Secrets in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “A little on the hippy side,” Elsie agreed, “considering the smaller bust. Thicker through the thighs—also suck and tuck there. Muscle implants—bi’s and tri’s—so you have less muscle tone here in the before image. Dr. Morris and our flesh-and-muscle tech consulted—that’s why we’re really just getting started here—and agree the subject was, before various body sculpting treatments, carrying more weight, less muscle, and in consult with Dr. DeWinter, estimate the subject’s age to have been between forty and forty-five at time of death.”

  “Some of her teeth had been pulled and replaced with implants,” DeWinter added. “The rest capped. And again, a superior job. Harvo will verify, but it’s our opinion, as Morris concluded, she also underwent painful and expensive hair replacement. A kind of permanent color change.”

  As Harvo was queen of hair and fiber, Eve expected to know whatever could be known in that area, and soon.

  “How long will it take you to do with the face what you’ve done with the body?”

  “Longer. We need to do a lot of precise measurements and testing.” DeWinter put her hand on Elsie’s shoulder. “But if anyone can do this, it’s Elsie.”

  “It’s going to be like a giant jigsaw puzzle. I love puzzles.” Hands on hips, Elsie narrowed her eyes at the second easel. “I can tell you I’m close to sure her jaw’s going to be rounder, wider, her forehead broader. Same with the nose—most likely. Broader. We determined her eyes were brown before she had them changed, so highest probability brown hair. Harvo may be able to do some magic and tell us more there.”

  “She won’t have been really pretty.”

  DeWinter raised her eyebrows at Peabody.

  “It’s just—if she’d been really pretty, it would be harder for her to change everything. She’d have some feature she liked. Her eyes or her mouth, something.”

  “That’s completely unscientific, but it makes sense,” DeWinter allowed.

  “I don’t care if she was kick-in-the-nuts gorgeous or scare-the-kids ugly,” Eve said. “I just need a face when you can get it. Appreciate the update,” she said to Elsie. “It gives me a sense for now.”

  As she started out, Peabody said, “Can I see a picture of the babies?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  At Peabody’s first “Awwwww,” Eve stepped out.

  “She’s the best,” DeWinter began.

  “I remember. She did good, solid work on the unidentified girls at The Sanctuary.”

  “I could have assigned someone else, and you might have gotten some results quicker that would have been more than good enough. But with Elsie, though it may take a bit longer, you’ll have the next thing to a photograph.”

  “I’ll wait for it. How much do you figure Mars paid to have all the work done?”

  “I honestly don’t know, but certainly hundreds of thousands, just for the face work.”

  “Not just for vanity,” Eve mused. “Nobody’s that vain.”

  “Vanity and ego would be more Dr. Mira’s area than mine,” DeWinter commented, “but I’ve certainly worked on bones of subjects who’d paid for a great deal of vanity.”

  “Not just,” Eve said again. “There’s a secret in her real face. She had secrets of her own. Peabody, now! Or walk to freaking Brooklyn.”

  12

  Since she moved her ass fast enough and didn’t have to walk to Brooklyn, Peabody used the drive time to gather information on Wylee Stamford.

  “So, Stamford’s a Brooklyn native. His parents—thirty-three years married—live in Brooklyn Heights. The mother, originally from San Juan, came here as an au pair on a work visa, married the father, who was, at that time, employed as a city maintenance worker. The mother now owns and operates Your Kids, a day care and preschool. It gets a Class A rating, so it’s a really good one,” Peabody put in. “The father owns and operates a home repair and maintenance company. Interestingly, one sister works with the mother, the other with the father in their respective businesses.”

  Peabody continued to scroll through as Eve crossed the bridge into Brooklyn. “A lot of baseball stats, which you probably already know. Like him being rookie of the year in ’55, various MVP deals and Golden Gloves. Blah-blah. But on the personal side, no marriages or cohabs. He’s still based in Brooklyn, and lives on the same street as his parents. His best pal since childhood is his personal manager. Four years ago he started the Stamford Family Foundation. The main mission is to expose underprivileged youths to sports—which includes a sports camp, scholarships, donated equipment, mentoring, transportation.

