Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Baxter and Trueheart recanvassed here,” Peabody commented. “Showed off the composite and the military ID photos. Nobody remembers seeing them around. Two years since,” she added. “It was a long shot.”

  “He didn’t go after the wife on this one. You could speculate that he was more focused in on the judge. Or that he opted to leave her alive, to suffer. But he knew the routine, so he’d watched them.” She turned a circle. “A lot of places around here a guy could rent or buy, settle in, stake out. Isenberry probably handled this end. Smarter. Original canvass probably interviewed her. We’ll re-evaluate the reports, see if we see anything on that.”

  She got back in the car, drove toward the Swisher’s. “Property around here’s a good investment. He likes good investments. Maybe he bought in somewhere near the Moss residence, held on to it, rents it out. He partners up with Master Lu for investment, for income. Why not do some real estate?”

  “Vary your portfolio.”

  “Let’s tug that line. See if we can find a property bought after the trial, before the bomb. It may not lead us to him, but it builds evidence. When these bastards go to trial, I’m going to have them sewn in a titanium shroud. Goddamn it!” She punched the accelerator as the Swisher house came into view. “Look at those idiot kids.”

  The trio—teenagers, at her guess—were huddled together at the police seal on the front entrance. Their lookout, a curvy little number in a black skin-suit and wrap shades, let out a shout and took off on a silver airboard.

  Kids scattered, leaping solo or in tandem on other boards, plowing through shrubbery, onto the sidewalk, into the street between vehicles that squealed and honked.

  Eve heard looney, loopy laughter as they whipped around the corner.

  “You’re not going after them?” Peabody asked when Eve zipped to the curb. “Squish them like bugs?”

  “No. It’s just as likely one of them will end up getting squished by a cab while I’m chasing them. Pricks.” She slammed out, jogged to the entrance to check the seal. “Tinkered with it, didn’t get through far enough to set off the alarm. Slap on a fresh one anyway, Peabody. Asshole kids. What did they plan to do, break in and have a party in the death house? Why aren’t they in school, or better yet in juvie?”

  “Saturday.”

  “What day?”

  “Today’s Saturday, Dallas. No school on the weekends.”

  “There ought to be,” she said darkly. “There ought to be school twenty-four/seven for little disrespectful creeps like that. Give them a day out, all they do is cause trouble.”

  “You’d have felt better if you’d gone after and squished them.”

  “Yeah.” She let out a breath. “Next time.” She forced herself to set it aside. “Recanvass was zip here, too. But we know Isenberry used the paralegal to get inside, get close to the family. We know the killers walked away, headed down the block, not into a neighboring building. Still, we’ll try the same investment angle here, too. They might have bought one, rented one, used it for stakeout previously.”

  Her last stop was the hospital parking lot. “Not just a quick slice here. Multiple stab wounds, defensive wounds. She put up a fight, or tried to. Played with her some. Jab here, jab there. I think this was girl on girl. They let Isenberry do this one. Her file says she likes to mix it up. Clinton, he likes a silent kill—manual strangulation a specialty. Kirkendall let his brother take point there. But the other kills were his. Cold and clean. But everybody got bloody. You trust your comrades more when they get bloody along with you.”

  “Easiest one to take here.” Peabody frowned at the lot, the health center. “You either hack in, get her schedule, or you hang around—who notices?—get a feel. Both, probably. You do it end of shift, late. And yeah, if it’s another woman walking your way, you don’t get the alarm bells. Little friendly nod, or Isenberry stops her, asks for directions. How do I get to the surgery wing? Vic turns, knife comes out. Sticks here, vic tries to block or run, gives her another jab. Works her back, away from the building. Some of the wounds were shallow, just nasty little sticks. Finishes her off. Rendezvous, and you’re gone.”

  Yeah, Eve thought, that was the way. “They’d have watched. Kirkendall and Clinton. Close enough for visual, or Isenberry wore a recorder. You’re not part of the kill unless you see the kill. We find their base, we’re going to find vids of every murder. They’d study them like Arena Ball players study the vid of a game. Looking for flaws, for moves, ways to improve.”

