“I need some time.”
“As much as you need, whenever you need it. I can come to you.”
“That would save me some steps. I need to tell you Jonas B. Wymann’s been murdered.”
“I . . . we know him. He was a close friend of Edward’s.”
“He died the same way.”
“Oh, dear God. Are you at Central?”
“Heading there now.”
“I’ll be on my way in ten minutes.”
“Can you put Mr. Mira on?”
“Oh, yes, just a moment.”
Eve heard murmuring, shuffling. Then Dennis Mira’s gentle face came on her screen. “This is very distressing,” he said. “Jonas Wymann. He was a brilliant economist.”
“Yes, I heard that. Mr. Mira, do you know when your cousin got his tattoo?”
“Edward?” Those dreamy green eyes went blank. “Edward had a tattoo? That doesn’t seem in character at all, does it?”
“You weren’t aware he had one?”
“No. I can assure you he didn’t have one when he went off to college. We spent the last weekend before he did at the beach, and there was some midnight skinny-dipping involved. I would have noticed no matter where it might have been. I do tend to forget things here and there, but I’m sure I’d remember that.”
“Okay, that’s helpful. One more thing: your last name? No Celtic connections?”
“Celtic? No. There’s a bit on my mother’s side, if that helps.”
“That’s all I needed.” She imagined Mira had been at the bruising scrape on his temple with a healing wand regularly, as it barely showed now. “You’re feeling okay?”
“Absolutely fine. And how are you?”
“Good. I’m good. If you’d tell Dr. Mira I’ll be waiting for her. Thanks.”
“You be careful now. Someone very, very angry doesn’t want you to find them.”
“You got that right. I’ll be in touch.”
“He’s about the sweetest man on the planet,” Peabody commented.
“And insightful. ‘Angry,’ he said. Not sick, twisted, dangerous, violent. Angry,” she repeated with a slow nod. “And he’s right because it’s anger leading the charge. What have you got?”
“Rope’s as common as they come, like you’d figure. And no hair other than the vic’s on the body. No fiber.”
“They had to get him back in the house. Wrapped or rolled him in plastic.” She nodded again, visualizing it. “At least two of them, so they could carry him inside. After what they did to him he’d be too weak to fight even if he’d been conscious. Wait until the middle of the night, haul him in there, unroll him, and string him up.”
She pulled into Central’s garage, beelined for her space. Then sat a moment, thinking.
“It’s a hell of a lot of trouble. A body dump’s easier, but it’s not enough here. Taking an injured, probably unconscious man back into an upscale neighborhood, even middle of the night, says the murder site’s as important as the murder. Home. A safe place. A safe, upscale place. It has to mean something.”
“Maybe the killer or killers are familiar with the safe, upscale place. If we go back to sex, maybe that’s somewhere it happened. If it deals with rape—”
“It’s going to.”
“Okay, maybe that’s where the rapes took place.”
“Maybe. Just maybe. Get in touch with the housekeeper again while I’m with Mira,” Eve ordered when they got out, walked to the elevator. “You gotta figure somebody who cleans your house, washes your sheets, like that, has a pretty good idea what you do in it and in them.”
She got a sudden flash of Summerset—horrifying—and willed it away. Far away.
“Any signs of sexual activity in the Spring Street house other than the boner drugs since the grandfather died. And have McNab drill the house and sex droids at Wymann’s, same deal.”
“I know rape’s about violence, power, control more than sex,” Peabody began.
“It’s about all of that. All of it. If sex wasn’t a factor, sex wouldn’t come into it.”
“Still, both the vics could get, and did get, plenty of sex. They were both powerful in their field, in their lives. Prosperous, attractive older men who could have paid high-class LCs if they needed to. Why force anyone?”
Eve thought of Richard Troy—no way to avoid it. He’d raped his own child, again and again, because he’d been a predator, a brutal man, and one with a purpose. But when all that was put aside?
“Because they could. I want to hear from Baxter and Trueheart the minute they get back. Two men don’t know each other for half a century, stay pals, then end up murdered the same way unless there’s overlap. At least one of the women on the senator’s list is going to be on Wymann’s. Let’s find which one.”
She went straight to her office, grabbed the time she had to update her board and book. She needed to talk to both of Wymann’s ex-wives, his daughter, any known associates, companions.
The overlap was there; she could already see pieces of it. And at some point, she’d find the major cross, the point of origin.
She needed to try to convince someone at Inner Peace to talk to her about Su and MacKensie. Try to get some data on those insomnia studies.
She heard the quick click of heels, pushed up from her desk so Mira could take the single decent chair.
Mira rushed in. She wore a winter-white scarf with glints of icy silver carelessly wrapped around her neck. The clicks had come from the high silver heels of gray boots. Her coat was a soft cloud of blue over the bolder pop of her blue suit.
Eve expected to find her upset. Instead, she found Mira angry.
“I could use some coffee,” Mira said briskly as she tossed her coat and scarf on Eve’s visitor’s chair.
“Sure.”
“I should tell you, right away, Jonas was always polite and pleasant to me on the occasions we’d meet. We had socialized a bit more in the past, as his first wife and I were—are—friendly.”
