Obsession in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “You said, from the start, she’s a coward.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  And seeing the three reconstructions in succession made that clear.

  “The first two went smooth,” Eve pointed out. “Everything happened the way she’d expected it to happen. She needs order and logic. Matilda was out of order. Matilda wasn’t logical.”

  “So she didn’t know what to do,” Peabody concluded. “Didn’t have the instincts to act off that script.”

  “Exactly. Instead of charging after the half-naked, unarmed woman, steadying it up, taking another shot, she ditched it all.”

  Your allotted time has expired. Please log out and exit the facility.

  “Fine. Computer, send program to my home and office comp—Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. She goes back to wherever she feels safe,” Eve continued as they started out. “And tries to calm down. She starts writing me an apology. ‘Eve, I failed. I failed you.’ But the whole thing keeps running through her head. It shouldn’t have gone wrong. I should’ve been more grateful in the first place. Whose fault is it really, when she had it all perfectly orchestrated? She trusted me, above all, and this is what she gets in return.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “She’s not a cop. Or is/was a piss-poor one. Any cop worth dick who’s been on the job two days learns how to think on their feet. Cops pursue, run after, not away. You’re armed, target isn’t? You sure as hell don’t run away. Not a cop. A wannabe, maybe. In law enforcement in some capacity, yeah, but not on the job.”

  “I’m going to feel a lot better if you’re right. I really want you to be right, especially after . . .”

  “Talking to Tortelli,” Eve finished, reading her partner clearly. “We’re swinging by EDD. I want to bounce some of this off Feeney if he’s still here. I’ll drive you and McNab home when I’m done.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s not much out of my way, and not out of it period if Mavis is home. Check that for me, will you? I want to look in on her myself if she’s there.”

  “Sure. Are you and Roarke going to the ball drop?”

  “Oh, absolutely. If we both suffer extensive brain damage in the next twenty-four hours.” She beetled her brows at Peabody as they walked. “You’re going?”

  “Well, yeah—if we’re clear. Sure, it’s insanity—I worked crowd control New Year’s Eve my first year on the job, and it’s wild and wicked. But fun, too. And Mavis got us all full-access passes, so we get some VIP treatment and get to hob and nob with celeb and music stars.”

  “I’d rather be flayed alive and force-fed my own skin.”

  “Eeww!”

  “Yeah, that was pretty disgusting, but close to true.” She detoured toward EDD, then stopped outside the bright and jumping world that was the Electronic Detectives Division.

  Everybody moved, bouncing in their chairs, dancing on their feet to some inner geek beat. Neon colors gone nuclear adorned every person in the room, save one.

  Feeney, Eve thought, a rumpled oasis of sanity in a world gone Day-Glo mad. He stood—and okay, his foot tapped, but that was reasonable—at a board, swiping, sweeping, jabbing while a couple of geeks looked on.

  The place smelled like sugary drinks and fruit-flavored gum. Someone dressed in lightning-bolt blue with a poofy tower of green hair did a jump and spin in a cube, and said, “Yee-haw!”

  “See this?” Eve said. “Multiply it by a few million, and that’s your ball drop.”

  “That’s what makes it mag.”

  “And that,” Feeney declared, shooting both index fingers at the screen, “is how it’s done.”

  The detective on Feeney’s right pumped her fists in the air, wiggled her pink-and-white-striped covered butt. “Yo fricking ho, Captain.”

  “Watch and learn, children, watch and learn.” He dusted his palms together. “Now finish that off and go bag the bastard. Embezzlement, insurance fraud, with a side of blackmail.”

  “Fly in the web, boss. Thanks.”

  Feeney turned, spotted Eve, nodded to her and Peabody.

  “Got a minute?” Eve asked him.

  “Now I do.”

  “Peabody, check on McNab’s status, and Mavis. In your office? I can’t think out here,” she told Feeney. “I don’t know how you do.”

  “Keeps the blood moving to the brain,” he claimed, and led the way. “And some days gives you a mother of a headache.”

