Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Plunk her down with strangers, then spin the wheel,” Eve said bitterly. “See if she gets lucky and gets somebody who actually gives a flying fuck, or isn’t so lucky and gets one who’s just in it for the fee.”

  “She isn’t you, Eve.”

  “No, she by God isn’t. Isn’t even close. Maybe she’s got it worse than I did.”

  “How?”

  “Because she had this.” Eve laid her hand on the photograph. “And now she doesn’t. You come from the bottom of the pit, there’s no place but up. She’s got a long way she can go down.”

  “I’ll help. As far as the process of placing her, finding the right family situation for her, I’ll put my weight in. Yours wouldn’t hurt either.”

  “Yeah.” She leaned her head back, and for a moment, just a moment, closed her eyes. “I can’t think about this now. We’ve got some leads that may pan out.”

  “Was there something else you needed to speak with me about?”

  “Need to walk and talk.” She rose, and told Mira about the incident with Nixie and the murder board.

  “We’ll talk about it in our next session.”

  “Fine, good. I need to go harass Yancy about the composite.”

  “Good luck.”

  She could use some, Eve thought as she caught a glide. It was about time a little luck headed her way.

  14

  SHE FOUND YANCY IN A LITTLE GLASS BOX CONFERENCE room in his sector, drinking station-house coffee with Ophelia. The LC wore the same feathers and paint as the night before. In the harsh lights she looked the way Eve had always thought carnies looked in daylight—a little worn, a little tawdry, and not particularly inviting.

  But Yancy was chatting her up, flirting.

  “So, asshole tells me he wants me to sing. Says it’s the only way he can get the wood on. Wants me to sing ‘God Bless America.’ Can you dig it?”

  “What did you do?”

  “What you think? I sing. I got the tune okay, but I gotta make up the words mostly. Giving him a hand job, and he’s singing with me, fixing the words. There we are, squeezed in a doorway, having ourselves a duet.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got up, got in, and round about the third time around the tune, got off. Got to be a regular after that. Every Tuesday night, we had ourselves a performance. I got me a red, white, and blue outfit, too. Give him a little more bang for his buck.”

  “You see a lot of characters in your line of work.”

  “Honey, you been on the stroll long as me, there’s nothing you haven’t seen. Why just last week—”

  “Excuse me.” Eve’s voice was hard as baked earth. “Sorry to interrupt your chat, but I need to see Detective Yancy for a moment. Detective?”

  “Be right back, Ophelia.”

  “Oooh, she looks mean enough to chew rock and spit pebbles in your eye.” Voice low, Ophelia winked at Yancy. “You watch that fine ass of yours.”

  The minute they were outside, the door closed behind them, Eve tore in. “What the hell are you doing? Drinking coffee, chatting about her exploits on the stroll.”

  “I’m warming her up.”

  “She had a bed, her meals, her entertainment, courtesy of the NYPSD. If you ask me, she’s warm enough now to sweat. I need results, Detective, not amusing anecdotes for your case file.”

  “I know what I’m doing, you don’t. And if you’re going to rip me a new one, wait until I’m finished.”

  “I’ll schedule that—as soon as you tell me when the hell you’re going to be finished.”

  “If I don’t have something you can use in an hour, I’m not going to have it at all.”

  “Do it. Get it. Bring it to Conference Room C.”

  They turned their backs on each other. Eve walked away, ignoring the interested parties at desks and cubes.

  When she arrived at the conference room herself, Peabody was already there, setting up. At least she hadn’t forgotten the duties of an aide.

  “Got three names for you, Dallas, that fit the parameters of our profile.”

  “At least somebody’s doing what they’re supposed to do today.”

  Peabody preened a little as she arranged labeled discs. “One still lives in the city, one is still on active and based at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. The last is co-owner of a martial arts studio in Queens and has it listed as business and personal.”

  “All still in New York. Handy. What was their deal with Swisher?”

