by J. D. Robb
The way you do, Eve thought. “Was the car on the street or in a lot?”
“A lot. An auto lot.”
“Which way did you walk?”
“Ah, um…West because we went right by the market, and then we crossed after a few blocks, and walked north. I think maybe on Seventh. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Which rest stop did she use?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. They all look the same, don’t they? I was sick.”
“How long were you gone? No, don’t give me that ‘I don’t know shit,’ Suzanne. What time did you leave for the market?”
“About nine-thirty.”
“What time did you get home?”
“It was almost noon. I had to take the bus. She dropped me at the transpo center across from the tunnel, and gave me bus fare. I had to take the bus back.”
“How long did you wait for the bus?”
“Only a few minutes. I got lucky. I got off and walked back to the market. Mr. Isaacs said how he thought I wasn’t coming in that day.”
“Mr. Isaacs?”
“He runs the market, and I always go on Mondays, before ten. He said how I looked tired, how I should try to get some rest, and he gave me pop treats for the kids. I forgot that. He gave me treats for the kids. He’s a nice man. He and his wife run the market. I went home, and I put everything away, and I thought, ‘None of this is happening. It’s not real.’ Then I got sick again, because it was. I have to tell my kids. I don’t know how.”
“When you were at the retreat and made your bargain, where were you?”
“In Ava’s suite. She told me to come up after the last seminar, but not to tell anyone. People get jealous. She just wanted to relax with a friend.” Tears spurted again. Eve wondered how the woman had any more in her. “She said we were friends.”
“You had drinks. Did she order them?”
“There was a bottle of wine and a pretty platter of fruit and cheese. Everything was so pretty.”
“Did anyone call or come by while you were there?”
“No. She had the Do Not Disturb on the door and the ’links. So we could relax, she said.”
Eve pressed a little more, then judged she’d wrung Suzanne dry. For now. “You’re going to be booked, and you’re going to be remanded. The court’s going to assign an attorney to you. You’ve got the best deal you’re going to get. Don’t expect any more.”
She rose as Baxter came back in. “Detective Baxter reentering Interview.” When she crossed to him, he spoke quietly.
“Got the search warrant. Do you want me to take that?”
“No. Walk her through Booking. She’s tapped out for now.”
“I contacted the sister while I waited for the warrant to come through. She’s confused and shocked, like you’d expect. She’s making arrangements to come up for the kids. CS cleared that.”
“You pushed some buttons.”
“The kids are going to have it hard enough. Not their fault.”
“Walk her through,” Eve repeated. “I’ll have Peabody and Trueheart exercise the warrant. I need a couple hours to sort through all this. We need to keep this arrest off the radar.”
With a nod, Baxter walked to Suzanne. “You need to come with me now.”
Eve waited until he’d led Suzanne through the door. “Interview end.” Then she dragged her hands through her hair. “Christ. Jesus Christ.”
When she stepped out, Mira was there. “I don’t want to hear about her emotional trauma, her fear of authority figures, or her goddamn remorse. Thomas Anders died by her hand.”
“Yes, he did. That doesn’t make her less pitiable. A year in prison, twenty years, Suzanne Custer’s life is essentially over. It was over the minute Ava Anders targeted her.”
“Tell me this: Did Suzanne Custer know what she was doing when she put that rope around Thomas Anders’s neck? Was she legally, mentally—and I’ll even go one more—morally aware of right and wrong?”
“Yes, she was. She is culpable for her act, and should pay for what she did. Are there extenuating circumstances, would I—or any other psychiatrist—consider diminished capacity? Yes. But she killed Thomas Anders fully aware of her actions.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Eve. You’re so angry.”
“Damn right I am. Sorry, I don’t have time to comb through my own psyche. I’ve got work.” She turned, and pulling out her communicator, strode away.
In her office, she hit the AutoChef for coffee before sitting down at her desk to begin the calculations for the most likely lots Ava had used, and the rest stop where she’d taken Suzanne. Little bits, she thought. Little bits and pieces. While the computer worked, she wrote her report on the interview, made notes, added to her time lines.
