or needed her brand of justice most. That’s something to add in there.”

  “Maybe Natalia Zula would have some insight. Who she feels clicked, or made friends—maybe on the outside. Lester said some of them met for coffee or whatever.”

  “Yeah. We’ll look there, or have Mira work with Zula there. Two good angles in a row, Peabody.”

  “Woot.” Then she sighed. “I wish I didn’t get this feeling like something was off with Darla Pettigrew, too. I don’t know if I got it on my own or if I picked it up from you.”

  “Right now, let’s play the angles.”

  When they walked into the lab, the white-coated lab nerds worked busily at their counters, at their stations, inside their glass-walled rooms. Eve headed straight for chief lab tech Dick Berenski—not so affectionately known as Dickhead.

  He hunched at a computer, his thin black hair slicked back over his egg-shaped head. His spidery fingers crawled over keyboards, slid over touch screens as he rolled on his stool from tool to tool at his workstation.

  He spotted Eve, gave her the gimlet eye. “We’re working on it. Your DB isn’t the only DB in the city. Plenty of live ones, too, need analysis.”

  “How freaking hard is it to
ID a substance sent to you hours ago—and flagged as priority?”

  “Every other fricking substance comes in here’s flagged.”

  He had a point, she knew, but she also knew how he operated. He was chief because he was damn good—and he was Dickhead because he liked squeezing out a little extra.

  “Box seat, Mets game—if I get the results in the next sixty seconds.”

  “Who wants to go to a game solo?”

  “Two seats. Clock’s ticking.”

  He smiled at her, and what she read in the smile just pissed her off. “You already have the results, you little weasel.”

  “Now, now.” Still smiling, he patted his hands in the air. “I got ’em, and I was getting ’em refined when you came stalking in.”

  He slid down the counter again, swiped another screen. “What Morris sent over’s scrapings of painted concrete.”

  He tapped the screen again to bring up a bunch of figures and symbols only a nerd could translate. “So we work out the type and grade of concrete, the color and brand of the paint. Top grade, all around.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He gave her the gimlet eye, and the smug smile. “See, that’s what I’m going to tell you now that we got it. Means he dug those toenails into high-dollar painted concrete, not your cheap or mid-priced stuff like you’d perhaps see in some recreation center—but more country club–like. Skirt around a pool, say, or somebody’s finished-off fancy basement, a high-traffic lobby maybe. Perhaps an upscale apartment kitchen or john, like.”

  “Okay.” Eve placed her bet on that fancy basement. Private. She’d add a bet for soundproofed. “I need more.”

  “I’m working on it!” And indeed those spidery fingers got busy.

  “We’re getting you a brand on the concrete. Yeah, yeah, see here—top grade. Six thousand psi, so you can eliminate big commercial buildings. You’d need a minimum of ten thousand psi there. So what you’ve got is most likely residential or a smaller building—like a duplex, a four-decker. Could be a pool skirt, garage floor, like that. It’s, there it is, it’s Mildock concrete. That’s not going to narrow it too much.”

  He might be an irritating son of a bitch, Eve thought, but he knew his job inside and out.

  “Keep going.”

  “I’m gonna say, he dug in to get through the epoxy—epoxy, not paint.” He swiped, tapped, swiped. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. You’ve got nonslip additives here, so it’s going to be a floor, not a wall. It’s good stuff, like I said. Kreet-Seal brand. Their number EX-651, goes by Burnished Gold. Some waterproofing in there, so basement, kitchen, garage. Not likely around a pool, and not likely exterior. You’d want special epoxy for those heavy wet areas, and this isn’t.”

  “Mildock six thousand psi concrete with Kreet-Seal Burnished Gold epoxy—nonslip, light waterproofing.”

  “That’s it. It’ll have dings and scratches on it.”

  “Yeah.” Maybe he’d earned those box seats. “Get me the written report.”

  “You’re freaking welcome,” he called after her, shook his head, muttered, “Cops.”

  Then checked his PPC for the next Mets home game.

  “Do you want me to run this down?” Peabody asked Eve.

  “I’ll get going on it. You play those angles—and cross-check the names. It’s easy enough from here to drop you back at Central or at home. Where do you want to work on this?”

  “I’ll take home, and the quiet. Plus, we’re going down to Mavis’s for dinner—if we’re clear. I can bake something for dessert. Baking’s good play-the-angles time for me.”

  “Whatever works.”

  “I can walk from here, no problem. Pick up a couple things on the way home. It’s barely raining.”

  “That works, too. If you hit anything, let me know.”

  “Count on it. Hmm, spring shower. I think lemon meringue pie.”

  As Eve got in the car, she wondered how anybody could think and bake at the same time. But apparently Peabody could manage it.

  As she drove, she started a search on the in-dash on contractors who installed—she learned the term was poured—Mildock concrete floors.

  She also learned there were a shitload of them who serviced the city.

  She switched to the epoxy, got another shitload, narrowed it somewhat by filtering in the specific brand. From there she merged the two searches to see what companies both poured and painted.

