by J. D. Robb
Mira rose, moved to one of her two blue scoop chairs. “Larinda Mars,” she said as she sat and gestured for Eve to join her.
“Or Lari Jane Mercury. We’ve ID’d her birth name, her family, gotten background.”
“That should be helpful.”
“I think.” Eve sat. “DeWinter and her team were able to put together a sketch, and we hit on facial recognition. She’d scrubbed the ID back to the age of twelve. It’s a costly process, and I imagine she figured she’d spent enough. And with Roarke’s help we were able to locate a building she owned under the name Angela Terra.”
“Sticking to planetary names.”
“Yeah. Duplex, upscale neighborhood. She owns the whole building and rents the one side out through an agency that caters to short-term tenants. One night to one year. Vacationers, business travelers, like that. Her side? Loaded with things. Furniture, dust catchers, unpacked boxes of more things. It’s going to take weeks to catalog. In her office we found a series of books she’d put together, photos and data—with some personal notes—on people she considered possible marks or who became marks. While I’d say the things in her place were stuffed in there without much thought, the data—in the books and on her comp—that’s meticulously organized.”
“Her work as opposed to her possessions.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking her work was mostly her life, plus the work was how she accumulated the possessions. Once she had them, they’re just stuff. Mavis and Leonardo were in her books. Nadine. Roarke and me.”
Nodding, Mira crossed her legs. “I’d have been surprised otherwise. You’re all successful and/or prominent. And Nadine? Though they worked in different areas of the same business, she would be seen as a rival. Add Nadine’s access to you and Roarke, to Mavis and Leonardo as well? An envied rival.”
“She had a ranking system. We all ranked low, but some of the data was current, so she wasn’t giving up.”
“Was there anything in her background you discovered that correlated to her pathology?”
“I spoke with both her parents and her younger sister. Upper middle-class background. Father’s a private practice kid doctor, mother owns and operates a successful business, as does the sister. What I found, and my take from the interviews, says grounded, well-off financially, good, stable home.”
Because she got twitchy sitting, Eve rose, moved around the room.
“What also came out? The maternal grandmother favored Lari. First grandchild, and they’d named the baby for her—more or less. Her name was Larinda. She was well-off—widowed, a kind of socialite, and she’d feed Lari all the gossip.”
Mira made an agreeable sound, continued to listen.
“She kept books—along the same lines as we found. Photos, clippings, her own notes and observations. She often took Lari along to parties and events.”
“And so Mars developed the enjoyment of finer things, society of a certain level, and gossip. Certainly not unusual hobbies and habits.”
“Yeah. The upshot is the parents figured it was an indulgence, and the kid kept her grades up, got to experience some things. She and her sister butted heads some, but the younger one wasn’t interested in the parties and glamour end. She liked athletics, and was into the whole gardening/nature thing like their mother.”
“And the change, the defining moment?”
“Lari’s nineteen when the grandmother drowns in her own backyard pool. No evidence of foul play. She had a habit of swimming in the middle of the night, often after she’d had a few. She’d had a few.
“Grandmother leaves the whole ball to Lari.”
“Only Lari?” Mira asked.
“She tossed some small bequests to her daughter, her other granddaughter, but the big bulk, all to Lari Jane. The house, the things, the jewelry—she collected it like gumdrops—the money. About five million, and triple that with the sale of the house and the stuff.”
“Young,” Mira commented. “Nineteen is very young to come into that large an inheritance, with no guidance or backstops.”
“She sold the house, had some of the stuff sold, some shipped off, though the family didn’t know the details of that.”
“She’d already shut them out of her life.”
“Sounds like it. It also sounds like—to me—she already had another place, a place she sent the larger items she wanted to keep. Once the estate settled, she took off. No good-bye, no see you around, no forwarding address. Just packed up what she decided she wanted, took the money, and left. They never heard from her again.”
“And there’s no evidence of abuse at home?”
