Strangers in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She could’ve argued. Thinking about the case made her want to argue, blow off the steam of it. But she wanted another hit of coffee. She got two mugs, came back, and plopped down.

  “I got nothing. I got nothing on her. No connection that works. And I’m talking myself into circles.”

  “Maybe you’ll come up with something more linear when we see her at the memorial today.”

  The eggs were there, so she stabbed a forkful. “You’re going?”

  “Ben and I are friendly. Anders Worldwide is in my building. I’ll pay my respects. And maybe I’ll catch something you’ve missed. Fresh eyes.”

  “Fresh eyes.” She picked up a piece of bacon, then swore. “Fresh eyes, damn it. I forgot. I promised Baxter I’d take a look at a case file for him. Going cold. I’ve been putting him off. Damn it.” She bit into the bacon. “I’ll have to do it this morning.”

  “That might be a good thing. Put your mind on that for a bit, let it rest on the other.”

  “Maybe. I told him some of them get by us. We can’t close them all. It burns my ass to think this one could get away from me.”

  Galahad bellied over an inch, two inches, his bicolored eyes fixed on Roarke’s plate. Roarke simply shifted his gaze, stared, and Galahad rolled onto his back to paw lazily at the air. “No one believes you’re innocent,” he said to the cat.

  “Everyone believes she is,” Eve murmured. “Hmm. What happens if somebody doesn’t?” Turning that over in her mind she ate her breakfast before Galahad made his next move.

  Before her shift began, Eve sat in her office at Central with Baxter’s murder book on the Custer case. She studied the crime scene photos first, as if coming to it fresh, without the input of the ME, the sweepers, the investigator’s notes, the interviews.

  Somebody, she thought, had done a quick, hard number on one Ned Custer. The room itself looked like a typical sex flop. Cheap bed, sagging mattress where Christ knew what microscopic vermin partied in a variety of body fluids. Particleboard dresser, fly-spotted mirror, dull, yellowing floor, crappy paper drapes at the crappy little window. A bad joke of a bath with a rust-stained, wall-hung sink and a toilet where more vermin partied.

  The cliché of sex flops, she thought.

  What kind of man was Ned Custer, who needed to get his rocks off in an ugly little dump while the wife and kiddies waited at home?

  A pretty damn dead one. The slash across the throat went deep, went long. Sharp blade with some muscle behind it. And some height, she mused, checking the angle. Vic topped off at five-nine. The killer…Eve closed her eyes, put herself in the nasty room, put herself behind Custer. Had to be at least the same height, probably an inch or two taller.

  Tall for a woman then, but a lot of street whores went for high platforms and heels. Still, not a shortie.

  And no one who owned a delicate stomach. It took steel-lined to hack off a guy’s dick.

  The blood spatters and pools told the story clearly enough. The killer stepped out of the excuse for a bathroom, attacked the victim from behind. One fast slash. No hesitation. Had to get some backsplash from that kind of blood jet. More blood from the homemade castration. With no blood in the drains, the killer either exited carting the blood—no trail, so unlikely—or came out of the bathroom sealed and protected.

  Not a street whore. Not even one pumped up on illegals. Too prepared, too vicious. A whore wants to roll a mark, maybe she sticks him, but more likely she gets herself a zapper off the black market, immobilizes and cops his money and jewelry. Walks away.

  Custer was dead before he walked in that room, he just didn’t know it. Would anyone have done? she wondered. Or was it target specific?

  She dug deeper, shooting out a message for Baxter and Trueheart to report to her when they came on shift. And she made her own notes.

  She grunted at the tap on her doorjamb, then glanced up at Trueheart in his spotless uniform. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah. Where’s Baxter?”

  “He’s not in yet. I, um, try to get in a little before shift when I can, to look over yesterday’s work.”

  “Uh-huh.” Eager beaver, she mused. Young but steady, with a good eye. And he’d lost a lot of the green he’d had on him when she’d first seen him on scooper detail. “I’ve been looking over the Custer murder book. You and Baxter were thorough. How many cases have you caught since?”