  He plucked a couple of the candied almonds he kept in a bowl on his desk, then sat, propped his feet on the desk. “I’ve been out there working on that shovel and search damn near an hour. Nice to get the feet up. Spill it.”

  “Have you had time to read the updates?”

  “Yeah, I’m on the mark there.”

  “Up until this attempt on Hastings I’ve been thinking cop—leaning heavy toward it. But what kind of cop runs from an unarmed wit? You’re armed, witness isn’t, and the target’s down. The play is pursue, take out the wit, finish the job.”

  “We get some yellow-bellies on the job.”

  “Yeah, but even factoring that, what’s the risk? And the adrenaline should be pumping, right?”

  “The report says only one stun stream fired.” Feeney nodded. “You’re on the job, you know you don’t stop with one until all targets are down.”

  “Damn straight. One more? Crappy shot. Seriously crappy. Maybe she misses on the stream because she was taken by surprise. But we’re only talking about ten, maybe twelve feet. The other two vics were stunned close-range—Hastings even closer than the two DBs. Face-to-face, so it says not only a yellow-belly but a seriously crappy shot to me. That’s the risk, maybe. And still, the wit didn’t have that much of a lead. If she’d gone after the wit, she’d have had her. Odds are. What cop wouldn’t take those odds?”

  “Probability is no police training. No street time anyway. Maybe a desk jockey. More probable a wannabe or a civilian.”

  “Or both. Somebody in the loop, Feeney, because unless you read my report on Ledo, you wouldn’t know we’d gotten physical.”

  She grabbed a couple of almonds herself, paced and circled. “Bastwick, all that was public fodder. Bastwick herself made it clear she had a problem with me, played up a personal feud.”

  “And Bastwick came first.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s the easy one. Get your feet wet with that one. Ledo, it’s more personal. It’s saying, isn’t it, I know what went on, and I’m paying him back for you. It’s deeper than Bastwick.”

  “Ledo’s the easier kill, but Bastwick’s more general. Yeah, it’s Mira territory, but I get you. Had more to say after Ledo, too, so you got your escalation. Both scenes clean as my aunt Crystal’s front parlor—trace-wise—so I’m with you on law enforcement, especially adding in the data the public didn’t know.”

  “Then Hastings. I actually like him, in a twisted way. Plus, sure, we went a round, but I always had the upper hand. Even more, he was cooperative once he simmered down, and I showed him the pictures of the vics. He was actually instrumental in our ID’ing Gerry Stevenson. But . . . the altercation was all in the report.

  “Who the hell reads the reports? Shouldn’t be anyone not directly involved.”

  “But.”

  “Yeah, but somebody with the right credentials could access them. I did a standard search on that and came up with nothing much. Any way to dig deeper there?”

  “I can look at it. But,” he said again. “Right ID gets you into Records easy enough. Or you hack in, if you’re good enough and interested enough. She’s interested enough, and shows some e-chops.”

  She sat on his desk. “Anybody spring to mind? Any of your techs, anybody new, any of the e-support? You use outside consults off and on.”

  “Squeaks, sure. Civilian geeks. Hell, Roarke’s the top squeak around here.” He scr
ubbed at his wiry hair. “I’ll do some digging there, but nobody pops for me. Then again, some of my kids use squeaks I’m not real familiar with. Wannabe, that’s how it reads all around. Wannabe cop, wannabe vigilante, wannabe your number one pal.”

  “Maybe not so much on the pal anymore.”

  “Pissed at you,” Feeney agreed. “Whiny bitch on top of it.”

  “Which takes her right out of contention for any pal of mine. But it’s pals I’m worried about. I don’t want to insult you.”

  “Better not.” Casually, he recrossed his ankles. “I outrank you.”

  “You were my trainer, my partner. You’re—” The closest thing to a father she’d ever had. But that was too sloppy and sentimental for both of them. “You’re a pal. When I put myself in her head, I ask myself who’d be the target that would pay me back most? Who would I want to bump aside so there’s room for me as Dallas’s—what’s it?—BFF? I come up with Mavis right off. Oldest friend, and a civilian. But there’s you, Feeney, and Peabody.”

