by J. D. Robb
“Ow.”
“Fucking A,” Baxter agreed, and took a long gulp. “Guy bled out before the MTs got there. Damn ugly mess, let me tell you. And the guy’s dick? She’d stuffed it in the recycler, just to make sure it didn’t get in any more trouble.”
“Pays to be thorough.”
“You women are cold and terrifying creatures. This one? She’s damn proud of it. Says she’s going to be a hero to neofems throughout our fair land. Maybe so.”
“You got that closed. Anything else hot?”
“We don’t have any more actives than we can handle right now.”
“Anything you don’t feel comfortable passing on?”
“You want me to dump my caseloads on somebody else. I’m your boy.”
“I want you and Trueheart on witness duty. My residence.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll get my boy. They did two kids?” His face sobered as they walked toward the bull pen. “Did them while they slept?”
“It’d have been worse if they’d been awake. You and Trueheart are babysitting the eyewitness. Nine-year-old female. Keep it off the log for now. I still have to report to Whitney.”
She moved through the bull pen, then into the glorified closet that was her office.
As predicted, Nadine Furst, Channel 75’s on-air ace, sat in Eve’s ratty desk chair. She was perfectly groomed, her streaky blonde hair swept back from her foxy face. Her jacket and pants were the color of ripe pumpkin, with a stark white shirt beneath that somehow made the whole getup more female.
She stopped recording notes into her memo book when Eve walked in. “Don’t hurt me. I saved you a cookie.”
Saying nothing, Eve jerked a thumb, then took the chair Nadine vacated. When the silence went on, Nadine cocked her head. “Don’t I get a lecture? Aren’t you going to yell at me? Don’t you want your cookie?”
“I just came from the morgue. There’s a little girl on a slab. Her throat’s cut from here, to about here.” Eve tapped a finger on both sides of her own throat.
“I know.” Nadine sat in the single visitor’s chair. “Or I know some of it. A whole family, Dallas. However hard-shelled you and I might be, that gets through. And with a home invasion like this, the public needs some of the details, so they can protect themselves.”
Eve said nothing, just lifted her eyebrows.
“That’s part of it,” Nadine insisted. “I’m not saying ratings aren’t involved, or I don’t want my journalistic teeth in something this juicy. But the sanctity of the home should mean something. Keeping your kids safe matters.”
“See the media liaison.”
“The ML doesn’t have squat.”
“Should tell you something, Nadine.” Eve lifted a hand before Nadine could sound off. “What I’ve got at this point isn’t going to help the public, and I’m not inclined to give you the inside edge. Unless . . .”
Nadine settled back, crossed her exceptional legs. “Name the terms.”
Eve stretched out, flipping the door shut, then turned around in her chair so that she and Nadine were face-to-face. “You know how to slant reports, how to spin stories to influence the public who you love to claim has a right to know.”
“Excuse me, objective reporter.”
“Bullshit. The media’s no more objective than the last ratings term. You want details, you want the inside track, one-on-ones, and your other items on your reporter’s checklist? I’ll feed you. And when this goes down and I get them—and I will get them—I want you to bloody them in the media. I want you to skew the stories so these fuckers are the monsters the villagers go after with axes and torches.”
“You want them tried in the press.”
“No.” It wasn’t a smile that moved over Eve’s face. Nothing that feral could be called a smile. “I want them hanged by it. You’re my secondary line, if the system gives them a loophole even an anorectic bloodworm has trouble wiggling through. Yes or no.”
“Yes. Was there sexual assault on any or all of the victims?”
“None.”
“Torture? Mutilation?”
“No. Straight kills. Clean.”
“Professional?”
“Possibly. Two killers.”
“Two?” The excitement of the hunt flushed onto Nadine’s cheek. “How do you know?”
“I get paid to know. Two,” Eve repeated. “No vandalism, destruction of property, no burglary that can be determined at this time. And at this time, it is the opinion of the primary investigator that the family in question was target specific. I’ve got a report to write, and I have to speak to my commander. I’m cooking on three hours’ sleep. Go away, Nadine.”
“Suspects, leads?”
“At this time we are pursuing any and all blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Disappear now.”
Nadine rose. “Watch my evening report. I’ll start bloodying them now.”
“Good. And Nadine?” Eve said as Nadine opened the office door. “Thanks for the cookie.”
She set up her office case board, wrote her report, read those submitted by EDD and Crime Scene. She drank more coffee, then closed her eyes and went through the scene, yet again, in her mind.
“Computer. Probability run, multiple homicides, case file H-226989- SD,” Eve ordered.
Acknowledged.
“Probability, given known data, that the killers were known by one or more of the victims.”
Working . . . Probability is 88.32 percent that one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers.
“Probability that the killers were professional assassins.”
Working . . . Probability is 96.93 percent that the killers were professional and/or trained.
“Yeah, I’m with you there. Probability that killers were hired or assigned to assassinate victims by another source.”
Working . . . Wholly speculative inquiry with insufficient data to project.