  “Aw, he arranges, every year, for groups of kids to not only attend a home game, but to meet the other players. That’s nice. He sounds nice.”

  “People who sound nice and can field like a god can still kill. Solid family ties,” Eve continued. “Loyalty—keeps old friends—gives back. But something in there sent up a flag for Mars, and she exploited it.”

  “There’s a lot of information on him, a lot of articles, features, bios. He comes off as a sports phenom from a hardworking middle-class family who values his roots. No scandals, no pissy behavior. Went to NYU on a scholarship, played for the Violets … isn’t that kind of a sissy name for a ball team?”

  “It’s team colors.”

  “Okay.” But Peabody mentally rolled her eyes. “Kept up his grades—not dean’s list, but a more than respectable three-point-three. Not shabby academically in high school, either,” she said, scrolling back. “Kept up that low- to mid-three average all the way … Whoops, pretty big dip in—let’s see—seventh grade and into eighth. Barely scraped by there. Puberty can be a bitch, I guess.”

  A flag shot up, high and bright, in Eve’s mind. “Check his juvie and medical records for that period.”

  “Really? He’d’ve been like twelve.”

  “If you’re Mars looking for dirt and you see that inconsistency, what do you do?”

  “I dig deeper.”

  As Peabody dug, Eve hunted for parking, settled on a lot.

  Still digging as they got out, Peabody shook her head. “I’m not finding any juvie tags or … Wait, something. Urgent-care visit, records sealed.”

  “Just one?”

  “It’s all I can see. I mean he’s got other injuries and treatments—clearly sports related—but this one’s sealed.”

  “Look for follow-ups, check the parents’ financials for medical bills. Later,” Eve said as she studied the block-long spread of Sports World.

  They stepped in through the sliding glass doors.

  If you played sports—or pretended to—she thought, you’d find everything you needed here. The retail section, bright and open, was divided into generous sections by sport: football, arena ball, baseball, basketball, soccer, hockey, lacrosse, and more. Screens played games going on somewhere in the world or highlights of games already done.

  And all under a big, wide dome, like an arena.

  The staff wore warm-up suits and high-top rollers so, when needed, they could flip out wheels and zip over the floor.

  Eve snagged one on the zip.

  “Where do I find Wylee Stamford?”

  “He’s on level three south. If you’re here for the demonstration, that’s at four, and you’ll need tickets. They’re free, but you have to sign up at the main desk, and they’re going fast.”

  “Right, thanks.”

  She let him continue to glide, turned away from the main desk, and headed for the wide, open stairs.

  The second floor, more retail, held sports clothes—jerseys, sideline jackets, yoga gear, running gear, racks and shelves of shorts and pants, shoes, cleats, skates.

  She kept going, up another long flight.

  People practiced their putts or swings on an indoor green. Others worked heavy or speed bags in a boxing section. What looked like a friendly pickup game played out on a half court.

  Through a glass wall she saw a martial arts class performing a pretty decent kata.

  And on the south side, Stamford
signed baseball cards, balls, posters, caps, mitts for a throng of fans.

  He wore his wildly curling black hair in a high, short tail, had an easy, cheerful smile on his carved-out-of-polished-granite face. His rangy body showed off well in black baggies and a thin, snow-white sweater.

  Eve could admit to feeling a little tug—she considered him a true artist on the field and a magician at the plate. But tug or not, he was, at the moment, a suspect.

  With a quick, practiced glance around, she picked out security, and headed toward the man with a burly build and suspicious eyes.

  She angled herself, palmed her badge, tipped it up. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Mr. Stamford.”

  “What about?”

  “We’ll speak to him about that.”

  He frowned, head signaled a woman positioned on the other side of the crowd. She made her way over, and the two security guards had a quick, murmured conversation.

  After a hard look at Eve, the woman headed off to yet another man. Not security, Eve thought. Too slight, too well dressed.