  “Nine,” he said immediately. “Two open. Plus Custer, so that’s three open.”

  “What’s your take on this one?”

  “The vic led a dangerous kind of life, Lieutenant. He cruised the bars and the red lights, picked up his dates from low-level LCs. We talked to a lot of working girls and found a couple who remembered him. They, ah, said he liked it fast and rough—and ah, cheap.”

  “I see that. You covered the area of the crime scene, did the door to doors, hit the bars, the working girls.”

  “Nobody remembers who he went off with that night, other than a couple saying he might’ve been hooked up with a redhead. Short, straight hair—or short curly hair, depending on the wit. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not the kind of area where people remember. The guy working the desk on the flop said maybe he’d seen her before, maybe not, but he’s pretty sure about the hair that night. He’s on the red, short, straight side.”

  She’d read all this in the book, but let Trueheart wind it out.

  “One thing he swears on is she didn’t come back down. If he didn’t check them off when they came down, how could he turn the room? He gets paid on the turn. So he swears she didn’t come back by the desk, and you can’t get out the front without going by the desk. The fire escape was engaged. She had to go out through the window and down. And the scene, it was full of prints and DNA, fiber, hair. It’s not the kind of place where housekeeping’s a priority. We ran everything, interviewed everyone when we could find a match and locate the individual. Nobody stands out.”

  She started to speak, held off as Baxter hurried up to join his aide. “This about Custer?”

  “I’ve reviewed the book. It’s a thorough investigation so far.”

  “Without a single suspect.”

  “You’re not looking at the wife.”

  “She’s alibied up, Dallas, literally on her house ’link trying to reach the vic when he was being sliced. Trueheart and I were the ones to notify. She wasn’t faking her reaction.”

  “No like crimes before or after, not following this pattern. It smells target specific.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “So who benefits?”

  Baxter raked his fingers through his hair. “Okay, the wife gets rid of a guy who cheats and may be bringing home an all-you-can-eat buffet of STDs, and who tunes her up when the whim strikes. She comes into a pension and life insurance policy through his employment. Not princely, but solid. But she wasn’t there, that’s a fact. The vic wasn’t going to go into that flop with his wife when he hunted strange. And he’d’ve recognized her. She’s three inches over five feet so she’s not tall enough or strong enough to have made the cut.”

  “Maybe she knew somebody who was. A relative, a friend, somebody who thought she was better off with the cheating, heavy-handed husband dead. And she is.”

  “She’s got a sister down in Arkansas, a father doing a dime on assault with intent down there, and who used to knock his wife around. Her mother’s in New Jersey, but believe me, she couldn’t have pulled this off either. As for friends, she doesn’t have anybody she’s tight with. Sure as hell not tight enough to slit her husband’s throat for her.”

  “A boyfriend. The killer skews tall and strong for a female.”

  “Working a team.” Baxter’s eyes changed as he considered. “Guy’s already in the bathroom, she brings the mark in…Then why doesn’t she just go out the front? Why—”

  “Lots of whys,” Eve interrupted. “Who says he went up there with a woman?”

  Tr
ueheart cleared his throat. “Um, everybody, sir.”

  “And did everybody see the killer’s plumbing? You’ve seen enough trannies, Baxter, to know how pretty they are when they’re on the stroll. If you’re not looking close enough, if you’ve had a few brews under your belt, a guy could find a big surprise when he reaches into the box. Everybody sees a woman, so you’re looking for a woman.”

  “And don’t I feel stupid,” Baxter mumbled. “I never made the lateral move to male possibility.”

  “Wife’s got a secret admirer, he might be man enough to dress like a woman.”

  “Sir? Lieutenant?” Trueheart nearly raised his hand. “It’s hard to see how Mrs. Custer could’ve had a relationship, a boyfriend. She’s got those kids, and none of her neighbors reported seeing anyone visiting her apartment regularly. We looked at that, because you have to, but we didn’t find anything that indicated she had a boyfriend.”

