Faithless in Death: An Eve Dallas Thriller (Book 52)

by J. D. Robb

  He still had the eyes of a street cop, and she had reason to know he still carried those instincts. It made him, to her mind, well suited for command.

  He read something on his desk screen while a glass of dank green liquid stood at his elbow.

  Eve rapped her knuckles on the doorjamb.

  Whitney glanced up, gestured her inside.

  “Lieutenant, I’ve read your reports on the Ariel Byrd investigation. Any further progress since your morning interviews with Gwendolyn Huffman and Merit Caine?”

  “I consulted with Dr. Mira.”

  Eve ran through the salient points while Whitney nodded, and while he scowled at the glass on his desk.

  “Following that, I had a conversation with Nadine Furst.”

  He glanced up. “While Nadine’s a reliable and ethical source, this investigation leans hard into sensitive areas.”

  “She’ll hold the information I gave her, sir, and gave me more than I gave her.”

  “Such as?”

  Again, he listened, this time sitting back as he took in the information.

  Through the window behind him, Eve saw an ad blimp lumber over the city. Across its fat body flashed some hype for spring sales at the Sky Mall.

  “And she’s willing to turn over her notes and research on Natural Order?”

  “I’d say the word is eager, Commander. She’s got her teeth in it. She was less experienced, likely made some mistakes, and they booted her out. She hasn’t forgotten that. Clearly, she wants another shot.”

  “She may have been lucky to have been considered a nuisance rather than a threat, and only got the boot.” He gestured to her. “What have you got there?”

  No way out of it, Eve thought. “It’s her book, Commander. An early copy of her book on the Red Horse case.”

  When he crooked a finger, Eve stepped to the desk, handed it over.

  “You vetted this, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s accurate. Maybe dramatic in parts, but accurate.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Infecting people with an airborne virus that causes hallucinations, making them murderous or suicidal qualifies as dramatic, I’d say.”

  He handed it back, picked up his glass. Set it down again.

  “My wife went to a workshop.”

  Carefully, Eve said, “Yes, sir.”

  “On health, nutrition, longevity, mind-body connectivity.”

  Being an experienced investigator, Eve studied the green gunk. “I see.”

  “The workshop led to another workshop and classes, which have resulted in what you see here. Her recipe—more accurately her concoction—of raw fruits, vegetables, vitamin supplements, herbs, and Christ knows into ten ounces of questionable liquid to be consumed once daily—midday, apparently.”

  She felt sincere and sharp pity. “And you’re supposed to drink that?”

  “I’m on my second day of my first week’s supply. To be dispensed by my admin, whom she ordered to make it so.”

  Anna Whitney, Eve thought, had a long and steely reach.

  “I didn’t see him at his desk.”

  “He’s at lunch, undoubtedly something he can actually chew. However.”

  He lifted the glass, then angled his head. “I have more if you’d like to infuse your body, mind, and spirit with antioxidants and superfoods?”

  “Thank you, sir, I’ll pass.”

  “A lesser man would order you to drink so I don’t suffer alone.” Instead he took one heroic gulp. “Have a seat, Dallas.”

  She figured she understood the Whitneys’ Marriage Rules included drinking gunk, but didn’t have a clue why he hadn’t dismissed her after her update.

  She sat.

  “As your investigation has connections to Natural Order, its membership, and Stanton Wilkey, I reached out to the FBI. They have investigated Natural Order—as has Homeland, Interpol, and others—for a number of years. The feds have successfully prosecuted individual members for violent crimes, though they have never successfully tied those acts to Wilkey or any of his family.”

  “A cabbage rots from the head.”

  It took him a minute. “A fish, a fish rots from the head. Cabbage is already a head. But yes, I agree. I’ve learned the FBI put an agent undercover into the membership. It took considerable time and resources. My information is the agent had begun to work his way up. Ten days ago, he went silent. He hasn’t reported in, hasn’t returned to the apartment used during his assignment or to the workplace used in his cover.”

