Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  But she could fix it. He had said “some sort” of lunch. She figured a candy bar fit that criteria.

  She locked her door, dug the remote out of her desk to turn off the blue dye trap she’d laid for the infamous Candy Thief. After climbing on the desk, she carefully eased up the ceiling tile.

  And stared at the empty space.

  “Come on!” She dragged a mini light out of her pocket, shined it inside.

  Nothing.

  “Son of a fucking sneaky bitch!”

  Not a sign of the dye—and there should’ve been. So the Candy Thief used a remote, too. Probably a scanner first, which warned of the trap.

  She jumped down, scowled up at the tile. Then jammed her hands in her pockets.

  She had to admit—hated to, but had to—it was pretty damn impressive.

  She unlocked her door, stalked out to the bullpen. Jenkinson and his tie were back—and dear God, this one sported rainbows obviously generated in a nuclear reactor. So were Reineke and his socks, but she thanked the patron saint of vision she couldn’t currently see them.

  Santiago and his hat had rolled over to Carmichael’s desk, where they held an intense conversation. Eve figured it involved an active case or another stupid bet.

  Since Baxter and Trueheart were missing, she assumed they’d caught one.

  Peabody looked busy with a report.

  “This isn’t over,” Eve announced. Activity stopped, heads turned. “Believe me, it’s not over.”

  After stalking back to her office, she gave the ceiling tile another scowl. She’d think of something else. Oh yeah, she would.

  Her ’link signaled a text.

  Brinkman is in Nevada—Vegas—completing some business. He’s arriving in a company shuttle at Startack Transpo Station, private dock, at half-three. Where he will be met by his regular driver and car service. Is expected to check in to the office, but go straight home. He has a black-tie event this evening, and has bookings for a massage, with his stylist, in his home beginning at half-four.

  You’re welcome. Eat.

  “Okay, okay, that’s good.” Now she scowled at her AC, then turned back as she heard the brisk clicks of heels heading for her office.

  It didn’t surprise her to see Mira, or to see her looking pretty as spring in a suit of soft blue.

  “I didn’t mean for you to have to squeeze this into your day,” Eve began.

  “Not such a squeeze. I’m heading out for a lunch meeting—with Natalia Zula—so I have a few minutes first. And I wanted to ask you if you’re bucking for my job.”

  “What?”

  With a smile, Mira came the rest of the way in, took a scan of the board. “Your profile of Darla Pettigrew is very astute. Your correlation to her relationship with her grandmother, what her own ambitions, emotional development, expectation may have been, may be through that relationship, strikes as accurate.”

  Mira eased a hip on the corner of Eve’s desk. “Your summation there, and theory, lean heavily on your belief she’s killed. How confident are you that’s the case?”

  “I’ve run probability scans that—”

  “No, not what a probability scan calculates. How confident are you?”

  “Ninety-five percent. I’d say a hundred, but there’s always a chance I’m wrong, and I have to factor that in.”

  As she spoke, Eve turned to her board, hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studied Darla’s photo.

  “I have to factor in that she buzzed for me right off. Straight off, and I can’t shake it. So because I’ve looked at her from the start, that could influence the rest.”

  “I’d love a chance to speak with her, evaluate her myself.”

  “I want her in the box.” Eve turned back. “I need a reason to get her there. I’m working on that.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.” Mira straightened. “So far, her violence has focused on men, and specifically men who have wronged women in her support group. But that violence would, unquestionably, spread to anyone who attempts to stop her from enacting her form of justice. So while, for the moment, she sees you as a kind of colleague, that will change.”

  “Yeah. I figure to give that one a little push later today.”

  “Then be careful.”

  “One question,” Eve said as Mira started out. “Is a bag of soy chips some sort of lunch?”

  “No,” Mira said, and kept going.

  “Damn it.”

  Eve considered pizza, and also the consequences if the scent escaped into the bullpen. Chaos, rioting. Besides, she just wasn’t hungry enough to waste a good slice.

