by J. D. Robb
“She moved in with Crack.”
“She did, yes.” Amused at her tone—not disapproving so much as baffled—he quirked an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“No. Just getting used to it.” She picked up the yogurt to get it out of the way.
It wasn’t actually horrible.
“And while we’re, more or less, on the subject of An Didean, I told you Jake and his bandmates have volunteered to guest instruct from time to time. Music and songwriting.”
“Nadine’s rock star’s okay.”
“He is, and our Nadine, in addition to taking one of our students, the inestimable Quilla, as intern, will also come in now and then to talk about journalism, screen writing, writing in general.”
She’d be good at it, Eve thought. Nadine knew her stuff, in and out and sideways. “You’re pulling in a star-studded crew.”
The yogurt wasn’t horrible, but the omelet was terrific.
“I like to think so. We’ll have guest chefs, artists, scientists, business types—”
“Are you going to guest star?”
“From time to time. Vocalists, designers.”
“Mavis and Leonardo.”
“Among others. Engineers, architects, programmers, doctors. Lawyers.”
She grunted at that.
He smiled, sipped coffee. “We want a well-rounded curriculum, as well as care, shelter, nutrition, safety. Part of that curriculum and exposure needs the law. All areas of it. Who better than Lieutenant Dallas to guest lecture on police work?”
“Uh-uh. That’s nuts.” She bit decisively into bacon. “I don’t know how to teach.”
He angled his head—then pointed a finger at the cat to halt Galahad’s bacon belly crawl toward the table. “I’ll just say: Peabody, Detective Delia.”
“That wasn’t teaching. That was training. She was already a cop. And she wasn’t a kid.”
Undeterred, smooth as velvet, Roarke laid out his case. “Some of them will be troubled, come from difficult homes, much as Rochelle’s brother before he turned his all-too-short life around. Much as you and I did, for all that. Who better to show them what a cop is, should be, can be than one who believes in the value of protect and serve? And kicks ass doing it?”
The man could negotiate with God and come out ahead, she thought. “You said that last thing to try to flatter me into it.”
“You’ll think about it.” He gave her thigh a friendly pat.
Since she didn’t want to think about it, she polished off breakfast.
“I need to get started.”
She got up to gather up her badge, restraints, pocketknife, ’link, communicator, some cash before putting on the jacket.
Rising, giving Galahad a warning look, Roarke went to her, gathered her in.
Distressed, she hugged back. “That feels like worry. Don’t start the day with worry about me.”
“It’s not. You’ll take care of my cop. It’s … grabbing on to what matters, and to the moment.” He tipped her face up, kissed her. Then once again. “Until tonight.”
Then he patted her ass, and made the vague concern inside her slide away again. “And don’t be too hard on Dickhead.”
“That’ll be up to him.” She started out, paused at the door. “If I get home first—it happens—I’ll leave the lights on.”
He flashed a smile, and she took it with her down the stairs and out to the car.
Then she was out of the gates, into the early traffic. Too early, by about a half hour, she judged, for the ad blimps to blast. Not too early for the maxibuses, the first enterprising cart operator to have coffee going and what passed for bagels at the ready or the commuter airtrams to rumble across the sky with their load of sleepy people.
And not too late, apparently, for a couple of street LCs to grab cart coffee and what passed for bagels after a long night’s work.
A block later, she spotted a woman in a gold evening gown, a short, silver cape over her shoulders, strolling along the sidewalk in her skyscraper heels.
Possibly an LC, Eve thought, though definitely not street level. And undoubtedly another long night.
She saw a dog walker herding a bunch of tiny, weird-looking dogs with pink bows in their hair, a jogger in neon red sprinting toward an invisible finish line, a sidewalk sleeper still dozing in a doorway, a woman at an already open market busily filling the outside stall with flowers for sale, and through a third-story window, a woman in a tiger-print leotard spinning in pirouettes.
If you didn’t love New York, she thought, you didn’t belong there.
And because she loved it, because she belonged there, because she was a murder cop who believed in protect and serve, she turned her mind to murder.
4
Because she wanted impressions of the walk Abner routinely took to and from work, Eve hunted for parking near the residence. It took time, even on the quiet street, but she had some to spare. Once she’d pulled in curbside, she hiked the block and a half back to the house with its sealed door, checked the time, started from there.
Neither doctor owned a vehicle. She imagined in seriously bad weather, they took a cab or car service the few blocks to their respective workplaces.
But her information at this point indicated Abner walked routinely—sometimes leaving early enough to squeeze in a run, or a workout at his gym.
He liked to take his runs—again in all but seriously inclement weather—in Hudson River Park. So they’d check that area, too, see if they could find other runners who knew him, interacted with him.
But on most workdays he’d taken this route with its pretty brick or brownstone homes, its scatter of upscale boutiques, its restaurants, cafés. She passed a bakery, paused. She could see a line had already formed at the counter inside.
Worth a stop on the way back, Eve decided, as it was most likely where the victim picked up the baked goods Louise said he’d sometimes brought to the clinic.
He likely had a favorite flower place, too, she thought. Fresh flowers in the house, flowers to the clinic.
