“Oh, step back.”
He laughed. “That may be going too far. We’ll see how it goes.” He pushed to his feet. “Where’s the disc?”
“I’ll get it. I’ll start on the shopping spree. Thanks. Really.”
He handed her the coffee so she could take it with her. “How else would we spend our Christmas afternoon?”
* * *
She went to work, happy, she realized, to be back at it. With a hot pot of coffee and reams of data. Whatever she found, or didn’t, this angle was going to mean interviewing sales clerks. Which meant the horror of going into retail establishments on the day after Christmas when everyone and their mothers would be in them exchanging gifts, looking for bargains, arguing about credit.
Trudy’d done pretty well for herself, Eve decided. Six pair of shoes in one spot. Jesus, what was it with people and shoes? Shipped all but two pairs home. Well, she was never going to wear them.
She cross-checked her inventory list, and came up with six pairs.
And here were three handbags from the same shop. Two sent home, one taken with customer. When she checked her list, she smiled.
“Yeah, I bet it was hard to resist a six-hundred-dollar purse. Six bills.” She shook her head. “Just to lug stuff around in, most of which no rational human being has a need to lug anywhere. Let’s see what else you helped yourself to.”
Before she could continue, Roarke beeped on the house ‘link.
“I’ve got this for you, Lieutenant.”
“What? Already? It’s only been about a half hour.”
“I believe it was mentioned before: I’m good.”
“On my way, and I seriously overpaid for this service.”
“Pay to play,” he said and clicked off.
She found him in the lab where he’d set up a group of units to handle individual commands. “This way,” he told her, “you can ask for any mix you want, or a combination. I’ve also got her voiceprint, in case you want to try to match it at some point.”
“Might be handy. Let’s just run it through as it was first. I haven’t taken the time to listen to it all the way through.”
Now she did, hearing the gaggle of voices. Her own, Baxter’s, Trueheart’s. Checks and rechecks. Zana’s, Bobby’s discussing where they might go. The rustling as they donned their outdoor gear.
I’m so glad we’re getting out. It’ll do us both good. Zana.
Hasn’t been much of a trip for you. Bobby.
Oh, now, honey, don’t worry about me. I just want you to try to put all this awful business aside for just a couple hours. We’ve got each other, remember. That’s what counts.
They went out with Zana chattering about Christmas trees.
She heard New York as they went outside. Horns, voices, air blimps, the unmistakable belching of a maxibus. It was all a backdrop for more chatter. The weather, the buildings, the traffic, the shops. Interspersed were Baxter and Trueheart, commenting on direction, making small talk.
Man, you see the rack on that one? God is a man, and he’s on my side. Baxter.
God might be a woman, sir, deliberately tempting you with what you can’t have. Trueheart.
“Not bad, kid,” Eve mumbled. “God, you could die of boredom listening to this crap. ‘Oooh, look at this, honey. Oh, my goodness,’ blah, blah, blah.”
“Do you want to move forward?” Roarke asked her.
“No. We’ll stick it out.”
She drank coffee, and stuck, through the incessant shopping for and purchasing of a table tree, the extra ornaments. The giggles when Bobby made her turn around and close her eyes while he bought her a pair of earrings. Then the cooing about not opening them until Christmas.
“This may make me sick.”
They discussed lunch. Should they do this, do that?
“Jesus, do something! Tourists,” she said. “They kill me.”
More giggles, she thought, more excitement over soy dogs. Over a tube of fake meat, Eve thought in disgust, then straightened in her chair.
“Wait, stop. Run that back. The bit she just said.”
“If we must, but rhapsodizing about the menu of a glide-cart is a bit much, even for me.”
“No listen, listen to what she says. How she says it.”
