by J. D. Robb
“He did those things,” Eve interrupted. “He used you, me, Mavis. He did it all for fun and profit. And now he’s doing a good long stretch in a cage. He didn’t kill, but he provided a weapon.”
“Bastwick didn’t get him off,” Roarke pointed out. “Could he have found a way to get back at both of you from that cage?”
“I checked on him. He’s restricted. Isn’t allowed electronics. He doesn’t have access to money, so he can’t pay anybody to do it. I could see him trying to find a way to come after me—the sniveling little coward—but I can’t see him going after Bastwick.
“But I’m going to look at him again,” Eve added. “I’m going to look at her firm—eliminate that connection, and the idea of anyone there hiring a pro.”
“You’d want a good eye on the financials.”
“I thought yours would qualify.”
“So it does. Her family?”
“Yeah, elimination again, because why? Maybe you hate your sister, decide to kill her or have her killed. Why muck it up with me? But we eliminate, we play it right down the line.”
“All right then. Give me a list, and I’ll entertain myself.”
She nodded, looked down at her wine. Set it aside. “I told Summerset not to open the gates for any deliveries or whatever unless he could confirm ID—and not to open the door period. You might want to add your weight to that.”
“I will, though you should know yours is enough for him. You’re concerned because the two of you like to swipe at each other, someone might . . . misinterpret your relationship?”
“It would mean the killer has more personal information on me—us—but I’m not taking chances. It wouldn’t hurt for you to beef up your personal security until.”
“Because, at some point, I might be viewed as a rival for your affections.”
She lifted her gaze, held his. “Something like that.”
“I should point out that as it’s most likely you’re the center of this, your personal security is a vital issue.”
“Cop, badge, weapon.”
“Criminal—reformed. But reformation doesn’t negate experience. Why don’t we do as you said? We play this down the line, eliminate. Then we’ll worry about the rest.”
“You’re going to worry about me, more than usual. When you do, remember something else I said before. I don’t think I could live without you.” She got up. “I’ll get you the list, and we’ll get started.”
• • •
With Roarke settled in his own office, Galahad sprawled and snoring on her sleep chair, Eve finished setting up her board.
She finished it by adding her own ID photo.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, she thought, studying herself. Potential victim, potential witness, potential motive.
She’d been a victim once, and wouldn’t be one again. Witness? That was fine, and she intended to grill herself thoroughly. Motive. That one made her sick, and that had to stop.
Routine, she told herself, could be a cop’s best friend. She was counting on it.
She went into the little kitchen, programmed a pot of strong, black coffee. At her desk, she brought up her incomings, saw communication from Mira, from Nadine, McNab, Feeney, another from Cher Reo.
The tough APA inside the stylish shell hadn’t been on the Barrow or Fitzhugh case, but Eve had no doubt Whitney had talked to the prosecutor’s office about the current situation. Reo wanted to be updated, wanted to discuss. And part of that, Eve knew, would be personal.
Unlike Bastwick, Eve hadn’t been able to block or hold off friendships.
Your true and loyal friend, Eve thought as she looked back at the board, at the copy of the message. What did that mean? Did the killer believe the others who’d become friends in her life were false ones?
I’m the only one you can count on, Eve speculated. Look what I did for you.
Yeah, that’s how it read to her.
Though tempted to pull up Mira’s communications first, she opted for potential evidence.
Feeney. Nothing much new, but he’d sent her a full report, including all probability ratios on height, shoe size. He’d even managed to identify the box. Common recycled material, twenty-four-inch square, sealed with standard strapping tape.
And interesting, she noted, he’d been able to find an angle, enhance, and get a readout on a shipping label.
The vic’s name and address in the same block printing as the wall message. Sender’s listed as the law firm.
She’d check it out, but she’d bet heavy that had been more cover. Somebody asks what you’re doing—even the vic? Why, delivering this package to a Ms. Leanore Bastwick from Bastwick and Stern law offices.
Nothing left to chance, Eve mused. Smart and careful.
She moved on to McNab.
Nothing suspicious on any communications. No arguments, no threats, no one, in fact, asking what she might be doing on the day she was murdered. Nor had she volunteered that information in any of her ’link conversations.
He’d logged several communications with clients, with the prosecutor’s office, with the law firm’s internal investigator of ongoing cases.
Eve read them over, looking for anything that set off a bell, uncovered a hunch. And like McNab, got nothing.
Reams of work on her office comp—much of it redacted. Stern wasn’t being that cooperative, but she hadn’t expected him to be. He repped criminals, or at least those accused of a crime.
And he’d already filed a restraint on her home comp, citing attorney/client privilege.
Okay, we’ll play that way, Eve thought, and tagged Reo.
“Dallas, how’re you doing?”
“I’m beating my head against the wall Stern or Bastwick and Stern put up. We’re restricted from full access on Bastwick’s comps, which impedes our investigation of her murder.”
“I know about that. Dallas, attorney/client privilege isn’t bullshit.”
Eve scowled at the screen, and the image of the pretty APA with her fluffy blond hair and deceptively guileless blue eyes. “Come on, Reo, she’s dead. One of her clients may have killed her.”