  “First one, retired sergeant, was a client—divorced with kids. Swisher got him a decent enough deal, at least when you’re looking in from the outside. Reasonable split of marital property and assets, liberal visitation with minor children.”

  “And where’s the missus?”

  “Westchester. Remarried. Spouse was the client with the second. Custody deal. She claimed emotional and physical abuse, and Swisher nailed him with it. Spouse got full custody and a stinging percentage of the guy’s monthly as child support. She moved to Philadelphia, single-parent status.”

  “Lost the wife and kiddies, and had to pay for it. That’ll piss you off. The last?”

  “Similar deal as the second, with the wife—Swisher’s client—testifying under wraps. Regular and consistent abuse claimed over a period of twelve years. Two minor children. Her documentation was shaky, but Swisher pulled it through. And she went into the wind.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “No record of her or the kids the day after the court decided in her favor. I haven’t got all the details yet, but it looks like she ran. Or—”

  “He got to her. Any papers on her?”

  “Sister filed a missing persons. Actively pursued. Sister and family moved to Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska? Who lives in Nebraska?”

  “Apparently they do.”

  “Yeah, with the cows and sheep.”

  “Parents live there, too. The missing woman and her sister’s parents. Not the cows’ and sheep’s—though I’m sure there are lots of parental farm animals in Nebraska.”

  The thought actually brought on a shudder. “I don’t like to think about those things. Cows banging each other in the field. Bizarre.”

  “Well, if they don’t, all we’ve got are manmade—”

  “Don’t go there. It’s almost worse. Some science guy creating them in the lab.” Her voice darkened. “One day they’re going to make a mistake—a big one—and mutant clone cows are going to revolt and start eating people. You wait and see.”

  “I saw this vid once where these clone pigs developed intelligence and started attacking people.”

  “See?” She jabbed a finger in the air. “From vid to reality is one small, slippery step. I hope to Christ I don’t have to go to Nebraska.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s actually very nice. Some good cities, and the countryside’s interesting. All those cornfields.”

  “Cornfields? Cornfields? Do you know what can hide in cornfields—what might be lurking in the corn? Have you thought about that?”

  “No, but I will now.”

  “Give me a nice dark alley. Okay.” She shook it off, looked at the murder board Peabody had set up for the briefing. “We talk to all three of the guys you popped. We visit the investigators on the Duberry and the Judge Moss cases, and we review the missing-persons report and that case file. I want to talk to the primary on a robbery homicide. ER doc, taken out in the parking lot of her hospital. They got a guy for it, but she popped on this Kirkendall custody deal, too. We reinterview any witnesses to those cases, recanvass. And if we ever get a goddamn composite from Yancy, we find a match.”

  “Yancy’s sketches are gold,” Peabody reminded her. “If he pulls a decent description out of the LC, we should be able to run it through the system, pop a name.”

  “Step at a time.” She glanced over as Feeney walked in with McNab. She caught the suggestive look McNab sent Peabody, and tried to ignore it. They were in a cuddle stage of their relationship—new cohabs. S
he wasn’t sure what it said about her to know she’d be relieved when they got back to sniping at each other.

  “Put your hands, or your big, goofy mouth on my partner in this room, McNab, I’ll rip those stupid hoops out of your ears so bloody strips of lobe fly around the room.”

  In reflex, he lifted a hand to his ear and the quartet of bright blue hoops.

  Feeney shook his head, spoke under his breath to Eve. “Hornier now, you ask me, than before they moved in together. Wish they’d start swiping at each other like before. This shit’s getting creepy.”

  It was good, Eve thought, to have someone on the team who showed good sense. To show solidarity, she gave him a slap on one of his slouched shoulders.

  When Baxter and Trueheart arrived, they got coffee, the updated files.

  “Detective Yancy should be joining us shortly,” Eve began. “If the wit comes through, we’ll have faces. Meanwhile, we’ve found connections.”

