by J. D. Robb
Eve rose, programmed the tea. “You can’t let this be personal.”
“It’s always personal,” Mira countered, then smiled when Eve glanced back. “A good psychiatrist, like a good cop, knows how to be objective about the personal. This person, Eve, has idealized you, and that’s very dangerous.”
“Why?” Eve handed Mira the tea. “Not why it’s dangerous, I get that. Why has he idealized me?”
“You’re a strong woman in a dangerous career. One who has risen in that career.”
“Plenty of female cops,” Eve pointed out. “Plenty of them with rank.”
“Added to that, many of your cases garner considerable media attention. You’re married to an important, highly successful man of some mystery who also garners considerable media attention.”
She sipped some tea while Eve brooded over that one.
“You were spotlighted in a successful book, portrayed in a successful and critically acclaimed vid,” Mira continued. “You risk your life to protect and serve, when you’re in the position where you could simply travel, live a rich and privileged life. Instead of living that privileged life, you work long, sometimes impossible hours, taking those risks to do a job, to pursue justice.”
“Following that, why kill Bastwick? Anybody? I’m doing the job.”
“But not serving justice as this person sees it,” Mira pointed out. “How can you? You are the ideal, but also hampered by the rules of your job. So this person will seek justice for you.”
“But Bastwick? She didn’t matter.”
“Not to you, not particularly, but to this person she represented all her defendants, all you work against. All who have shown you disrespect, who haven’t properly paid you homage.”
“Well, Christ.” She looked back at her board, at Leanore Bastwick. Alive and dead. “But Bastwick and I hardly had any dealings with each other. And the ones we did, the bulk of them, were a couple years ago.”
“This may have been planned for some time, considered, studied. We may find Bastwick said something, publicly, or something offhand that was overheard, about you that triggered this person’s disgust more recently. Not rage, not yet.”
Eve looked toward the murder board again. “But that could come. Bastwick was also a prominent woman in her field. This might be a reason for the choice. This was a well-planned killing, and well-controlled. Goal-oriented. And one that was committed in hopes, I believe, of some acknowledgment. If it had been a selfless act—as the message attempts to convey—there would have been no message.” She looked back at Mira for confirmation. “Right? You do somebody a favor and mean it, you don’t want the glory from it.”
“No, not if it’s genuine. This was done looking for a return. From you.”
“The killer wants my attention, I get that. If I don’t give it, he’ll escalate. If I do . . . he’s going to kill again anyway. He liked it. Plus, if someone’s the object of your . . . affection, for lack of better, don’t you want to keep giving?”
“Yes, but you always want appreciation, acknowledgment, even reciprocation. Eve, you want some sort of return.”
“Either way I handle this—unless we’re all wrong and it was really about Bastwick—he’s not finished. If I stay on it, there’s a better chance I can stop him, I might be able to calculate who might be next.”
“Eventually you’ll be next. Eventually you’ll disappoint him, and he’ll feel betrayed by you. Idols always fall, Eve.”
“I’d be next at some point anyway.”
Mira said nothing, just sat for a moment, sipping at her tea. “If this had been a taunt—a catch-me-if-you-can sort of communication, I’d be less concerned. But this isn’t a contest. This was a kind of offering.”
She breathed in, set the cup aside. “I’ll analyze the correspondence myself. We’ll look for a repeater. Someone who’s written or tried to contact you in some way multiple times. Someone who sees, and it will show, a relationship with you. This may have also escalated through the correspondence.
“I haven’t read Peabody’s report as concisely as I must,” Mira admitted. “But what I did read indicates the killer was very controlled, very careful, had previous knowledge of the victim’s security and habits. So he studied her, stalked her, or is in some way privy to her habits. He’s also studied you, and while he wants your attention, he does not wish to be caught or stopped. ‘Your true and loyal friend,’” Mira said. “Indicates he believes he is, and that he is the only one capable or willing to stand up for you. Roarke should be careful.”