Just one of a number of places his killer might have seen him, interacted with him.
Had to know his routine, she thought as she turned a corner. Had to know or strongly believe he’d be home to take the package, that he’d be home alone. Or else why pay for the expedited morning shipping?
Not that it cost the killer anything, but why bother if when he opened it didn’t so much matter?
She stopped outside the townhouse, another brownstone, that held the offices. One of the plaques, gold against the brown, said:
Dr. Kent Abner
Pediatrics
The rails up the short steps glowed deep, dark bronze. Two white pots flanked the white door and held sunny little daffodils, some purple flower she couldn’t identify, and some greens that trailed over the pots.
The windows sparkled.
The result, from Eve’s view, equaled classy, safe, welcoming.
Another layer of safe came from excellent security, including a door cam.
She turned, again to get a sense of the area where there would have been interaction, routine, certainly deliveries. And spotted Peabody on the opposite corner.
She wore her pink coat—surely with the winter lining zipped out for spring—her obviously beloved cowboy boots, navy pants that may or may not have been loose, and a scarf, silky rather than knit, that held flowers not unlike those in the white pots.
The sun bounced off the lenses of her sunshades, making Eve wish she’d remembered her own.
Peabody crossed over, hoofed down to Eve.
“Mag morning! It should always be spring.”
“You’re wearing flowers.”
“Spring. I just ran this up last night.” Peabody patted the scarf.
“Ran it up where?”
“On my sewing machine. I don’t see the car.”
“I parked back at the crime scene so I could walk Kent’s usual route.”
“Oh. Well, damn, I should’ve
had that apple turnover. I bet McNab gets one on the way to Central, because nothing sticks to his skinny ass. He’s on tap when and if you need him to deal with the electronics. Oh, look how pretty those mini irises are with the daffs and those sweet potato vines.”
Puzzled, Eve stared down at the pots. “They’re growing potatoes outside the office?”
“No, those are just decorative vines.”
“How do you know these things?” Eve wondered as she started up the steps. “Wait, Free-Ager. Never mind.” She pressed the buzzer.
The woman who answered had deep gold skin, dense black hair wound into a wide knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, richly brown, wide, thickly lashed, showed signs of recent weeping and considerable fatigue.
She wore a simple black suit, sensible black shoes.
“You are the police,” she said in precise English with the faintest of accents.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve said, offering her badge. “Detective Peabody.”
“Yes, Detective Peabody and I spoke. I am Seldine Abbakar, Dr. Abner’s office manager. Please come in.”
The reception/waiting area had walls of cheerful green holding cheerful art. Photos of babies, toddlers, older kids covered an entire wall. It offered thickly cushioned chairs in primary blue in the main area, with another section offering crayon-red tubs of toys.
An alcove had rods—regular height, and lower ones she supposed smaller humans used—to hang up coats.
No one currently manned the long L-shaped workstation with several comps and screens behind the reception counter.
“I asked everyone to come by seven-fifteen, to be sure,” Seldine said. “We are all here, and I thought it best to have you speak to everyone in our conference room. You will excuse us.…”
She paused, pressed her carefully dyed lips together. “We are, all of us, shocked and saddened. Dr. Abner, he was very loved.”
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It’s a great one.”
“We appreciate you arranging this time.”
“He would have wanted it so. It is your duty to find who did this terrible thing. I want more than I can tell you for you to do your duty. I will take you back.”
“Before you do, how long did you work for Dr. Abner?” Eve knew—she’d run her. But she wanted to hear it from the source.
“I began here at twenty-two, after college. I came from Iran as a student, and studied here, applied to live here. That was twenty years ago next month. Dr. Kent— Excuse me, he invited me to use his given name, but I could not. So he was Dr. Kent to me.”
“Understood.”
“Dr. Kent allowed me to learn more, and encouraged me to rise. My own father died in Iran long ago. When I married, it was Dr. Kent I asked to give me away. He allowed me very generous leave when I had my children, and because I wished to work and to have my children, he … We have day care, here in the office. He loves—loved children, you see.”
A tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away. “Excuse me, I am upset. He was a father to me. Dr. Martin, his husband, was family to me. They were, in all but blood, grandfathers to my children.”
“I’m going to ask you this and get it out of the way. Can you tell me where you were night before last at ten?”
“This is your duty. Yes, I can tell you. My sister-in-law, my husband’s sister, had a baby on that night, at ten-sixteen. A boy, eight pounds, one ounce, who will be called Jamar. I was with her, as she asked me to be, through the labor and delivery, and we stayed, my husband and I, with her and the family until nearly midnight.”
She let out a breath. “Dr. Kent was to be Jamar’s pediatrician, as he was for my children. I will give you the names, the address of the birthing center so you can know.”
She knew pure and simple truth when she heard it, but Eve nodded. “Thank you. We’ll talk to the others now.”
Seldine opened a side door, led the way past a series of exam rooms, a couple of stations. An office that had Abner’s name on the door. A second office that had the associate’s name.
They went up a flight of steps—closed off with another door—and came into a kind of break room/lounge area, what was obviously the—currently empty—day care area, and into a room with a large table, a number of chairs, a couple of counters holding an AutoChef, coffee and tea setups.