  She tried soup—noted she had several kinds. Roarke was a sneaky son of a bitch, too. She opted for a cup of minestrone—and a bag of soy chips.

  Peabody came in as she was downing it. “The next …” Peabody sniffed the air. “That’s not Vending soup. That’s real soup.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it’s just … Smells really good.”

  Eve turned, programmed another cup. “Here, and shut up about it.”

  “Man, thanks. Mae Ming’s here, and I shot you the basic details from the Brinkman run.”

  “Take Ming. I’ll take the morgue, and swing by the lab for Harvo.”

  “Good deal for me.”

  “Depending on timing, you take the other two we have coming in. Then tag Brinkman, get her in here. If you get more names, get them in here.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Eve grabbed her coat, dropped the bag of chips in her pocket. “I am. Don’t touch my AC.”

  She walked out to the bullpen, scanned her cops, scanned the board, and noted Baxter and Trueheart had indeed caught one. In fact two, as they’d caught a murder/suicide.

  She glanced toward Trueheart, who sat grim-faced at his desk working on a report. He’d lost a lot of the green, she thought, but part of what made him a good cop was his ability to feel the weight of the job.

  She could see a lot of weight on his face at the moment.

  She had a serial killer on her hands, Eve thought, but she had men who needed a boss.

  She walked to his desk. “Detective.”

  “Sir.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “He’s in the break room, getting some coffee. We just got in from—”

  “Yeah, I see the board.”

  “It looks like a domestic dispute. They were in the middle of a contentious divorce and custody deal. Two kids, eight and ten. He went to her place. No forced entry, so it looks like she let him in. He stabbed her multiple times, then slit his own throat.”

  “The kids?”

  “In school, that’s a blessing. A neighbor heard her screaming, couldn’t get in because he’d bolted the door. Neighbor called it in, but it was too late. She had a sister. The kids are with the sister.”

  “Trueheart, sometimes there’s nothing for us to do but write it up. There’s nobody to hunt down, bring in, put in a cage. We can only write it up and close it.”

  “I know it, Lieutenant. Baxter said the same.” He let out a breath. “I’m writing it up.”

  All they could do, she thought again as she headed out. Dealing with the times that was all you could do was part of the job. And you hoped it pushed you to do everything you could when you could.

  She let New York roll over her as she drove to the morgue. Nowhere near peaceful now as its noise, hurry, color, anger, amusement rolled. You couldn’t live and work in a city with all of that, with the intensity of all of that, and not hit times when you could only write it up. And times, she needed to believe more times, you could and would do everything.

  So she walked that white tunnel for the third day running determined. Committed. And seriously pissed off.

  Morris walked out of the double doors before she reached them.

  “Dallas. You just caught me on the way to lunch.”

  She pulled the chips out of her pocket. “Trade you for a quick summary.”

  “I do have
a fondness for chips.” He stepped back in; she followed.

  And saw three bodies on three slabs.

  “Murder-suicide,” Morris said when he saw her study the other bodies.

  “Yeah, I know. Baxter and Trueheart. The husband’s way of settling a divorce and custody dispute.”

  “She fought. I can tell you, even before my full exam, she fought. She didn’t go down easy.” He patted Eve’s arm, stepped over to Kagen.

  “On the other hand, he didn’t fight. Couldn’t, as he was drunk, then drugged. My summation includes the belief that the initial stimulant to bring him around failed. He was too far under. It’s the same barbiturate, the same stimulant as the other two victims. It’s simply in this case, the victim had consumed nearly three pints of beer and three shots of rye whiskey prior to the addition of the barbiturate.”

  “It’s why she didn’t do as much damage as she did with the second victim. Maybe. The broken arm, that’s symbolic, as he’s left-handed, beat his wife.”

  “Yes, dominant left. He also had a very good start on cirrhosis of the liver, and other health issues. His first wounds, and the last? Only three to four hours between. You’re quite right, she didn’t have or didn’t spend as much time with him.”