“Yeah?”
“Vanessa’s a pediatric surgeon, and an interesting woman. We’re friendly enough to have the occasional lunch when it fits into our schedules—which isn’t often, as she’s based in Chicago. Though we aren’t and weren’t close enough for confidences, it was no secret she and Jonas divorced because he was unfaithful.”
“Must’ve pissed her off.”
“I imagine so, but she never spoke of it to me.” She took the coffee Eve handed her, sipped, and paced. “She handled it quietly, and built a life and a career, raised her daughter. She remarried about twelve years ago—quite a gap between marriages—and appears very happy. She has grandchildren she visibly adores, and appears close and content with her second husband’s children and grandchildren.”
“One of her grandchildren would be Jonas Baker.”
“Yes.”
“That’s who found Wymann.”
“Oh.” Mira sank onto Eve’s desk chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a fine young man, very talented. Whatever acrimony Vanessa might have felt for Jonas, they were absolutely united in their love and support of that boy. Their daughter and her husband had a different attitude toward his ambitions.”
“Yeah, I got that much.”
“I’ll tell you in my personal and professional opinion, Vanessa didn’t care enough about Jonas to kill him. She moved on, and more than two decades ago.”
“She’s alibied for at least part of the time Wymann was held. She had to know the senator.”
“Of course.” Settling a bit, Mira crossed her legs. “We were all young, newly married couples, so we did socialize here and there. Vanessa and I also shared an intense dislike for Mandy. But I can’t think of the last time she or Edward came up in any of our conversations. They haven’t been part of her circle, not in more than twenty years.”
/> “What do you know about the second wife?”
“Not a great deal. She was considerably younger, and the grapevine reported she’d been one of his flings. Unlike Vanessa, she didn’t go quietly, and the word was he had to buy her off to get her out. I don’t know where she is or if she remarried, but I could easily find out.”
“So can I. Don’t worry about it. Would you say he and the senator shared a predilection for casual sex, for affairs, and for using younger women?”
“Absolutely.”
Eve stepped onto boggy ground. “Senator Mira has a daughter.”
“Gwen, yes. She—” Understanding struck, a quick shock that made her jolt. “Oh, no. I can tell you on both personal and professional levels, no. Edward would never have touched Gwen, and wouldn’t have allowed Jonas to, if he’d been inclined. I would have known, Eve. Gwen would have come to me if I’d missed the signs.”
“What about going younger. Kids?”
“Again, no. Both these men wanted conquests—proof of their own virility. Children don’t provide that. They sought out young, attractive women. I understand why you’d ask given the violence of the murders, but this isn’t about children.”
“Okay. I needed to cross it off.”
“It can’t be a coincidence they both regularly sought out those conquests, and were killed in the same manner. Was there a message?”
“Same one.”
Mira sipped her coffee, gathered her thoughts. “So while the killers may perceive this as justice, it’s retribution, and the method indicates sexual retribution. A partnership forged for that purpose, carried out swiftly and brutally. The killers are goal-oriented, and bound to each other by this mutual purpose. It’s possible they’re lovers, but while the killers are violent and brutal, they’re also complex and calculated. This isn’t piquerism, and I don’t believe we’re looking for sexual sadists.”
“No, they’re making a point, not getting off. They’re focused. The second murder is almost a mirror image of the first.”
“Organized, intelligent. Patient. It took time to set this up. And controlled,” Mira added. “They took Dennis out of the equation, but didn’t kill him. He isn’t a target, and it isn’t justice to kill a man who isn’t involved. What’s this about a tattoo?”
“Both men had a Celtic symbol inked on their groin. Pretty obvious symbolism there. It stands for brotherhood.”
“‘Brotherhood,’” Mira murmured. “Sexual. Virility. A symbol of their bond, and their . . . predilection.”
“Somewhere along the way, they crossed a line. From seduction or mutual gratification to rape.”
“You make that leap due to the nature of the torture.”
“The nature of the torture screams: You did it to me, I do it to you. Maybe they did it together, maybe they had a fricking contest,” Eve continued before Mira could speak, “but they crossed that line. Put aside your personal feelings on both victims. Tell me, from what you know of them, what you can profile, were they capable of not only raping women, but also forming their own sort of partnership from doing the act?”
Mira sat back, rubbed her fingers at her temple. “It isn’t easy to set aside personal feelings for a professional opinion when there’s such a long history.”
“If you can’t—”
“Not easy,” Mira interrupted. “But.” She drew a breath, met Eve’s eyes directly. “I believe Edward was a sociopath. A highly functional, highly intelligent, and highly successful sociopath. He believed himself above the rules when it came to . . . everything. And certainly when it came to relationships. So he married a woman who wouldn’t hold him to those rules. He—What’s the most dignified term?—propositioned me once.”
“What? You didn’t mention that before.”
“It was decades ago, shortly after Dennis and I were engaged. I never told Dennis because it would have hurt him, and to what purpose? And I knew, even then, Edward only did so because I belonged to Dennis.”
Mira studied her coffee, drank some, sighed.
“Dennis’s memories of Edward are colored by childhood, but he’ll tell a story about them as boys, and it’s obvious the man was a bully even then.”