“Do you have a suspect? Is one or more of her clients a suspect?”
“All of them are.”
“Dallas, if you want me to fight privilege, I have to have cause. Solid cause. What I can and will do is talk to Stern tomorrow, demand he initiate an internal investigation.”
“Great, and if he cut out her tongue, he’s going to lead us right to himself.”
“Dallas.” Reo held up her hands, inner wrists touching. “Tied. But I’m going to do everything I can do, leverage wherever I can leverage, push where I can push. Tell me, do you, the primary, believe one of Bastwick’s clients killed her?”
“I don’t have enough information to believe or disbelieve. I’ve got a file of threats made over the years. It’s hefty.”
“Send me a copy. There I can help.”
“I did a quick cross, and I wasn’t involved directly in any of the cases that elicited a threat. Baxter and Trueheart got the collar on one last year, Reineke took another like five years back, and he and Jenkinson were on one more than three years ago.”
“Flag those.”
“All three are doing time. She got the Baxter and the solo Reineke knocked down from Second Degree to Man One—your office made the deal.”
“Okay.”
“The last she lost, big, and the client’s doing life on Omega. I’m looking at the possibility someone hired a hit on her.”
“Then I’ll look over these three first, and thoroughly. I’ll do whatever I can, Dallas, that’s what I wanted you to know.”
“Appreciate it. Okay. I have to get back to this.”
She went from lawyer to shrink, opened Mira’s messages.
Eve, I’m sending you a list of fiv
e individuals, with their communication to you. While it will take several days to read and evaluate all the communication, I felt these five warranted a closer look. Although only one of the five resides in New York, all have written to you multiple times, and correspondence shows an unhealthy attachment. There are three males, two females, with age ranges between twenty-eight and sixty-nine.
Please let me know immediately if your investigation into them turns up any additional element of concern or connection.
I’m also sending you, by separate cover, my profile of Leanore Bastwick’s killer. Please contact me, at any time, to discuss. Meanwhile, I expect to provide you with another list of names sometime tomorrow.
Okay, Eve thought, took a breath, poured more coffee. And opened the first name with its correspondence.
When Roarke came back in, she was up and pacing.
“People are fucked up,” she told him.
“So you’ve said before.”
“How can they be even more fucked up than I thought? I’ve seen what they’ll do to each other over a harsh word, or because they wake up one day and think: Hey, disemboweling somebody could be fun. But that’s violence, and mostly I understand violence. But where does stupid and fucked up come from? Screw it,” she decided. “Nobody knows that.”
She strode over to the coffeepot, but Roarke beat her to it, held it out of reach.
“Enough.”
“I say when it’s enough. I want some goddamn coffee.”
“There’ll be no more coffee, at all, if you abuse it.” When her eyes fired hot into his, he just lifted his brows over his cool ones. “You want to punch something. You can take a shot at me, but it won’t be free.”
“Fuck it.” She spun away, paced again. “Just fuck it.”
To solve the problem, he took the pot back into the kitchen, came back with a bottle of water. “Hydrate,” he suggested, but she ignored him.
“Read that!” She pointed to the wall screen, kept pacing.
Dear Eve,
I understand few call you Eve, but it’s how I think of you, and always have. All my life I’ve felt something—someone—was missing. I searched, and I let people come in and go out of my life during that search. But no one really connected. You know what I mean, I know you do. I sense it’s been the same for you.
Then one day, I saw you, only on screen, but the rush of feeling that swept through me was amazing. You stood on the steps of Cop Central in New York, so fierce, so strong, so real. And I knew. There you are, I thought. At last.
Did you sense me? I think you did. For a moment, just one moment, our eyes met. You looked right into me, Eve. I know you felt it.
I felt giddy and whole at the same time.
We’ve been together before, time and time before. Loved as few love, time and time before. I’ve been to a sensitive, and had this confirmed. We’re destined to meet, to be together, life after life.
I know I must be patient. I’ve followed your life now, your career. I’m so proud of you! I understand you’re married—as was I—and I must wait for you to come to the end of that relationship. It will be soon, though every day without you is a thousand years.
Only know I’m waiting.
Yours, always yours, throughout time,
Morgan
“Well,” Roarke said, “well. At least he’s patient until you give me the boot.”
“She,” Eve corrected. “Morgan Larkin, a forty-year-old woman, a mother of an eight-year-old boy. Three divorces—all from guys. A systems analyst from Columbus, Ohio, who ought to know better.
“And you can wipe that smirk off your face, pal.”
“Sorry, but my wife getting love letters from a thrice-divorced woman with a son does have some amusing factors.”
“You won’t think it’s so funny if you read the following fourteen letters she’s sent.”
“Ah. All right then, she’s one of your suspects. But you say she lives in Ohio?”
“And has a full-time job. A kid. I don’t find any travel to New York except for a long weekend last February. And she doesn’t have the scratch to hire a pro. This first letter came in three years ago this coming March. I barely remember it. I think I rolled my eyes, tossed it in the file. You’ve got to keep this kind of thing—for reasons that are pretty fucking clear right now. I sort of remember another coming in a few months later, but by then Peabody was working as my admin, and I had her deal. No answer because the standard is not to encourage.”