  “Sick. Dallas, it’s going on fifteen hundred.”

  “And?”

  “We’re due to get Mavis at fifteen hundred.”

  “Right. I got this buzz.” She rocked on her heels, studying the spot where Brenegan’s body had been found years before. “I know we’re close. We push the right buttons, we pull them in, and they’re gone. They’re smart, they’re crafty, but they’re vulnerable because they won’t walk away until they’re done. They’d rather fail than walk away without the mission complete.”

  “It’s hard to stop, change tracks, and deal with the other areas.”

  “Yeah, it’s a pisser all right. Let’s go get Mavis.”

  Eve had been to some of Mavis’s concerts. She’d been backstage and watched the adoring fans lucky enough to gain entrance. But she’d never seen a nine-year-old girl rendered speechless by the mere sight of her friend.

  Not that the sight couldn’t render anyone incapable of speech. Mavis wore her hair in hundreds of ringlets, bright gold and shimmery green, that spilled around her face like some sort of electric mop. Her eyes were gold today as well, tipped with green lashes. She wore a deep purple calf-length coat, which she peeled off upon entering the house to reveal a crotch-length dress in swirls of purple and gold. Her green tights were accented with shiny knee and ankle bracelets and a pair of gold shoes with transparent heels filled with those same colorful swirls.

  Her pregnancy had progressed far enough that her belly popped out of the swirls in a small, neat lump.

  Her bracelets—knee, ankle, wrist—rang like bells as she danced across the floor toward a slack-jawed Nixie.

  “Hi! I’m Mavis.”

  Nixie only nodded, her head like a puppet’s on a string.

  “Dallas says you like my music.”

  At the next nod, Mavis grinned. “I thought maybe you’d like this.” Apparently there was a pocket somewhere in the dizzying swirls as Mavis drew out a disc. “It’s my new vid, for ‘Inside Out Over You.’ It’s not hitting until next month.”

  “I can have it?”

  “Sure. You want to watch it? Okay if we go plug it in, Dallas?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is the ult,” Nixie exclaimed. “The serious ult. Linnie and I . . .” She trailed off, stared hard at the disc. “Linnie’s my best friend, and we watch your vids all the time. But she’s . . .”

  “I know.” Mavis’s voice softened. “I’m really sorry. Dallas is my best friend. I’d feel so bad if anything happened to her. It would hurt for a long time. I guess I’d have to think about the fun we had together whenever I could, so it didn’t hurt so much.”

  She nodded. “You’re having a baby. Can I touch it?”

  “You bet. Sometimes it bumps around in there, and it feels really frosty.” Mavis laid her hand over Nixie’s. “Gotta cook a while longer. In the new vid I’ve got this totally mag belly painting going on. Why don’t you go plug the disc in. I’ll come watch it with you.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Nixie looked up at Eve. “You said you’d bring her, and you did. Thanks.”

  When Nixie raced off to the parlor, Eve stepped up, laid a hand on Mavis’s shoulder. “I appreciate this.”

  “Poor kid. Man, makes you misty.” She laid a hand on her belly, blinked her emerald lashes. “Look, if I can give her a couple hours of fun, that’s what it’s all about. Hey! Bump!” She grabbed Eve’s hand, slapped it to the side of her belly.

  “Jesus, don’t! Whoa!” She jerked when someth
ing kicked against her palm.

  “Is that uptown or what?”

  “Or what.”

  But curiosity had her eyeing the ball of Mavis’s belly as the little kicks continued. It was kind of . . . she wasn’t sure. A happy little beat, and not nearly as creepy as she’d expected. “What the hell’s it doing in there, dancing?”

  “It’s swimming and stretching and rolling. I’m so knocked up now its nostrils are opening, and he’s got these little air sacs—”

  Eve whipped her hand clear, tucked it safely behind her back as Mavis laughed. And her own hands gently caressed her belly as she looked toward the stairs. “Hi, Dr. Mira.”