  She got another look, another frown from him. Then he cleared his face to pleasant, strolled over.

  “How can I help you, officers?”

  “Lieutenant, Detective,” Eve corrected. “We need a conversation with Mr. Stamford.”

  “I’m Brian O’Keefe.” He offered a hand along with the pleasant smile. “Wylee’s manager. As you can see he’s pretty busy just now.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “If you could give me some idea what this is about, I might be able to help. Wylee’s schedule’s really tight today.”

  “He can make time to speak to us here, or he can adjust his tight schedule to include a conversation at Cop Central. Maybe you should ask him which he’d prefer.”

  The smile bobbled, fell away. “If there’s some problem—”

  “Don’t you figure this indicates a problem?” Eve tapped her badge. “Here or Central. Simple or complicated. Choose.”

  “He’s got a ten-minute break coming up shortly.”

  “Fine.”

  “Jed, why don’t you show these officers back to the locker area. It’s closed off for this event,” O’Keefe told Eve, “and should be private. If Wylee stays out here, they’ll keep coming.”

  “Sure, Bri.” The big man led the way.

  “Have you worked for Wylee long?” Eve asked him.

  “Awhile.” He skirted behind a trio of batting cages, swiped a card on a door. “Don’t see why you have to bother him.”

  “It’s my job. What was yours before this? Linebacker?”

  His mouth curved, just a little. “Semipro. Bunged up my knee pretty bad, and that was that. Wylee hired me on.”

  “Same neighborhood, right?”

  If you couldn’t hear Brooklyn in his voice, you needed to have your ears checked.

  “Yeah. Me and Bri and Wylee, we go back. You can wait in here.”

  He went out, closed the door.

  The room held two walls of stainless-steel lockers, a trio of sinks, a couple of toilet stalls, and a pair of low benches.

  “See about that medical data,” Eve told Peabody, pulling out her own handheld to do a run on Brian O’Keefe.

  No marriage, no cohabs, no offspring on record. Studied at Carnegie Mellon, double majors in comp science and accounting.

  Nerd, Eve decided.

  And the nerd had taken a job in IT right out of college, then ditched it to manage the sports star.

  Eve poked around in O’Keefe’s life until Peabody swore under her breath.

  “I’m not going to be able to pull this out on a handheld, Dallas. The data’s too old. I probably couldn’t pull it anyway. It’s going to take an e-man. I can send it to McNab.”

  Eve started to tell her to go ahead, remembered McNab was already overworked. “Send it to Roarke.”

  “Really? That’s okay?”

  “Nothing he likes better than prying around in somebody’s personal business.”

  Then she looked up, stood up, as Wylee Stamford came in.

  He smiled as he did, extended a hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Maybe she felt another tug as she shook the hand that could wing a ball from third to first like the stream of a laser rifle.

  “We appreciate your time, Mr. Stamford.”

  “Wylee, okay? Lieutenant—sorry.”

  “Dallas, and Detective Peabody.”

  “Well.” He sat on the bench. “How can I help a couple of New York’s finest?”

  “We need to talk to you about Larinda Mars.”

  “I … Who?”

  Eve saw two things simultaneously. He hadn’t been prepared to hear that name, and he was going to lie.

  “What was your relationship with Larinda Mars?”

  “I’m not sure I know who that is,” he began, looking relieved when O’Keefe came in.

  “Sorry. Got a little hung up.” He dropped down on the opposite bench.

  Eve considered booting him out, then decided to get the two for one.

  “Larinda Mars,” Eve repeated. “Gossip reporter, Channel Seventy-Five. She was murdered yesterday. You might have heard about it.”

  “I did,” O’Keefe said before Stamford could answer. “Something about her being attacked in a bar, or a restaurant?”

  “That’s right. Why don’t each of you tell me where you were yesterday between six and seven P.M.”

  “Excuse me?” O’Keefe said it with a quick laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “Murder always strikes me as serious. You first.” She turned to Stamford. “Six to seven.”

  “I’m going to contact Gretchen,” O’Keefe interrupted. “Wylee’s lawyer.”

