by J. D. Robb
“What is it about her, Eve?”
“Things.” She stabbed at a meatball. “Her clothes.”
“You don’t care for her fashion sense?”
“How would I know if she has any? You do.” She jabbed the fork with its bite of meatball at him. “Fashion king.”
“We do our best.”
“So, you’re dead asleep, and you get a call. Something terrible’s happened, and I’m dead. What do you do?”
It took him a moment to quell the terror, to ignore the small, dark place inside him that feared getting that call every day. “Before or after I fall prostrate with grief?”
“Before, during, and after. Do you peruse your wardrobe and select a coordinating outfit—down to the footwear? Do you deal with your hair so it’s perfectly groomed?”
“With my considerable skills and innate instincts that would take no time at all.”
“Keep it up and I’ll dump red sauce all over your fashionable smarty-pants.”
“That statement is one of the countless reasons why, under the circumstances you described, I’d be lucky to remember to dress at all. But then not everyone loves the same way, Eve, or to the same levels. Or reacts the same way to hard news.”
“The call for transpo went out from her hotel room six minutes after she ended the transmission with Greta. But, there’s nearly a fifty-minute lag between then and her leaving the hotel. She ordered coffee, juice, fresh berries, and a croissant from her in-room AutoChef—I had the hotel look up her record. She ordered her little continental breakfast before she called for transpo arrangements.”
“Ah. There’s cold blood.”
“Yeah. A little thing maybe—not evidence, but it’s a thing. A lawyer would argue it’s nothing. She was in shock. But it’s bullshit. She was wearing perfume when she got to the house, and earrings, and a bracelet that matched her wrist unit. She didn’t contact Forrest, not for hours after getting the news.
“Little things,” Eve repeated. “I believe she planned it out, studied every detail, covered every track. But she can’t cover who she is. She can’t quite cover up her self-interest, her vanity, or the calculation I see in her eyes every time I look at her.”
“She didn’t plan out everything. She didn’t plan on you.”
“I’m going to the memorial tomorrow. I’m going to talk to her again, to her friends again, to Forrest, track down this ex-husband of hers. To the housekeeper, to Charles, back to her. I’m going to annoy the living hell out of her, even if she is a friend of the chief’s wife.”
Idly, Roarke wound pasta on his fork. “She knows Tibble’s wife? Sticky.”
“Yeah.” Eve blew out a breath. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d sought out that connection as part of her outline. Get chummy with a high police official’s wife. Check.”
At Eve’s questioning glance, Roarke nodded. “I’d agree, yes. It would be very good planning on her part. How did she make the connection?”
“Committees, charities, the usual. Next financials in line are the charitable trusts and scholarships. Maybe she siphoned off some of the money, the vic found out. She comes out better a widow than in a divorce, especially if she had any part of siphoning funds meant for the less fortunate kiddies.”
“Ben would know. I should say I’d be very surprised if Ben wouldn’t know about any mishandling of funds. Possibly they could have been misappropriated and replaced quickly, books cooked in a way he would miss it. But, with his uncle dead, he’s majority stock holder, and acting chairman of the board. I’d imagine he’s having an internal audit done to make certain the house is in order, on every level.”
“She’s got him snowed. That’s how it looks to me. And she smears the victim with this sex dirt, automatically makes people look sideways. Could be if she played with funds, she’s thought of a way to twist it so it looks like the victim did the playing.”
“I can take a look.”
She twirled more spaghetti onto her fork, smirked. “Aren’t you going to be the busy little scout?”
“Cute. Should we go for a drive after dinner? Back to the scene of the crime?”
She studied him over a mouthful of pasta. “Here’s what I like about you. Almost everything.”
So,” Eve said as they stood in Anders’s bedroom, “the guy’s lying there, dead as Judas, and his wake-up system goes off. Good morning, Mr. Anders. Gives him the time, turns on the fireplace, starts the coffee, the shower, reminds him what he ordered for breakfast, and details his first appointment of the day.”
