by J. D. Robb
“Holes in the ER doc’s case,” Baxter put in. “If you’re looking at them. Guy who went down for it claimed he found her that way, just decided to rob the body—and got himself busted with her wallet and personal effects before he got off the lot. Her blood all over him. But they never found the murder weapon.”
“Anything in his statement? He claim to see anything?”
“He was juiced. Had a homemade stunner in his pocket. No evidence vic was stunned. Already had a sheet. He’d gone down for illegals, and for assault, and for robbery. Cops find him a hundred feet from a dead body, dead body’s possessions and blood on him, they didn’t look elsewhere.”
“I want copies of the case file, the ME’s report, the whole shot.”
“Already done.”
The holo shimmered back on. “The records requested will be made available to you.”
“Add Isenberry’s.”
“Along with former Corporal Isenberry’s. These officers are no longer under military jurisdiction. If either or both are responsible for these deaths, I hope you get them.”
“Thank you, Major.” Whitney gave the holo a nod of acknowledgment. “My department and the city of New York appreciate your help in this matter.”
“Commander. Lieutenant.” The holo faded away.
Whitney settled at his desk again. “I’d like an update while we wait for the data.”
Eve ran through it for him, for the team.
“Patient isn’t the word.” Baxter huffed out a breath. “Patient’s a cat at a mouse hole. This guy’s like a spider who’ll work for years to spin a web from the Bronx to the Bowery. Our retired USMC seemed clean. He was out of town the night of the Swisher murders. Golf tourney in Palm Springs. Transpo checked out, hotel, and he’s got plenty of witnesses.”
“Ours was running night maneuver drills the night of.” McNab spread his hands. “He’s got a whole platoon to back him up. Maybe they had solids because they needed to cover, but they seemed straight.”
“This is our man.” Again, Eve called on Whitney’s computer, and brought Kirkendall’s image on-screen. “Swisher helped cost him his wife and kids. And that wife, those kids, went missing directly after the trial.”
“He got them.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But then why spend years planning and executing the assassinations of those he blamed for the loss? Payback maybe, for the time and trouble, but if you got them back, or punished them, why plant a cohort with Swisher’s paralegal? For six years.”
“Because they got away from him,” Peabody put in. “Whiffed. Vanished.”
“I’m thinking they did just that. She probably planned to go, no matter how the trial came out. So that’s a pisser. She not only gets custody, she gets away, with his kids. He loses his control over them. So, plant somebody with Tully, and maybe she talks about where they went. Except she didn’t know, she figures they’re dead. Only thing left to do is take out the enemy. The people who went up against him, and won.”
“Data incoming.” Whitney checked his unit. He removed the images currently on-screen, replaced them with the new data.
“Eighteen years in,” Eve read. “Went in a fresh young kid. Why didn’t he do his twenty? Yeah, yeah, there it is. Special Forces, covert ops. Grade-five rating.”
“That would be termination grade.” Baxter lifted a shoulder. “My grandfather does a lot of yapping about this stuff. Non-wartime termination level. Means you can off somebody outside of a declared situation. You can be ordered to assassinate targets.”
“Continue, Lieutenant. Split screen, Isenberry data.”
“They served together. Based in the same unit in Baghdad. He’s listed as her sergeant during her covert training. Bet they were good pals. War buddies. Jilly and the good old Sarge. They both stepped out of uniform about the same time, too.”
“They both have a couple of conducts not becoming,” Feeney pointed out.
“Dallas,” Peabody interrupted. “There are no siblings listed under Kirkendall’s data. No male cousins.”
“We’ll need to study this further. I have to see what Yancy’s got for us, and I’ve got a meet.” Eve checked her wrist unit. “Feeney, I’ve got the go-ahead from Tully for EDD to check all her communication equipment at home. Off chance Isenberry might have used it to contact someone involved in this. Also, I’ve requested an expert consultant, civilian, to work on other electronic traces.”
“If it’s your usual ECC, no objections.”
