by J. D. Robb
“She sniffed out people with dark secrets who could pay.”
“Had to have some misses, like with you, but I think she, yeah, sniff’s a good word. She had a sense, at least about where to start looking. Maybe she had some form of sensitivity, maybe who she was will help us pin that down. She sniffed out, then she preyed. In at least one case, she had somebody drug a potential mark’s drink, set him up so she could squeeze him. It likely wasn’t the first time she helped her hobby along. Was it business or pleasure, or a mix? I should talk to Mira, get her take.”
“Because the more you understand the victim, the more you might the killer.”
“Usually.” Her computer signaled an incoming. “Feeney’s report,” she said after a glance. “Excellent.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“I have a seven o’clock interview with another mark, close to home—I mean our literal home this time.”
“I’ll wait and go with you. I’ll find a place to work in the meantime.”
“Where do you hole up?”
“Here and there.” He kissed the top of her head when she sat back down at her desk. “Just tag me when you’re ready to go.”
“Will— Shit, wait. I’ll walk out with you. I want to cut Peabody and McNab loose.”
“Now who’s being a mother?”
Mildly insulted, she scowled. “I’m being a lieutenant. If my team’s burnt, they’re useless to me.”
She walked out and up to Peabody’s desk. “Do you have the run on Hyatt?”
“Just finished. Hey,” she said to Roarke. “You guys push through?”
“We did, or near enough.”
“Send me the data,” Eve said to Peabody, “then go cut McNab loose. I’ve got the case files from St. Louis coming in shortly.” Or there would be hell to pay. “Anything there that needs a closer look, I’ll let you know.”
“Solid. I went ahead and— Have you got a minute?”
“I’m standing here,” Eve pointed out.
“I’ll leave you to your cop talk,” Roarke said and wandered over to Jenkinson and his eye-burning tie.
“I went ahead and did quick runs on Knight’s family. They come off clean and normal. A couple of minor bumps here and there. I could take a closer look at those, but I don’t think it’d lead anywhere. And I checked travel, because sometimes you don’t think your family knows stuff, but they do. None of them were in New York yesterday, or for months.”
“Good thinking. So for now, we cross any of them off. We’ll take a look at that angle on the other marks. Somebody protecting somebody who was protecting themselves or others. Copy me the data on Hyatt, and take off.”
She turned to go back to her office, saw both Jenkinson, his tie, and Roarke were gone.
Back at her desk, she read Feeney’s data. Fifteen more names—a few of which she actually recognized. A couple more sports figures, a defense attorney she’d faced off with a time or two in court, one other who rang a dim bell she thought might be an actor.
She scanned the amounts paid.
“You had more. You’ve got more on your list,” Eve muttered to herself. “A cool mil in your home safe? Plus those buried accounts, the art and jewelry. You’ve got a longer list somewhere.”
As she started runs on the names she had, her ’link signaled. She nearly ignored it, but decided maybe Nadine had something worth the interruption.
“Don’t talk to me unless you’ve got information,” Eve said.
“I’m fine, how are you?”
“About to cut you off.”
“How about instead you come by my place. I could come to Central, but I just got home and I’d like to stay here. You’re still at work.”
“Do you have something for me worth the trip?”
“I might.”
“Then just spill it.”
“Dallas, I want a big glass of wine, and I don’t want to do this on the ’link.”
“Fine. On the way.”
She cut Nadine off, tagged Roarke with a text.
Need to go by Nadine’s, so leaving now. Sorry.
Even as she grabbed her coat, he answered.
Meet you in the garage.
She ordered all applicable files and data transferred to her home unit, filled a file bag with more. And, taking one last look at her murder board, started out.
She ran into a grim-faced Trueheart, stopped, as he very rarely managed a grim face.
“Problem, Detective?”
“Asshole killed his own sister over a vid game. Fractured her skull with one of his father’s golf clubs because she beat his score and crowed about it. The parents are off on a winter cruise, left him in charge. Seventeen, and he’s in charge? For ten days? Now his fifteen-year-old sister’s dead over a game of Marauders.”
“Is he in the box?”
“With Baxter, an APA, and child services. I needed to step out for a minute.”
The hands he’d balled into fists at his sides mirrored the outrage, the disgust in his voice.
“He keeps saying she was being a shithead for dancing around and laughing, that she cheated. So he shut her up.”
“The parents?”
“On their way back from some stupid island. Who leaves a couple of teenagers on their own for ten days, LT? What kind of people do that?”
She didn’t mention the number of teenagers living with worse, living on the streets. Trueheart had come to her from sidewalk sleeper detail. He already knew. “Which APA?”
“Fruinski.”
“He’ll push for adult status. He’ll probably get it. Walk it off before you go back in. Tie it up, write it up, then go have a beer with Baxter.”
“I’ve got a date.”
There were times cops needed cops. “Have a beer with Baxter first.”
He sighed, and the grim faded a little. “Yeah, good idea. Thanks, Lieutenant.”
She opted for the glide as far as it would take her. He’d walk it off, she mused. He’d shake it off. Baxter would help him talk it out. And tomorrow, he’d be back on the job, dealing with the next.