  “Roarke’s not your pal?”

  “She’s not good enough to get to him. And that’s insulting, and I don’t mean it that way. He’s covered, is what I mean. My sense is she’s too cowardly to take on a cop, but . . .”

  He took a handful of almonds now, leaned back as he studied Eve, popped one into his mouth. “An old cop, a geek, a desk jockey? Pretty easy pickings?”

  “In her head, Feeney, not mine. Old, my ass.”

  “I feel the years more than I used to, but I’m no easy pickings.”

  “I know it. She may not. I’m just telling you how I see it, and asking you to be on guard. She’s going to go after somebody I care about. If not the next hit, soon enough unless I stop her.”

  “She’s working chronologically, so far. If you had to pull it out of your hat, who’d be next in line? Not a pal.”

  “Ah, hell, Feeney. I couldn’t count them.” Even the idea had her scrubbing her hands over her face, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “Jesus, I’m going to have to read through all my case files, from the Stevenson investigation to now.”

  “You could go that way,” Feeney agreed. “And spend the next couple weeks buried in them. Or you could have Roarke load them up, use that fancy comp lab of his. Do a search for physical or verbal altercations—with people not currently in a cage. Separate out other cops. Not that she wouldn’t go for one, but civilians more likely. Won’t be quick, but quicker than slogging through a couple years of case files. Easier on the eyes, too.”

  “Run a probability on what I get. I could have him do a quicker one.” She saw it now. “Six months to start. Run the probability, factoring timeline. It’s something.”

  She pulled out her signaling communicator, scowled at it. “Kyung. Media wants an update. He wants to go with statement only, no questions. It could be worse.”

  Considering, she keyed in a response. In ten minutes. Brief statement, done. I have work.

  She shoved it back in her pocket, rose. “I’m going to get this out of the way. If McNab’s clear, I’m going to run him and Peabody home, check in on Mavis.”

  “Take him. I’m going to be heading out myself. I’ll keep an eye out for homicidal women who think I’m an easy mark.”

  “Good enough. Thanks.” She paused at the door. “Would you consider going to the ball drop tomorrow night?”

  “Sure, if I lose my mind between now and then.”

  She absolutely beamed at him. “Exactly.”

  • • •

  In the media room, she glanced over the statement Kyung had drafted, then stepped out in front of the cams and mics.

  The questions blew out immediately. To deal with them she simply stood, silent until the noise level dropped.

  Stony silence often worked on suspects, uncooperative wits in the box. It could take longer on reporters but generally did the trick.

  “I’m not taking questions so don’t waste my time. The investigation into the murder of Leanore Bastwick and the murder of Wendall Ledo is active and ongoing.”

  “Are there any new leads?”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “We believe the attack on Dirk Hastings last night was perpetrated by the same individual responsible for the deaths of Bastwick and Ledo. Mr. Hastings was injured, but has made a full recovery. The newest sketch of the suspect has already been distributed to all of you, so there’s no point in asking questions I’m not going to answer anyway on that element. The suspect fled when interrupted by a guest in Mr. Hastings’s residence. No, I will not reveal the identity of the witness.”

  With thinning patience, she waited out the next barrage of questions. “We are evaluating all evidence, pursuing all leads, and will continue to do so until the suspect is identified and apprehended. I’ll add the suspect has my full attention.”

  She chose a camera at random, looked straight into it as she spoke. “The suspect murdered two unarmed people, stunning them first. Mr. Hastings was also unarmed and stunned. The difference in this last incident is the presence of a witness and the suspect fleeing the scene rather than confronting someone who was not stunned unconscious. Draw your own conclusions.”

  She turned her back dismissively, walked away while the questions rained after her.

  “You intended to call the suspect a coward in front of the cameras,” Kyung commented.

  “Draw your own conclusions,” she repeated. “Peabody, McNab, let’s go.”

  She needed to see a friend before she went back to chasing a killer.