  “No point torturing him until he’s conscious. And I think she may have had to break off. Then she had to get him back before one of the residents came home from night shift work. Used to be on the job, so he was helpful.”

  “A stroke of luck.”

  “So was the hair Peabody found that I’m hoping Harvo’s nailed down for us. He tell you anything else?”

  “The scarring on his knuckles indicates he used his fists regularly over the years. The damage to his body tells me he drank to excess just as regularly, had a poor diet, sketchy dental hygiene. Not helpful.”

  “You have to know the vic to know the killer. She knew all of this. He was likely the easiest mark of the three, and still she made mistakes. Gave him too much of the drug, had to rush her kill so she didn’t check the body well enough to make sure she didn’t leave anything.

  “She’s getting sloppy,” Eve concluded, “and also taking bigger risks. She sat right at the bar with this one, long enough to order a drink, have a conversation, with the bartender right there. So …”

  She tossed him the chips. “Thanks.”

  Eve thought it through on her way to the lab. Definitely sloppy to overdose him. She had to know him for a heavy drinker. Then again, big guy, and she didn’t want to risk him having any fight left in him.

  Sloppier yet to leave the hair.

  Not the lavender wig. So she got rid of the disguise before she went to work on him.

  She had to bank on Harvo matching the DNA.

  When she reached the lab, Eve angled for Harvo’s glass-walled domain. The queen of hair and fiber sat on her stool at a leg of her work counter. She wore what could be termed a lab coat providing your definition thereof stretched wide, as her version was a bunch of inexplicable symbols scrolled over a field of bright spring green.

  Her own hair, drawn back in a little bouncy tail, matched the field. A tiny glittery stud—green ranked as the day’s color—winked on the side of her nose.

  She had tunes going, bouncy like her tail of hair, as her fingers—tipped in more green—danced over her screen.

  She glanced over as Eve stepped in, shot out a smile. She snapped her fingers three times. The music shut off.

  “Hey, Dallas. Hanging tough? Just finished your deal. Take off a load,” she invited with a gesture to another stool.

  “I’m good, thanks. A little pressed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know how that rides. So your hair had your vic’s blood and skin tissue all over it. And see, like, some started to scab over, so he was still breathing when she lost it on him—and it stuck in the blood. Just his blood and tissue, btw.”

  “Could you get DNA?”

  “Old hair, Dallas. Old, dead hair, no root. What you sent me came from human hair, yeah, but old. It came from an enhancement.”

  No DNA, she thought. Not as big a turn in luck as she’d hoped.

  “A wig?”

  “Possibly extensions or lifters, but I say wig at a solid eighty-five percent. And no cheapie deal. Human hair, almost all non–color treated, so whoever sold or donated it had true black hair.”

  “Almost all?”

  Harvo swiveled, brought up a magnification of the hair on-screen. “Just a touch—tiny—of silver there. And that’s color added—hard to tell how much because this strand broke off. It’s not root to tip, but a partial.”

  Eve didn’t bother to ask how she’d know all that. No need to question the queen.

  “And that’s a pro color—Numex brand, Lightning Strike. So I’m seeing what’s most likely some drama streaks,” Harvo told her, “because most people aren’t going to add silver to a wig except for that.”

  “Because most people remove the gray—or silver.”

  All cheer, Harvo tapped a finger in the air. “Exactamundo. Now, maybe somebody wanted to add age in—like for a costume or whatever. In any case, there’ll be some silver streaked or dashed like through the wig. The hair? I’m saying Asian. It’s good, thick, healthy. That costs. And it’s been well-maintained. Professionally maintained, with professional-grade products. Specifically, Allure Hair Enhancement Conditioner.”

  “You got a brand on that, too?”

  “Dallas.” Harvo spread her hands. “Who you talking to?”

  “You got a brand,” Dallas repeated, this time as a statement. She wanted to ask if Harvo was sure about the wig, but didn’t. She did know who she was talking to.

