Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Then they’d all be dispensable. I really want this guy.”

  This time Roarke reached over, laid a hand on hers. “I know.”

  “Do you? He’s not like my father. There’s a world of difference, but somehow they’re exactly the same.”

  “Brutalizing his children, day after day. Training them in his own sick fashion. Breaking their spirit, destroying their innocence, driving a young boy to contemplate suicide. The difference between him and your father, Eve, is Kirkendall has more skill, more training, and a sharper brain. But inside, they couldn’t be more alike.”

  It helped that he saw that, and understood why her mind kept circling around it. “I have to get past it, or I’ll mess up. Location.” She nodded toward the map on her screen. “Lots of prime property Upper West. Have to be solo occupants. He can afford it. All those hefty fees, combined with his brother’s hefty fees—and possibly Isenberry’s. Investments like the dojo show me he likes business, making money from money. Yeah, he’s plush. You have any luck with the money?”

  “Again, my sensitive feelings are bruised.”

  “You can take a punch, ace. Let me have it.”

  He merely sent a meaningful glance at the food still on her plate.

  “Jeez.” She forked up a huge bite, stuffed it in. “Spill.”

  “He has what we’ll call his dumping account, which coordinates with the profits from the dojo. Hefty, but not enough to finance this sort of operation.”

  “So he’s got other accounts.”

  “Has to. He doesn’t dip into this one, just dumps the funds, and his personal data on it leads to a law firm out of Eden.”

  “Eden? Like the garden thereof?”

  “Based on. A manmade island in the South Pacific created ostensibly for recreation and in reality for tax evasion, money laundering. It takes considerable doing to get past the legal blocks there to gain information. And it takes considerable funds to open accounts there, or utilize any of their legal protection.”

  “You’ve used it.”

  “Actually, I helped create it. Before I saw the light of truth and justice.” He grinned when she just stared at him. “I sold out my interests there before we were married. However, since I did have some part in the design, I have ways of getting to information. Kirkendall’s covered himself very well. His law firm there leads to an off-planet financial firm, which leads—Do you want to hear all this?”

  “Bottom-line it for now.”

  “It all circles back to other numbered accounts. Five. All very plush indeed, and all under various aliases. The most interesting is one with a single deposit of just under twenty million.”

  “That’s million? Two-oh.”

  “A tad under. But doing the math, that’s well over and above any of the recorded fees I’ve found so far—that is, including the other accounts, which jibe with those fees, and expenses.”

  “He hired out to more than sanctioned U.S. agencies.”

  “There will be other accounts, I haven’t swept them all up yet. It’s going to take some time. But this account is interesting for a couple of reasons. The lump-sum deposit, for one. Have a look at this.”

  He drew a disc out of his pocket, plugged it in her unit himself. “Data on-screen.”

  Eve skimmed the data—another CIA file on Kirkendall. “Subject is considered nonsecure. Get them,” she muttered. “Train yourself a killer, then oops, he’s no longer secure. Last psych eval, eighteen months ago. Sociopathic tendencies—another huge surprise. Suspected ties to Doomsday—and the big surprises keep rolling. Suspected ties to . . . Cassandra.”

  Doomsday Group, she thought. Techno-terrorist organization she’d brushed up against, by default, on a recent case. But Cassandra, they’d been more flexible in the terrorist game, and her involvement with them the year before much more personal.

  They’d nearly killed her, and Roarke, in their quest to destroy New York’s landmarks. Took out a couple, too, she remembered with some bitterness, before she’d put the hurt on the ring leaders.

  “And the bell rings. They were keeping him active as much to watch him as to utilize his skills. Look at the dates.” Roarke gestured with his fork. “When they lost him. When he went rogue according to both this file and the one I dug out of Homeland—which also coordinates with the same entries on his brother’s file and Isenberry’s.”

  “September of last year. Just a few months before we got the first Cassandra letter. Before things started blowing up in the city.”

  “And the date of the hefty deposit.”