“Roarke?”
“Your husband didn’t punish this woman who showed you disrespect. How can he be worthy of you?”
“If you think he’d target Roarke—”
“Not yet,” Mira interrupted, “but eventually he may. He may be compelled to eliminate those close to you in order to feel closer to you himself. For now, it’s an enemies list—if he has one. But I promise you, he knows those you love, your friends. Your partner.”
Eve rose again. “Peabody? My men? Mavis—God, the baby?” She hadn’t gone there, hadn’t considered. And now that she did . . . “I’ll pass the investigation on. I’ll step back. Step out.”
“No.” Mira shook her head. “You were right, I was wrong. Stepping back wouldn’t change his motives, and might even escalate his needs. You’ll have to be very careful how you react in any public way, what you say that can and will be reported in the media. He’ll hang on your every word, your every gesture. And his feelings about those words, about those gestures, will be his truth. You’re not just the primary investigator, Eve, not merely connected to the victim in this person’s mind. You’re a target.”
“I need to protect the people around me,” Eve said—and Mira, she thought, was one of them. “So I’d better get to work.”
A reverent hush lay over the law offices. Eve supposed when one of the partners had been murdered by someone she might have represented—had he chosen another victim?—a hush of some sort was warranted.
She barely had to show her badge before a woman in a smoke-gray pin-striped suit and sharp red heels glided through double glass doors.
“Lieutenant, Detective, I’m Carolina Dowd, Mr. Stern’s administrative assistant. I’ll escort you to his office.”
“Quiet around here,” Eve commented as they left the plush maroon-and-gray reception lobby for dignified corridors.
“We’re all considerably subdued, as you can imagine. Ms. Bastwick’s death is a shock to all of us, and an enormous loss.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“You know all the players.”
Dowd spared her a glance as they passed offices, doors all discreetly closed. “It’s a large firm, but yes, you could say I know everyone.”
“Anyone spring to mind who wanted Bastwick dead?”
“Absolutely not. Ms. Bastwick was respected and valued here.”
She turned—opposite direction from Bastwick’s office, as Eve remembered from her prior visit.
“You knew Fitzhugh.”
“Yes. Yes, I did, and I’m aware you’re to be credited for finding the person responsible for his death. I hope you’ll do the same for Ms. Bastwick.”
Dowd nodded to two people—one male, one female—who got busy fast at their desks in a swanky outer office. Then she knocked briskly on another set of double doors—these solid wood.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody, Mr. Stern,” she said when she pushed both doors open.
Stern, who’d been standing, hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the bold and steely view of New York out a wall of windows, turned.
“Please, come in.” He crossed a thick Persian carpet spread over glossy wood floors, hand extended. “Aaron Stern. Terrible day. Terrible. Can we get you something? Tea? Coffee?”
“We’re g
ood.”
“Please, sit down.” He gestured to a sitting area that reminded Eve of an English parlor with its curvy chairs, delicate coffee table, and fringed settee.
She recalled Bastwick’s office—all sleek, polished, and glass.
“Thank you, Carolina.” He sat, folded his hands on his knees as his admin silently backed out and closed the doors.
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Stern,” Peabody began.
“Of course. It’s a great one. Leanore was not only a partner, but a personal friend.”
He had a golden look about him, Eve thought, the rich man’s winter tan, the burnished hair, thickly curled, the tawny eyes. The boldly patterned red tie struck against the charcoal suit to give him an air of vibrancy.
She figured it played well in court.
“When did you last see or speak with her?” Eve asked.
“Yesterday, on a ’link conference. We take light hours this week so everyone can enjoy the holidays, but Leanore and I consulted on some ongoing cases. Carolina sat in, as did Leanore’s paralegal. This would have been ten yesterday morning. We worked for about an hour, and were to convene in person this afternoon.”
“Any trouble with anyone here at the offices?”
“No.”