  “She posed as a street level. Purple hair. The bartender said purple, like lilacs, not black. He was two feet away. Even in dim light, he couldn’t mistake the color. Why does she change wigs? Why does she wear a wig when she’s torturing them?”

  “Above my pay grade on that. Could just be she likes different looks for different, you know, tasks.”

  “Costumes?” Eve turned a circle, paced. “Just like you said. Is it all costumes? Part of the role? Wouldn’t she want them to see her when she’s got them in her control? When they’re helpless? Wouldn’t she—”

  She stopped, turned back. “They do. Son of a bitch. They do see her, as she sees herself. Lady fucking Justice.”

  “Well, Lady fucking Justice wore a top-of-the-line, human hair, professionally maintained wig when she offed this guy. That I can tell you.

  “Yeah. Yeah, she did. Thanks, Harvo.”

  “Here to serve.”

  Eve stopped at the doorway. “What’s all that?” she asked, circling a finger toward Harvo’s lab coat.

  “On the coat? Dallas, that’s the periodic table. Better life, and better death, through chemistry, right?”

  “Hard to argue. See you around.”

  18

  Eve walked back into Homicide, saw Peabody’s empty desk.

  “Peabody?” she asked Baxter.

  “In Interview.”

  No point in pushing in on that, she decided. “I may need a stakeout team tonight. Looking at maybe nineteen to twenty-three hundred. You and Trueheart volunteered.”

  “Yeah, we’re selfless that way. Is this the Lady Justice case?”

  “She’s on a streak, and I can’t see her breaking it. One potential target’s out of town, but the other’s got a fancy deal later tonight. She may try to scoop him up from there.”

  “Have tux, will travel.”

  “You’re not going to the fancy deal. You’re going to sit on a big, fancy house. I need to know if and when my prime suspect leaves. Any vehicle, but so far she’s used a dark town car. You see that vehicle or a white all-terrain, a silver sedan leave the residence, you tag me, and you follow.”

  “Hear that, kid?” Baxter said to Trueheart. “It’s time for stakeout snacks.”

  “If she hasn’t gone after him by twenty-three hundred, she’s taking a pass. But … stick an hour aft
er that.” She rattled off the address, strode to her office.

  Programmed coffee, pulled out her ’link.

  “Lieutenant, aren’t we chatty today?”

  “Not chat. And shouldn’t you be buying up some third-world country and crowning yourself king instead of answering your ’link?”

  “I did that this morning.” Roarke smiled. “And just finished a lunch meeting where I approved the plans for my palace. What can I do for you?”

  “What’s the black-tie deal Brinkman’s going to tonight?”

  “Ah, it’s the annual Spring Gala hosted by Our Planet and benefitting various environmental causes.”

  “Great. Can you get us in?”

  He said nothing for a moment. “Since I assume you haven’t just been injected with a drug that causes you to want to socialize, and in a formal setting, I further assume this would be work.”

  “Both assumptions are accurate. I figure she might try for Brinkman there. She likes the risk, likes to dress up in costume—and that’s what these deals are, essentially. Just an excuse to put on the fancy. Peabody’s interviewing a couple of other women, so we might come up with other viable targets, but right now Brinkman’s high on the list. I want the option of being there to shadow him, and if I get lucky, take her down.”

  “Watching you take down a suspect is one of my top forms of entertainment. Especially when you’re in formal dress. It just adds that touch of piquant.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but fine. Can you get us in?”

  “As it’s held in the grand ballroom of my Palace—hotel in this case—I certainly can. Shall I arrange for Trina to come in, see to your hair and so on?”

  Eve breathed in and out her nose. “That was mean.”

  “I know, but also entertaining. I’ll see you at home then.”

  “Yeah. Do not tag Trina,” she added, and clicked off.

  With her coffee in hand, she put her boots on the desk, studied the board.

  “What part would you play on this one? A server? That’s what I’d do. Easy to spike a drink if you’re the one serving it. All you’d need to do is guide him away. And doing it in front of all those people, that audience? Yeah, you’d love that. Big step up from a shithole bar.”