“Zero. The sister told me Lari played a role. That’s how she put it. She played the role in school—kept her grades decent, but had no interest in anyone or anything that didn’t directly benefit her. Same at home. Mostly stayed out of trouble, did what was expected—no more. And played it up with the grandmother. Where the money and influence were.”
“No emotion, no familial feelings or ties,” Mira commented. “Some sociopathic tendencies, certainly. To cut herself off from her entire family, without cause or explanation.”
“By that time she was twenty-one,” Eve continued, “and there was nothing they could do. It shows it stunned them, cut pretty deep, but that was that. She’d cancelled all her communications—’link account, e-mail, v-mail—giving them no way to reach her.”
“She had the capacity to sever all ties with her family, her roots, her friends, and her social circle. The inheritance gave her the means to do so.”
“She’d been seeing someone the family thought she was fairly serious about. They liked him, thought he was a steady influence on her, as they saw she’d become—me, I think it was more started to show—the shallow, the selfish, the calculating. She didn’t even bother to dump him before she left. They’d just spent the weekend together, her and the guy, at his parents’ house on the river. Big weekend bash. He wakes up Sunday morning, she’s gone. She went down early, told one of the servants to bring her car around, and load her weekender into it. The servant—they got a cop connection to look into it—stated she’d had more luggage in the trunk. Two others saw her get into her car and drive away. The guy, his family, the other guests, the house staff, all stated she’d appeared to be very happy, sociable, had discussed upcoming parties and events some of them planned to attend. Then she rolls out of bed, gets dressed, drives away.”
Mira sat a moment, absorbing. “She may have felt something for the grandmother who indulged her, but even that would have been surface. She simply wasn’t capable of forming a true connection emotionally. Without the grandmother to lavish her with things and opportunities, she had no reason to remain. Still, she was smart enough, calculating enough, to stay until she had all she wanted, to maintain a kind of illusion.”
“I figure she used that couple of years to decide on who she’d become, and how. The face and body she wanted to inhabit,” Eve explained. “I could probably track her from Kansas to the sort of high-end, specialist doctors who did her work, but it’s not going to apply to the now.”
“I could certainly help with that, but I agree. The doctor or doctors who transformed her physically were only a step along the way. The name she chose, a nod to her past, was a kind of private joke. The woman she became symbolically eliminated her sister altogether in her bio, and made herself an orphan. Indeed they meant nothing to her. She felt no bond. Her emotions, her loyalties are all self-directed. A narcissist’s narcissist with the sociopath’s lack of feeling. Yet in her own way, she was devoted to her work. Dedicated.”
“It was her window into the blackmail.”
“Yes, but she was no less devoted or dedicated,” Mira insisted. “Or ambitious. The work fed her. The secrets discovered—those she revealed publicly to her audience, those she held close for profit.”
“She was hitting close to a billion in personal wealth, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Okay,” Eve allowed, “devoted. Dedicated.”
“And addicted,”
Mira added. “Not only to what she did, but to the rewards.”
Eve sat back down. “The more I look at this, the more I add information, get a fuller picture of her and her … process, the more it’s leading me away from her marks. She chose carefully. She calculated, and was damn good at it. Yeah, she had data on Roarke, for instance, and that’s a rich mine. But she only gave him a single nudge—which he shut down in his Roarke way.”
Mira’s lips curved, her soft blue eyes danced. “I’m sure he did.”
“She kept collecting data there, but it doesn’t amount to anything that he doesn’t want anybody to know. She couldn’t dig down. So he gets the low rank. And it’s my take she collected the data more for her public work than her private. When I look at the ones she exploited—though we’ve got a lot more to talk to now—they follow a pattern.”
Mira nodded. “A secret that usually embarrasses another, and the financial power to pay easily.”
“Yeah, it’s a fertile field. Or the ones she hit for favors instead of cash? Easily intimidated, those afraid to do otherwise. Not the sort who’d kill. Everybody’s capable under the right circumstances, but she picked types who’d cave and cooperate. She read people and well.”
