by J. D. Robb
So Ariel thought of how she would make him pay for taking away everything she had. Her life, her sense of order, her pleasures, her hopes. If only she could get free, she would make him pay for stripping her bare.
Talk, she reminded herself. Find a way to make him talk again.
Make him talk, and live.
Eve didn’t spot a tail, and found that it pissed her off. What if he’d changed his mind about trying for her? If she’d somehow scared him off, and even now he was moving in on another innocent woman?
“At location,” she said. “And heading in. Feeney, make me smile.”
“Warrant’s coming through.”
“All right. Keep the chatter down. Ten minutes, on the mark.”
Studying the building, she crossed the sidewalk. Three floors, including basement. Riot bars, solid security. Solid, if faded, red brick. Two entrances in the front, and two in the back, with emergency exits front and back, top floor.
If Ariel was inside, odds were on the basement. Main level was public, third level public and staff.
She climbed the steps, pressed the buzzer.
The door was opened moments later by a dark-skinned woman in dignified black. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
Eve held up her badge. “Sarifina York.”
“Yes, we’re gathering in the Tranquility Room. Please come in.”
Eve stepped in, scanned the area. The wide central hallway split the main floor in two parts. The air smelled of flowers and polish. She could see through the open double pocket doors to her left that several people had already arrived to memorialize Sarifina.
“I’ll need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“Of the service?”
“Of the business.”
“Oh. Of course. Mr. Travers is with a client just at the moment, but—”
“What about Mr. Lowell?”
“Mr. Lowell isn’t in residence. He lives in Europe. But Mr. Travers is head of operations.”
“When’s the last time Mr. Lowell’s been here?”
“I couldn’t really say. I’ve been with Lowell’s for two years, and haven’t met him. I believe you could say he’s essentially retired. Would you like to speak with Mr. Travers?”
“Yeah. You’ll have to interrupt him. This is official police business.”
“Of course.” As if she heard the phrase “official police business” every day, the woman smiled serenely as she gestured. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to one of the waiting rooms upstairs.”
Eve looked into the Tranquility Room as she passed. There were photographs of Sarifina, the flowers were plentiful, and the music was the retro big band sound the deceased had loved.
“What’s in the basement?” Eve asked as they went upstairs.
“It’s a work area. Preparation areas. Many of the bereaved request or require viewings of those they’ve lost.”
“Embalming? Cosmetics?”
“Yes.”
“How many work down there, routinely?”
“We have a mortician, a technician, and a stylist on staff.”
Stylist, Eve thought. No point in being unfashionably dead.
The woman led her to a small waiting room full of quiet, flowers, and soft-cushioned furniture. “I’ll tell Mr. Travers you’re waiting. Please be comfortable.”
Alone, Eve wandered the room. Not here, she thought. It didn’t make sense for him to have brought Ariel and the others here, where work went on throughout the building. Too many people. Too much business.
He wasn’t part of a troupe, but a solo act.
But this was a conduit, she was sure of it. Just as she was damn sure Robert Lowell, or whatever he was currently calling himself, wasn’t in London.
Travers came in. He was tall, reed thin, with a comfortable if somber face. If Eve had been casting funeral directors, he’d have been her top pick.
“Officer?”
“Lieutenant. Dallas.”
“Kenneth Travers.” Since he offered his hand as he crossed to her, Eve took it. “I’m director here. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Robert Lowell.”
“Yes, so Marlee indicated. Mr. Lowell lives in Europe, and has for some years now. While he retains ownership of the organization, he has very little actual involvement with the day-to-day operations.”
“How do you get in touch with him?”
“Through his solicitors in London.”
“I’ll need the name of the firm, and a contact number.”
“Yes, of course.” Travers folded his hands at his waist. “I’m sorry, may I ask what this is in reference to?”
“We believe he’s connected to an ongoing investigation.”
“You’re investigating the murders of the two women who were found recently. Is that correct?”
“That would be right.”
“But Mr. Lowell is in London.” He repeated the information slowly, and with what seemed to be a wealth of patience. “Or traveling. He travels quite extensively, I understand.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Five, perhaps six years ago. Yes, I believe it would be six.”
Eve pulled out the ID print. “Is this Robert Lowell?”
“Why yes, yes it is. I’m very confused, Lieutenant. This is Robert Lowell, the first. He’s been dead for, my goodness, nearly forty years. His portrait hangs in my office.”
“Is that so?” Smart, Eve decided. Some smart son of a bitch. “How about this man?” She took out Yancy’s sketch.
“Yes, that’s the current Mr. Lowell, or a close likeness.” His color receded a bit as he looked from the sketch to Eve. “I saw this displayed on screen, on media reports. I honestly never connected it. I—as I said—I haven’t seen Mr. Lowell in several years, and I never…I simply didn’t see him in this until you asked just now.
“But you see, there has to be some mistake. Mr. Lowell is a very quiet and solitary man. He couldn’t possibly—”
“That’s what they all say. I have a team arriving momentarily, with a warrant. We need to go through this building.”
“But Lieutenant Dallas, I assure you he’s not here.”