Trueheart was too good a cop for otherwise.
When forced to, she squeezed on an elevator, rode the rest of the way to her level of the garage.
Roarke already waited, leaning back against her car in the magic coat she’d given him for Christmas—still working on his PPC.
“Got hung up,” she said.
“No problem. You drive, as I’m finishing up something here.”
She kept her silence as he worked and she maneuvered through traffic. Glanced over when he slipped the handheld back into a pocket.
“Buy something?”
“Sold, actually, for a tidy profit, a property in Nevada I bought just for that purpose.”
“Why did you buy something in Nevada to sell it?”
As she appeared to want to make small talk—non-cop talk—he obliged. “Because it was being sold well under market value, had considerable potential if updated and transformed with a bit of imagination and money, particularly considering its location. With that imagination and money, we pocket that tidy profit, and look for another underrated property.”
“How do you know about underrated properties in Nevada?”
“The same way I know about them anywhere else.” He smiled at her. “We’ll say I sniff them out.”
“How about if I said why don’t you buy some underrated property in— I have to think of somewhere weird. In Nebraska?”
“Why is Nebraska, in particular, weird?”
“Not in particular. It’s weird because it’s out there.” She gestured vaguely to indicate, he knew, not New York.
“Of course. Nebraska it is. Urban or rural?”
“Urban? Are you sure they have cities out there?”
“I’m quite sure of it, yes.”
“Actual cities,” she specified. “Not just a few buildings huddled together around a couple of streets.”
“Actual cities, darling
. Even west of the Mississippi there are actual cities.”
She mulled. “Rural. That’s got to be harder than urban.”
“Rural Nebraska. When I find the property, it goes in your name.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Your challenge, your name. I may lose you your shirt.”
“I’ve got plenty of shirts,” she countered. “You just keep buying them.”
She drove into visitor’s parking at Nadine’s swanky new building. The scanner read her plate, flashed a level and slot.
“Looks like Nadine reserved something.”
Once parked, they walked to one of the corner elevators, stepped in.
“Roarke and Dallas for Nadine Furst,” Roarke said.
You are cleared directly to Ms. Furst’s penthouse. Enjoy your visit.
“Why does it care if we enjoy anything?”
Roarke smiled at her. “It’s simply polite.”
“Computers don’t have to be polite. Efficient. That’s all I want out of a machine.”
It proved efficient, sending them up, angling them over, and up again with barely a sense of movement.
“Did you buy this building when it was under market?”
He grinned, smugly. “And then some.”
“But you didn’t sell it.”
“Some things you keep.” He took her hand as they stepped off into the hushed, wide hallway. “I’m fond of this building, and happy Nadine chose it.”
“Suits her down to the ground.”
She pressed the buzzer on Nadine’s well-secured, tri-level penthouse.
Nadine, dressed in at-home wear of snug black pants and sweater, opened the double doors to the entrance foyer.
“I got two for one.” She smiled, moving in to kiss Roarke. “I’m glad I can show off more of what I’ve done with the apartment.”
“The entrance is lovely,” Roarke said, studying the colorful bottles in wall niches, the flowering plants, the matching love seats.
“I love living here more every day.” Ignoring Eve, Nadine took Roarke’s hand, drew him into the living area. “I’m still finding pieces—that’s half the fun—but it’s already home.”
“Eve’s right. It suits you.”
Bold colors, strong art, a zillion—to Eve’s eye—fancy pillows bunched together over sofas in what was probably an artistic way.
“What is that?” Eve pointed.
“It’s a table. It’s a dragon table. A blue glass dragon. I don’t know why I fell in love with it, but I did.”
“It’s charming.” Roarke crossed to it, admired the sinuous body, the gleaming shades of blue. “Daum?”
“Yes!”
“If you think it’s dumb, why did you buy it?”
“Daum,” Roarke corrected Eve with a laugh. “Gorgeous craftmanship.”
“I’m enjoying finding interesting art and furnishings. I never knew I’d enjoy it as much as I do. And still, it’s really all about that.”
She gestured to the window of glass, and the city lights glittering behind it.
That, at least, Eve could appreciate. When she had the time.
“I’ve got a seven o’clock uptown, so give me what you’ve got.”
“Then you’ve got time for a glass of wine while I do.”
“I’m on duty.”
“I’m not,” Roarke put in, “and I’d love one.”
“Have a seat. One minute.”
She moved off. Eve remembered the dining room—huge red table. And the kitchen—sleek and loaded.
Roarke sat; Eve paced.
“She’ll have a party soon, I imagine,” he commented. “Now that I’ve seen how she’s filling out her space, I’ve an idea where to find her housewarming gift.”
The thought of another party, another gift had Eve casting her eyes to the ceiling. It never, just never, ended.
Nadine came back with a tray holding two glasses of wine. Since a big mug of coffee stood with them, Eve couldn’t bitch.
Roarke clinked his glass to Nadine’s, said something in Irish.
“I take it that’s a good thing?”
“Loosely, ‘welcome home.’”