“Baxter, Trueheart, Linnie Dyson’s funeral is starting shortly. Attend as reps from the department and keep your eyes peeled.”
“Kid’s burial.” Baxter shook his head. “We get the choice assignments.”
Nothing,” Yancy told her. “Nothing above a seventy-two percent match, so far. I’ve got another hour or two to run, but I’ve gone through IRCCA—so no criminal matchups.”
“We’ve got cooperation from the military. Request Whitney contact them re doing a search for a match with members of any of Kirkendall’s units during his stint. Guys with the same training as his. Ah, start with the inactive and retired. These two don’t have time to answer reveille.”
“Okay. But I’ve been thinking. Doing this sort of search gives you plenty of time to think, to speculate. Look at these guys again.”
He brought them up on a secondary screen. “These faces are close. Twin close.”
“We’ve agreed on that. Most likely brothers, but Kirkendall’s got no bro. Hirelings maybe.” But she didn’t like it. Where was the rush if you paid someone to do the job?
“Well, thinking twins, identical faces—but not identical heights. That’s not a stretch, but what don’t you see when you look at them?”
“Humanity.”
“Besides. I spend most of my time with faces. What you don’t see, Dallas, are lines or scars, bumps, flaws. You said they’d had strong physical training, most probably military. Seen action. But you don’t see action on their faces. You don’t see wear. She’d have given it to me,” he said almost to himself. “Ophelia would, because you nudge them along there instinctively. You want identifying marks when you can get them. But other than the one favoring his leg, they were perfect.”
“I considered droids, but the probability’s low. Two of that caliber would cost, and it’s difficult to program one for wet work, for covert and assassinations. That’s why the military doesn’t use them for intricate work.”
“I’m not thinking droids. I’m thinking sculpting, surgery. They could look so much alike, so unmarked and identical, if they paid for it.”
“Shit. Shit. The height, the weight of the first one runs with Kirkendall’s data. The coloring’s close.”
“The face isn’t,” Yancy continued. “But if he had it built up here . . .” He pulled out a copy of Kirkendall’s ID photo and began to change it. “Widen, square off the jaw, plane down the nose. Build up the lower lip. It would take a top guy, mucho dinero, but you could do it. I know the eyes don’t match, but—”
“They were wearing shades, you were going with probables.”
“You can have the shape changed, too, and the color.”
“I got a friend changes her eye color as often as she does her underwear.” She paced away, paced back. “It makes more sense to me. Why go through all the years of planning, the perfecting, the anticipation, then not be in on the kill?”
“If we’re right, who’s the other one?”
Eve studied the twin images. “Good question.”
16
LEAVES, GOING CRISP, SKITTERED ACROSS THE sweep of the drive as Eve drove through the gates. New sets of possibilities, probabilities, and the action required for both circled in her mind.
“Wind’s coming up,” Peabody observed. “Rain’s coming in.”
“Thank you for the forecast.”
“It’s going to strip the trees. I always hate to see that happen. Then they’re all naked out there, at least until we get the first snow.”
&nb
sp; “You’re that worried, maybe you and some of your Free-Ager relations can knit them some sweaters.”
“I’m better at weaving.” Peabody’s voice remained placid while Eve parked in front of the house. “Haven’t hit the loom in a good long while, but I bet I could pick it up again. I should think about that, with Christmas right around the corner.”
“Oh, stop. It’s fricking October.”
“Nearly November. I’m not going to let it get away from me this year. I’ve already started picking up gifts. Easier to afford it now because—hey, I made detective.”
“The fact of which you never forget to remind me, and anyone else within hearing.”
“I added time in due to being injured in the line. Still, I’ve cut it back to once or twice a week.” She climbed out, drew in a deep breath. “Don’t you love the way it smells?”
“What smells?”
“The air, Dallas. The it’s-almost-November-and-the-rain’s-rolling-in-on-the-city air. All brisk and damp. And you got those mums and asters going over there—just a little spicy. Makes me want to rake up a big pile of leaves and jump in them.”