“Clients?”
“Leanore served her clients well, and was always frank and realistic with them. She was fierce, as you know yourself, Lieutenant, in defending her clients.”
“Fierceness makes enemies. So does making a play for somebody else’s spouse. How’s Arthur Foxx these days?”
She knew—she’d checked—that Fitzhugh’s spouse, a man who’d hated Bastwick, had moved to Maui over a year before.
But she wanted Stern’s reaction.
“I believe Arthur relocated—Hawaii. We’re not in touch.” He drew a breath through his nose. “You don’t think Arthur killed Leanore. No, no.” A firm shake of the head. “I know he disliked Leanore, but I can’t see him coming back to New York, doing this.”
“People do all sorts of strange.” Though she agreed, not Foxx, she pushed a little. “Did he ever threaten Bastwick?”
“He was overwrought at the time of Fitz’s death. We all were, but Arthur was devoted, and took it very hard. You’re aware of this, of course, as I’m aware of your conversations with Leanore during that period. She told me.” Stern spread his hands. “As far as I know, Arthur moved away, moved on, started a new chapter in his life.”
“Did she make a play for anybody else’s spouse, since Fitzhugh?”
Stern’s jaw tightened. “I’m aware of nothing along those lines.”
“How about you?”
“My relationship with Leanore was professional. Friendly, of course, but we have never been involved in a romantic or sexual way.”
“Other threats? Directed at Bastwick?”
“Of course, it’s the nature of the business. Cecil has the copies for you of the files we kept on any threats or what we’d term ‘disturbing correspondence.’ I’ve spoken with him in depth, and I’m aware of the message written at the crime scene. It would appear, Lieutenant, this threat came from someone you know.”
“Potentially someone who knows me or of me,” Eve countered. “Equally possible from someone who used that message to re-angle the investigation away from a more personal motive. You said you were personal friends, so you’d be knowledgeable about her personal life. Social, sexual.”
“Leanore was an interesting, attractive woman. While she enjoyed the company of men, there was no one serious or exclusive. I’ve given Cecil permission to give you the names of her most usual escorts, her friends. Believe me, if I had any reason to believe any one of those escorts and friends could have done this, I would tell you.”
“You’ve lost two partners in the last couple years, Mr. Stern.”
His eyes went hard on hers. “Partners, colleagues, friends. Before you ask, she left her estate to her mother and her sister, and her interest in the firm to me.”
“That’s a good chunk—the firm.”
“Leanore is a great loss, personally and professionally. We may, and likely will, lose some clients. There will be upheaval and considerable, difficult publicity. We were discussing taking on a third partner, and had just recently narrowed in on one of our own, perhaps two. Cecil will also have their names, though there’s no motive in either.”
“Can you give us your whereabouts yesterday, between four and eight?”
“I was in Park City, Utah, yesterday—which is why we did the ’link conference. My fiancée and I spent Christmas there. We’re both avid skiers. We returned last night, got into New York about nine. Carolina will give you the name of our hotel, and the names of the crew on the shuttle—we took our corporate shuttle.”
“Okay. We appreciate the time.”
“Carolina will take you to Cecil.” Stern rose. “I want to say . . . She didn’t like you. Leanore made adversaries out of the opposing side. It was part of that fierceness. So, she didn’t like you, Lieutenant, but she did respect your capabilities. Whoever killed her was wrong. Just wrong. If that matters.”
“What matters is finding who did this to her, and bringing him or her to justice. If you want that justice, you should hope whoever killed her doesn’t engage someone like her as counsel.”
He smiled a little. “She’d defend her own killer, if she could. It’s how she was made. I’ll show you out.”
• • •
I think Stern was telling it straight,” Peabody said when they left the building. “Or mostly. I don’t think he liked her, personally, as much as he acted. More admired her professionally and was, like, cordial on the personal level.”
“Peabody, my pride swells.”