“Who needs a wife?”
Her response was a bland stare. “Anyway, it was kind of creepy. How come you don’t have a system like that, ace?”
“We do, I just don’t use it. It’s kind of creepy. Plus I rarely need an alarm, and why would I want to order breakfast the night before or have the shower going before I was ready to take one?”
“You have habits and routines, but you’re not a creature of habit and routine. He was. That was part of the weapon used against him. He was predictable. You could count on him being in bed at three in the morning, count on him programming his wake-up system, putting on his sensible pajamas. Door closed, drapes drawn. Night-night. He’d have been sleeping facing toward the door. From the angle and position of the pressure syringe mark, he’d have been sleeping on his side, facing the door. I bet he always did. She’d have known that. Checklist. Just another checklist.”
She shook her head. “Go ahead and take a look at the system. We’re going to have to clear the scene. I can’t keep her out of the house much longer. I want another look around while I’m here.”
She went through the room, this time focusing more narrowly on Ava’s things. The clothes, the shoes, the lingerie. Expensive, fashionable, but on the sedate side, Eve supposed. As fit the proper woman, of a conservative bent, of her social and financial level. Nothing too flashy, everything high-end.
Eve circled the bedroom with its surplus of gilt and shine. Maybe not exactly flashy, she mused, but certainly ornate. Ava’s Palace. Which was the truer reflection of the woman?
The dressing area held a salon’s worth of cosmetic enhancers. Creams, lotions, rejuvenators, skin boosters lived behind shining silver doors in the bath area. Bath salts and oils filled tall clear jars arranged like art on various shelves.
Liked to pamper herself, liked to sink into the deep jet tub or stand under the sprays of the silver-walled shower and luxuriate—in an area separate from her husband’s.
This is yours, this is mine.
Yet they shared a bed. Still, with a bed that size, if sex or companionship wasn’t on the menu, they might as well have been sleeping in separate counties. Walking back, Eve touched one of the gold rungs on the footboard.
“This was her room,” she said aloud. “Hers. He just happened to be in it. She tolerated that. Tolerated his presence, his fussy morning routine because it was hers. She allowed him here as long as he was useful.”
Stepping out, she sealed the door again, then went down to find Roarke.
He’d pulled his hair back with a twist of leather and sat at the controls in the security area. Besides the extensive equipment built in, Roarke had one of his own handheld devices on the counter.
“It’s an excellent system. One of mine,” he said with a casual glance over his shoulder. “So I know it quite well. It’s been extensively customized for this site. Every available option’s in here. I won’t say it’s absolutely impossible to breach or operate by long-distance remote, but I will say if the client had ordered such a thing, he would’ve been advised it could compromise his system. And, if he still wanted that ability, it would’ve been custom-made. We’d have a paper trail. I’ll check on that, but I sincerely doubt he authorized something like that.”
“And the short range?”
“Every security system can be breached, and I’ve breached most of them myself. In my misspent youth.”
“You were still misspending a couple of y
ears ago, pal.”
“Only for…entertainment purposes. In any case, this system’s alarms and cameras were shut down by short range. But the code was keyed in before the backup went on. That was quick work, either by someone with an excellent clone or in possession of the code. Whoever it was needed only to stand out of camera range, shut them down, along with the alarms, then walk up to the keypad and do the rest. With the right equipment, a child could have done it.”
“But Ava Anders didn’t. Disappointing,” she admitted. “Now I have to find out who did her dirty work. Let’s close up here. I want to pay a call on the way home.”
“It seems to be our week for it.”
They found Sasha Bride-West at home—barely. She answered the door herself, wrapped in luxurious layers of white mink. But the interruption didn’t appear to trouble her in the least. Not when she leveled her gaze at Roarke and purred, “Well, hello.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” Eve said. “Can I have a minute?”
“You can have a minute.” She aimed a sultry smile at Roarke. “How long do you want?”
“He’s with me. Sasha Bride-West. Roarke.”
