Naked in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Then you’re going to have to find out, aren’t you?” Mavis squeezed Eve’s fingers.

  She would find out, Eve promised herself. It was after ten P.M. when she let herself into the lobby of her building. If she didn’t want to think just then, it wasn’t a crime. She’d had to swallow a reprimand from the chief’s office for veering from the official statement during the press conference.

  The commander’s unofficial support didn’t quite ease the sting.

  Once she was inside her apartment she checked her E-mail. She knew it was foolish, this nagging hope that she’d find a message from Roarke.

  There wasn’t one. But what she found had her flesh crawling with ice.

  The video message was unnamed, sent from a public access. The little girl. Her dead father. The blood.

  Eve recognized the angles of the official department record, the one taken to document the site of murder and justified termination.

  The audio came over it. A playback of her auto-record of the child’s screams. Her beating on the door. The warning, and all the horror that followed.

  “You bastard,” she whispered. “You’re not going to get to me with this. You’re not going to use that baby to get to me.”

  But her fingers shook as she ejected the disc. And she jolted when her intercom rang.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hennessy from apartment two-D.” The pale, earnest face of her downstairs neighbor flicked on screen. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Dallas. I didn’t know what to do exactly. We’ve got trouble down here in the Finestein apartment.”

  Eve sighed and let the image of the elderly couple flip into her mind. Quiet, friendly, television addicts. “What’s the problem?”

  “Mr. Finestein’s dead, lieutenant. Keeled over in the kitchen while his wife was out playing mah-jongg with friends. I thought maybe you could come down.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed again. “I’ll be there. Don’t touch anything, Mr. Hennessy, and try to keep people out of the way.” Out of habit she called dispatch, reported an unattended death and her presence on the scene.

  She found the apartment quiet, with Mrs. Finestein sitting on the living room sofa with her tiny white hands folded in her lap. Her hair was white as well, a snowfall around a face that was beginning to line despite antiaging creams and treatments.

  The old woman smiled gently at Eve.

  “I’m so sorry to trouble you, dear.”

  “It’s okay. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Her soft blue eyes stayed on Eve’s. “It was our weekly game, the girls and mine. When I got home, I found him in the kitchen. He’d been eating a custard pie. Joe was overly fond of sweets.”

  She looked over at Hennessy, who stood, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I didn’t know quite what to do, and went knocking on Mr. Hennessy’s door.”

  “That’s fine. If you’d stay with her for a minute please,” she said to Mr. Hennessy.

  The apartment was set up similarly to her own. It was meticulously neat, despite the abundance of knickknacks and memorabilia.

  At the kitchen table with its centerpiece of china flowers, Joe Finestein had lost his life, and considerable dignity.

  His head was slumped, half in, half out of a fluffy custard pie. Eve checked for a pulse, found none. His skin had cooled considerably. At a guess, she put his death at one-fifteen, give or take a couple of hours.

  “Joseph Finestein,” she recited dutifully. “Male, approximately one hundred and fifteen years of age. No signs of forced entry, no signs of violence. There are no marks on the body.”

  She leaned closer, looked into Joe’s surprised and staring eyes, sniffed the pie. After finishing her prelim notes, she went back to relieve Hennessy and interview the deceased’s widow.

  It was midnight before she was able to crawl into bed. Exhaustion snatched at her like a cross and greedy child. Oblivion was what she wanted, what she prayed for.

  No dreams, she ordered her subconscious. Take the night off.

  Even as she closed her eyes, her bedside ’link blipped.

  “Fry in hell, whoever you are,” she muttered, then dutifully wrapped the sheet around her naked shoulders and switched it on.

  “Lieutenant.” Roarke’s image smiled at her. “Did I wake you?”

  “You would have in another five minutes.” She shifted as the audio hissed with a bit of space interference. “I guess you got where you were going all right.”

  “I did. There was only a slight delay in transport. I thought I might catch you before you turned in.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Because I like looking at you.” His smile faded as he stared at her. “What’s wrong, Eve?”

  Where do you want me to start? she thought, but shrugged. “Long day—ending with one of your other tenants here croaking in his late night snack. He went facedown in a custard pie.”

  “There are worse ways to go, I suppose.” He turned his head, murmured to someone nearby. Eve saw a woman move briskly behind Roarke and out of view. “I’ve just dismissed my assistant,” he explained. “I wanted to be alone when I asked if you’re wearing anything under that sheet.”

  She glanced down, lifted a brow. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Why don’t you take it off?”

  “No way I’m going to satisfy your prurient urges by interspace transmission, Roarke. Use your imagination.”

  “I am. I’m imagining what I’m going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you. I advise you to rest up, lieutenant.”

  She wanted to smile and couldn’t. “Roarke, we’re going to have to talk when you get back.”

  “We can do that as well. I’ve always found conversations with you stimulating, Eve. Get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, I will. See you, Roarke.”

  “Think of me, Eve.”

  He ended the transmission, then sat alone, brooding at the blank monitor. There’d been something in her eyes, he thought. He knew the moods of them now, could see beyond the training into the emotion.

  The something had been worry.