  “A woman with a husband who likes to use his fists learns to be a careful woman.” Eve glanced back at her own murder board. “And maybe I’m letting some of my own investigation bleed over into my thoughts on yours.” She swiveled back, held out the murder book. “You’ve got two fresher cases open, but find time to poke at the boyfriend angle, and the doing her a favor.”

  “Since we’d run out of angles, I appreciate it. Come on, faithful sidekick.” Baxter dropped a hand on Trueheart’s shoulder. “Let’s go think about men in dresses.”

  She toggled her mind back to her own case, checked her incomings and her messages. The lab in its better-late-than-even-more-late mode verified what Roarke had already told her. Voice print match. Rising, she added that report to her board.

  “Good morning!” Bright, bouncing, and beaming, Peabody sang out the greeting and shook a pink bakery box. “I’ve got crullers.”

  “And you got through the bullpen alive?”

  “I bought two boxes, tossed one at the rioting horde as I came through.”

  “That’s not stupid.”

  “I would’ve come back before, but you were with Baxter and Trueheart, and I was collecting my kudos.”

  “I thought they were crullers.”

  With a laugh, Peabody set the box on Eve’s desk. “I’m celebrating with pastries because I looked really good last night. I know how the camera’s supposed to add pounds, but I didn’t look tubbo. I think it was the jacket. It’s slimming, and the way the buttons run and all, they trick the eye. And I was sitting on my ass, so that wasn’t a problem. Jesus, I was so nervous. Completely freaked.”

  She dug in the box, pulled out a cruller and bit in. “Trina was great, sort of talking me down. She says you’re due for a treatment, by the way.”

  “She’s due for an ass-kicking.”

  “And McNab was mag, seriously mag.” Peabody licked sugar off her thumb. “But you have all those people and the cameras and if you think about how many other people are sitting home watching, you’ll throw up. Nadine was the ult, she really eased me in. But she didn’t baby me, so I didn’t come off like a moron. When we got home, McNab and I watched the segment like twelve times, and had lots and lots of celebration sex. Boy, I feel great! So what did you think when you watched it?”

  “I was busy.”

  The bright, beaming bounce dropped hard through the trapdoor of shock. “You didn’t…But I thought you’d—oh.”

  Eve let it sit for another five seconds, but even she couldn’t be that mean. And there were crullers. “Jesus, Peabody, you’re easy. Of course I watched. I had to know if you screwed up and I needed to kick your ass, didn’t I? You didn’t screw up.”

  The beam bounced back. “I really didn’t. McNab said I sounded smart and completely on top. And I looked sexy. Did you think so?”

  “I dreamed of you all night. Can we move on now?”

  “One more thing. Thanks for pushing me into this. I won’t be so freaky about it next time. Oh, oh, and just another thing. Mavis and Leonardo tagged us when we were on our way home from the studio, and Mavis said Belle smiled and cooed when she saw me on screen. Okay, done.” She took another bite of her cruller.

  “If you’re ready to set your kudos aside, we’re in the field. Anders Worldwide.”

  “The memorial’s this afternoon,” Peabody reminded her. “I don’t think Forrest will be in. Do you want me to check?”

  “No. He may not be in, but I bet his admin is. And I like the drop-in. Let’s move.”

  Eve grabbed her coat, considered the crullers. If she left them there, out in the open, even the box would be devoured when she got back. She could hide it, but the vultures would sniff it out, which could lead them to the candy she’d stashed where—so far—the Candy Thief hadn’t discovered it.

  She snatched up the box on the way out. Better safe than crullerless.

  Leopold Walsh had struck Eve as a man who manned his station, and guarded his prince whatever the crisis. She was right. He met them in his office—sober eyes, dark suit, and a black armband.

  “I don’t expect Mr. Forrest today,” Leopold began. “Mr. Anders’s memorial is scheduled for two this afternoon.”

  “We’re aware of that.” No offer of coffee, Eve noted, no invitation to sit. Don’t like us much, do you, Leo? “Mr. Forrest and his uncle were very close, personally and professionally. Would you agree with that assessment?”

  “I would.”

  “As you work closely with Mr. Forrest, you’d be privy to their dealings together.”

