The investigator had turned up evidence that indicated Marsha had been having an affair. A packet of love letters from someone who signed himself with the initial C had been hidden away in the victim's lingerie drawer. The letters were sexually explicit and full of pleas for her to divorce her husband and run away with her lover.
According to the report, the letters and their contents had shocked the husband and everyone interviewed who'd known the victim. The husband's alibi had been solid, as were all the background checks.
Boyd Stibbs, a regional rep for a sporting goods firm, was by all appearances Mr. All-American guy, making a slightly better than average income, married for six years to his college sweetie who'd gone on to become a buyer for a major department store. He liked to play flag football on Sundays, had no drinking, gambling, or illegals problem. There was no history of violence, and he had volunteered for Truth Testing, which he'd passed with flying colors.
They were childless, lived in a quiet West Side apartment building, socialized with a tight circle of friends, and up to the point of her death had shown all signs of having a happy, solid marriage.
The investigation had been thorough, careful, and complete. Yet the primary had never been able to find any trace of the alleged lover with the initial C.
Eve tagged Peabody on the interoffice 'link. "Saddle up, Peabody. Let's go knock on some doors." She tucked the file in her bag, snagged the jacket from the back of her chair, and headed out.
* * *
"I've never worked a cold case before."
"Don't think of it as cold," Eve told her. "Think of it as open."
"How long has this one been open?" Peabody asked.
"Going on six years."
"If the guy she was doing the extra-marital banging with hasn't shown in all this time, how do you rout him out now?"
"One step at a time, Peabody. Read the letters."
Peabody took them out of the field bag. Midway through the first note, she let out an Ouch! "These things are flammable," she said, blowing on her fingers.
"Keep going."
"Are you kidding?" Peabody wiggled her butt into the seat. "You couldn't stop me now. I'm getting an education." She continued to read, eyes widening now and then, throat working. "Jesus, I think I just had an orgasm."
"Thanks for sharing that piece of information. What else did you get from them?"
"A real admiration for Mr. C's imagination and stamina."
"Let me rephrase. What didn't you get from them?"
"Well, he never signs his name in full." Knowing she was missing something, Peabody stared down at the letters again. "No envelopes, so they could have been hand-delivered or mailed." She sighed. "I'm getting a D in this class. I don't know what you're seeing here that I'm not."
"What I'm not seeing is more to the point. No reference to how, when, or where they met. How they became lovers. No mention of where they boinked each other's brains out in various athletic positions. That makes me pause and reflect."
At sea, Peabody shook her head. "On?"
"On the possibility that there never was a Mr. C."
"But—"
"You have a woman," Eve interrupted, "married for several years, with a good, responsible job, a circle of friends she's kept for, again, several years. From all statements none of those friends had any inkling of an affair. Not in the way she behaved, spoke, lived. She had no time missing from work. So when did said athletic boinking take place?"
"The husband traveled fairly regularly."
"That's right, which opens the possibility for an affair if one is so inclined. Yet our victim exhibited all indications of loyalty, responsibility, honesty. She went to work, she came home. She went out in the company of her husband or with groups of friends. There were no unsubstantiated or questionable calls made to or from her home, office, or portable 'links. Just how did she and Mr. C. discuss their next tryst?"
"In person? Maybe he was someone at work."
"Maybe."
"But you don't think so. Okay, she appears to have been committed to her marriage, but outsiders, even close pals, don't really know what goes on inside someone else's marriage. Sometimes the partner doesn't even know."
"Absolutely true. The primary on this agrees with you and had every reason to do so."
"But you don't." Peabody acknowledged. "You think the husband set it up, made it look like she was cheating, either set up the alibi and snuck home to kill her, or had it done?"
"It's an option. That's why we're going to talk to him."
Eve shot up a ramp to the second-level street parking, muscled her vehicle between a sedan and a jet-bike. "He works out of his home most days." She nodded toward the apartment building. "Let's see if he's there."