  “After we broke their back. We got most of them—figured we got most of them, but you never get all the rats crawling off the sinking ship. We got to most of the money, too, but they were a well-financed terrorist organization.”

  “And it appears Kirkendall scooped up a chunk of the funds, or was given them for safekeeping.”

  “One more reason to take him down. I don’t like leaving rats outside the cage.”

  “He went rogue,” Roarke pointed out. “All three of them are on various agencies’ lists. Though, again, you can see by the file that the status was lowered after Cassandra scattered. And there’s no indication he’s had any facial surgery.”

  “We had doctors on Cassandra. I’ll pop up that file, start looking at them. He’s left a trail. Everyone does.” When Roarke gently cleared his throat, she slid her gaze in his direction. “Even you, ace. If I wanted to find yours, I’d just put you on as consultant.”

  It made him laugh. “I imagine I could find myself, if I tried hard enough. I’ll get back to it. I have to say the ins and outs are fairly fascinating.”

  “You find any connection to a building in the city—especially Upper West—to any of those aliases or blinds, you get a big bonus.”

  Those blue eyes went wicked. “Of my choosing.”

  “Pervert.” She swung back to her computer.

  “I got the meal, you deal with the dishes.” He rose, then waited when her communicator beeped.

  “Dallas.”

  Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. The body of a woman identified as Newman, Meredith, has been discovered. Report Broadway and Fordham as primary. Scene is being secured.

  “Acknowledged. Dallas out. Up to eleven—twelve if we add Jaynene Brenegan,” she said as she rose. “That’s nearly to the Bronx.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. She’s found because he wanted her found. Takes manpower away from the Swisher case. No big if we make that connect, because it doesn’t connect him with Moss and Duberry or Brenegan. So he thinks. I need you here doing that thing you do. I’ll take Trueheart. It’s good training for him. I’d rather have Baxter here on the kid.”

  “He knows they’ll pull you in on this. Primary on Swisher, she’s the caseworker on Nixie. He could be waiting for you.”

  She walked to the closet, pulled out a vest. She stripped off her shirt, put it on. “I hope so. I won’t be going in blind,” she added as she tugged the shirt back in place.

  She moved to her desk, took out her clutch piece and strapped on her ankle holster. “I know he’s hoping to get a shot at me.”

  “Then make sure he doesn’t get one.” He walked over, buttoned her shirt himself. “And make sure you come home.”

  “I’ll be back.” She hitched on her weapon harness, motioned toward her desk. “Your bad luck. You’re stuck with the dishes.”

  You’ve got good eyes,” Eve said to Trueheart. “Use them. Suspects may be observing the scene. They may be mixed with the lookie-loos, or based farther away using long-range. You spot anything that gives you a tingle, I hear about it.”

  She stepped out of her vehicle, looked at him over the roof. “At this point, Baxter would add, ‘Especially if the tingle comes from seeing a hot skirt loitering in the vicinity who looks like she’d put out for a couple of overworked cops.’ ”

  She waited a beat while Trueheart’s face reddened.

  “I, however, am not int
erested in that kind of tingle.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  She saw the scene was secured with police barricades. And that, as expected, the usual gang of gawkers had gathered. It was the sort of area, she thought as she scanned street, sidewalk, windows, roofs, where a good percentage of the gawkers would be pickpockets, and another good percentage would go home with those pockets handily emptied.

  Their problem.

  She hooked her badge to her waistband, headed in.

  “Suit’s here,” one of the uniforms called out, and she stopped in her tracks.

  She turned, very slowly, caught him in the crosshairs of her cold gaze. “Don’t ever call me a suit.”

  She left him, withered, and moved toward the crumpled body of Meredith Newman. “First on scene?” she asked the uniform standing by.

  “Yes, sir. My partner and I responded to a call from this location, reporting a body in the alley between the buildings. One of the owners of the restaurant stepped out in the alley on her break, and observed what appeared to be a body. Upon responding, we—”

  “I got it. Have you secured the witness?”