“She might have had a touch of the sensitive.”
As she’d thought the same, Eve gave a shrug of agreement. “So where did she make the mistake in her read? Who did she pick who could and would kill? Or is it not a mark? Someone connected to one somehow. Someone who made it his business to eliminate her.”
She pushed up again, restless. “Not one of them goes to the cops. Not one. Even Roarke. He didn’t tell me she’d tried to put the arm on him.”
“Do you tell him every time a suspect threatens you?”
Hissing out a breath, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “I say that’s different because it is. And I’m saying if somebody she successfully put the arm on had gone to the authorities, she’d be alive. Probably, hopefully, doing some time, but alive.”
She paced the confines of Mira’s office. “It’s none of the marks I’ve talked to. Somebody connected maybe. I’ve got dozens more to look at now, but if the pattern holds…”
She turned back to Mira. “Looking at the pattern, what’s your take?”
“Anyone under pressure may snap. Someone being victimized can strike back, end the victimization.”
“When you snap, you punch somebody in the face.” Frustrated, Eve jabbed the air. “Throw them out a window. Grab a heavy object and whale away. This was planned out, and carefully. But I get it. You can snap, then start planning. He had to stalk her, at least enough to get her routine. Any of the marks she shook down at that bar would know she used it, know how the place is set up. But they wouldn’t know she’d be there at that particular time unless he’d clocked her habits and routines.”
So Eve circled back.
“He’d been in the bar enough to have cased it, scoped out the security. What if she hadn’t gone down to the restroom? Could have taken her outside,” Eve continued, talking as much to herself as Mira now. “Maybe that was the preferred plan. Take her right on the street. Just a quick swipe, and keep walking.”
Once again, she sat. “The bathroom was of the moment. That makes more sense. She goes down, he thinks: I can do it now. He’s been sitting there, sitting there, it’s building up—or maybe it’s ebbing. He’s starting to lose his nerve. Then she goes downstairs, and he straps on his balls and goes after her.”
“The killer had the control to plan. It wasn’t impulse,” Mira said. “While it’s certainly possible the killer and his victim just happened to be in the same place at the same time, he had a weapon. Morris’s opinion is scalpel. While a medical might have a scalpel in a medical bag or kit, your witnesses never mention one. And the security feed doesn’t show the person you’ve identified with one. So he armed himself for this purpose.
“I’d say he has medical knowledge, as the strike was accurate, and lethal. However,” Mira qualified, “it takes only a little research to learn about this kind of injury, and a bit of practice to successfully inflict that injury. If he didn’t have previous medical knowledge or training, he also has the intellect and control to research and practice.”
“She wasn’t afraid of him. He walked into a private area, one where a man isn’t supposed to walk. But she wasn’t afraid. She doesn’t try to get her defenses out of her bag—right there where she’d been primping. She knew him, which leans back toward a mark or a connection she knew. She had an ex-lover, but he just doesn’t ring. I should take a closer look there anyway, another look.”
“She was confident,” Mira put in. “Used to having the upper hand. She needed to have it. When she came up against someone like Roarke, or you, Nadine, she backed off. She couldn’t gain the upper hand so she retreated. It’s likely she believed she had that upper hand with her killer.”
“Agreed. So maybe he’s in her books, or it’s someone at Seventy-Five, or in the business. Another lover maybe, or someone she kept on the back burner. She made a mistake with him, underestimated him. Not the snap. I can’t buy the snap and blow.”
“Let’s use your back burner then. A slow simmer can hit boil.”
“That’s a cooking thing, but I get it.” And, as she liked it, Eve nodded. “You think you’ve got it on just enough heat, right, but maybe it gets turned up while you’re not paying attention. The planning time, the research, the practicing. That adds more heat. He walks in. She thinks: I’ve got this. Maybe she tosses out an insult or a come-on, depending where he fits. And that’s the snap, the blow, the boil. But he’s still smart enough to walk right out, to walk right the hell past me and out the damn door.”