* * *
He was home. A fit, attractive man wearing athletic shorts and a T-shirt and holding a toddler on his hip. One look at Eve's badge had a shadow moving into his eyes. One that had the texture of grief.
"It's about Marsha? Has there been something new?" He turned his face, briefly, into the white-blonde hair of the little girl he carried. "I'm sorry, come in. It's been so long since anyone's gotten in touch about what happened. If you want to sit down, I'd like to settle my daughter in the other room. I'd rather she didn't..."
This time it was his hand that moved to the girl's hair. Protectively. "Just give me a minute."
Eve waited until they'd left the room. "How old's the kid, Peabody?"
"About two, I'd say."
Eve nodded and moved into the living area. There were toys strewn about the floor and cheery furnishings.
She heard a high-pitched, childish giggle, and a firm demand. "Daddy! Play!"
"In a little while, Trade. You play now, and when Mommy gets home maybe we'll go out to the park. But you have to be good while I talk to these ladies. Deal?"
"Swings?"
"You bet."
When he came back, he ran both hands through his own dark blond hair. "I didn't want her to hear us talk about Marsha, about what happened. Has there been a break? Have you finally found him?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stibbs. This is a routine followup."
"Then there's nothing? I'd hoped ... I guess it's stupid after all this time to think you'd find him."
"You have no idea who your wife was having an affair with."
"She wasn't." He bit the words off, fury leaping onto his face and turning it hard. "I don't care what anyone says. She wasn't having an affair. I never believed ... At first I did, I guess, when everything was crazy and I couldn't think straight. Marsha wasn't a liar, she wasn't a cheater. And she loved me."
He closed his eyes, seemed to draw himself in. "Can we sit down?"
He dropped into a chair. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. I can't stand people saying that about Marsha. I can't stand knowing people, friends, think it of her. She doesn't deserve that."
"There were letters found in her drawer."
"I don't care about the letters. She wouldn't have cheated on me. We had ..."
He glanced back toward the child's room where the little girl was singing tunelessly. "Look, we had a good sex life. One of the reasons we married so young was that we couldn't keep our hands off each other, and Marsha believed strongly in marriage. I'll tell you what I think." He leaned forward. "I think someone was obsessed with her, fantasized or something. He must have sent her those letters. I'll never know why she didn't tell me. Maybe, I guess maybe, she didn't want to worry me. I think he came here when I was in Columbus, and he killed her because he couldn't have her."
He was registering high on the sincere meter, Eve thought. Such things could be feigned, but where was the point here? Why insist the victim was pure when painting her with adultery served the purpose? "If that was the case, Mr. Stibbs, you still have no idea who that person might be?"
"None. I've thought about it. For the first year afterward, I hardly thought about anything else. I wanted to believe he'd be found and punished, that there'd be some kin
d of payment for what he did. We were happy, Lieutenant. We didn't have a goddamn care in the world. And then, it was over." He pressed his lips together. "Just over."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stibbs." Eve waited a beat. "That's a cute kid."
"Trade?" He passed a hand over his face as if coming back to the present. "The light of my life."
"So you remarried."
"Almost three years ago." He let out a sigh, gave his shoulders a little shake. "Maureen's great. She and Marsha were friends. She's one of the ones who helped me through that first year. I don't know what I'd've done without her."
Even as he spoke, the front door opened. A pretty brunette with an armful of groceries kicked the door shut with her foot. "Hey, team! I'm home. You'll never guess what I..."
She trailed off when she saw Eve and Peabody. And as her gaze fastened on Peabody's uniform, Eve saw fear jolt over her face.
CHAPTER TWO
Boyd must have seen it, too, as he got up and crossed to her quickly. "Nothing's wrong." He touched her arm, a light gesture of reassurance before he took the bags from her. "They're just here about Marsha. For a routine followup."
"Oh, well... Trade?"