“Proposition is sort of dignified. Was it?”
“We were at his grandparents’ house—I’d nearly forgotten. I’d used the powder room, and as I came out, Edward was there. He backed me into the powder room, suggesting we should get to know each other better. He trapped me against the wall, and as he moved in, I put my knee on his groin. I told him if he ever put his hands on me again I’d break them both off at the wrist.”
She set the coffee cup aside, folded her hands together. “It frightened me—you understand.”
“Yeah. He was physical with you?”
“Initially, yes. Rough, I suppose, and completely sure I’d be responsive. He backed off, laughed, claimed he was just testing me for his cousin. He never touched me again. But . . .”
“Spill it,” Eve demanded. “You’re not helping if you hold back.”
“I’m not, and I won’t hold back.”
She picked up the coffee again, just stared into it. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and concluded I’m being rational rather than reactionary. Eve, women like you and I, women who’ve suffered sexual abuse, we have a sense about predators. For us, it helps us with our work, for others it’s a survival instinct. These men were predators. I recognized it in them. I assumed they simply hunted the willing, then discarded them. But, yes, I believe these men could have formed a bond, a pact that crossed the line from the willing.”
Mira set the coffee aside again, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “And because I assumed, because I didn’t look deeply enough, it may very well be that women who were their victims have crossed the line into murder.”
“That’s bullshit.” Annoyed, Eve jabbed a finger into Mira’s shoulder. “And bullshit doesn’t help, either. Unless you’re going to tell me you’re all of a sudden a sensitive who can see into somebody’s head or the future or the past, being a smart shrink doesn’t mean you know every damn thing about every damn body. We may have a couple of victims who crossed their own line, but that’s a choice they made.”
“That’s completely unsympathetic and oddly comforting.” And comforted, Mira took the hand Eve had jabbed her with. “I can know in my head you’re right. It’s harder to get the rest of me there.”
“Here’s something that might help. The two victims?” Eve gestured toward her board and the crime scene images. “Did they have any other ‘brothers,’ any other close friends with similar ‘predilections,’ to use your fancy word?”
“I . . . Oh God.”
“Yeah.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her pockets, studied the board. “They may not be finished serving justice.”
While Mira absorbed that, Eve tossed out the next. “These three women.” She tapped a finger on MacKensie, Downing, and Su. “I’m looking hard at them. Su’s Downing’s alibi, Su went to Yale, Su went to one of those life enhancement centers—Inner Peace—and so did MacKensie. Different times, but they both end up there. And Su and Downing both did—separate—sessions in an insomnia study.”
“That many connections . . . You can’t put them together—at Inner Peace or in the studies. But—”
“Yeah, but.”
“I don’t know that organization. Inner Peace.”
“Maybe you could find out more about it.” Which would not only give Mira something tangible to do, but would save Eve the time. “Whoever’s in charge there would be more likely to talk to you than to a cop. Same with the insomnia deal. I can get you the contact, the dates of each suspect’s term.”
“Yes. Yes, let me see what I can do on those.” With a brisk nod, Mira rose, gathered up her coat and scarf. She stood a moment, studying the board. “Those three,” she murmured. “What did Ed
ward and Jonas do that could make those women—if you’re right—murder so brutally?”
13
Eve checked out Wymann’s second wife, and crossed her off. The woman had married again, and again aimed for the older and the wealthy. She was now sitting pretty in a villa in the south of France.
Still, she poked a little more, and came up with an alibi, as wife number two had been cohosting a winter gala in Cannes at the time of Senator Mira’s abduction. The international style and society pages were full of reports and photos—and fashion critiques.
Reading them made Eve’s brain ache.
Not the wives, she thought, angling to study her board. They’d moved on. But others hadn’t.
She toggled back to Charity Downing. And Downing took her to Lydia Su, who’d attended Yale and, like MacKensie, Inner Peace. Time to talk to Downing’s alibi.
Before she did, there was something she could do from her desk. She contacted Edward Mira’s daughter.
The woman looked pale and drawn, but fully awake. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Sorry to disturb you this early.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re not getting a lot of sleep around here. Have you found my father’s killer?”
“Working on it. If I ask you who are his closest friends—for now stick with his age group—who comes immediately to mind?”
“Oh, well. Jonas Wymann. They go all the way back to Yale.”
“Right. Anyone else?”
“Ah, Frederick Betz. He and my father and Mr. Wymann—and Marshall Easterday—all went to Yale together. They had a group house together. And there’s Senator Fordham. They became good friends when my father was a senator. Is that helpful?”
“Yeah, it is. Mrs. Sykes, the media reports are going to start hitting soon. Jonas Wymann was murdered early this morning, in the same manner as your father.”
“What?” Her eyes went blank. “What? I don’t . . . Why? Why is this happening?”
“I’m working on that, too. Can you think of anyone who would want to cause your father and Wymann harm? Who might link them together?”
“I don’t understand any of this. I’m sorry, I don’t understand this. He—Mr. Wymann—he used to sneak Ned and me little chocolates when we were kids. He’s dead. Murdered. Like my father?”