When the computer spit out its most probables, she studied the map, gauged the distances, the locations, simmered them with her understanding of Ava.
“I think we’ve got that. Yeah, I think we do,” she muttered. And only grunted at the knock on her door.
“Hello, Lieutenant.”
She barely glanced at Roarke. “She doesn’t go far—just far enough. But she’s not as fucking smart as she thinks she is. Doesn’t know people as well as she believes.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He sat on the corner of her desk. “A moment?”
“I don’t have much of a moment. Suzanne copped to it all. Jesus, it was like flipping a switch on a dike or a dam, whatever, and having it all gush out. Ava went for the weak, the runt of the litter you could say. Miscalculated. Makes Suzanne easy to manipulate.”
“And that was the miscalculation,” he said with a nod. “Because you’re very good at manipulating.”
“She counted on the power of her personality, of the pecking order to push Suzanne into doing the job. But she read her partner wrong. Way wrong. My take? She believed Suzanne would be flattered and happy to hook up with her, believed Suzanne would be grateful to be rid of her lousy husband, and do exactly what she was told. She had contingency plans, sure—she’s always got herself a Plan B, C, or D, but she didn’t see that under it, Suzanne’s a major fuckup.”
“That’s harsh.”
“She deserves harsh.” The anger roiled inside her. “At any point, any fucking point, she could’ve stopped. Back in August when Ava proposed the plan, she could’ve stopped. When Ava told her how she’d killed her husband, she could’ve stopped. Any time over the last two months, she could’ve stopped. In the hour she was in the house with Anders, she could’ve stopped. And now it’s all, gee, I’m sorry? Boo-hoo? I feel sick? Screw that.”
“Does she enrage you for what she did, or that she was weak enough to do it?”
“Both. And I’m happy to be a part of making her pay. Making both of them pay. Ava got what she wanted, but she had to push too hard. And she used the wrong sort of manipulation in the end. Smarter, much smarter to have appealed to Suzanne’s soft side. ‘Please help me. You’re the only one I trust, the only one I can depend on. I’ve done this for you, just as I promised. Please don’t turn your back on me now.’ Instead, she was so revved from the murder she played hardball, and cracked her tool. All I had to do was give it a few good knocks.”
She pushed away from the desk, crossed over to stare out the window.
Roarke gave her a moment of silence for her own thoughts. “What troubles you about it, Eve? Under your anger?”
“It’s personal. I can deal with that, but the way it’s personal gnaws a little. Mira’s already poking at me about it, and that’s irritating.”
“Because she sees that you look at Suzanne and think of yourself. The child you were. Battered, trapped, helpless. And the choice you made to save yourself.”
Eve glanced back. “It shows? That’s irritating, too.”
“To me, and to Mira. But you wear your armor well, Lieutenant.”
“She wasn’t a child, Roarke. She wasn’t helpless, or didn’t have to be. She chose to kill, to
obey another bidding to kill, rather than deal.”
That, he knew, would eat at her. The uselessness of it. “And it pisses you off. She lay down and took it, when there were so many options. She took the life of a man she didn’t know because someone told her to. Her husband’s dead because she stayed with him rather than walk away. And now her children are, essentially, orphaned.”
“She said she thought her children should have their father. That it was her responsibility to stay.”
“Ah.”
Having said it, Eve realized some of the knots in her belly had slackened. “Yeah, I thought of your mother, and how she’d thought the same. How she’d died for that. But goddamn it, Roarke, your mother was so young, and I can’t believe she’d have stayed for years. I can’t look at you and believe that. Can’t think of the family you found and believe that. She’d have taken you and walked, if she’d had another chance.”
“I think of that. Aye, sometimes I think of that. And that’s what I believe as well. But in God’s truth, I don’t know if it’s a comfort or a curse to believe it.”
“It’s a comfort to me,” she said, and watched his eyes warm.
“Then it will be to me as well. Thanks.”