Those around the table looked up as they entered. Eve saw a lot of weepy and reddened eyes. And more than one person clinging to the person beside them.
The air was thick with grief.
“This is Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. They have questions, and we honor Dr. Kent by answering them fully and honestly. Please sit, Lieutenant, Detective. You will have coffee?”
“Thanks. Black.”
“Cream, two sugars,” Peabody told her. And, following Eve’s lead, started it off. “We understand all of you have had a terrible shock, and we’re sorry for your loss. It’s always hard to be asked, but by getting everyone’s whereabouts at certain times, it helps us eliminate and move on to other questions.”
“I’ll start. I’m Melissa Rendi. Dr. Rendi, Dr. Abner’s associate.”
A mixed-race woman in her mid-thirties, she sat with a tissue clutched in her hand. “I came into the practice three years ago. Everyone else has been here longer, so I’ll start, if that’s okay.”
“It’s fine. Can you tell us where you were night before last at ten P.M.?”
“I— But I thought Kent was killed yesterday morning.”
“That’s correct,” Eve said. “We also need this information.”
“I was home, with my fiancée. Do you need her name?”
“Please.”
“Alicia Gorden. We had dinner in—we’d both had a long day—and we’re getting married next month, so we went over some of the RSVPs, and other wedding plans. We stayed in all evening.”
“How about yesterday, about nine-thirty in the morning?”
“Here. It was Kent’s day off. I had patients starting at eight.”
“This is correct,” Seldine said. “Dr. Lissa was in the office all morning, took her lunch break in the lounge at one, and had afternoon appointments beginning at two-fifteen. Is this helpful?”
“Very.” Peabody added a quiet smile.
They went around the table. Receptionists, nurses, the physician assistant, the two day-care workers, the cleaning crew.
Rendi was right, they’d all worked for Abner from seven years to twenty.
They ran through whereabouts, alibis, tears.
They’d check the alibis, Eve thought, but wasn’t hopeful anything would shake loose from them.
What she saw was a tight-knit office of people who got along well, and it all centered around Kent Abner, and his personality and professionalism.
“Did Dr. Abner have any problems or issues with anyone? A patient—the parents or guardian—someone who used to work here, another associate?”
“It’s crazy to think anybody hurt him on purpose.” The youngest of the staff at twenty-six, Olivia Tressle burst out with the objection. “It has to have been some horrible mistake, or just somebody crazy. A crazy person.”
“Olivia,” Seldine said gently. “This was not Lieutenant Dallas’s question.”
“I know, but … He was such a wonderful man. Such a good doctor. This is such a great place to work. It’s all … it’s all just wrong.”
“She’s right.” One of the nurses spoke up now, a male, early forties. “It’s just wrong. He was a really good man, and he had this way. The kids loved him. I tell you he had a way. Say a kid or baby would come in sick or fussy, he could find the key to smoothing it out. So the parents loved him. He even gave hours a month to a free clinic. During the holidays? Every kid who came in got a little gift—just a little gift, but it came out of his pocket, not the office. Every kid got a card on their birthday. He cared. It wasn’t just a job to him, wasn’t even just about healing. It was caring. When you find who did
this … prison isn’t bad enough.”
They ran through all that until Rendi spoke again.
“I don’t know if he told anyone else, but he had words with a doctor—I think it was Ponti or Ponto—at the ER at Unger Memorial.”
“What about?”
“Kent went in because one of his patients had a fall, greenstick wrist fracture, and the parents contacted Kent because the kid was a little hysterical and wanted his Dr. Kent. Kent, being Kent, went in. And while he was there, this other doctor was, Kent told me, berating and humiliating a woman because her kid was dirty—or that’s what the guy said. He was reaming her for not cleaning the kid up before bringing him in. It’s a damn ER,” Rendi said with feeling, “and Kent said the woman was obviously homeless or the next thing to it, and doing her best. Besides, you don’t treat people that way.”
“What happened?”
“Kent said he pulled rank—he has privileges there—and told the stupid ER doc to take a walk. He dealt with the kid and his mother, told them about Louise Dimatto’s clinic—that’s where Kent gave time. Then he unloaded on the guy, and the guy got back in his face about how it wasn’t his business. How he should work a few doubles in the ER instead of his fancy private practice before he spouted off.”
“When was this?” Eve asked her.
“It was months ago, I think like, October—no, November. It was November, before Thanksgiving. I’m sure of that. Like, a week before Thanksgiving because we had the turkeys up, and the Halloween stuff down. I want to say it can wear on you, ER shifts. I did some of my residency in ER. I don’t mean to get this doctor in trouble, but it’s one of the rare times I’ve seen Kent really angry.”
“It’s helpful to have any information. Anything else like this? Any time Dr. Abner had words with someone, or was angry with someone?”
“A few years ago he reported a parent for child abuse.” Sarah Eisner, one of the other nurses, looked over at Seldine. “He was angry—who wouldn’t be? The mother brought the little boy in for a routine, and he had all these bruises. She tried to say he was just clumsy, but she broke down, told Kent—I was in the exam room—her husband got angry and hit the boy.”