  “Door-to-door service rocking it.” McNab climbed into the All-Terrain behind Peabody—and gave her butt a quick squeeze. “Buy you a cup of coffee, Dallas?”

  She started to refuse, on principle, then thought better of it. She could use some wire in the blood. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Eve pulled out while he worked the AutoChef.

  “So hey, Peabody said how you did a holo walk-through, and it sparked me. I got together with Yancy, and we played around with holo-construct on the UNSUB. Using his sketches, the security discs, estimating height and all that happy.”

  He programmed her coffee in a go-cup, passed it forward.

  “Did the highest probable on build—and we split out there, but we both lean toward most of the bulk being the coat, whatever she’s wearing under it. Giving the ratios of arm and leg length, hands, feet, breadth of shoulders and hips, factoring the outerwear and all that, we figure she’s between five-eight and five-ten, running about a buck fifty. Gotta have some muscle in there, right? Your reconstruct says the first vic wasn’t dragged but carried. First vic weighed one-eighteen.”

  He handed Peabody a coffee, regular. “Hair and eyes are crapshoots—can’t see the hair. Hastings says brown, but you can change eye color. But we batted it around and we like short hair on her. Sure, she could pile it up under the cap, but it’s easier and smarter, even if she has a bonnet under it, to go with short. Less chance of a stray one, right?”

  Eve flicked a glance in the rearview as he programmed a fizzy for himself. “You’ve been thinking, McNab.”

  “Put the gray cells on it, LT.” He grinned at her. “We came up with a series of five images—some variations in them, and I wouldn’t bet my ass any of them bull’s-eyes it, but I’d gamble my next paycheck we got close.”

  He slurped down some fizzy. “Finished up right before Peabody tagged me, so I sent the file to your comps. You can take a look when you get home.”

  “Why wait?” Traffic was nasty and slow. “Can I call it up here, the in-dash?”

  “Absotively.” Knowing her, he flipped off his safety belt, levered up and over the front seat. “Give me a sec.”

  He smelled like cherry fizzy, she thought, looked like a guy running off to perform in an off-Broadway review. At the North Pole. But when it came to e-work he . . . well, he rocked it
out.

  “There you go. I’m going to run it back here so She-body gets the gander, too.”

  Eve shifted the vehicle into auto. She might make it to Mavis’s quicker by attacking the traffic, but the time, she determined, was better spent studying McNab and Yancy’s collaboration.

  The first composite showed a tall woman, solid build, excellent muscle tone. That excellent muscle tone was visible as the two detectives had dressed the image in a minuscule polka-dot bikini.

  “Gotta take your jollies where you find them,” McNab claimed when Eve’s eyes flicked to the rearview again. “Plus it gives you a good sense of possible body type.”

  “Hmm” was Eve’s comment. They’d gone with a short, almost centurion cut and mid-brown hair. Using Hastings’s description, they hit the same tone on the eyes. Thinnish mouth, straight nose, slightly rounded chin.

  “Did you run any facial recognition?”

  “We did some simultaneous, but the deal with standard features and shit is you get a few zillion hits, which is the same as none.”

  Nodding, Eve moved to the next as the burly vehicle negotiated the snarly, rush-hour traffic.

  Slimmer build now with tough-looking arms, lighter hair in a short, sharp wedge. And a gold metallic bikini this time.

  And the next, a bit heavier, curvier, spiked hair, squarer at the chin, slightly fuller lower lip. Wearing a sparkly pink G-string and tiny bra in the shape of silver stars.

  “The way we set it up, you can mix and match the features and elements,” he explained.

  “Like playing Morph Dollies,” Peabody said. “I loved that toy when I was a kid.”

  “I bet your morphing dolls didn’t garrote the other dolls.”

  “Would that be iced or what?” McNab cut in before Peabody could answer. “Murdering Morphing Dollies. Roarke totally ought to produce that.”

  “I’ll pass that on. This is good work, McNab. Wouldn’t bet my ass on the bull’s-eye, either, but this is good thinking, and good work.”