“What makes a soy dog taste so good when it’s cooked outside on a cart in New York? I swear you can’t get a real grilled dog anywhere on the planet outside of New York”
“Stop record. How does she know that?” Eve demanded. “She doesn’t say, ‘I bet there’s no place.’ Or, ‘I’ve never tasted a damn dog that tastes like…’ whatever. She makes a statement: ‘You can’t get.’” Nostalgic, knowing. Not the statement, not the tone of a woman having her first corner dog in Manhattan—which is what she said it was, what decided them on the cart. Oh, gee, I’ve never had one before, it’d be fun. Bitch is lying.“
“I won’t argue, but it could easily have been a slip of the tongue.”
“Could, but isn’t. Resume play.”
She listened, talk of hats, scarves, of just a little longer. Have to cross the street. Spilled coffee. Concern, just a hint of fear in his voice, the relief.
Now screams, shouts, horns, brakes. Sobbing.
Jesus, Jesus, somebody call an ambulance. Lady, don’t move him, don’t try to move him.
Now Baxter moving in, moving fast, identifying himself, dealing with the mess.
“Okay, what I want is just the two of them. No background noises, from the time they get the dogs until Baxter’s on-scene.”
Roarke set it up, hit play.
Conversation again, easy, breezy. Indulgent on his part, Eve thought. Then the little gasp, his immediate response. Irritation in her voice. Then the screams.
“His,” Eve ordered, from the coffee spill on.
She watched the graphic readout as well—breathing, volume, tone. “There, there, did you hear it?”
“Breath sucked in. Expected as he’s falling into the street.”
“A second before. An instant. Maybe a slip, sure, but maybe a push, too. Now hers. Same sequence.”
She leaned forward, and she saw it, heard it. “Deep breath in. Quick, fast. Just a second before the record shows his. Then that little hesitation before she squeaks his name, starts screaming.”
Eve’s gaze was flat and hard. “She helped him into the street. I’d bet on it. Opportunity. Of the moment again. Let’s go through the background voices, the noises, individually—that same sequence. See if anything else pops out.”
It was tedious, but she listened to every variant before she was satisfied.
“It’s building up,” she stated coldly. “Building for me. Can’t charge her. The PA’d laugh me out of his office, if I got this past Whitney. But I know what I know. Now it’s how to make it stick to her.”
“He loves her.”
“What?”
“He loves her,” Roarke repeated. “You can hear it in his voice. It’s going to level him, Eve. This on top of his mother. If you’re right, and I have to believe you are, it’s going to take him out at the knees.”
“I’m sorry. But better he take a shot than be duped every day by a murderer.”
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—think how this would hurt him. Not now, not yet.
“I didn’t get far on my checklist, but I’ve already found one handbag missing. I’ll get a full description of it, and anything else that doesn’t check, tomorrow. We’re going to find them in Zana’s possession. I’m bringing her into Interview. That’s where I’ll get her on this. Interview. I’ve got no proof, scattered piles of circumstantial. So it’s going to be me against her in the box, and that’s where I’ll turn it.”
He was studying her face as she spoke. “You have, on occasion, commented that I can be scary. So, Lieutenant, can you.”
She smiled, hard and thin. “You’re damn right.”
* * *
Chapter 20
Contents - Prev | Next
SHE STARTED
THE MORNING POKING, PRODDING, bitching, and bellowing at the lab. She thought about bribing, and had courtside Knicks tickets as backup. But fear brought her quicker results.
The minute it started to signal, Eve leapt toward her comp. “Computer, display incoming data on-screen, and produce hard copy.”
Acknowledged. Working…
She skimmed, then punched a fist into her palm. “Got you, bitch.”
“I’ll take that as good news.” Roarke leaned on the jamb of the door between their offices. “Let me say first that the unfortunate lab tech is going to need therapy. Possibly years of therapy.”
“It lit up.” She had to hold herself back from doing a victory dance.
“Blood on the bedroom carpet, bathroom floor, shower of the empty room at the time in question. They haven’t typed it yet, but it’s going to be Trudy’s.”
“Congratulations.”