  Turning his chair, he looked out at his view of star splattered space. She was too far away for him to do any more than wonder about her.

  And to ask himself, again, why she mattered so much.

  chapter thirteen

  Eve studied the report of the bank search for Sharon DeBlass’s deposit box with frustration. No record, no record, no record.

  Nothing in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. Nothing in East Washington or Virginia.

  She had rented one somewhere, Eve thought. She’d had diaries, and had kept them tucked away someplace where she could get to them safely and quickly.

  In those diaries, Eve was convinced, was a motive for murder.

  Unwilling to tag Fenney for another, broader search, she began one herself, starting with Pennsylvania, working west and north toward the borders of Canada and Quebec. In slightly less than twice the time it would have taken Feeney, she came up blank again.

  Then, working south, she struck out with Maryland, and down to Florida. Her machine began to chug noisily at the work. Eve issued a warning snarl and a sharp bump to the console. She swore she’d risk the morass of requisition for a new unit if this one just held out for one more case.

  More from stubbornness than hope, she did a scan of the Midwest, heading toward the Rockies.

  You were too smart, Sharon, Eve thought, as the negative results flickered by. Too smart for your own good. You wouldn’t have gone out of the country, or off planet where you’d have to go through a customs scan every trip. Why go far away, someplace where you’d need transport or travel docs? You might want immediate access.

  If your mother knew you kept diaries, maybe other people knew it, too. You bragged about it because you liked to make people uncomfortable. And you knew they were safely tucked away.

  But close, damn it, Eve thought, closing her eyes to bring the woman she was comi
ng to know so well into full focus. Close enough so that you could feel the power, use it, toy with people.

  But not so simple that just anyone could track it down, gain access, spoil the game. You used an alias. Rented your safe box under another name—just in case. And if you were smart enough to use an alias, you’d have used one that was basic, that was familiar. One you wouldn’t have to hassle over.

  It was so simple, Eve realized as she keyed in Sharon Barrister. So simple both she and Feeney had overlooked it.

  She hit pay dirt at the Brinkstone International Bank and Finance, Newark, New Jersey.

  Sharon Barrister not only had a safe-deposit box, she had a brokerage account in the amount of $326,000.85.

  Grinning at the screen, she hit her tie-in with the PA. “I need a warrant,” she announced.

  • • •

  Three hours later, she was back in Commander Whitney’s office, trying not to gnash her teeth. “She’s got another one somewhere,” Eve insisted. “And the diaries are in it.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you from looking for it, Dallas.”

  “Fine, that’s fine.” She whirled around the office as she spoke. Energy was pumping now, and she wanted action. “What are we going to do about this?”

  She jerked a hand at the file on his desk.

  “You’ve got the disc I took from the safe-deposit box and the print out I ran. It’s right there, commander. A blackmail list: names and amounts. And Simpson’s name is there, in tidy alphabetical order.”

  “I can read, Dallas.” He resisted the urge to rub at the tension gathering at the base of his skull. “The chief isn’t the only person named Simpson in the city, much less the country.”

  “It’s him.” She was fuming and there was no place to put the steam. “We both know it. There are a number of other interesting names there, too. A governor, a Catholic bishop, a respected leader of the International Organization of Women, two high-ranking cops, an ex-Vice President—”

  “I’m aware of the names,” Whitney interrupted. “Are you aware of your position, Dallas, and the consequences?” He held up a hand to silence her. “A few neat columns of names and numbers don’t mean squat. This data gets out of this office, and it’s over. You’re finished and so’s the investigation. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You get the diaries, Dallas, find the connection between Sharon DeBlass and Lola Starr, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “Simpson’s dirty.” She leaned over the desk. “He knew Sharon DeBlass; he was being blackmailed. And he’s doing everything he can to undermine the investigation.”

  “Then we’ll have to work around him, won’t we?” Whitney put the file in his lock box. “No one knows what we have in here, Dallas. Not even Feeney. Is that clear?

  “Yes, sir.” Knowing she had to be satisfied with that, she started for the door. “Commander, I’d like to point out that there’s a name absent from that list. Roarke’s not on it.”

  Whitney met her eyes, nodded. “As I said, Dallas. I can read.”

  Her message light was blinking when she got back to her office. A check of her E-mail turned up two calls from the medical examiner. Impatiently, Eve put the hot lead aside and returned the call.

  “Finished running the tests on your neighbor, Dallas. You hit the bull’s-eye.”

  “Oh, hell.” She ran her hands over her face. “Send through the results. I’ll take it from here.”

  Hetta Finestein opened her door with a puff of lavender sachet and the yeasty smell of homemade bread.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  She smiled her quiet smile and stepped back in invitation. Inside, the viewing screen was tuned to a chatty talk show where interested members of the home audience could plug in and shoot their holographic images to the studio for fuller interaction. The topic seemed to be higher state salaries for professional mothers. Just now the screen was crowded with women and children of varying sizes and vocal opinions.

  “How nice of you to come by. I’ve had so many visitors today. It’s a comfort. Would you like some cookies?”