“Yes, I know.” She offered her hand, back up, as a woman does who hopes it’ll be kissed. “We met once, briefly. I’m devastated you don’t remember.”
“I’ll remember now.”
She laughed, stepped back. “Come in. I’m on my way out to meet some friends. I’m always late anyway.”
“On your way to see Mrs. Anders?” Eve asked.
“Dressed like this?” Sasha tossed the white coat aside. Under it she wore riotous red, thin and snug as a layer of skin. Sven did good work. “Hardly. Ava’s in seclusion until the memorial tomorrow. I do have other friends.” She sent Roarke that smile again. “I always have room for more.”
“For the moment, maybe we can stick to Ava.”
“All right.” She gestured, glided on silvery heels into a living area as bold and brash as she was. She slid into a chair. Eve wasn’t sure how she managed to sit in a dress that tight and cross her legs. “What about Ava?”
“I’m just confirming some time lines, for the report. Routine stuff.”
“Do you always drop by unannounced at night—and with such a gorgeous companion—for routine stuff?”
“We were out.” Roarke took a seat beside Sasha, kept his tone casual. “My wife rarely leaves the cop behind.”
“Poor you.”
“On the morning of Mr. Anders’s murder,” Eve continued, “what time did Mrs. Anders wake you to tell you what had happened?”
“She didn’t.”
“She didn’t wake you when she learned her husband was dead?”
“I don’t know if she believed he was, honestly. She left a message cube. It was Bridge who woke me. About eight-thirty. A bit before nine in any case. In a state. I remember being annoyed at first as I didn’t have my facial scheduled until eleven. She said Ava was gone, something had happened to Tommy. I…”
She let out a breath, and the brashness ebbed away. “I made some careless, callous remark, which I very much regret. Something like, ‘For Christ’s sake, unless he’s dropped dead on the sixth green, let me sleep.’ Then Bridge played the message, and it was awful. You could hear the panic and tears in Ava’s voice.”
“What did she say in the message?”
“I remember exactly. ‘Greta called. Something’s happened to Tommy. Something terrible’s happened. I have to go home.’ She left the message on the table in the parlor. We shared a three-bedroom suite, so she left it on the table.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, we called her right away, called her ’link. She was very shaken, as you can imagine. She told us Greta had said Tommy was dead. That he was dead in his bed, but she was sure that was a mistake. That he must be ill, so she needed to get right home. She’d call us as soon as she got there, and took care of things.”
“Thank you. That’s very helpful.” Eve waited until Sasha rose to lead them back to the door. “It’s a shame she didn’t wake you and Mrs. Plowder. She wouldn’t have had to make that difficult trip alone.”
“Brigit was furious about that, the kind of mad you get when you’re incredibly worried. I don’t know how many times that morning I said to her not to worry about that, how Ava must’ve been panicked. How she must not have been able to think of anything but getting home. It was an awful morning for all of us, Lieutenant. When Ava called to tell us Tommy was gone, we were already packed. I guess we knew she wasn’t coming back. That trip, it’s always the three of us, and…how do you mistake death? We knew she wouldn’t be able to come back.”
Outside Eve walked with Roarke through the crystal cold. “Panicked,” she repeated, “can’t think of anything but getting home. But you can think to leave a message cube. Not to wake your friends, sleeping right in the next rooms. But you can think of ordering a croissant and matching your wrist unit with a bracelet.”
“She didn’t want them to see her.” Roarke opened the passenger door, then stood looking at Eve over it. “She didn’t want them with her, didn’t want to have to put on the façade on the trip back.”
“No, she didn’t. She wanted a little alone time, so she could sit and wallow in how fucking clever she’d been.” Her eyes were flat again, cold again. “I’m going to nail her ass, Roarke. Then we’ll see how clever she is.”
10
UNDER THE PULSING JETS OF THE SHOWER THE next morning, Eve considered her options. She could bring Ava in, try to sweat a confession—fat chance—out of her, or just shake her confidence by letting her know she was being watched.