  Using both the board and the screen, Eve briefed the team on the potential links between the Swishers and the two other victims.

  “If this same person or persons killed or arranged to have killed Moss, Duberry, and the Swisher family, we can see by the time frame that these murders are not only carefully planned, but that the person or persons behind them are controlled, patient, careful. This is no psychopath on a spree, but a purposeful man on a mission. One with connections of his own, with skill and/or the money or resources to hire those with skill. He does not work alone, but as part of a well-honed team.”

  “Cop killers,” Baxter said without any of his usual humor.

  “Cop killers,” Eve confirmed. “But the fact that they were cops was irrelevant. They were obstacles, nothing more.”

  “But not collateral damage.” Trueheart looked surprised, even slightly embarrassed to realize he’d spoken aloud. “What I mean, Lieutenant, is that Detectives Knight and Preston weren’t bystanders or innocent victims from the killers’ points of view. They were what I guess we could call enemy guards?”

  “Agreed. This is a small, very personal war. With very specific objectives. One of those objectives has not been met. Nixie Swisher.” She brought the child’s ID image on-screen.

  “Given what we know, we can speculate that the survivor is no threat to them. She is a child, one who saw nothing that can lead to the identification of the individuals who killed the family. In any case, what she saw, what she knew, had already been reported. Her death gains nothing. It is probable they abducted Meredith Newman, likely they interrogated her, under duress, and gained the knowledge that the survivor knew nothing that would lead us to their identity.”

  “But they don’t give it a wash.” Baxter studied the child. “They don’t move on, consider it done. They put together another operation to try to find and eliminate her, and instead take down two cops.”

  “The mission isn’t complete, therefore the mission has not been successful. What did they want from the Swishers?”

  “Their lives,” Baxter answered.

  “Their family. The destruction of their family. You take mine, I’ll take yours. So they continue to hunt the last remaining member, illustrating a need for completion, for perfection, for a fulfillment of the work. With the murder of Knight and Preston, a message was sent. They will engage the enemy, they will eliminate obstacles. They will complete their mission.”

  “Hell they will,” Feeney voiced.

  “Hell they will. Detective Peabody?”

  Peabody jolted, blinked at Eve. “Sir?”

  “Brief the rest of the team on the results of your recent search.”

  “Ahhh.” She cleared her throat and rose. “At Lieutenant Dallas’s orders, I conducted a search for any individuals who fit our current profile who were involved in a trial or case that included Swisher, Moss, and Duberry. The search resulted in three individuals. The first, Donaldson, John Jay, Sergeant USMC, retired.”

  She ordered image and data on-screen and relayed the details of the divorce case.

  “Looks like a jarhead.” Baxter shrugged when Eve frowned at him. “That’s what my grandfather called marines. He was regular army during the Urbans.”

  “You and Trueheart will take the jarhead. It’s possible he wasn’t satisfied with the court’s decision. Peabody, next up.”

  “Next is Glick, Viktor, Lieutenant Colonel, U.S. Army, active and based at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn.”

  When Peabody finished the data, Eve gestured to Feeney. “You and McNab up for some field work in Brooklyn?”

  “Can do. I’m going to enjoy seeing what the army makes of our E-Division fashion plate.”

  “Peabody and I will take the last. Peabody?”

  “Kirkendall, Roger, Sergeant, U.S. Army, retired.”

  When the data was complete, she sat down with obvious relief.

  “Kirkendall,” Eve continued, “also has a connect to a Brenegan, Jaynene, who was stabbed to death in a parking lot outside the health center where she served as an ER doc. They got a guy for that, but it bears looking at. Baxter, reach out to the investigators on that. Let’s see if anything rings.”

  “You thinking they hired somebody to hit the doctor?”

  “No. They’re too smart to hire some junkie and leave him alive after. Just covering all the ground. We’ll need clearance in order to acquire the full military records of these three individuals,” Eve added. “Which, let’s face it, isn’t going to be a snap. I’ll start fighting through the red tape there. Unless I get clear to handle it myself, I want you to talk to the primary on the Duberry case.”