She sat, opened the water after all. “She came to New York specifically to meet me—there’s a letter dealing with that. She understands I’m unable to come to her, to dump you right away, but she needs to see me, to hear my voice and blah blah, so we’d meet on Valentine’s Day at the top of the Empire State Building.”
“An Affair to Remember,” Roarke murmured. “A classic vid. A love story.”
“Yeah, she put that in there. I got the next in March. She was a little pissed that time. How could I break her heart and all that. You could say we had our first spat. Then a couple months later, it’s like it never happened when she writes again, but she starts getting explicit about our physical love, more demanding about starting our lives together.”
Eve rolled the cool bottle over her forehead. “I don’t see how it could be this one. Whoever killed Bastwick spent time here, studied her routines, knows the city and how to get around. Knows something about cop work. But this is . . .”
“Disturbing.” He moved over, stood behind her, rubbed her shoulders.
“There’s a sixty-nine-year-old man in Boca Raton who’s been writing me once a month like clockwork since he read Nadine’s book. Starts off kind of normal. Admiration, thank you for your service, then it gets progressively more personal until he’s asking me to run away with him, how we’ll sail around the world and he’ll treat me like a queen. Christ, I’m half his age, and he should know better. He’s got the scratch.” She sighed. “Not Roarke scratch, but he’s not hurting. So we’ll give him a closer look, but he’s never had any criminal. A couple stints in facilities for emotional issues.
“Another guy in England,” she continued, wound up. “Apparently I come to him in dreams, and we bang like jackrabbits. Over and above the sex, we have this connection—emotional, psychic, depends on the day. He’s the only one I can trust. Dark forces surround me. The law, stupid as it is, hampers my destiny, so when we’re not dream-banging, he’s helping me on my cases. He tried to enlist in the cops over there, but failed the psych.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Yeah.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “One more guy, out in California. Seems sane initially if over-the-top. Big fan of book, vid, me. He, too, fights crime in his way—he claims. And would like to work with me. Then sleep with me. He’s also fine if you participate in that.”
The back of her neck was tight, knotted like twisted wires. Roarke used his thumbs to try to loosen them, kept his voice easy. “The work or the sex?”
“Both. He’s very open-minded. With my assistance, he’d like to come to New York, work as my consultant, one who will find ways around the system to bring the bad guys to justice. He doesn’t believe I get the admiration or respect I’m due, as—according to his last letter—I should be commanding the NYPSD, and he’s outraged on my behalf.”
“Travel?”
“He’s been to New York twice, but not in the last six months. I’ll take a closer look at all of them, but . . .”
“Another?”
“The last Mira sent tonight. Twenty-eight-year-old female, lives in New York, Lower West Side, works as a paralegal for a firm—her specialty is family law. She’s written eight times in the last year, with the gap between the correspondence narrowing as it goes. She knows we’d be best friends if we ever got together. She tries to advocate for victims and the innocent, too. We’re so much
alike. Her boyfriend dumped her last summer, and there’s a long letter—more like a short story—where she cried on my shoulder, knew I was the only one who would understand. Nothing sexual in this one, it’s more like she’s decided we’re like sisters, best friends, and she wants to help me the way she thinks I’ve helped her. I helped her stand up for herself, take better care of herself, to be strong and find her courage.
“God.”
“Criminal?”
“No, nothing. A light tap for illegals possession a few years back. I’ve got a couple of DD calls. Neighbors complaining about shouting, crashing around. Fights with boyfriend, but no charges. I can’t find a connection to Bastwick. Can’t find a trigger, but . . . She comes off smart, has an unhealthy and completely fictional relationship with me, sees our work as similar, and is often frustrated by the rules of law not fully serving justice. She sounds weird but harmless, and yet—”
He leaned down, kissed the top of her head. “You’re upset because whether or not any of these apply to your investigation, you now understand you’re a central point in the lives of people you don’t know—and don’t really want to know. You dislike the center stage at the best of times. For you, it’s the victim, the perpetrator, the survivors, the job. Your life, our life.”
“Is that wrong?”
“It’s absolutely not wrong. But it’s a fact you’ll need to deal with to do your job this time.”
“It’s not just the book, the book and the vid. I wanted to blame it all on that—this weird attention—but some of it started before that. It’s fucking creepy.”
He made a sound of agreement, kissed the top of her head again. “You’ll deal with it because you are who you are, you do what you do. What you haven’t said, and we both know, is some of it springs from me—from the media and attention you get being mine.”
“I am what I am, do what I do, and a big part of that is being yours.”
“All right.” He came around, sat on the edge of her desk so they were face-to-face. “My people will also start looking at correspondence. I get quite a bit myself, so we’ll coordinate there, see if there’s any cross. Meanwhile, the finances I’ve looked at so far don’t lead to hiring a hit man. Stern does indeed have a couple of tucked-away accounts, as one might expect. But I haven’t found any withdrawals or transfers of funds that apply here.”