And she’d lawyer up in a quick, fast minute, sob to the media, and possibly Tibble’s wife. Which would, most likely, alienate possible sources of information such as Forrest, Plowder, and Bride-West.
Sweating her might be satisfying, but likely unproductive at this stage.
She could continue to scrape at layers, cutting through the dirt and the bull until she found enough inconsistencies, enough probable cause to make a solid case.
But it had to be faced, she admitted, ordering the jets off to step into the drying tube. The woman was good. She’d covered her undoubtedly surgically sculpted ass in every direction. Where was the loose end? Eve asked herself as the warm air blew around her. Where was the person whose hands had secured the ropes? Where was the person who’d walked into that bedroom and done the deed Eve was flat-out sure Ava had designed?
A lover was a hard sell. The woman had a husband and a twice-monthly LC, and only so many hours in a day. Could Ava have squeezed in an affair, have juggled that many balls without anyone who knew her suspecting? Not impossible, not for someone that organized and calculating, but…a hard sell.
A friend? Could Plowder or Bride-West—or both—have conspired to kill Thomas Anders? What incentive could Ava have offered them to commit murder? She rolled that around while she pulled on a robe and walked into the bedroom to hunt up clothes.
Roarke sat drinking coffee and scratching Galahad between the ears. Sometime during her shower, she noted, he’d switched from stock reports to the morning news. “They’ve just run a brief interview with Ben on today’s memorial. More of a quick statement, really, as he wouldn’t answer any questions on the nature of his uncle’s death or the investigation. He looked shattered.”
Eve went with black because it was easiest and made it simpler to blend in during a memorial. “Let me ask you this, taking away the fact you like this guy personally. Could he have been having an affair with Ava?”
Roarke muted the screen, watching Eve as she dressed. “I can’t imagine him betraying his uncle in that way—in any way, really—but particularly in that way. Even if his love for Anders was a sham, Ava isn’t his type.”
“Why not?”
“He tends toward younger, career-oriented, athletic types who’d be happy kicking back with a beer.” He paused as she strapped on her weapon. “Good thing I snatched you up before h
e saw you.”
“Well, now I know where to go when I’m done with you. Try this one on. The three women go off to St. Lucia. They go off somewhere together every year, so nobody thinks anything of it. But this year they have more to do than get wrapped in papaya leaves and suck down mimosas.”
She shrugged into her jacket, and as Roarke observed, didn’t so much as glance in the mirror as she crossed over to get coffee.
“One of them comes back to New York clandestinely, kills Tommy as per Ava’s plan while Ava’s ass is covered on St. Lucia. Ava’s there when Greta calls, and she takes her time leaving. Giving her partner time to get back. Then she takes the shuttle home while the other two wait a reasonable amount of time, then call her to cement the story.”
“Involving all three of them? Risky.”
“Maybe Bride-West was still asleep, just as she said in her statement. They slip something in her martini, whatever, and…I’m not buying this myself, so why am I trying to sell it to you?”
He rose, placed his hands on her shoulders, kissed her brow. Then knowing she’d never think to do it herself, walked over to program some breakfast.
“It had to be someone she could trust. Absolutely. Without question. Someone who would kill for her. Her parents are divorced. One lives in Portland, one lives in Chicago. Both remarried. Nothing jumped up and bit me on the runs I did on them, and I can’t find any record of either of them traveling anywhere, much less New York on the night in question. She has no siblings. As far as I can determine she hasn’t seen her ex-husband in about two decades. Who does she know, who does she trust to kill for her and to kill in a very specific way?”
Roarke carried back plates of bacon and eggs. Galahad feigned disinterest. “You’ll have to get the coffee if you’re after more. If I take my eyes off these plates for two seconds, this food will be in the cat’s belly.”
Eve frowned at the plates. “I was going to grab—”
“Now you’re not. Get the coffee, I’m after more.”