Secrets in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Not done yet, she concluded, but walked in anyway.

  “If we had the Cat’s-Paw first layer,” Roarke said as he continued to play with a touch screen, “it may be an Armed Defense next.”

  “Maybe, maybe.” Feeney pulled at his hair again. “It’s sneaky. I’m already working it.”

  “Hot shiny shit!” McNab swiveled his narrow shoulders enthusiastically enough to have his long tail of blond hair swaying at his back. “I’m in the bitch now.”

  “Well done, Ian.” Glancing over, Roarke spotted Eve. “Fine timing, Lieutenant. Our boy here just cleared his way into your victim’s bedside tablet.”

  “You’d think she was freaking NSA, the shields and blocks and bullshit she used on her personal e’s.” McNab grabbed a vending cup, guzzled. “And she encrypted everything—different code patterns on every damn device.”

  “Can you put what’s on that on screen?”

  “I can now.”

  Once he did, Eve looked at a blue screen with a bunch of colorful symbols.

  “First layer under the shields,” McNab told her. “Standard icons. Hey, she played Killer Bees. Tight game. Anyway, we’ll go through all those and check it, but let me just…”

  He did something to the tablet. Another bunch of symbols scrolled on along with incomprehensible geek code.

  “Okay, maybe this.”

  He did something else. The screen wavered, then actual words came on.

  “Okay, just her calendar. Let me—”

  “Wait. Hold it.” Eve poked his arm to stop him, stepped closer to the screen.

  “Travel from last October—eight through twelve. Majestic Resort and Spa, CI.”

  “Canary Islands,” Roarke supplied.

  “Okay. See notation on October eight? Durante, with two stars. Person, place, thing? And later in the month, October twenty, she’s got Durante again, six P.M., Gino’s—bar, restaurant, potentially a person—with three stars. And once more on the twenty-third, five-thirty, DV—that’s going to be Du Vin—followed by two dollar signs and one of those stupid smiley faces.”

  “Person,” Feeney said. “A mark.”

  “Yeah, goes to the resort maybe to loll around and get some tune-ups, and to troll this Durante. People rate with stars, right? Maybe it’s a rating system. She ups the rating with a follow-up meeting, then the dollar signs. Durante pays. Move to November, McNab. And yeah. Keep going, month to month.”

  “You’ve got Durante, every month—dollar signs.” McNab shifted calendar pages. “Other names, too. Durante, third or fourth week of every month, right through January.”

  She gestured, then fisted her hands on her hips. “She’s got Bellami down for last night, at the bar, the stars—no dollar signs yet, as he hadn’t made the first payment. Appointments through the month, Gino’s again, DV again. Send this to me, and we’ll run the names that repeat.”

  She nodded. “Nice work, McNab.”

  “Thanks. Not done yet.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m in the field.”

  But she sent Roarke a look before she started out.

  He followed her. “Since you look particularly refreshed, I assume you found the burger.”

  “Yeah, appreciated. Plus, Trina had some juice about Mars. I had to let her snip and buzz and play with my damn face, but it’s going to be worth it.”

  “Your face is always worth it to me.”

  “Sap time.” She poked him. “Anyway, I did something and realized I should’ve run it by you before I did it, but now it’s done. About Peabody and McNab.”

  “Unless it involves a naked foursome, I’m likely fine with it.”

  “I hate when you sneak stuff like that into my head. It involves the villa in Mexico and one of your shuttles. She told me he’s burnt—and I could see he’s looking, well, a little hollow.”

  Roarke glanced back briefly. “I noticed, yes. A little hollow around the eyes, and not as, well, bouncy as our Ian.”

  Eve looked through the glass herself, watched McNab’s shoulders, hips, feet all jiggle at the same time as he worked.

  “Still got plenty of bounce, but … Anyway, Peabody was trying to put together a couple of days away once this is wrapped, give him some downtime, and I said she should take like five days, and then I offered the villa before I thought about it.”

  “You don’t have to think about it. It’s there, and it would give them a good break from the winter and the work.”