That put a hitch in Eve’s stride, enough for her to stop and stare. “Christ” was all she could think of, and she strode to the door and in.
Summerset was there, the specter of the foyer, with his stark black suit and thin, disapproving face.
“I see you’ve decided to make an appearance.”
“Yeah. And for my next act I’ll boot your ugly ass out of my way.”
“You brought a child into this home, who needs and expects some of your time and attention.”
“I brought a witness, minor, into this home, who needs and expects me to find out who killed her family. If you can’t deal with her while I’m doing that, I’ll bring in a child care droid to handle it.”
“Is that all she is to you?” His voice was a blade, edgy and slicing. “Witness, minor. A droid has more feeling. She’s a child, one who isn’t through her first decade and who has endured unspeakable horror and suffered unspeakable loss. And you have to be manipulated into spending a few spare moments with her over the morning meal.”
“I know just what she’s endured and suffered.” She matched him tone for tone, even as her fingers dug hard into the newel post. “I’m the one who walked through the blood they left behind. So don’t you get in my face on this. You son of a bitch.” She started up the stairs, stopped, looked down at him. “She’s not yours. You better remember that.”
Peabody stayed where she was a moment, breathing in air that was no longer brisk and damp but thick and seething. “You were off.” She said it quietly, drawing Summerset’s gaze to her. “I make it a policy to stay out between the two of you. But you were off. Her mind’s on that kid, one way or the other, every minute, every day.”
She crossed to the steps, followed Eve up.
Long, angry strides had carried Eve to her office and taken her on one turn around it when Peabody came in.
“Dallas—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“He was wrong. I’m going to say it.”
“Just don’t talk to me for a minute.”
She had to burn it off—the rage, the insult, and the damning suspicion creeping under it that he was right.
She’d taken that step back, the step away necessary to maintain professional objectivity. She wouldn’t apologize for it. But she’d taken another step back, a personal one. The one she needed to keep herself from projecting, from seeing too much of herself in the girl she needed to protect. Lost, alone, terrified, damaged.
It was different, different, different, Eve repeated to herself as she paced. As she yanked off her jacket, heaved it toward a chair. But the results, weren’t they horribly the same?
They’d toss her into the system, as she’d been tossed. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe she wouldn’t. And maybe she’d spend the rest of her life reliving what Summerset had called the unspeakable in nightmares.
She stepped to the window and, looking out, didn’t see the leaves dancing in that rising wind, or the burnished fall color that was already fading toward November dull. She saw the face of the cop who’d stood over her hospital bed when she’d been eight.
Who hurt you? What’s your name? Where’s your mom and dad?
Give me the facts, she thought now. Give me some data so I can help you. I’m not going to feel too much, standing here over this broken kid, because I’ve got to do the job.
She closed her eyes a moment and pulled it back in. So did she have to do the job.
“Start running Kirkendall for known associates, for other family members,” she said without turning. “Do the same on Isenberry. You get any who cross, we push it.”
“Yes, sir. Want coffee?”
“Yeah I want coffee, as I’m still among the living. Thanks.”
She turned just as Roarke came into the room. Something must have shown on her face still, as he stopped, frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“A pile of dead bodies at the morgue. Same old same old.”
“Eve.”
“Leave it, would you?”
He started to speak again, she could see the struggle. Then he gave a quick nod. “All right. Where do I sign up for my assignment?”
“Gotcha covered right here. Suspect, Kirkendall, Roger, former army, rank of sergeant. Swisher repped the spouse in a custody suit, won. Presiding judge was hit a couple years back. Vehicular explosion device. CPS rep was strangled in her bed. Expert medical wit stabbed, and it looks like the asshole they pinched for it might have just been wrong place, wrong time.”
“Looks like you’ve got your man.”
“He’s not in a cage yet. He co-owns a dojo in Queens. Flash place with Master Lu, his partner.”