  “Mavis. I’d say you’re glowing, but I’ve never known you otherwise. I will say you look wonderfully healthy.”

  “Feeling TIT these days. Totally In Tune.”

  “I didn’t know you were already here,” Eve said.

  “A few minutes before you. I’ve been upstairs speaking to Roarke. He’ll be right down. Ms. Barrister, Mr. DeBlass, and their son have just been cleared through the gate.”

  “I’ll go keep Nixie entertained.” Mavis gave Eve a bolstering pat on the arm and swirled her way into the parlor. “Hit it, Nix!” she called out, and there was a blast of what could be called, in some cultures, music.

  “I guess that’s showtime,” Eve declared, and walked to the front door.

  22

  IT WAS AN ODD GROUP UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, Eve supposed. Odder yet when she was trying to pay attention to the chitchat, watch the kid for reactions, structure a major operation, coordinate her team, and play hostess.

  Richard and Elizabeth had weathered the storm of murder, scandal, and horror, and looked the stronger for it. She watched them both engage Nixie in conversation, together and separately. The kid was polite, and distracted enough, Eve thought, by both Mavis and a child near her own age, to enjoy herself.

  It was a strange group. But from the sound of conversation, Eve seemed to be the only one who thought so.

  She slipped away long enough to check on Peabody’s progress with the real estate angle, and thought it showed strength of character to leave the comfort of cop work to head back down to social hour.

  Elizabeth Barrister waylaid her in the foyer. “She’s a beautiful child.”

  “She’s got spine.”

  “She must, and she’ll need it as time goes on. Grief comes in waves. Just when you think you’ve weathered one, another swamps you again.”

  Elizabeth Barrister, Eve thought, knew plenty about grief. “It’s a lot to take on, from your position.”

  Elizabeth shook her head as she glanced toward the parlor. “We made mistakes, Richard and I. So many. Too many. And we’ve accepted that our daughter paid for them.”

  “Senator DeBlass was responsible.”

  “From your position,” Elizabeth agreed. “But she was our child, and we made mistakes. We’ve been given another chance with Kevin. He’s lit up our lives.”

  There was no question of that, Eve noted, when just saying his name lit Elizabeth’s face.

  “We’d give Nixie a home, if she wants it. Give her a chance to heal. We’d be good for her, I think. Kevin certainly would. They’re already making friends. She’s been telling him about the game room, which is, apparently, the ult. I wonder if I could take them in for a while.”

  “Sure. I’ll show you where it is.”

  Eve remembered Kevin as a scrawny kid of about six with ragged clothes and a bony cat in tow. He’d filled out, cleaned up, grown a couple of inches, and showed a gap-toothed grin as he clutched a pudgy Galahad in his arms.

  “He’s fat,” Kevin said cheerfully. “But he’s soft.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Galahad aimed his dual-colored eyes at Eve in a way that promised payback for the indignity. “You don’t have to carry him.”

  “I like to. I have a cat named Dopey, and now I have a puppy, too, named Butch. I go to school and I eat like a horse.”

  Behind them, Elizabeth laughed. “He certainly does.”

  “If I had a horse.” The way Kevin slid his eyes slyly in his mother’s direction told Eve he knew where the butter was best slathered. “I would ride him like a cowboy.”

  “One step at a time, little man. Let’s see how you handle Butch. Do you like horses, Nixie?”

  “I got to pet one that pulls a carriage around the park. It was nice.”

  At his first sight of the nirvana of Roarke’s game room, Kevin let out a shout, dumped Galahad on the floor, and raced to the closest arcade game.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Elizabeth told Eve. “I’ve become an expert in this arena.”

  With considerable relief, Eve left her to it. And took the opportunity to head back upstairs.

  This time, Webster was leaning over Peabody’s shoulder.

  “Stop crowding my partner,” Eve snapped.

  Webster straightened, but held his ground. “I have to head downtown shortly, give my report.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. What’ve you got?” she asked Peabody.