“Thanks.” Nadine sat, sipped. “My second glass. It was a long one. I had to spend a lot of time in studio and on screen, talking about Larinda, the investigation, you,” she added, lifting her glass toward Eve. “And participate in some sorrowful panel discussions about her. But I put my best team on the research, dug into it myself when I could.”
“And?”
“Her background, which you’ve already looked at. How she came to New York as an eager young reporter straight out of college in the Midwest, landed a job as a gofer, an intern at Behind the Stars, worked her way up to field assignments, then moved to Seventy-Five with screen time and eventually her own show.”
“It’s going to be bogus,” Eve said, “at least until the New York section.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. The college records all check out. But absolutely no one remembers her. Not one student or teacher or administrator we were able to track down and speak with has any memory. Some of them made things up—vague things, and clearly fabricated to get some screen time of their own. I knew something was tilted there.”
Nadine shook her head, sipped more wine. “But she did her job, I did mine. Her data claims she and her parents, who died tragically when she was eighteen, moved around a lot. And still, no one remembers her or them. Not clearly. But mostly, it’s all too perfect.”
“Exactly,” Eve agreed. “Nomadic childhood, death of parents just when she came of age, exceptional student—homeschooled until college. No siblings, no family ties whatsoever. An absolutely perfect and pristine record. No medical issues on record, no criminal or legal issues prior to New York—and she’s been sued several times since. No cohabs, no connections. Just a girl, pure and clean, coming to New York from college, where she graduated in the top ten percent of her class.”
“That no one remembers.”
“Hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Eve said. “So thanks. It saves me a few hours tonight. But mostly that’s not much new.”
“Try this.” Nadine leaned back, crossed her legs. “I’ve got you one more of Larinda’s marks.”
“Name?”
“Phoebe Michaelson.”
Not on Feeney’s list, Eve thought as she ran through it in her mind. “She’s a celebrity?”
“Not hardly. She’s an assistant to Larinda’s assistant.”
“Family money?”
“No.”
“Access to information then.”
“Bingo. Let me explain. I huddled my team together, told them the work was on the down low, gave them bare bones. One of them came to me privately. She told me she’d seen Phoebe with Larinda a couple of times, at a local bar. Huddled together, Phoebe close to tears. And she walked in the ladies’ room once as Larinda streamed out. Phoebe’s still inside, crying in a stall. She couldn’t get anything out of Phoebe but was smart enough, curious enough to keep her eyes and ears open. Mostly she figured they were having an affair, but it didn’t play that way. She’d see Phoebe slipping into Larinda’s office after hours. And the kicker is: Phoebe was promoted out of IT. She’s an e-geek.”
“When you want to dig, an e-shovel’s an excellent tool.”
“I pulled Phoebe into my office, started asking her a few questions. She broke in two minutes. I’m good,” Nadine said, “but not that good. She was ready to break. She’s terrified, Dallas, has been terrified.”
“What did Mars have on her?”
“You can ask her yourself. She’ll be here in about five minutes. I think it’s better if you hear the rest from her, and I’m counting on you not pushing for an arrest. She’s going to resign from Seventy-Five, or I’ll have to tell Bebe and she’ll be fired. No way out of that. But she’s not a criminal. She’s another victim.”
Nadine’s house computer gave a quiet ping.
Your visitor Phoebe Michaelso
n has arrived in the main lobby.
“Clear her up. She’s a little early.”
15
Phoebe Michaelson trembled as Nadine led her into the room with an arm around her waist. Her brown eyes, swollen and reddened from weeping, dominated her ghost-pale face.
She looked at Eve as if Eve routinely kicked little puppies off a bridge into a roiling river.
If Eve could have generated the classic picture of a patsy, she would have Phoebe’s face.
“Phoebe, this is Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke. You just have to tell them what you told me. You just have to answer their questions, tell the truth.”
“I know.” Her voice gave a little mouse squeak.
“How about a glass of wine?”
“I … I … Can I?”
“Sure. I’ll just—”
But Phoebe clung to Nadine’s hand, as if being kicked off the bridge into that roiling river along with the puppies, and stared fearfully at Eve.
“Why don’t I get that?” Roarke rose. “Nobody’s here to hurt you, Phoebe,” he said, before leaving the room.
Tears plopped onto Phoebe’s cheeks. Nadine steered her toward a sofa, sat with her.
“I’m going to record this,” Eve began, “and read you your rights.” At Phoebe’s broken gasp, Eve let out a breath. “It’s procedure, and it’s to protect you. Nadine’s right about telling the truth. It’ll help us, and you. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.
She finished as Roarke stepped back in, pressed the glass into both of Phoebe’s hands.
“Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yes.” Phoebe took a deep gulp of wine. When she spoke again, the mouse squeak was gone. Now there was abject despair. “I don’t deserve an attorney.”
“It’s not about deserve. It’s your right.”
“I don’t want one. I just want to get this over with. I knew it was wrong, I knew, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I did it, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You knew what was wrong?”
“Hacking into people’s personal information. Into their correspondence and their private data. Cyberstalking them.”
“Why did you?”
“She said I had to. Ms. Mars.”