  “He got made.”

  “That is the conclusion and the fear. This was an experienced agent whose cover was meticulously created. The assistant director, who spoke frankly with me, states this isn’t the first operation to go south. Witnesses—former members—who spoke to law enforcement or the media often recant, are deemed unreliable due to illegals abuse or other issues. Or simply disappear.

  “Your investigation offers a new angle,” he continued. “A prominent family who appear mainstream now involved in a murder that, it turns out, appears motivated by the daughter’s affair with another woman. It provides a new pressure point. Due to that, the FBI is willing to share their accumulated data on Natural Order in exchange for the NYPSD providing them with the data on the investigation.”

  Another quid pro quo, Eve thought. It seemed to be the day for them.

  “I plan to attempt to interview Wilkey today, Commander. Straightforward,” she added. “Routine due to the nine-one-one caller’s connection to his group. I don’t plan to include Gwen Huffman’s affair with the victim, though that will leak. She’s deluding herself that she can keep that locked up, as too many people already know.”

  “Will she testify, once it leaks, to the forced treatment she received on the island?”

  “It depends on if she sees any personal advantage. And I hope to convince her of just that. I’ll add protective custody to that if she agrees to testify, Commander. A safe house. She won’t like it, but if she’s afraid enough, she’ll take it.”

  “See that she is afraid enough. And watch your six with Wilkey. He didn’t get where he is by being easily led.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me fully apprised. Dismissed.”

  When she rose, he picked up the glass again.

  She heard his muttered “Sweet Christ, Anna” as she walked out of his office.

  When she swung into Homicide, into the smell of cop coffee and overseasoned veggie hash, she said, “Peabody,” and kept going.

  Peabody, the remaining pocket of hash in one hand, a diet cherry fizzy in the other, hustled after her.

  “Grabbing some lunch at my desk. You were longer than I figured.”

  “The commander wanted a briefing.”

  “I caught up with your consult with Mira from your notes.”

  “Good. Saves time.” Eve dropped the book on her desk and hit the AutoChef for coffee.

  “Oh, Nadine’s book! It looks mag. And, you know, important. Look, she signed it to you. ‘Dallas, My partner in crime. Nadine.’ Oh, oh, and she dedicated it to us! All of us. She’s got all our names here, everyone in the division, and Roarke, too. And Whitney, and everybody who was on that investigation. ‘For their valor,’ it says.”

  That drew Eve to the desk to read over Peabody’s shoulder. “Okay, she gets points for that. Now close that, because she gave me more than a book.”

  She filled Peabody in.

  “If Nadine has research, it’s going to add. And she’ll dig more now.”

  “Yeah, she will.” Drinking coffee, Eve sat on the corner of her desk. “The fact they made her so fast means they do some heavy screening on potential members. Whitney had more.”

  While Peabody washed down the hash with fizzy, Eve outlined her briefing with Whitney.

  “Jesus, Dallas, if they actually took out a federal agent …”

  “They’re hiding something big. The Realignment center’s big, but if it’s located inside a sovereign nation, the NYPSD
can’t do much about it. Interpol, maybe.”

  “Proof—not just speculation—but proof—it exists, that people—and minors—are forced to undergo all that? It’s going to turn most people hard against them.”

  “Yeah, and a lot of those people would have deep pockets. Still, bigger than that, I think. Or if not bigger, just more.”

  “We’ve got a few possibles on the searches and matches,” Peabody told her. “One match from Gwen’s list to a woman who works as a potter in SoHo with a connection to Natural Order. Her brother was a member.”

  “Was?”

  “Whereabouts unknown—for two years now. There’s a guy, Tribeca, a member in good standing along with his wife. He’s also employed by Natural Order as a VP in their Social Media Outreach department. Three assault charges, all in his twenties. He’s thirty-five now, and no bumps for six years. He was a patient of Oliver Huffman. He has three children—ages five, three, two, all delivered by Paula Huffman. His wife has professional mother status.”