“It happens I believe you, but we still go through the building. Where does he stay when he comes to New York?”
“I don’t honestly know. It’s so rare…and it wasn’t my place to ask.” Travers’s fingers moved up to the knot of his somber tie, brushed there twice.
“There was a second location on the Lower West Side during the Urbans.”
“Yes, yes, I believe so. But we’ve been the only location downtown for as long as I’ve been associated with the company.”
“How long would that be?”
“Lieutenant, I’ve been director here for almost fifteen years. I’ve only had direct contact with Mr. Lowell a handful of times at best. He’s made it clear he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I bet. I need the lawyers, Mr. Travers, and any other information on Robert Lowell you have. What do you know about his stepmother?”
“His…I think she was killed during the Urban Wars. As she wasn’t, to my knowledge, involved with the business, the information I have on her is very minimal.”
“Name?”
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know it offhand. It might be in our records. Well, this is—this is all very disturbing.”
“Yeah,” Eve said dryly. “Murder can just ruin a perfectly good funeral.”
“I only meant—” Color came into his cheeks, then died away. “I understand you must do your job. But, Lieutenant, we have a memorial in progress for one of the women who was killed. I have to ask you and your men to be discreet. This is an extremely difficult and delicate time for Ms. York’s friends and family.”
“I’m going to make sure Ariel Greenfeld’s friends and family don’t end up in your Tranquility Room anytime soon.”
They were as discreet as a half a dozen cops could be, with Feeney and McN
ab tackling the electronics for any data. Eve stood in the basement prep room with Roarke.
“Not much different from the morgue. Smaller,” she noted, scanning the steel worktables, the gullies on the sides, the hoses and tubes and tools. “I guess he got some of his knowledge of anatomy working here. Might have had some of his early practice sessions on corpses.”
“Charming thought.”
“Yeah, well, being as they were already dead—hopefully—it probably didn’t upset them too much. Oh, and FYI? When my time comes, I don’t want the preservatives and the stylist. You can just build a big fire, slide me in. Then you can throw yourself on the pyre to show your wild grief and constant devotion.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“Nothing down here for us. I want the second location that was up and running during the Urbans. Any other properties owned by Lowell, in any of his guises or fronts.”
“I’ll get to it,” Roarke told her.
She drew out her communicator, scowled at the buzzing static. “Reception’s crappy down here. Let’s go up. I want to see if Callendar had any luck with the stepmother.
“She could have had property in her name,” Eve continued as they started out. “Maybe he uses that. Lawyers are dragging their feet, as the breed’s prone to do. Between Whitney and Tibble they’ll cut through that bullshit quickly enough.”
“If he continues to be smart,” Roarke commented, “the lawyers would only lead you to a numbered account and message service. He covers himself well.”
“Then we’ll tackle the account and the service. Fucker’s in New York. He has a bolt-hole here, a work space, transportation. And one of these lines we’re yanking is going to bring us down on him.”
Eve had no more than reached the main level when her communicator beeped. “Dallas.”
“Found her!” Callendar all but sang it. “Edwina Spring. Found her in the music and entertainment section of an old Times. Opera sensation, if you believe the hype. Prodigy. Barely eighteen when she bowled over New York at the Met. I’ve got more coming up now that I’ve got her name.”
“Run a multitask. See if you can find any property in the city listed under her name.”
“On it.”
“Get it all together, Callendar. I’ve got a stop to make, then I’m heading in.”
“What stop?” Roarke wanted to know.
“Pella. He knows something. His medicals confirm he’s clocking out, and is barely able to walk across the room. But he knows something, and I’m not dicking around with him.”
“You weren’t tailed here.”
“That’s right.”
“Then it’s unlikely you’ll be tailed from here. As Peabody’s busy, I’ll go with you to see this Pella.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You certainly can. But do you want to pull any part of the team here off to run your wire? Simpler, quicker, if I go with you, then the rest of them meet us back at Central.”
“Maybe.” And for the sake of expediency, she shrugged. “Fine.”
When they arrived at Pella’s, there was a great deal of objecting and hand-fluttering from both the housekeeping and medical droids. Eve just pushed through it.
“If you’ve got a complaint, report it to the chief of police. Or the mayor. Yeah, the mayor loves to get complaints from droids.”
“We’re obliged to look after Mr. Pella, to see to his health and comfort.”
Obviously, some joker had programmed the housekeeping droid to whine. “None of you are going to feel very healthy or comfortable if I haul you into Central. So move aside or I’ll cite you for obstructing justice.”
Eve elbowed the medical away, shoved open the bedroom door. “Stay back, out of eyeline,” she said quietly to Roarke. “He might not talk if he sees I’ve brought company.”
It was dim, as it had been before, and she could hear the steady rasps of Pella sucking air through the breather.
“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed until I called for you.” His voice was testy, and sounded years older than it had the day before. “I’ll have you broken down into circuits and limbs if you don’t give me some damn peace.”
“That would be tough to manage from where you are,” Eve commented.
He stirred, his eyes opened to latch on to hers. “What do you want? I don’t have to talk to you. I spoke with my lawyer.”