"In her room. She's—"
Even as he spoke, the child shot out like a little blonde bullet, launched herself at her mother's legs. "Mommy! We go swing!"
"We'll get out of your way as quickly as possible," Eve said. "Would you mind if we talked to you for a moment, Mrs. Stibbs?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I can ... The groceries."
"Tracie and I'll put them away, won't we, partner?"
"I'd rather—"
"She doesn't think we know where anything goes." Boyd interrupted his wife with a wink for their daughter. "We'll show her. Come on, cutie. Kitchen duty."
The little girl raced ahead of him, chattering in the strange foreign tongue of toddlers.
"I'm sorry to inconvenience you," Eve began. Her gaze, steady on Maureen's face, was cool, flat, and blank. "This won't take long. You were a friend of Marsha Stibbs?"
"Yes, of both her and Boyd. This is very upsetting for Boyd."
"Yes, I'm sure it is. How long had you known Mrs. Stibbs before her death?"
"A year, a little longer." She looked desperately toward the kitchen where there was rattling and laughter. "She's been gone almost six years now. We have to put it behind us."
"Six days, six years, someone still took her life. Were you close?"
"We were friends. Marsha was very outgoing."
"Did she ever confide in you that she was seeing someone else?"
Maureen opened her mouth, hesitated, then shook her head. "No. I don't know anything. I talked to the police when it happened, and told them everything I could. What happened was horrible, but there's no changing it. We've got a new life now. A good life, a quiet one. You coming here like this, it'll only make Boyd grieve again. I don't want my family upset. I'm sorry, but I'd like you to go now."
Outside in the hall, Peabody glanced back as Eve strode to the elevator. "She knows something."
"Oh yeah, she does."
"I figured you'd push her a little."
"Not on her turf." Eve stepped into the elevator. She was already calculating, already resetting the pieces of the puzzle. "Not with her kid there, and Stibbs. Marsha's waited this long, a little more time won't matter to her."
"You think he's clean though."
"I think..." Eve pulled the file and disc out of her bag, held it out. "You should work it."
"Sir?"
"Work the case, Peabody. Close the case."
Jaw dropping, Peabody stared. "Me? Like the primary? On a homicide?"
"You'll have to work it mostly on your own time, especially if we get something active. Read the file, study the reports and statements. Re-interview. You know the drill."
"You're giving me a case?"
"You got questions, you ask them. I'll consult if and when you need it. Copy me on all data and progress reports."
Peabody felt the adrenaline surge through her blood, and the nerves flood her belly. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I won't let you down."
"Don't let Marsha Stibbs down."
Peabody hugged the file to her breast like a beloved child. And kept it there all the way back to Central.
As they rode up from the garage, Peabody sent Eve a sidelong look. "Lieutenant?"
"Hmm."
"I wonder if maybe I could ask McNab to assist on the electronic data. The victim's 'links, apartment building's security discs, and so on."
Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. "It's your case."
"It's my case," Peabody repeated, in an awed whisper. She was still grinning, ear to ear, when they headed down the corridor to the bullpen.
"What the hell is that racket?" Eve's eyebrows drew together, her fingers danced instinctively over her weapon at the sound of shouts, whistles, and general mayhem rolling out of the Homicide Division.
She stepped in first, scanned the room. No one was at their desk or in their cube. At least a dozen duly authorized officers of the law were crowded into the center of the room, having what sounded suspiciously like a party.
Her nose twitched. She smelled bakery goods.
"What the hell's going on here!" She had to shout, and her voice still fell short of cutting through the din. "Pearson, Baxter, Delricky!" Since she accompanied this with a quick punch on Pearson's shoulder, a sharp elbow jab to Baxter's gut as she pushed through the crowd, she managed to snag some attention. "Are you all under the illusion that death's taken a fucking holiday? Where the hell'd you get that cupcake?"