“Let’s try this. Given current known data on all victims, what is the probability any or all would be marked for professional assassination?”
Working . . . 100 percent probability as victims have been assassinated.
“Work with me here, you moron. Speculation. Victims have not yet been assassinated. Given current known data—deleting any data after midnight—what is the probability any or all members of the Swisher household would be marked for professional assassination?”
Working . . . Probability is less than five percent, and therefore these subjects would not be so marked.
“Yeah, my take, too. So what don’t we know about this nice family?” She swiveled around to the board. “Because you’re dead, aren’t you?” She shoved another disc in the data slot. “Computer, do a sort and run on subsequent data pertaining to Swisher, Grant, client list. Follow with sort and run on Swisher, Keelie, client list. Highlight any and all subjects with criminal or psych evals, highlight all with military or paramilitary training. Copy results to my home unit when complete.”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” She rose, walked out.
“Peabody.” She gave a come-ahead that had Peabody pushing back from her desk in the bull pen.
“I’ve got a complaint. How come Baxter and most of the other guys always get the good bribes? How come being your partner means I get shafted on the goodies?”
“Price you pay. We’re heading to Whitney. Do you have anything new I should know about before we report?”
“I talked with McNab. Purely professional,” Peabody added quickly. “We hardly made any kissy noises. Feeney put him on the household ’links and d and c’s, and Grant Swisher’s units from his office. He’s running all transmissions from the last thirty days. So far, nothing pops. Did you see the sweepers’ report?”
“Yeah. Nothing. Not a skin cell, not a follicle.”
“I’m doing runs on the school staff,” Peabody continued as they squeezed onto an elevator. “Pulling out anything
winky.”
“Winky?”
“You know, not quite quite. Both schools are pretty tight. You gotta practically be pure enough for sainthood to work there, but a few little slips got in. Nothing major at this point.”
“Pull out military, paramilitary backgrounds. Even those—what are they?—combat camps. Those recreational places where you pay to run around playing war. Take a hard look at teachers in the e-departments.”
Eve rubbed her temple as they stepped off the elevator. “The housekeeper was divorced. Let’s eyeball the ex. We’ll get the names of the kids’ pals. See if any of those family members should be checked out.”
“He’s waiting for you.” Whitney’s admin gestured even as Eve strode toward her desk. “Detective Peabody, it’s good to have you back. How are you feeling?”
“Good, thanks.”
But she drew in a deep breath before they entered Whitney’s office. The commander still intimidated her.
He sat, a big man at a big desk, his face the color of cocoa, his short cropped black hair liberally dusted with gray. Peabody knew he’d done his time on the streets, nearly as much time as she’d been alive. And he rode his desk with the same fervor and skill.
“Lieutenant. Detective, it’s good to see you back on the job.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.”
“I have your writtens. Lieutenant, you’re walking a thin line taking a minor witness into your own custody.”
“Safest place I know, Commander. And the minor was emotionally distressed. More so at the prospect of going with CPS. As she’s our only witness, I felt it best to keep her close, to have her monitored, and to attempt to keep her emotionally stable in order to gain more information from her. I’ve assigned Detective Baxter and Officer Trueheart to witness protection, off the log.”
“Baxter and Trueheart.”
“Baxter’s experience, Trueheart’s youth. Trueheart has a kind of Officer Friendly way about him, and Baxter won’t miss the details.”
“Agreed. Why off the log?”
“At this time the media is unaware there was a survivor. It won’t take much longer, but it gives us more of a window. Once they know, the killers know. These men are trained and skilled. It’s highly possible this was an operation executed under orders.”
“Do you have evidence of that?”
“No, sir. None to the contrary either. There is, at this time, no clear motive.”
It was going to be the why, Eve thought, that led to the who.
“Nothing that pops in any of the victims’ data or background,” she added. “We’re beginning further runs, and I will continue to interview the witness. Mira has agreed to supervise, and to counsel.”
“Nothing in your report indicates this as a spree killing or home terrorism.”
“No, sir. We’re running like crimes through IRCCA, but haven’t hit anything with these details.”
“I want your witness under supervision twenty-four/seven.”
“It’s done, sir.”
“Mira’s name will have considerable weight with CPS. I’ll add mine.” The chair creaked when he leaned back. “What about legal guardians?”
“Sir?”
“The minor. Who are her legal guardians?”
“The Dysons, Commander,” Peabody said when Eve hesitated. “The parents of the minor female who was killed.”
“Jesus. Well, they’re unlikely to give us any trouble over the situation, but you’d do better to get their permission, officially. Doesn’t the child have any family left?”
“Grandparent. One on the father’s side who lives off planet. Maternal grandparents are dead. No siblings on either side.”
“Kid can’t catch a break, can she?” Whitney muttered.
She caught one, Eve thought. She lived. “Detective Peabody? You spoke with the grandmother.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I notified next of kin. At that time, I was told the paternal grandmother was not legal guardian in case of parental death or disability. And, to be frank, while shocked and upset, she made no statement to indicate she intended to come here and attempt custody of the minor.”