  She stopped when Yancy entered.

  “Lieutenant.” He walked over, handed her a disc. “As ordered.”

  “Have a seat, Detective. Give us the rundown.”

  She plugged in the disc herself, called up the images on two screens.

  On each screen a nearly identical face appeared. Squared, tough, pale brows, close-cut hair. The lips were firm, noses sharply planed. Ears close to the head, she noted. Eyes cold and pale. She judged them both to be early fifties.

  “The witness was cooperative, and got a good, close-up look at both men. However, she, at least initially,” Yancy added with a flick of a glance at Eve, “had trouble with details. Both men wore watch caps and sun shades which can be seen in the next sketch. But working with the witness, and adding probability of certain details, i.e, natural eye color, given the lightness of the brows, eye shape given the facial structure, we can assume.”

  “How close an assumption?”

  “Close as I can get. I ran probabilities on these, with the data received from the wit. It comes to ninety-six and change. I was also able to get full-length composites. The witness recalled the body types in detail. Next sketch.”

  Now Eve studied two muscular, well-built men, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hip. Both wore black—turtleneck-style shirt; loose, straight pants; jump boots—and carried bags cross-body. Yancy had added projected heights and weights.

  Six foot one, and one-ninety to two hundred on suspect one, five foot eleven, same weight range on suspect two.

  “You confident in these, Detective?”

  “I am, yes, sir.”

  “None of them match the men Peabody dug up,” McNab said. “Body type’s close enough on her first guy and her last, but the faces aren’t.”

  “No, they’re not.” And that was a severe disappointment. “But that doesn’t preclude the possibility that these were soldiers—hirelings or under orders—and that one of the men we’ve found is in a command position. We’ll put these images and the data through the system, see what we find.”

  She hesitated briefly. “You can take that, Yancy. You’d have the best eye for it.”

  The rigor eased out of his shoulders. “Sure.”

  “Then let’s get started. You do good work, Yancy, even when you’re dealing with a pain in your ass.”

  “Would that be my witness, sir, or you?”

  “Take your choice
.”

  She walked it by Whitney first, compiling copies of all data along with her oral. “I’ve done the first pass at both military branches for full disclosure of records, and as expected on first pass, request was denied. I’m working my way up with the second.”

  “Leave that to me,” Whitney told her. He studied the sketches. “You’d have to say brothers. The resemblance is too strong otherwise. Or your witness projected the resemblance.”

  “Yancy was thorough. He’s standing by the composites. Brothers isn’t far out of reach, sir, considering the smoothness of the teamwork. Twins, as they appear to be, often have a close, almost preternatural bond.”

  “We’ll give them adjoining cages when you bring them in.”

  Brothers they were, a unit of beliefs, desires, and training. Machines. Though they were human, though they ran on blood, humanity was lost in them.

  The obsession of one was the obsession of the other.

  They rose at the same hour every day, retired at the same hour in their identical rooms. They ate the same food, worshipped the same gods, in a sychronicity of discipline and objective.

  They shared the same cold, harsh love for each other that each would have termed loyalty.

  Now, as one worked, sweat streaming down his face while he executed punishing squats and lunges on his injured leg, the other sat at a command console, pale eyes tracking screens.

  The room where they worked had no windows and a single door. It contained an emergency underground exit, and the capability for self-destruct should their security be compromised.

  It was outfitted with enough supplies to last two men a full year. Once, they had planned to use it as both shelter and command post when the primary vision of the organization they both had served had been met, and the city above was in their hands.

  Now, it was shelter and command post for a more personal vision.

  They had worked together for the larger cause for nearly a decade, and this more personal one for six years. They had seen the larger fractured, scattered. But the smaller, the personal, they would complete. Whatever the cost.

  One stopped, sweat still dripping as he reached for a jug containing filtered water and electrolytes.