Even as she jabbed a finger, Baxter stuffed what was left of it in his mouth. As a result, his explanation was incoherent. He merely grinned around the frosting and pointed.
She saw it now—cupcakes, cookies, and what appeared to have been a pie before a pack of wolves had descended on it. And she spotted two civilians in the middle of that pack. The tall, skinny man and the robust, pretty woman were both beaming smiles and pouring some sort of pale pink liquid out of an enormous jug.
"Stand down! Every one of you, stand down and go back about your business. This isn't a damn tea party."
Before she could push her way through to the civilians, she heard Peabody scream.
She whirled, weapon leaping into her hand, and was nearly plowed down as her aide streaked by and launched herself at the civilians.
The man caught her, and skinny or not managed to lift the sturdy Peabody right off her feet. The woman spun, her long blue skirts swirling as she threw out her arms and made an odd and effective Peabody sandwich.
"There's my girl. There's my DeeDee." The man's face glowed with such obvious adoration, Eve's hand slid away from her weapon and dangled at her side.
"Daddy." With something between a sob and a giggle, Peabody buried her face against his neck.
"Chokes me up," Baxter murmured and snagged another cupcake. "Got here about fifteen minutes ago. Brought the good stuff with them. Man, these things are lethal," he added and chomped into another cupcake.
Eve drummed her fingers on her thigh. "What kind of pie was that?"
Baxter grinned. "Exceptional," he told her, and strolled back to his desk.
The woman loosened her death grip around Peabody's waist and turned. She was remarkably pretty, with the same dark hair as her daughter worn in a long waterfall down her back. Her blue skirt swept down to simple rope sandals. Her blouse was long and loose and the color of buttercups, and over it were at least a half-dozen chains and pendants.
Her face was softer than Peabody's, with lines of time fanning out from the corners of direct and gleaming brown eyes. She moved like a dancer when she crossed to Eve, both hands outstretched.
"You're Lieutenant Dallas. I'd have known you anywhere." She gripped both of Eve's hands in hers. "I'm Phoebe, Delia's mother."
Her hands were warm, a little rough at the palms, and studded with rings. Bracelets clanged and jangled on her wrists. r />
"It's nice to meet you, Ms. Peabody."
"Phoebe." She smiled, and still gripping Eve's hands drew her forward. "Sam, let the girl loose so you can meet Lieutenant Dallas."
He shifted, but kept his arm tight around Peabody's shoulders. "I'm so happy to meet you." He took Eve's hand, still cupped in his wife's. "I feel like I already have, with everything Peabody's told us about you. And Zeke. We'll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for our son."
A little uneasy with all that good will beaming out at her, Eve slipped her hand free. "How's he doing?"
"Very well. I'm sure he'd have sent his best if he'd known we were coming."
He smiled then, slow and easy. She could see the resemblance now, between him and Peabody's brother. The narrow, apostle's face, the eyes of dreamy gray. But there was something sharp in Sam Peabody's eyes, something that had Eve's neck prickling.
This man wasn't the puppy dog his son was.
"Give him mine when you talk to him. Peabody, take some personal time."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"That's very kind of you," Phoebe said. "I wonder if it's possible for us to have a little of your time. You must be busy," she went on before Eve could speak, "but I'd hoped we might have a meal together tonight. With you and your husband. We have gifts for you."
"You don't have to give us anything."
"The gifts aren't from obligation but from affection, and we hope you'll enjoy them. Delia's told us so much about you, and Roarke and your home. It must be a magnificent place. I hope Sam and I will have an opportunity to see it."
Eve could feel the box being built around her, see the lid slowly closing. And Phoebe only continued to smile serenely while Peabody suddenly took an avid interest in the ceiling.
"Sure. Ah. You could come for dinner."
"We'd love to. Would eight o'clock work?"
"Yeah, eight's fine. Peabody knows the way. Anyway, welcome to New York. I've got some ... stuff," she finished lamely and eased back to escape.