  “Yes, sir, along with other kitchen staff who also entered the scene in response to the first witness’s screams.”

  Eve puffed out her cheeks as she looked around the alley. “How many people have tromped around on my scene?”

  “At least six, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, they’d already come out, looked around—and moved the body—by the time we arrived. We moved the civilians back into the restaurant and secured the scene.”

  “All right.” She did another study of the alley. Short and narrow, dead-ending into the graffiti-laced wall of another. Confidence, arrogance again, she decided. They could have dumped her anywhere, or simply destroyed the body.

  Still, there was no security here. No cams on any of the exit doors. Pull in, dump, pull out. And wait for somebody to trip over what’s left of her.

  “Seal up, Trueheart,” she ordered, and continued to examine the body as she drew out her own can of Seal-It. “Record on. What do you see?”

  “Female, early thirties, clothes removed.”

  “You can say naked, Trueheart. You’re of age.”

  “Yes, sir. Ligature marks, wrists, ankles. What appear to be burn marks on shoulders, torso, arms, legs, indicate torture. The throat’s been deeply cut. There’s no blood. She wasn’t cut here, but killed elsewhere and put here.”

  Eve crouched, turned one of the dead hands at the wrist. “She’s cold. Like meat you put in a friggie to keep it fresh. They had her stowed. She’s been dead since the day they grabbed her.”

  But she got out her gauge to estimate the time of death and confirmed. “Burn marks on her back and buttocks as well. Bruising might be from the grab. Abrasions are consistent with the body hitting the pavement, rolling. Way postmortem.”

  She fit on her goggles, examined the area around the mouth and eyes. “It looks like they taped her up. Skin’s reddened here, shows a pattern that would match tape, but there’s no residue.”

  She sat back on her heels.

  “What else do you see, Trueheart?”

  “The location—”

  “No, the body. Focus on her. She’s been dead for days now. There’s evidence of considerable torture. She had her throat cut, and going with previous pattern, she was alive when the knife went in. What do you see?”

  Concentration settled over his face. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “She’s clean, Trueheart. What do you do when somebody inflicts burns on your body strong enough to singe flesh? You don’t just scream your lungs out and beg for mercy. You piss yourself, you soil yourself, you puke. Your body erupts, and it voids. But she’s clean. Somebody washed her down, even to removing the residue from whatever they used to blindfold and gag her. We won’t find any trace on her.”

  She bent close, sniffed the skin. “Smells like hospital. Antiseptic. Maybe the lab boys can give us more there. For what it’s worth. She bit right through her own lip,” Eve observed, then pushed to her feet.

  She put her hands on her hips, studied the alley. The usual overworked recyclers, but it was clean, too, as alleys went. Some graffiti—sort of artsy—but none of the nasty debris left behind by sidewalk sleepers or junkies, even the street LCs and their clients.

  She turned to the first on-scene. “What do you know about this place—this restaurant here, this business next door.”

  “Actually, it’s a Free-Ager center—classes, crafts, like that. And the restaurant’s run by the group. Grow a lot of the stuff in Greenpeace Park, bring it in from some of their communes. Run a clean place, even if it is mostly health food.”

  “Run a clean alleyway, too.”

  “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. We don’t get many calls here.”

  “The woman who found her, what’s her name?”

  He had to consult his book. “Leah Rames.”

  “Trueheart, stay here, sweepers should be on-scene momentarily.”

  Eve walked into the storeroom, took a quick glance at the tidy shelves of supplies, and moved into the kitchen beyond.

  Tidy was the watchword here, as well. Something was steaming on the stove, but that stove was huge and scrubbed to a gleam. Counters were simple white, covered with signs of meal prep in progress. Who knew it took so much stuff to make food? There were friggies and cold boxes, some kind of gargantuan oven, and not a civilized AutoChef in sight.

  Several people, all wearing long white aprons, were seated on stools around an island counter. Some of them were chopping at things with wicked-looking knives. Others just sat. And all looked at her when she entered.