  “Yeah, but it’s—” She caught herself before she said yours, as that would just piss him off. “It’s probably in the Marriage Rules that you consult.”

  “Very fine save, Lieutenant.” He skimmed his finger down the dent in her chin. “Let’s say the consult should be simply to make sure whatever’s offered is available during a specific time frame. And this is available, as it’s unoccupied at the moment.”

  “Okay. I’ve got to get moving.” She stepped away, stopped. “Did you know…” Checked to make sure no one stood within earshot. “Did you know there’s been bullshit in some of the tabloids about you and Nadine and me and three-way sex?”

  “Now look what you’ve put in my head.” He smiled, shrugged. “It’s the nature of tabloids, darling, and easily dismissed. If and when they go too far, legal handles it, but if it troubles you, they can take a harder line.”

  “I don’t worry about it. It’s just weird what people put out there and other people scoop up like bullshit ice cream.”

  “Well now, it’s hard to see many would enjoy that particular favor, but you’re not wrong about the appetite for salacious gossip.”

  “Salacious bullshit then. It’s only relevant as it’s something Mars did—marginally classier than her sideline, but in the same universe. Except she couldn’t lie, just fabricate,” Eve considered. “She wouldn’t have lasted at Seventy-Five if she’d just made things up. And she wouldn’t get payoffs unless she hit truths.

  “You’re not going to hit truth every time,” Eve speculated. “Something to think about. I’ll see you.”

  “If you’re not coming back, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll hitch a ride home with you.”

  “I’ll be back,” she called out, striding to the closest glide.

  When she walked into Homicide, Peabody, her desk ’link in one hand, signaled with the other. She veered straight into her office, grabbed her coat. As she turned, Santiago stepped to her doorway.

  “I need a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “Carmichael’s sitting on a woman and her teenage daughter at the hospital. We got the call, DB, male, in a private residence in the East Village. The woman and the kid had both been taken in for medical treatment. Vic’s got about a half dozen holes in him from a kitchen knife. Household knife.”

  “How’d he get the holes?”

  “According to the woman—the kid’s sedated—she came home early from work to check on the kid, who was home from school on a sick day. That checks out. Found her ex in the kitchen, raping the kid. Rape kit and medical exam also verify, and the kid was beat up pretty good. The mother states she grabbed the knife out of the block, at which time the ex went at her, knocked her down, ripped at her clothes, threatened to kill both of them. She says she managed to get clear, and when he went for the kid again—whom she states was barely conscious on the kitchen floor—she stabbed him. Kept stabbing him until he was down.”

  “What doesn’t check out?”

  “The angles, LT, the movements. The kid—she’s fifteen—was assaulted, was raped, that’s solid. The mother has injuries to her face, to her breasts, and her throat. The DB had a good fifty pounds on her, facial scratches, and on the back of his neck—and both females had skin under their nails—and the stab wounds are all in the back.”

  She could see it, and could see where her detective was going, but let him lay it all out.

  “The angle and placement and depth—we’ll get the ME to verify—but, Dallas, it wasn’t the mother who stabbed him. She’s stick
ing to it, won’t budge an inch. But you can see by the body, the angles, the blood patterns on the mother’s clothes, the kid’s.”

  Yeah, she could see it. “The kid stabbed him.”

  “Had to, boss. He goes after the mother, who tried to drag him off, scratching the back of his neck in the attempt. He gets off the kid, clocks the mom, knocks her down and back, then jumps her. The kid gets up, gets the knife, and makes him stop.”

  “Did you relate this to the mother?”

  “Yeah, we did, but she won’t budge, and she’s not going to let us talk to the kid until she has time with her. She’s not going to let us talk to the kid without her being present.”

  He took a breath, rubbed his jaw. “I can’t blame her for it. Lieutenant, he beat the hell out of that girl, raped her, blackened the mother’s eye, choked her. We ran background, and the mother’s solid, a publishing exec with eighteen years in, no criminal. Kid’s a good student, no trouble. Father—he doesn’t live with them—is a lawyer, and you can bet she’s tagged him. He’s out of Charlotte now, but I’ll guarantee he’s on his way.”