  “Go ahead. We can wait.”

  “No. Just, no.” Wylee waved a hand in the air. “It’s simple. I was at my parents’ house. Or walking down there around six. I’d’ve been having a beer with my dad by around ten after. We ate about seven. No, wait—I was late. Mr. Aaron was out walking his dog, and he caught me. He’s a talker. I probably didn’t get to the house until about twenty after. I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Mr. Aaron’s a neighbor?”

  “Yeah, he lives two doors down from my dad.”

  “All right. We’ll verify that. Mr. O’Keefe?”

  “I was home at six. I work at home unless we’re going to an event or I have an outside meeting. I was home until about seven. I had a date, and I left to meet her about seven.”

  “Her?”

  O’Keefe blew out a breath, shot a glance at Stamford. “Gretchen Johannsen.”

  “Gretchen? You and Gretch? This is news.”

  Coloring a little, O’Keefe shrugged at Stamford’s grin. “We’re just sort of … testing the waters.”

  “You’ve been swimming in the same pool since you were ten. Gretchen’s one of the old neighborhood gang,” Stamford continued, then stopped, lost the easy smile. “Sorry. It’s not important.”

  “You never know what is,” Eve countered. “When did Ms. Mars first contact you?”

  “I really don’t know who or what you’re talking about.”

  Eve stared straight into his eyes. “Mr. Stamford—Wylee—I admire the way you field a ball like your glove has radar, and your power—and brains—with a bat. From my perspective you bring integrity to your game, so I’m going to give you just a little room. I’m going to assume you’re lying to me for the same reason you let Mars blackmail you.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Quiet,” she snapped at O’Keefe, “or the room gets a lot smaller. We have her electronics. We have your name among her list of victims. She made you a victim by exploiting something you’d pay to stop her from exposing. Maybe you got tired of paying, maybe she asked for too much, maybe you just snapped. Maybe you decided to kill instead of pay.”

  “I was at my parents’.”

  “A lot of people admire you. Some of them might kill for you. Like your old friend here. Or Je
d. Maybe Gretchen.”

  Wylee’s eyes turned hard, his face into polished stone. “You don’t drag my friends into this.”

  Loyalty, Eve thought, and continued to use it. “Then stop lying to me or I won’t have a choice. I need you to tell me the truth. The faster and more detailed that truth, the less chance there is I’ll have to discuss any of this outside this room or bring your friends, your family, into it.”

  “I don’t want my family to know.”

  “Wylee—”

  “No, Bri, enough. It’s enough.” He braced his elbows on his thighs a moment, scrubbed hard at his face. “I don’t want them to know what you found on her lists, in her fucking files.”

  “Then lay it out for me, and I’ll do everything I can to protect your privacy. As long as it’s the truth.”

  “I’m not sorry she’s dead. That’s the truth.” He shoved up, paced the narrow area between benches. “She came up to me a couple years ago, at a sports banquet. She gave me her card, and on the back was a name, and her private number. The name, the number, and an order to contact her.”

  “What name?”

  He shut his eyes. “Big Rod. I had to get up and make a speech. I felt sick, but I had to get up and make a speech. All those kids … I was a kid. I was just a kid.”

  And she knew, by the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice. The child in her knew the child in him.

  “Give me his full name.”

  “Rod C. Keith. My hero.” He all but spat the word. “My mentor. Guardian angel of the neighborhood kids—that’s what people called him back then. If you needed someone to play catch, shoot hoops, go long, you could count on Big Rod. You could hang out at the youth center for hours. He’d listen to your dreams, push you to get good grades, and sharpen your batting stance.”

  “How old were you when it started?”

  His eyes, haunted now, met hers. “Twelve. Maybe it started before, just subtle things. I trusted him. I loved him. My family trusted him. They loved him.”

  He paused, breathed in and out, slow.

  “Sure you can go watch the game on screen with Big Rod. No problem having some catch with Big Rod. I’d feel special when it was just the two of us in his place.”