  “Of course.”

  Eve smiled. She had to admire a man who knew how to answer without saying anything. “I imagine you formed opinions regarding Thomas Anders—professionally and personally.”

  “I hardly see how my opinion is relevant.”

  “Humor me.”

  “In my opinion, Mr. Thomas Anders was a fair and honest man who brought that fairness and honesty into business. He trusted, correctly, that his nephew would do the same.”

  “The manner of Mr. Anders’s death must have caused some speculation and gossip within the organization, and its accounts.”

  Leopold’s jaw tightened. “People will talk, Lieutenant. It’s human nature.”

  But you don’t, she thought. No juicy office gossip for you. But you hear it, file it.

  “What’s the buzz about Mrs. Anders?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Tighten that jaw another notch, Leo, something’s going to snap. “Yes, you do.”

  “Mrs. Anders devoted—devotes—much of her considerable energy into the charitable and humanitarian programs sponsored by Anders Worldwide. She’s very well respected.”

  “She puts in time around here?”

  “Of course, though she most often works from home, or by attending or hostessing functions.”

  “You’d have been privy to her dealings with her husband, and with his nephew.”

  “Somewhat certainly, as Ben—as Mr. Forrest was gradually taking over his uncle’s duties. Some of those duties involved the programs. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I have a very crowded day, and a very difficult one. If that’s all—”

  “It’s not. How would you describe the relationship between Mr. Forrest and—shit, let’s simplify. How did Ben and Ava get along?”

  “They were very cordial, of course. Ben admired her talent and her energy, and was certainly impressed with many of her ideas.”

  “Cordial. Not affectionate. He strikes me as an easy and affectionate sort, but you choose the cooler, more formal, ‘cordial’ to describe their relationship.”

  “Mrs. Anders was his uncle’s wife.” Leopold’s tone was equally cool and formal. “Their relationship was perfectly proper.”

  “Proper, there’s another cool term. Ben doesn’t like her much, does he? Neither do you.”

  “I’ve said or implied nothing of the kind. I don’t—”

  “Relax. I don’t like her either. So, you can keep standing there with that rod up your ass or…” She dropped into a chair without invi
tation. “Tell me why. Record off, Peabody,” Eve said as she switched off her own. “Just the three of us, Leo. Off record. What about Ava sticks in your craw?”

  Eve watched him debate. Propriety or the opportunity to speak his mind. Opportunity won. “She’s studied, she’s deliberate, and she’s cold. Those aren’t crimes, but personality traits. And…”

  “Don’t stop now.” Eve lifted her hands, palms up in invitation.

  “There’s a pettiness about her. She would often circumvent Ben by making plans or decisions without consulting him or seeking his input. Her plans and decisions were always well thought out and researched. She had—has—excellent ideas. But it’s been her habit to brush over Ben, a very deliberate habit. In my opinion.”

  “How’d Ben take that?”

  “It frustrated him from time to time, though I admit, it frustrated me more.”

  “Did he ever complain to his uncle?”

  “Not to my knowledge, and I believe I would know. He might complain to me, or use me as a sounding board. Invariably, after he had he’d say the same thing. ‘Well, it’s the end result that matters.’ Mrs. Anders gets excellent results.”

  “I believe that.”

  “I think…”

  “We’re off record, Leo. What do you think?”

  “I think she often did the same regarding Mr. Anders. That is, failed to keep him in the loop until whatever she planned was essentially a fait accompli. There was some office gossip, and I don’t like office gossip.”

  “Me, I love it. How about you, Peabody?”

  “Revs up the day. What kind of gossip?” Peabody asked Leo.

  “There was talk that she charged certain personal expenses to program budget. Household purchases, wardrobe, salons, that sort of thing. Nothing major, you understand. That pettiness again, from my point of view. I heard Mr. Anders, I mean Mr. Reginald Anders, called her on it.”

  “Her father-in-law? When would this be?”

  “I couldn’t say, exactly. He’s been gone nearly two years now. I only remember the talk because they got along very well, so the reprimand—if there was one—wouldn’t be expected.”