  And they’d flank their daughter, their traumatized, likely terrified daughter. Who could blame them?

  “The thing is,” Santiago continued, “we’re going to prove she’s lying, and that’s just going to make things messier for them. But she won’t budge. Carmichael tried the woman-to-woman thing while I stepped out, told her it was clearly self-defense, but she’s sticking with her story. Doesn’t deviate.”

  “How about the vic? Any priors?”

  “Two, both sexual assaults, both vics recanted. She says they started seeing each other last fall, and she broke it off a couple weeks ago. She didn’t know about the priors, but claims he got over possessive, and the daughter told her he’d ‘accidentally’ touched her breasts or ass too many times. So the mother booted him, and he got bitchy about it, but she figured he’d move on.”

  “Contact the father—you, not Carmichael,” Eve added. “Keep it male, cop to father, looking after the best interests of a child. He’s a lawyer. Lay it out for him straight. If and when the ME confirms, if and when—and it sounds like when—you verify all the steps, relay it all to the PA’s office, to Reo, because let’s stick with a female there. She’ll talk lawyer-to-lawyer so they’re assured not only will no charges be brought, but it’ll be kept out of the media. Nobody talks to the kid without one or both of her parents present.”

  “The father. Yeah, that could work. I’ll push on that.”

  “And, Santiago? Let them see they matter. Take off the cop face and let them see. If you can’t wrap it up, let me know.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He started out, paused. “He ripped off the kid’s sick-day pajamas. They had bunnies on them. Fricking bunnies.”

  Eve let out a long sigh, let herself close her eyes for one moment. She knew exactly what that girl still had to face. Then she set it aside, put on her coat, and walked out.

  “Peabody, with me.”

  “I talked to all three of Ongar’s party. Sylvie MacGruder thinks, and it’s a big maybe, the man who came out behind them was about six feet. She bases that on the fact that Patteli is about five-ten, and the man was taller. She thinks. She only has the vaguest impression of him, and thinks Caucasian, and her best guess would be between maybe thirty and sixty, but wouldn’t swear to any of it. The others didn’t even notice him.”

  “But she, again, believes male?”

  “I asked if she’d noticed an individual walk out behind them. She said there was a guy a couple steps behind them. So she thinks male.”

  “Well, that gives us next to nothing. Let’s see if DeWinter has more. E-geeks are bringing it in,” she added, giving Peabody a rundown as they rode down to the garage.

  “That’ll give McNab some juice. Did you say the Canary Islands?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Durante?” Peabody bundled into the car. “I bet that’s Missy Lee Durante. I remember reading she had a fall break in the Canary Islands. She plays Elsie on City Girl. Screen series,” Peabody explained. “It’s really popular. She’s the sweet, naive teenager who moved to New York from Iowa when her father got a new job.”

  “Teenager?”

  “Well, she plays one. I think she’s about sixteen on the series now, but I’m pretty sure she’s more like eighteen or nineteen. Wholesome character, wholesome rep.”

  “I’m going to guess whatever Mars dug up on her isn’t wholesome. Where’s she based?”

  “Pretty sure in New York, they shoot the series here. I can do my own digging. But no way she’d be mistaken for a six foot male. She’s little. More like five-two.”

  “We’ll talk to her. It’s unlikely some random person with that name went to the same place at the same time as Mars. She preys on rich and famous.”

  “And we’ll be interviewing the rich and famous: Annie Knight, Wylee Stamford, and Missy Lee Durante. And yeah, she’s based in New York,” Peabody continued as they crossed the garage. “I’ll pin down where she’ll be when we want to work her in.”

  “DeWinter first.” Eve settled behind the wheel. “Plot out the best timing for the potential marks, and we’ll take all three where they are, or push for a conversation at Central.”

  Eve backed out of her slot, turned toward the exit. “And make sure the teenage actress is of legal age.”

  “Hold on. Nineteen.” Peabody tightened her safety harness as Eve shot out onto the street. “No need for a child services rep.”