  “Sure,” Eve agreed, and felt like slime. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch, let her eyes scan the tidy little apartment. “You and Mr. Finestein used to run a bakery?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hetta’s voice carried from the kitchen, along with her bustling movements. “Until just a few years ago. We did very well. People love real cooking, you know. And if I do say so myself, I have quite a hand with pies and cakes.”

  “You do a lot of baking here, at home.”

  Hetta came in with a tray of golden cookies. “One of my pleasures. Too many people never know the joy of a home-baked cookie. So many children never experience real sugar. It’s hideously expensive, of course, but worth it.”

  Eve sampled a cookie and had to agree. “I guess you must have baked the pie your husband was eating when he died.”

  “You won’t find store-bought or simulations in my house,” Hetta said proudly. “Of course, Joe would gobble everything up almost as soon as I took it out of the oven. There’s not an AutoChef on the market as reliable as a good baker’s instincts and creativity.”

  “You did bake the pie, Mrs. Finestein.”

  The woman blinked, lowered her lashes. “Yes, I did.”

  “Mrs. Finestein, you know what killed your husband?”

  “Yes, I do.” She smiled softly. “Gluttony. I told him not to eat it. I specifically told him not to eat it. I said it was for Mrs. Hennessy across the hall.”

  “Mrs. Hennessy.” That jolted Eve back several mental paces. “You—”

  “Of course, I knew he’d eat it, anyway. He was very selfish that way.”

  Eve cleared her throat. “Could we, ah, turn the program off?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry.” The flustered hostess tapped her cheeks with her hands. “That’s so rude. I’m so used to letting it play all day I don’t even notice it. Um, program—no, screen off.”

  “And the audio,” Eve said patiently.

  “Of course.” Shaking her head as the sound continued to run, Hetta looked sheepish. “I’ve just never gotten the hang of the thing since we switched from remote to voice. Sound off, please. There, that’s better, isn’t it.”

  The woman could bake a poisoned pie, but couldn’t control her own television, Eve thought. It took all kinds. “Mrs. Finestein, I don’t want you to say any more until I’ve read you your rights. Until you’re sure you understand them. You’re under no obligation to make any statement,” Eve began, while Hetta continued to smile gently.

  Hetta waited until the recitation was over. “I didn’t expect to get away with it. Not really.”

  “Get away with what, Mrs. Finestein?”

  “Poisoning Joe. Although . . .” She pursed her lips like a child. “My grandson’s a lawyer—a very clever boy. I think he’d say that since I did tell Joe, very specifically told him not to eat that pie, it was more Joe’s doing than mine. In any case,” she said and waited patiently.

  “Mrs. Finestein, are you telling me that you added synthetic cyanide compound to a custard pie with the intention of killing your husband?”

  “No, dear. I’m telling you I added cyanide compound, with a nice dose of extra sugar to a pie, and told my husband not to touch it. ‘Joe,’ I said, ‘Don’t you so much as sniff this custard pie. I baked it special, and it’s not for you. You hear me, Joe?’ ”

  Hetta smiled again. “He said he heard me all right, and then just before I left for my evening with the girls, I told him again, just to be sure. ‘I mean it, Joe. You let that pie be.’ I expected he would eat it, though, but that was up to him, wasn’t it? Let me tell you about Joe,” she continued conversationally, and picked up the cookie tray to urge another on Eve. When Eve hesitated, she laughed gaily. “Oh, dear, these are quite safe, I promise you. I just gave a dozen to the nice little boy upstairs.”

  To prove her point she chose one herself and bit in.
r />   “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, about Joe. He’s my second husband, you know. We’ve been married fifty years come April. He was a good partner, and quite a fine baker himself. Some men should never retire. The last few years he’s been very hard to live with. Cross and complaining all the time, forever finding fault. And never would get flour on his fingers. Not that he’d pass by an almond tart without gobbling it down.”

  Because it sounded almost reasonable, Eve waited a moment. “Mrs. Feinstein, you poisoned him because he ate too much?”

  Hetta’s rosy cheeks rounded. “It does seem that way. But it goes deeper. You’re so young, dear, and you don’t have family, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Families are a source of comfort, and a source of irritation. No one outside can ever understand what goes on in the privacy of a home. Joe wasn’t an easy man to live with, and I’m afraid, though I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, that he had developed bad habits. He’d find a real glee in upsetting me, in ruining my small pleasures. Why just last month he deliberately ate half the Tower of Pleasure Cake I’d baked for the International Betty Crocker cook-off. Then he told me it was dry.” Her voice huffed out in obvious insult. “Can you imagine?”

  “No,” Eve said weakly. “I can’t.”

  “Well, he did it just to make me mad. It was the way he wielded power, you see. So I baked the pie, told him not to touch it, and went out to play mah-jongg with the girls. I wasn’t at all surprised when I got back and found he hadn’t listened. He was a glutton, you see.” She gestured with the cookie before delicately finishing the last bite. “That’s one of the seven deadly sins, gluttony. It just seemed right that he would die by sin. Are you sure you won’t have another cookie?”

  The world was certainly a mad place, Eve decided, when old women poisoned custard pies. And, she thought, with Hetta’s quiet, old-fashioned, grandmotherly demeanor, the woman would probably get off.