“Lu the Dragon?”
“Yeah.” She was able to smile now, though it didn’t quite move up into her eyes. “Who says we’ve got nothing in common? You catch him wiping the floor with the Korean to take his third Olympic gold?”
“I did, yes. Front row.”
“Okay, not so much in common, as I caught it on a screen in a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Anyway, Lu comes up clean. He deals with Kirkendall through the magic of E. Sends required paperwork and profits electronically. Says he hasn’t seen his partner in six years. I believe him.”
“And you’d like me to trace the transmissions and deposits.”
“Check. Lu’s equipment’s in your comp lab. Pickup officer confirmed its delivery.”
“I’ll get started.” But he crossed to her first, stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I don’t like to see you sad.”
“I’ll have a big, toothy smile on my face when I close this case.”
He kissed her lightly. “I’ll hold you to that, Lieutenant.”
Discreetly, Peabody waited until he’d left before coming out with the coffee. “You want me to set up on your secondary unit?”
“Yeah.” Eve took the coffee. “I’m going to take a poke at Yancy’s theory. If Kirkendall’s had major face sculpting, wouldn’t he trust—first—a military surgeon? Guy spends nearly twenty in, it doesn’t seem like he’d go to a civilian.”
“That kind of change has to be recorded,” Peabody pointed out. “You can’t radically change your appearance without filing fresh ID. If Yancy’s right, and he did, we wouldn’t be looking for a surgeon on the up.”
“Covert ops, guys have work done. Temp and permanent. We’ll see if he had any before, and who he trusted to do the job.”
She sat at her desk, called up Kirkendall’s military data. And Mira walked in.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Teeth set in frustration, Eve sat back, lifted her hands. “What?”
“I need to speak with you regarding Nixie.”
“Look, you’re in charge of her counseling. You want to do a session, pick your spot. As long as it’s not in here.”
“We’ve had a session. She’s h
aving a difficult day.”
“She should get in line.”
“Eve.”
“I’m doing what I need to do.” Her earlier rage began to bubble back. “And I can’t do it if somebody’s forever in my face telling me I’ve got to go pat the kid on the head and give her a there, there. I can’t—”
“Lieutenant.”
Safely across the room, Peabody hunched her shoulders. It was the same tone her own mother used to stop any one of her children in their tracks.
“Fine. What? I’m listening. I’m all fricking ears.”
And that, Peabody thought as she slid down another inch in her chair, was the tone that would have resulted in immediate annihilation should she, or a sibling, have dared to use it.
“I hope you find it cathartic to take your frustration out on me.”
If she’d been sure no one would notice, Peabody would have chosen that point to slink out of the room.
“However,” Mira continued in a voice cool enough to scatter frost on the windows, “we’re discussing a child in our charge, not your poor manners.”
“Well, Jesus, I’m just—”
“Regarding that child,” Mira interrupted. “She needs to see her family.”
“Her family’s in the damn morgue.”
“I’m aware of that, and so is she. She needs to see them, to begin to say good-bye. You and I are both aware of the importance of this step with survivors. The stages of her grief require this.”
“I told her I’d fix it so she’d see them. But for Christ’s sake, not like this. You want to take a kid to the morgue so that she can see her family pulled out of containment drawers?”
“Yes.”
“With their throats cut.”
Impatience rippled over Mira’s face. “I’ve spoken with ME Morris. There are ways, which you very well know, to treat wounds and injuries on the dead, to spare their loved ones. He’s agreed to do so. It’s not possible for her to attend any sort of service or memorial for her family until this case is closed and her safety is insured. She needs to see them.”
“I’ve got her here in lockdown for a reason.” Eve dragged her hands through her hair when Mira only stood, gaze cool and level. “Okay, fine. I can get you secure transpo there and back. I’ll need to coordinate it with Morris. We get her in the delivery door—no record, no ID scans. He clears the area so you can take her straight into a view room. Out the same way. It’ll have to be quick. Ten minutes.”