  “Looks like you hit on something with the properties. I’ve got what you call a townstone on the Moss’s block. Purchased three months after the custody resolution in the name of the Triangle Group. No financing, so they plunked down the whole—considerable—shot. No income until six weeks after Moss’s death. Got rentals coming in after that. Tenants are clean and unconnected as far as I can tell. Triangle Group also owns, since March 2054, a two-family building two blocks south of the hospital where Brenegan was murdered. Tenants in and out, every six months like clockwork. I think we might find some of the names from Cassandra or Doomsday in here.”

  “Kirkendall, Clinton, Isenberry. Triangle Group. Cute. We tie them to it.”

  “It’s a tangle, Dallas.”

  She paced away, paced back. Webster was a solid cop, she knew. But he was still IAB. Overtime was racking up, and nothing made the review board, the brass, the nut crunchers bitch like unauthorized OT.

  But there were ways around it.

  “You’re past shift,” she said to Peabody. “You and the rest of the team. Clock out.”

  “But we’ve got—”

  “You’re off the clock.” She smiled thinly at Webster as she spoke. “What you do with your own time, in your own home, isn’t my business. Or the department’s. You want to do something useful,” Eve told Webster. “Go file your report. Get them off my back for the next forty-eight.”

  “I can do that. Give the detective her orders. I’ve gone suddenly and strangely deaf.”

  “Shoot this to your desk unit and get down to Central.”

  “Do you want to move on these buildings?”

  “Tomorrow. Try for at least six hours’ downtime. We’re going to put this in place tomorrow. We move this team back to Central, avoid inquiries from IAB about what the hell we’re doing here. Get a conference room booked for seven hundred tomorrow. Tell the rest of the team to do the same or work from home.”

  She could see it, and in her head was already outlining strategy.

  “Start looking for other properties under that name or similar ones. Under any of the tenants’ names who lived in the building near the hospital. I want their base. We get their base, we change this op around, and that’s where we move on them.”

  “Will you work from here?”

  “I’ll be pursuing the same data. I want your unit talking to mine. Something breaks, I’ll come downtown. Got all that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Then get all these cops out of my house.”

  “Dallas.” Webster stopped her as she turned to the door. “Nobody’s business what I do on my own time, either. If I happened to get copies of this data Detective Peabody’s finessed, I could entertain myself by seeing if I could beat her, or you, to the rest.”

  “Peabody, have you got any problem having a race with an IAB suit?”

  “I thrive on competition.”


  “There you go. Beat his ass.”

  Better yet, she thought as she walked out. She’d get Roarke to work unraveling. And she’d work with him, and they’d ring the goddamn bell. There had to be enough civilians in the damn house to ride the controls on a couple of kids while she worked.

  She swung by the computer lab, and the lounge where Baxter and Trueheart were set up to relay the data. “Check out the owners before the buy,” she ordered. “See if there’s a connect—military, paramilitary—siblings, spouses, offspring in same. Get current status. Let’s see if we can squeeze out a weasel. But do it from home. You’re officially off the clock.”

  She veered off to start downstairs, and Summerset intercepted.

  “Lieutenant, your guests require some of your attention.”

  “Cram the etiquette lesson. Tell Roarke I’m working in his office and I require some of his attention. Now.”

  Pleased to save time, and to have been able to tell Summerset to cram anything, she backtracked and sat at Roarke’s desk.

  “Engage computer.”

  One moment, please, to verify authorization by voice scan. Verified, Darling Eve. Engaged.

  “Christ, what if somebody hears that? Don’t you know there are cops in the damn woodwork around here? Search all data, Triangle Group.”

  Searching . . . Triangle Group, licensed real estate brokerage company, subsidiary of Five-By Corporation.

  “Location or locations of Triangle Group’s offices or company headquarters.”

  Working . . . Triangle Group is listed as an electronic company with base office 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, East Washington.

  “Display map, East Washington. Highlight given address.”

  Map displayed. Highlighted location is The White House.

  “Yeah, even I knew that. Little power trip. Search data on Five-By Corporation.”

  She leaned back as the computer fed her data, then glanced over as Roarke came in.

  “You needed something?”