  “Leah Rames?”

  A woman, mid-forties, lean, long sandy hair thickly braided, lifted a hand like a schoolgirl. Her face was milk-white.

  “I’m Leah. Do you know what happened to that poor woman?”

  The gash in the throat should’ve been a clue, but something about the earnest question and the earnest setup of the kitchen sucked up Eve’s sarcasm.

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with Homicide. I’m the primary on this matter.”

  “You’re Dee’s boss—partner,” Leah corrected with an attempt to smile. “Is she with you?”

  “No, she’s on another assignment. You know Detective Peabody?”

  “Yes, and her family. My life partner and I lived near the Peabodys until we moved here.” She reached out to lay her hand over the hand of the man who sat beside her.

  “We opened our center and restaurant about eight months ago. Peabody and her young man came for dinner once or twice. Can you tell us what happened? We know everyone in this area. We’ve made a point of it. I know there are some rough characters, but I can’t believe anyone who comes here could have done this.”

  “You don’t have security on your alley exits.”

  “No.” It was the man who spoke now. “We believe in trust. And in giving back.”

  “And in community relations,” Leah added. “We give food out in the alley after closing every night. We spread the word that we would provide this service as long as the alley was kept clean, that no one used it to do illegals, to harm anyone else, or littered. The first few weeks it was touch and go, mostly go, but eventually the food, given freely, turned the tide. And now . . .”

  “Why did you go out in the alley?”

  “I thought I heard something. Like a thud. I was in the storeroom getting some supplies. Sometimes people come, knock on the door early. I opened the door, thinking if they didn’t seem in dire need, I’d tell them to come back at closing. She was right there, right by the door. She was naked, and facedown. I thought, By the goddess, someone’s raped this poor woman. I bent down, I spoke to her. . . . I touched her, her shoulder, I think, I’m not sure. I touched her, and she was so cold. I didn’t think dead, not immediately. I just thought, oh, poor, poor thing, she’s so cold, and I turned her over, calling for Genoa.”

  “She
called.” The life partner took up the story. “I could tell something was wrong, by the tone, and I stopped what I was doing in here. She started screaming before I got to the storeroom. Several of us rushed out then. I thought she was injured—the woman—and tried to pick her up. Then I saw she was dead. We called for the police. I stayed with her, with the woman, until they came. I thought someone should.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the alley? See any vehicle or person leaving the alley?” she asked Leah.

  “I saw, just for a second, taillights. They were gone so fast, I just saw the blocks of them.”

  “Blocks?”

  “Like building blocks. Three red squares, one on top of the other on either side. It was only a glimpse, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have seen even that if I’d looked down instead of over first.”

  “Did you hear them drive in, drive out?”

  “I might have. I’m not sure. We have music playing back here while we work. I’d only been in the storeroom a minute or so, and I was humming. You can hear the street traffic from there, but you tune it out. You understand? You hear it, but you don’t. I think—I wish I could be sure—but I think I might’ve heard an engine in the alley before I heard the thump, and then the sound of driving away. I’m almost sure, now that I put myself back there, almost sure.”

  “Have you ever seen this man?” Eve offered the composite of Kirkendall.

  “No, I’m sorry. Did he—”

  “Pass this around,” Eve interrupted. “See if anyone else recognizes him. Or her.” She handed Leah a copy of Isenberry’s ID photo.

  When she exited, Eve gestured to Trueheart. “Any tingles?”

  “No, sir. So far the canvass hasn’t turned up anybody who saw a vehicle entering or leaving the alley.”

  “Witness heard the body hit—and caught a glimpse of the taillights at the mouth of the alley. Three vertical squares on each side. Little bits and pieces. If the witness hadn’t been all but on top of the exit door when she hit, nobody would have seen even that much.”

  “Bad luck for them,” Trueheart said.

  “Yeah, bad luck for them. We’ll let the CSU and sweepers do their thing, for what it’s worth, and write this up from my home office. We’ve got another face to pin to our board, Trueheart.”