  “Okay. So they’re all tight.”

  “The last is East Village, female, current member—member for eight years. She’s a professional mother of four—one set of twins—married to another member, a microbiologist, for seven years. Gwen listed her as her first. She’s twenty-eight, so a few years older than Gwen. One arrest right after she turned twenty-one. Aggravated assault, which she claimed was self-defense. Charges dropped—and a quick run on the public defender who got them dropped? A member of the order.”

  “Good work. We’ll find more, but this is good work. Let’s go talk to all three before we jump over to Connecticut to tackle Wilkey.”

  “He may not see us. We’d be out of our jurisdiction anyway. Should I let the locals know we’re going to the HQ?”

  “What are the odds Wilkey made sure he has at least one officer inside the local PSD?”

  “Really good odds, now that you say it.”

  “He may not see us, but if we try to make an appointment to talk to him, or alert the locals, he’ll know we’re coming. Let’s not give him too much time to prepare.”

  Eve paused in the bullpen. “Peabody and I are in the field, likely through the end of shift. Anybody needs anything—”

  Reineke shot up his hand with a “Yo!”

  Eve tried, really tried, to ignore his flamingo-pink socks as he swung his feet off his desk. “Just need you to sign off on this.”

  She scanned the paperwork he offered, scrawled her signature with her finger on the tablet. Then looked at him.

  “Do you seriously coordinate your socks with the ties?”

  “It’s the little things, boss. It’s the little things that add some ups to your day.”

  “Anything else, contact me. Peabody, let’s go.”

  “It’s kind of cute,” Peabody commented as they hit the glides. “The socks and ties. I mean, sure, Jenkinson’s ties are mongo bad, but so mongo they’re kind of endearing.”

  “They make my eyes sting.”

  But since she’d just signed off on a case they’d closed, a very nasty slice and dice, she’d give them their ups.

  “We’ll take Tribeca first. Professional mother of three under the age of six is probably home.”

  “That would be Marcia Piper—spouse of Lawrence. Age twenty-eight. She was a model—very successful in advertising, billboards. They’re both Caucasian.”

  “The women, especially, get married really young.”

  “Yeah, that’s a pattern I’m seeing,” Peabody agreed. “Early to midtwenties. Another pattern is having a child inside the first year to year and a half. Then professional mother status or some sort of work connected to the group.”

  “Follows.” Eve considered as they worked their way down. “Women are made to have and raise kids, serve their husbands as well as the order. The younger they are, the easier they are to indoctrinate—if they didn’t grow up in a Natural Order family—and manipulate.”

  “Wow. I’m digging back—and she’s just gorgeous. Being gorgeous and photogenic earned her six and a half to seven million a year the last couple years before she got married. Now, with her PM status and what her husband makes with New Order, they pull in less than a quarter of that. Not chump change, sure, but a lot to give up. Not just the money, but the career, you know?”

  “Using your face and body to shill products? Probably not on the approved list for women.” When they reached the garage, Eve gestured to Peabody’s PPC, took a look at the woman she hoped to interview.

  “Yeah, she’s got the looks. It’s probably not approved to model half-naked, either.”

  With sun-kissed red hair flowing to her waist, Marcia Piper wore nothing but strategically placed black straps as she posed—pouty lips, slumberous eyes, milk-white skin, and the slim, angular body models sold.

  “Plug in the address,” Eve told Peabody as they got into the car.

  After she had, Peabody continued to read about Marcia’s modeling career. “She traveled all over the world, and talked about moving into acting. Then bang, that’s that.”

  Pondering it, she sat back. “I can see giving it all up if you just want to be a mom, or you burned out on all the travel and hype and all that. You fall in love, and everything changes for you. A lot of women choose that—men, too—and focus in on making a home, raising kids.”

  “But she fits the pattern. Meet the guy, join the order, get married, give up everything outside that.”

  “Yeah. I guess we’ll find out which it is.”