“I wondered how much that troubled you.”
“Pisses me off.” Eve expected it always would. “I don’t see him. I can describe at least a dozen people in that bar from before it happened, and every single one of them left in there once I secured the scene. But I don’t see him.”
“You will. Despite the lack of respect you feel, justifiably, for the victim, you’ll look until you see him. If he blended in the bar—”
“See, that’s it.” Eve pointed a finger. “He did blend. Stood out just enough because he kept the outdoor gear on, but the servers just didn’t really look at him. He was not important. Not a celebrity.”
She circled the office again as that planted in her mind. “A well-known figure doesn’t risk that kind of public display. Sitting there like that in a bar where somebody might look, might see. Just like the wits he merged with when they left. One of them looked enough to see a little, but didn’t get a buzz. Not a famous face. I’m bumping the famous faces down,” she decided on the spot. “Connected to, possible. One of the ones, the unimportant types, she intimidated. That’s possible. A bad read on her part, but possible. You can’t hit every time, right? Somebody connected to, or a wrong read that simmered and boiled. Snap. That’s the direction.”
She focused on Mira again. “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t keep you long, and I’ve gone overtime. I’m just thinking out loud now.”
“The process is very interesting. I’m finding myself seeing exactly what you’re thinking and why. Just as I find myself agreeing with that direction. We may both be wrong, but it fits. He’s old enough to control impulse, educated enough to have that medical knowledge or to have the skills and intelligence to gain it. Patient enough to learn her routine. And yes, very likely, able to easily blend into a crowd at an upscale, trendy bar. I’ll add, as he had or acquired this medical knowledge, he could have acquired the same to have killed her more quickly.”
“She bled to death. She bled people. I’d say he appreciated the symbolism.”
“I absolutely agree. That wasn’t random. Nothing here was random.”
“No. I’ve got to get on this. I appreciate the time.”
“If you find more, send it to me. I’ll try to add some meat to the profile.”
“I will. Thanks.” She starte
d for the door, stopped. “You and Mr. Mira weren’t in her books.”
“Why would we be?”
“Besides being connected to me, Nadine, Mavis, you’re at the top of your profession—a kind of celebrity—you’re socially active and well connected, financially solid.”
“I doubt my profession held much interest for her.”
“I disagree, majorly, there. You know secrets, and she was dedicated and devoted to uncovering secrets. You know a lot of mine.”
“Eve. I’d never betray your confidence.”
“I know that. I never doubt that. She didn’t know that, but you weren’t in her books. Here’s why. She looked at you, and at Mr. Mira, and she saw the unassailable. You weren’t worth the time or trouble. That’s not just why you’re at the top of your profession. It’s why you, both of you, are who and what you are.”
Touched, deeply, Mira rose. “I want you to know, if she had—as you put it—tried to put the arm on me or Dennis, we would have come to you. Without hesitation.”
“I know that, too. So, good. Thanks again.”
When Eve left, Mira sat back down, smiled to herself. Trust built slowly for some, but once constructed, became strong as steel.
Eve went straight back to Homicide, turned to her office in time to see Santiago stroll out of it.
“What were you doing in there?”
He stopped short at her tone. “Ah, giving Peabody a hand. Evidence boxes. On your desk.”
Her eyes stayed narrowed. “Yeah?”
“Well, yeah. A couple of them, and they had some weight.”
“You’ve got nothing else to do?”
“We just closed one. Carmichael’s writing it up.”
Since they stood there, and she continued to give him the hard eye, Santiago ran it down.
“Guy breaks into a loft in SoHo. Female occupant is home sick instead of at work as she normally would’ve been at that time of day. She wakes up while the thief’s banging around unhooking electronics, comes out of the bedroom upstairs thinking it’s her cohab. She’s half naked, just wearing this big T-shirt. Thief’s coming up, goes for her, knocks her around a little, as she’s medicated. But she bounces back and beats the crap out of him.”