“Suzanne Custer sat and made a bargain over wine and cheese. Some part of her knew it was real, however much she denies it. However much she can’t face it. She agreed to Ava’s terms. She didn’t try to back out until after her own husband’s throat was slit. She didn’t go to Ava the next morning, or the next week and tell her, ‘Deal’s off. No can do.’ She let it ride. Ned Custer was a son of a bitch, and he may have deserved to have his balls kicked black and blue, might’ve deserved some time in a cage for spousal abuse, but he didn’t deserve having his throat slit and his dick sawed off. But the wife who claims she wanted her children to have their father set him up for just that. So I don’t feel for her. I’m damned if I will.”
Roarke rose, and going to her laid his hands on her shoulders, his lips on her brow. “It’s useless to be angry with yourself because you do feel something. Just that thin edge of pity around the disgust.”
“She doesn’t deserve my pity.” And Eve sighed. “Or any more of my time slapping at myself for that thin edge of it I do feel. I need to get in the field.”
He gave her shoulders a brisk rub. “Here I’ve come by as I did my job so well and so quickly; now you’re tossing me aside.”
“You pinned the remote? Already?”
“I did, yes. I’ll have some coffee.”
“How the hell—”
“Are you going to get me some coffee or not?”
“Crap.” She programmed it. “Spill.”
“Assuming you don’t mean the coffee—as what would be the point—I’ve just come from a chat with an old…acquaintance. He happens to specialize in electronics that aren’t legal in the strictest sense of the word.”
“He sells illegal jammers and bypasses on the black market.”
“To put a fine point on it, yes. He manufactures them, most usually for specific clients at quite a hefty markup. He’s very good at it. In fact, perhaps the best in New York.” He waited a significant beat. “Now.”
“Now that you aren’t in the same market.”
“Aren’t you clever? I started at the top of the chain, as I assume Ava would want someone talented, efficient, and reliable—also with a reputation for being discreet. She went for Charles, after all, who has those qualities in his former profession. I’ll admit I didn’t expect to hit straight off the mark. But that’s precisely what I did.”
“This guy, this acquaintance designed and sold the remote to Ava.”
“Three months ago, he received a package at his legitimate place of business.”
“His front.”
“You’re so picky. The package contained an order for a very specifically designed device. It contained the specs for the security system the device was to bypass. He tells me he was impressed with the research the potential client had done. And,” Roarke added with a smile, “with the considerable amount of cash as downpayment. Another payment would be made on delivery, and the final sent if and when the client deemed the device satisfactory.”
“Is that how he usually does business?”
“That would be telling.” Roarke stroked a finger down the dent in her chin. “But I can say this arrangement was a bit unusual. The offered fee was more than his usual as well. So he took the job.”
“He never saw her. Never had direct contact with her.”
“No. He made the device, and as instructed left it in a drop box, which contained the second payment.”
“A guy could get stung that way,” Eve commented.
“Not this guy, or not easily. He’s a nose for cops, and the setup. He also believes in knowing who he’s dealing with, so he had an underling stake out the box.”
Eve’s lips spread in a grin. “I might like this guy.”
“Actually, I believe you would. In any case, the woman who picked it up didn’t match Ava’s description, but she delivered it, along with some dry cleaning, to the Anderses’ home. The third payment was made, as promised. And my acquaintance thought little of the matter until he heard of Thomas Anders’s murder. This put him in a bit of a sticky situation.”
“Yeah, accessory before the fact’s pretty sticky. Will he testify?”
“That would depend on several issues. Immunity, anonymity—the man does have a business to protect—and a reasonable payment.”
“I’ll set it up. We may not need him, but I’ll put it in play.” Eve took his coffee, drank some herself. “You’re useful.”
“And always eager to be used.”
“I’ve got Peabody out on something else. Why don’t you ride over to New Jersey with me?”
“Being used across state lines. How could I resist?”