“Yeah?” Grinning, Peabody wiggled her shoulders inside her pink coat.
“She wasn’t his type, not just romantically. She’d have moved in on him there, like she tried with Fitzhugh, if she saw some gain in it. Not personal for her, not with Fitzhugh either. Just what could she get out of it. She was cold and a little hard, plenty hard,” Eve corrected. “Stern’s more refined, we’ll say, and not needy in the ego as Fitzhugh was.”
“Foxx hasn’t left Maui in six months, according to all the data. I wouldn’t have thought of Arthur Foxx on this if you hadn’t told me to do a run on him.”
“That’s why I’m LT and you’re lowly detective.”
“Frosty detective who rocks a magic pink leather coat.” Adoring it, more than a little, Peabody stroked her own sleeve.
“Don’t make love to the damn coat. Foxx was just somebody we had to check out, cross off. He’s not a lunatic, and whoever did this leans loony. Plus, he’d have hurt her, made her suffer some. He’d have messed up her face. And he’d have done it two years ago if he’d really meant to kill her.”
Checking Foxx? Just routine, Eve thought.
“I wanted to see if Stern knew how Bastwick played his other partner. He knew, he didn’t care. And yeah, didn’t much like her. But admire professionally works. She was splashier, in court, in the media. And he benefited from that. He’s going to rake in her share of the firm, and that’s considerable, but now he doesn’t have that frontispiece, and he wants one.
“Check his alibi,” Eve added as they climbed into the car. “It’s going to hold, but we’ll want to check it off the list. We’ll talk to her escorts after we go by the morgue.”
“Escorts. I guess that’s a refined way of saying her sex partners.”
“Some of them, sure. Some of them are going to be gay. That’s safe. A great-looking gay guy is the professional woman’s best friend, right?”
“I don’t have a bestie gay guy,” Peabody said wistfully. “I need to get one.”
“None of her ‘escorts’ would be—besties?” she said with a pitying look at Peabody. “Seriously?”
> “It’s a word.”
“It’s a stupid word. None of them will be genuine friends.”
YOUR TRUE AND LOYAL FRIEND.
“Think of her apartment,” Eve went on, shoving the thought aside. “All hers. Her office, all hers. She wasn’t into sharing. Nothing in her place that said she was having an affair, working on having one. I’m betting she mostly used pros. She gets exactly what she wants with an LC—no more, no less.”
“And isn’t obliged to make breakfast in the morning. Yeah, that’s how she reads. It’s kind of sad.”
“It’s not sad to get what you want.”
“It’s sad not to want more than paid-for sex and a styling apartment, and have your assistant be the one who looks like he mourns you the most. I checked her travel. She didn’t even go see her mom or her sister for Christmas. Never left the city. And the next day, she’s back at work, then she’s dead. It’s sad.”
“She lived the way she wanted to.”
“I’ll do better work, I think, if I feel a little sorry for her.”
“She lived the way she wanted to,” Eve repeated. “But she didn’t die the way anyone wants to. That’s sad enough.”
“Now that you mention it.”
• • •
Eve strode down the white tunnel of the morgue with Peabody. No skeleton staff here—ha—as the holidays always brought a banquet of murder, accidental death, and self-terminations.
She made her way to Morris’s domain, caught a glimpse of him through the porthole windows of his doors, pushed them open.
Leanore Bastwick might have died alone, but here she had company. Morris leaned over a body—male, Eve judged mid-twenties.
“Double duty?” Eve asked, and Morris straightened, scalpel in hand.
“I’ve finished yours. This one’s more recent. He sent his ex-girlfriend a vid, which she claims she didn’t see until this morning, possible, as according to the report she became engaged to his former best friend on Christmas Day. Our unfortunate young man spent most of his time since drowning his sorrows with a combination of illegals and cheap tequila, then, at ten last night, tied a noose out of bedsheets and sent the newly engaged lady a vid of himself weeping and threatening to hang himself.”