“All right then. Dallas, speak with the Dysons at the first opportunity, and tidy this up. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they were walking back toward the elevator, Peabody shook her head. “I don’t think now’s the best time—for the Dysons. I’d let that slide another twenty-four anyway.”
The longer the better, Eve thought.
5
SECURITY AND STREETLIGHTS WERE POPPING ON by the time Eve headed back uptown from Central. Normally, the vicious traffic would have given her plenty of reason to snarl and bitch, but tonight she was grateful for the distraction, and the extra drive time.
It was gelling for her.
She could see the method, the type of killers. She could walk through the scene over and over in her mind and follow the steps. But she couldn’t find motive.
She sat in stalled traffic behind a flatulent maxibus and circled around the case again. Violence without passion. Murder without rage.
Where was the kick? The profit? The reason?
Going with instinct, she called up Roarke’s personal ’link on her dash unit.
“Lieutenant.”
“What’s your status?” she asked him.
“Healthy, wealthy, and wise. What’s yours?”
“Ha. Mean, crafty, and rude.”
His laugh filled her vehicle, and made her feel slightly less irritable. “Just the way I like you best.”
“Location, Roarke?”
“Maneuvering through this sodding traffic toward hearth and home. I hope you’re doing the same.”
“As it happens. How about a detour?”
“Will it involve food and sex?” His smile was slow, and just a little wicked. “I’m really hoping for both.”
Odd, damn odd, she thought, that after nearly two years of him that smile could still give her heart a jolt. “It might later, but first on our lineup is multiple murder.”
“Teach me to marry a cop.”
“What did I tell you? Hold on a minute.” She leaned out the window, shouted at the messenger who’d nearly sideswiped her vehicle with his jet-board. “Police property, asshole. If I had time I’d hunt you down and use that board to beat your balls black.”
“Darling Eve, you know how that kind of talk thrills and excites me. How can I keep my mind off sex now?”
Eve pulled her head back in, eyed the screen. “Think pure thoughts. I need to do another walk-through of the crime scene. I wouldn’t mind having another pair of eyes.”
“A cop’s work is never done, and neither is the man’s who’s lucky enough to call her his own. What’s the address?”
She gave it to him. “See you there. And if you beat me to the scene, for God’s sake don’t tamper with the seal. Just wait. Oh, shit, parking. You need a permit. I’ll—”
“Please” was all he said, and signed off.
“Right,” she said to dead air. “Forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”
She didn’t know how Roarke dispensed with such pesky details as parking permits, and didn’t really want to. He was just stepping onto the sidewalk when she arrived. She pulled up behind his vehicle, flipped on her on-duty light.
“Pretty street,” he said. “Especially this time of year with the leaves scattered about.” He nodded toward the Swisher house. “Prime property. If they had any equity in it, at least the child won’t be penniless as well as orphaned.”
“They had a chunk, plus standard life policies, some savings, investments. She’ll be okay. That’s one of the deals, actually. She’ll be set pretty well, coming into the bulk of it when she hits twenty-one. They both had wills. Trust-fund deal for the kids, supervised by legal guardians and a financial firm. It’s not mega-dough, but people kill for subway credits.”
“Did they make contingencies for alternate beneficiaries sh
ould something happen to the children as well?”
“Yeah.” Her mind had gone there, too. Wipe out the family, rake in some easy money. “Charities. Shelters, pediatric centers. Spread it out, too. Nobody gets an overly big slice of the pie. And no individual gets much above jack.”
“The law firm?”
“Rangle, the partner, gets the shot there. His alibi is solid. And if he has the connections, or the stomach, to order a hit like this, I’ll toast my badge for breakfast. This family wasn’t erased for money. Not that I can see.”
He stood on the sidewalk, studying the house as she did. The old tree in front, busily shedding its leaves onto the stamp-sized courtyard, the attractive urban lines, the sturdy pot filled with what he thought were geraniums beside the door.
It looked quiet, settled, and comfortable. Until you saw the small red eyes of the police seal, the harsh yellow strip of it marring the front doors.
“If it were money,” he added, “one would think it would take a fat vat of it to push anyone to do what was done here. The erasing, as you put it, of an entire family.”
He walked with her to the main entrance. “Put my ear to the ground, as requested. There’s no buzz about a contract on these people.”
Eve shook her head. “No. They weren’t connected. But it’s good to cross that off the list, at least the probability of it. They didn’t have ties to any level of the underworld. Or government agencies. I played around with the idea that one of them had a double life going, thinking of what Reva dealt with a couple months ago.” Reva Ewing, one of Roarke’s employees, had had the misfortune of being married to a double agent who’d framed her for a double murder. “Just doesn’t slide. No excessive travel; not much travel at all without the kids. Nothing that sends up a flag on their ’links or comps. These people lived on schedules. Work, home, family, friends. They didn’t have time to mess around. Plus . . .”