“Haven’t bagged her yet, but I will. Even better than the blood, so much better—neither Zana nor Housekeeping did what you could call a thorough cleaning job. I’ve got a print on the inside windowsill. And it’s hers. Another on the door leading to the hall.”
“Pays to be thorough, or in her case, it doesn’t pay not to be.”
“Yeah, you got that. Didn’t think that far ahead. Didn’t think we’d look there. Why bother when she’d left that nice blood trail leading down the emergency escape?”
“And now?”
“Now I dodge the laser stream of hassling with store clerks the day after Christmas.” Now she did do a quick dance. “The prints are going to be enough to get me a search warrant. Enough for me to bring her into Interview. I just want to check on a couple other things first, settle on my initial approach.”
“Busy day for you.”
“I’m ready for one. I’m going to start out here, where it’s quiet. Peabody’s not due in for a few hours anyway.”
“I’ll leave you to it. I need to go.” But he crossed to her first, cupped her chin to kiss her. “It was nice having you to myself for a couple of days.”
“Nice being had.”
“Remember that, because I’m going to wheedle you into a few days away. Sun, sand, sea.”
“That doesn’t sound like a hardship.”
“Why don’t you mark down January second, then. We’ll make it work.”
“Okay.”
He started out, stopped at the door. “Eve? Will you ask her why? Does it matter?”
“I’ll ask. It always matters.”
Alone, she brought up the data and images on all former fosters. Once again, she looked for any connection between them. A school, a job, a case worker, a teacher. But there was only Trudy at the core of it.
“One dead,” she said softly. “Everyone else alive and accounted for.”
So she worked with the dead.
Ralston, Marnie, mother deceased, father unknown. Just, she thought, as Zana’s records listed her mother deceased, with father unknown. It was smart to keep data close to the truth when switching IDs.
She ordered Marnie’s files on-screen.
Diverse juvenile record, Eve noted. Shoplifting, petty thefts, vandalism, malicious mischief, possession. Raised those stakes to grand theft auto at the tender age of fifteen.
Psychiatric eval claimed recalcitrant, pathological liar with sociopathic tendencies. Strong IQ.
She read the psychiatrist’s notes.
Subject is extremely bright, clever. Enjoys pitching her wits against authority. She is an organized thinker who excels at becoming what she believes is most expedient to her goals.
“That’s my girl,” Eve murmured.
While she can and does appear cooperative for periods of time, this has proved to be a deliberate and conscious adjustment of behavior. Though she understands right from wrong, she chooses whatever course she believes will gain her the most, i.e., attention, privileges. Her need to deceive is twofold: One, for gain. Two, to illustrate her superiority over those in authority, which would be rooted in her history of abuse and neglect.
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe she just likes lying.” People like lying to cops, she remembered. For some, it was almost knee-jerk.
Eve brought up the history, including the medical.
Broken hand, broken nose, contusions, lacerations. Black eyes, concussions. All of which, according to reports—medical, police, child protection—were eventually hung on the mother. Mother did time, kid was tossed into the system. Landed in Trudy’s lap.
But those injuries had been suffered before the psychiatric report. Before the worst of the criminal offenses. And Marnie Ralston had spent nearly a year with Trudy from the age of twelve to thirteen.
Ran away, eluded authorities for nearly two years before the pop on GTA. Yeah, yeah, clever girl. A young girl had to be smart, resourceful, and just plain lucky to last on the streets that long.
And when they’d snapped her up, the clever girl—despite the shrink’s findings—was placed in another foster home. Ran off weeks later, and stayed underground until turning eighteen.
Kept out of trouble—or off the radar, Eve noted. Several short-term employments. Stripping, dancing, club work, bar work.
Then, according to the records, boom.
“I just don’t think so.”
Eve brought up the last known ID image of Marnie Ralston, split-screened it with Zana’s. Brown hair on Marnie, worn short and straight, she mused. And there was a hard look to her, a kind of edge that said she’d been there and done it, and wouldn’t mind doing it all again.
She toyed with the idea of calling in Yancy or another police artist, but decided to fiddle awhile on her own.