22
“YEAH, WE GET YOUR ILLEGALS DROPS, YOUR vandals, your vehicle boosters, rapists, muggers.” The NJTP security tech, with VINCE embroidered over his shirt pocket, shrugged. “Get plenty of action, mostly between midnight and six. Me, I work the days. I got seniority.”
“It’s days I’m interested in,” Eve reminded him. “A specific day a couple of months ago.”
“We got security cams covering all the lots, the grounds, the vending. Can’t use ’em in the johns, so that’s where we get the most action.” He pulled at his nose, swiveled on his high-backed stool. “But we roll ’em over every seventy-two hours. We got nothing goes back two months.”
“Do you go back two months, Vince?”
“Sure. I’ve been here twelve years come June.”
“Two women in a high-end black car, with one of them puking out the passenger door.”
He shot her a quick and sour grin. “Jesus, New York, you know how many people we got puking in the lots, in the johns? Every-damn-where?”
“I bet you don’t have that many booting it between ten and eleven on a weekday, non-holiday morning.” She pulled out a photo. “This would be the puker.”
He took the photo, scratched his ass, scratched his head. “She don’t ring for me. Looks like mostly anyone.”
“What about this one?”
There was more scratching as Vince studied Ava’s photo. “Looks like somebody. This one’s driving, right? Nice, black Mercedes—new model, two-door sedan.”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah, now that I’m thinking about it. Blondie here didn’t look like the road-trip sort, and they never got out to use the john. Women hardly ever pass up a trip to the john, they pull into a rest area. The other one tosses it out the door, and I think: ‘There goes breakfast.’ I remember ’cause I expected they’d go into the john, clean up the sick one. But the blonde, she just drives around to the truck lot, parks again. I let maintenance know they had a cleanup, got me some coffee. Can’t say I noticed how long they sat there or when they left.”
Back in the car, Roarke stretched his legs. “Are you going t
o pass up a trip to the john?”
“Ha-ha. I can put her here with Suzanne. Right here in the Alexander Hamilton rest area off the Turnpike. Who the hell was Alexander Hamilton, and why is there a rest area off the Turnpike named after him?”
“Ah…”
“Never mind. There’s a new model Mercedes sedan, black, registered to Ava Anders. This little chat with Vince confirms the day, the time—and I’ll back that up because I’ll betcha that big, black Mercedes has a pass scanner for the toll. Can’t confirm what was said, but it puts Ava with Suzanne here. How’s she going to explain that one?”
“She’ll have something. Hamilton was one of America’s Founding Fathers, and its first Secretary of the Treasury.”
“Who? Huh?”
“You asked,” Roarke said, pocketing his PPC again. “Where to now?”
Eve frowned at him a moment. “Is that what you’re doing, playing with that thing all the time? Looking up trivia?”
“Among other things. Something else you’d like to know?”
“Whole bunches of things. Right now, we’re going to go to the market to find out a few.” She answered her dash ’link. “Dallas.”
“We got it. Bag was in the closet,” Peabody said, “as advertised. A disposable ’link, several security discs, and a very rocking bypass remote—along with a pair of light blue men’s pajamas, the pressure syringes, and the meds.”
“Get them in, log them. I want chain of evidence pristine. Have Feeney and McNab start on the contents. I’m in the field, got a couple more stops to make.”
“It’s falling apart on her,” Roarke commented.
“She’s going to hire a big, fat, sneaky lawyer. A fucking fleet of big, fat, sneaky lawyers. The type who get shit suppressed, tossed out, who pump in reasonable doubt. I don’t have enough. I can put her with Suzanne in Jersey a few days after Custer’s murder. Proves nothing. What Peabody just picked up only proves Suzanne was in the Anderses’ house, and pretty much sews up she killed him. We’ve got her confession already. She’s locked. Your acquaintance can state that the device was taken to the Anders residence. He can’t put it in Ava’s hands. I’ve got her lies, her association with an LC, I’ve got her father-in-law’s death, which I wheedled the local cops into opening again. Disposable ’link. Batt’s going to be dead, and when the battery dies on those, it wipes the transmissions. I need more.”