  She played with it in her head. Possible to do the whole job—pour the concrete, seal it up. Or possible to paint the seal on an existing floor.

  Good news, she thought: They’d match the floor with the substance under the vic’s nails when they found the location.

  Bad news: Finding the location from the type of concrete and sealer used on some sort of floor was going to be more luck than skill.

  With her mind spinning it, she was almost surprised to drive through the gates. Maybe working while driving was her baking and thinking.

  Green stuff speared up along the drive, and more green hazed the trees. Maybe, just maybe, despite the chilly rain (because of it?) spring was pushing winter aside.

  She parked, grabbed her stuff. She decided she’d take a break, hit the gym for a sweaty workout to thoroughly clear her head before she got back to work.

  An insult for Summerset regarding stick-up-the-ass-replacement surgery at the ready, she walked in.

  But rather than his looming in the foyer, she heard his voice from the parlor. And a quick belly laugh she knew well followed by quick, cheerful gibberish.

  She tossed her coat on the newel post, left her file bag on the steps, then crossed over.

  In a frilly pink sweater and blue pants with frills of pink lace on the hems, Bella sat on Summerset’s bony lap. Her golden curls bounced in a pair of miniature ponytails secured with rainbow bands.

  Mavis’s nod to pink fountained around her head in hair as bright as candy. She wore the rainbow in a swirl of a dress that floated over the tops of her thigh-high pink boots.

  Barely.

  The three sat in front of a quiet fire looking absurdly and happily domestic.

  Bella let out a squeal—the sort that, if she hadn’t come to expect it, would’ve had Eve reaching for her weapon. Bella scrambled out of Summerset’s lap and charged—in that stunning toddler speed—across the floor.

  “Das! Das! Das!”

  She flung herself at Eve’s legs like a mini-defensive tackle. Galahad, who would normally stir himself to greet her by winding through her legs, just blinked his eyes and stayed on the arm of Mavis’s chair.

  Whatever Bella babbled with her seriously pretty face tipped up to Eve would remain a mystery. But Eve understood the meaning of the upstretched arms and had never been able to figure out how to refuse them.

  She hauled the kid up, got the loving and sloppy kisses, then the long, sighing hug.

  What the hell were you supposed to do?

  Curious, Eve took a sniff. “You smell like chocolate.”

  Bella tossed back her head, gave her wild and happy laugh.

  Babble, “Someshit,” babble babble, “cookies,” babble, “yum!” babble, “Das.”

  “Got it.” Sort of.

  She would have put the kid down, but Bella clung to her like a barnacle to a hull. So Eve just shifted her as she glanced at Mavis.

  “How’d you know I was heading home?”

  “I didn’t. Bellamina and I came by to hang with Summerset.”

  “Someshit,” Bella said, very fondly.

  “So it’s luck to the ult,” Mavis continued, “you hitting the home fires early while we’re hanging. Take off the load, join the hang.”

  Work, Eve thought. Murderers to catch. But the kid was locked around her, and Mavis’s smile shined like half a dozen suns. Trapped by joy, she carted Bella over. When she sat, Bella nuzzled in, jabbering.

  Eve caught “Ork,” “Gahad,” something about Mommy, something about Daddy. Somewhere inside the chatter and embraces, Bella got a ha
nd on Eve’s sidearm.

  “Uh-uh.” Though it was secured in its harness, Eve firmly removed the curious little hand.

  “Toy!”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Bella toy!” Big blue eyes batted. “Pease!”

  “Forget it. It’s not a toy. It’s my weapon.”

  Charm vanished. Big blue eyes hardened like steel. “Want toy!”

  In Eve’s mind two little horns popped up through the golden curls. A forked tongue darted out between the rosy lips.

  In the next chair, Mavis—no help at all—sipped something that smelled like tea.

  “You think that’s going to work?” It was pretty damn scary, Eve admitted privately. “I kick ass for a living, kid.”

  “Share!” Bella demanded.

  “No. Think of something else.” Desperate to change the focus, Eve boosted up a hip, dug out one of her cards. “Here. You get in trouble, tag me.”

  Bella took the card, studied it with her lips pursed, her eyebrows drawn. Then she nodded, used her finger to jab the words.

  “Bella Eve.”

  “Right. Great.”

  All charm again, she fluttered those eyelashes. “Mine?”

  “Yeah, all yours.”

  “Ace on the distract, Dallas,” Mavis complimented as Bella cuddled against Eve and jabbered at the card. Then batting her own baby blues, turned to Summerset. “Do you think you could take her back, maybe give her one more you-know-what before we take off?”

  “Delighted. Bella, why don’t we go to the kitchen and see what we might find?”

  “Ooooh, Someshit cookies! Das! Mommy.”

  She all but leaped to the floor, would have wound up Summerset’s bony body like a snake up a tree if he hadn’t bent down to pick her up.

  She waved Eve’s card like a flag, chattering away at Summerset as he nodded soberly and carried her off. “Yes, of course we will.”

  “No way he understood that.”

  Mavis let out a happy little sigh. “She said we need to share cookies with you and me, and get a treat for the cat. We’re working hard on the whole sharing deal.”