“Fine, speak with him again and tell him to meet you at Central. He’ll explain that I can hold you there for twenty-four hours as a material witness to homicide.”
“What kind of bullshit is this! I haven’t witnessed anything but those damn droids hovering like vultures for the past six months.”
“You’re going to tell me what you know, Pella, or a good chunk of the time you’ve got left is going to be spent with me. Robert Lowell. Edwina Spring. Tell me.”
He shifted restlessly in the bed, plucked at the sheet. “If you know so much, why do you need me?”
“Look, you son of a bitch.” She leaned over him. “Twenty-five women are dead, and another is in dire straits. She may be dying.”
“I am dying! I fought for this city. I bled for it. I lost the only thing in the world that mattered, and nothing has mattered since. What do I care about some women?”
“Her name’s Ariel. She bakes for a living. She has a neighbor across the hall from her pretty little apartment. Seems like a nice guy. She doesn’t know he’s in love with her, doesn’t know he came to me today desperate and scared, pleading with me to find her. Her name is Ariel, and you’re going to tell me what you know.”
Pella turned his head away, stared toward the draped windows. “I don’t know anything.”
“You lying fucker.” She grabbed hold of his breather, saw his eyes go wide. She wouldn’t actually rip it off—probably wouldn’t—but he didn’t know that. “You want to take another breath?”
“The droids know you’re in here. If anything happens to me—”
“What? Like you just—oops—fall over dead when I happen to be talking to you? An officer of the law, sworn to protect and serve. And with a witness to back me up?”
“What witness?”
Eve glanced over, jerked her head so that Roarke stepped into Pella’s view. “If this fucker just happened to kick it when I was duly questioning him about his knowledge of a suspect, it would be an accident, right?”
“Absolutely.” Roarke smiled, cold and calm. “An unforeseen event.”
“You know who he is,” Eve said when Pella’s eyes wheeled. “And who I am. Roarke’s cop, that’s what you called me. Believe me when I tell you if you happen to stop breathing, and I lie about how that might’ve happened, he’ll swear to it.”
“On a bloody stack of Bibles,” Roarke confirmed.
“But you’re not ready to die yet, are you, Pella?” Her hand stayed firm on the breather when he batted at it. “It shows in the eyes when someone’s not ready to die yet. So, if you want that next breath, then the one that comes after, you tell me the goddamn truth. You know Robert Lowell. You knew Edwina Spring.”
“Let go of it.” He wheezed in air. “I’ll have you up on charges.”
“You’ll be dead, and the dead don’t scare me. You knew them. Next breath, Pella, say yes.”
“Yes, yes.” He shoved his hand at Eve’s, and the harsh sound of his labored breath eased when she lifted it. “Yes, I knew them. But not to speak to. They were the elite. I was only a soldier. Get the hell away from me.”
“Not a chance. Tell me what you know.”
Pella’s eyes ticked over to Roarke, back to Eve. Then, for a moment, he simply closed them. “He was about my age—a few years younger—but he didn’t serve. Soft.” Pella’s hand trembled a little as it came up, stroked over the breather to be sure it was in the correct position. “Soft look about him, and he had his family money at his back, of course. His type never got dirty, never risked their own skin. She…I need water.”
Eve glanced over, s
aw the cup with a straw on the bedside table. She picked it up, held it out.
“I can’t hold the damn thing. It’s bad today. Worse since you got here.”
Saying nothing, she angled it down so he could guide the straw with a trembling hand to the opening in the breather.
“What about her?”
“Beautiful. Young, elegant, a voice like an angel. She would come to the base sometimes, sing for us. Opera, almost always Italian opera. She’d break your heart with every note.”
“You have a thing for her, Pella?”
“Bitch,” he muttered. “What would you know of real love? Therese was everything. But I loved what Edwina was, what she brought us. Hope and beauty.”
“She came to the base on Broome?”
“Yes, on Broome.”
“They lived there, didn’t they?”
“No. Before I think, but not during the fighting, not while soldiers were based there. After, who the hell knows, who the hell cares? But when I was assigned there, they didn’t live in the base on Broome. They had another place, another place on the West Side.”
“Where?”
“It was a long time ago. I was never there, not a foot soldier like me. Some of the others went, officers, and you heard things. Yeah, some of the officers, and the Stealths.”
She felt the next click. “The coverts?”
“Yes. You’d hear things. I heard things.” He closed his eyes. “It hurts to go back there.” For the first time, his voice sounded weak. “And I can’t stop going back there.”
“I’m sorry for all you lost, Mr. Pella.” And in that moment she was. “But Ariel Greenfeld is alive, and she needs help. What did you hear back then that might help her?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“It would have to do with her, with Edwina Spring. She died, did she?”
“Everyone dies.” But his hand came to his breather again, and his eyes watched Eve warily over it. “I heard her—Edwina—talking to a soldier I knew. Young first lieutenant, sent down from upstate. Can’t remember his name. They’d slip off when she’d come to sing. Or you could see the way they looked at each other. The way Therese and I looked at each other.”
“They were lovers?”