  Eve maneuvered through traffic while Peabody worked her ’link and PPC to access schedules.

  “Stamford’s easy,” Peabody announced. “He’s doing an event at Sports World in Brooklyn, from three to five today. We should be able to catch Knight at her offices-slash-studio up until five-thirty.”

  “I thought you said she did some late-night thing. That’s not late.”

  “It’s recorded from like four to five-thirty, then broadcast later.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Never mind.”

  “I haven’t pinned down Durante yet.”

  “Stamford, Knight, Durante, unless the kid turns out to be sooner and closer.”

  Once they entered the hive of the lab, Eve aimed straight for the stairs, past workstations, cubes, glass work spaces where techs did their odd and geeky work.

  She found DeWinter, dark eyes huge behind microgoggles, holding a skull.

  “Is that Mars?”

  “It is.” DeWinter chose some sort of thin gauge, turned the skull, switched on the narrow beam of light. And said, “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?” Eve demanded.

  “She had superior work. Whoever operated on her face was—or is—an artist, and one with exceptional skill. I suspect the same on her body work, but I’ve only taken a cursory study there.”

  “Are you going to be able to give me a face?”

  “We’re working on it,” DeWinter replied, and angled the gauge toward the jaw. “I’ve seen this sort of reconstruction on accident victims who’d suffered severe facial damage. In those cases, you can see the damage as well as the repair or alterations, can date both.”

  “In this case?”

  “No indications of previous trauma or damage.”

  She turned to a screen, ordered magnification. Studied the skull in her hand and on screen. “This complete reconstruction rarely falls under the umbrella of vanity—though some can and do become addicted to cosmetic surgery. However, what I see indicates all of the work was done at the same time. Minor work here and there after, what would be considered tune-ups. But the initial work—jawline, cheekbones, nose, eyes, forehead? All done between twenty to twenty-five years ago. I should be able to narrow that window.”

  DeWinter turned back, pulled down the goggles. “I’ve worked on cases where the remains were identified through DNA, and like this, the dead had undergone a facial transformation. Criminals seeking to es
cape either the law or a rival, for instance. Someone with the connections and the finances—and the need—to completely change identities.”

  “And her DNA coordinates with Larinda Mars,” Eve said.

  “Yes.”

  “Which means either she changed her face but not her name, or she had enough scratch to alter her records of origin. And I’m betting it’s the second. You get me a face, and I’ll get those records of origin.”

  “It’s going to take time, but we’ll get it.” DeWinter crooked a finger, starting out with her candy-pink lab coat flapping.

  “You remember Elsie.”

  Eve eyed the woman in the white smock over black pants. “Sure.”

  “I lost a little weight.” Elsie Kendrick grinned, patting what Eve recalled had been a monster baby mound.

  “Twins, right?” Peabody asked.

  “Right. One of each variety. Amber Grace and Austen Dean.”

  “Great names,” Peabody said before Eve could pull the conversation back to business. “How are you all doing?”

  “We’re all doing mag. Due to our two-for-one sale, Daddy and I are sharing extended family leave, each working part-time. Plus, we can both do some work at home, so it’s pretty smooth. If you don’t count sleep deprivation.”

  She laughed again, gestured to a couple of easels. “And I don’t, when I consider my gorgeous babies and fascinating work.”

  Eve studied the first easel and the sketches of Mars’s face. Straight on, right and left profiles, even the back of the head.

  The second showed lines, curves, arrows, numbers.

  “Working the measurements and angles.” Elsie turned to a wall of screens. “The body type, before and after, is going to be quick and easy. Dr. Morris removes the fill from the breasts, for instance, gives me the weight. He measures the uplift, and I can reconstruct the originals. I can do the same with the calves—from the fill. And I can approximate the butt—suck job there and a lift. I go with probabilities, and we have this body shape and type.”

  The screen came on—arrows and numbers again, but a full-length study of a female form.

  “Bottom heavy, right?”

  “Ouch,” Peabody commented and subtly checked to see if her pants were still loose.