“Computer, magnify eyes only, both images.”
When the task was complete, she sat back, studied. The eye color was nearly the same—and any variant could be attributed to fluctuations in the imaging, or the subject’s enhancements. The shape was different. Downturned on Marnie, wide, more rounded on Zana’s.
She tried the eyebrows—more of an arch on Zana’s. The nose— more narrow, slight uptilt.
Was it reaching, she thought, to see those changes as improvements? The sort a vain woman might pay for if she believed they’d make her more attractive? Especially one who might want to change her appearance for other reasons?
But when she tried the mouths, her own curved up. “Oh, now, I guess you liked your lips. Computer, run comparison of current images. Are they a match?”
Working… Current images are a match.
“Changed your hair, your eyes, your nose. Planed down the cheeks, but you left your mouth alone. Put on a few pounds,” she said aloud as she checked height and weight. “Softened yourself up. But you couldn’t do anything about your height.”
She wrote it up, exactly as she saw it, listed all supporting evidence. She was going personally to the PA, to a judge, and pressing for the warrants.
Her ‘link signalled on her way down the steps. “Dallas, talk fast.”
“Hey, I’m back, I’m here. You’re not. We had—”
“Contact the PA’s office,” she interrupted Peabody’s cheerful greeting. “Get Reo if you can. She’s their golden girl right now.”
“What—”
“I need a consult ASAP, and their recommendation for a judge who’ll be most apt to sign a couple of warrants.”
“For who? For what?”
“For Zana. Search of the hotel room, her belongings. Suspicion of murder, suspicion of attempted murder. That’ll start the ball.”
“Zana? But—”
“Do it, Peabody.” She grabbed her coat from the newel post, swung it on as she walked by Summerset. “I’ll run the game for the PA. You want to catch up, read the reports I sent to your desk unit. I’ve got to run this by the commander. I’m on my way in.”
“Jeez, every time I take a day off, something happens.”
“Get it moving. I want her in Interview this morning.”
She disconnected. Her car was, like her coa
t, already waiting. At the moment, she decided she was just juiced enough to be grateful for Summerset’s annoying efficiency.
Her blood was up. Maybe it was running hotter than it should, but she’d analyze that later. Right now she knew she was on track. She’d have surprise on her side; something she thought she could use with an opponent like Zana. Like Marie, she corrected. It was time to start thinking of her by that name.
She was going to close this down, then it would be over. Something she would set aside and forget Trudy Lombard and all those awful months, locked away again where they belonged.
And when it was done, she thought, as she slid into traffic, sure, she’d take a few days off with Roarke. Go to their island, run around naked as monkeys, screw each other brainless in the sand. Grab some sun and surf and gear up for the long, cold winter to come.
Her link signalled again. “Dallas, what?”
“Hey, hi! Did you have a magolicious Christmas?”
“Mavis.” Eve had to switch her mind, do a mental one-eighty. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I’m heading to work. Why don’t I tag you later?”
“Okay, no prob. Just mostly wanted to be sure you and Roarke remember the coaching classes. Coming up in a couple weeks.”
“No, I remember.” The horror of it was etched on her mind like laser art on glass.
“Leonardo and I can go with you, if you want. Have some dinner or whatever after.”
“Um. Sure. Sure. Ah, isn’t this a little early for you to be awake?”
“Baby gets me up early. I guess it’s good practice. Look, look what my honey pie made me with his own two hands!”
She held up some sort of short, footed thing—a kind of miniature skinsuit, Eve decided, in bloody-murder red with a lot of silver hearts and squiggles on it.
“Yeah. Wow.”
“Because the baby’ll be here before Valentine’s Day. We’re getting so close. What do you think of Berry?”
“What kind of berry?”
“No, for a name, because the baby will be like our sweet little berry, and it could go for a boy or a girl.”
“Fine, as long as it doesn’t mind being called Blueberry or Huckleberry or Boysenberry once it hits school-age.”