  Peabody paused to glance at her signaling ’link.

  “McNab. No texts, e- or v-mails, no calls or contacts on Gwen’s ’link after her texts with Merit Caine.”

  “That’s looking like a rabbit hole. What about a tracker? Did he find anything?”

  “He did, and he’s working on extracting it. The ’link’s chewed up some, and he doesn’t want to damage the tracker. He’s working on it.”

  “Good enough,” Eve decided, and drove to Tribeca.

  The Pipers had a skinny post-Urban townhouse in a row of skinny post-Urban townhouses. Someone had tried to cheer theirs up by painting the door a bold blue and adding window boxes full of flowers to the windows that flanked it.

  At the moment, Eve could see someone in one of those windows spraying something on the glass and vigorously rubbing it.

  With only a handful of cars on the block, she found a spot easily and pulled to the curb.

  Regularly spaced trees, tall and slim, ran along the sidewalk.

  “Not what you’d call a pretty or bustling neighborhood,” Peabody remarked. “But it’s really clean and really quiet.”

  “Barely feels like New York.”

  Eve saw another woman scrubbing her front stoop as if she would shortly dine on it, and another with a kid in a pack on her back carrying two bulging cloth bags into the house next-door to the Pipers’.

  “What do you bet this whole block is members? It’s uniform, cleaner than clean. Nobody’s hanging out or strolling along on a really nice day.”

  Peabody looked around and hunched her shoulders. “That would be just creepy.”

  “Yeah, it would. I bet it is.”

  The woman in the window stopped, stared when Eve and Peabody walked toward the blue door.

  Distress ran over her face. Not curiosity, not irritation, clear distress.

  And, Eve thought, she looked like the tired ghost of the woman in the black straps.

  She wore an oversize striped shirt over black workout pants. She’d hacked off what seemed like a yard of that red hair. What was left she’d dragged back in a tail.

  The bones were still there, Eve noted, that foundation of beauty, but rather than luminous, the skin looked pallid; instead of bold, the eyes carried shadows.

  Rather than knock, since Marcia clearly saw her, Eve just held up her badge.

  She saw fear first, then Marcia rushed from the window. The door, after several locks disengaged, burst open.

  “What i
s it? What’s wrong? Did Larry have an accident?”

  “No, Ms. Piper. I’m sure your husband’s fine. We’re here about another matter.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We’d like to come in.”

  “Why? My children are upstairs napping. This is nap time, it’s nap time. I have housework to finish before they wake up.”

  “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  “I don’t let strangers into the house.”

  “Ma’am, we’re the police. You can contact Cop Central and verify that.”

  “I don’t know you. I’m not letting you into the house when my children are sleeping.”

  “All right. Maybe one of your neighbors can answer some questions about you and your husband.”

  Fear shot back. “I don’t want you talking about me and Larry with the neighbors.”

  “We’ll talk to you, or talk to them.”

  “Five minutes. Just five minutes.”

  She struck Eve as nervy as a woman holding a hot wire. Jerky movements, anxious glances toward the stairs.

  The living area was as shining, sparkling clean as the windows. Not a single toy in sight, not a trace of kid debris. The air smelled like an orange grove in full bloom.

  And clearly, under the oversize shirt, Marcia was carrying number four.

  Marcia gripped her cleaning solution. She didn’t invite them to sit. “What do you want?”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about Natural Order.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you about that. We have freedom of religion.”

  “No, you don’t have to talk to us. Our information is you’ve been a member for about eight years. Prior to your marriage you had a modeling career.”

  “I repented that.”

  “Repented?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you about that. I have children. Children need and deserve a mother devoted to them, one who makes a home, keeps it clean and ordered and happy, makes them healthy meals, who helps to teach them the true way.”

  “The Natural Order way?”

  “We’re used to outsiders spreading lies. I want you to go. I have to finish my housework. I have dinner to prepare. I have children to tend to.”

  “One more question. You know the Huffmans? Drs. Oliver and Paula?”