Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Yes, we see that here often. Take a look at the screen.” After ordering it on, he moved to his sink to wash the blood from his sealed hands. “I did the full body scan. You see the damage to the skull, of course.”

  “Hard to miss.”

  Eve drank some Pepsi as she studied the internal scan.

  “It looks like she had a nose job. Or busted it at some point.”

  “Yes.” Morris reached into his friggie, chose a tube of ginger ale.

  “Cheekbone, too. Right cheekbone, a fracture there, not recent.”

  She understood the “but” now and moved a bit closer.

  “Got a pair of fake teeth, lower left.” Eyes narrowed, Eve jabbed with her right, hooked with her left. “Broke her right shoulder, right forearm, wrist—both wrists—two fingers right hand, three left. Looks like those fingers were broken more than once over the years. Some of those ribs were cracked. None of it recent, none of those injuries happened in the last weeks or months. Those are old injuries.”

  She looked back at Morris. “Could’ve been a bad accident. Vehicular wreck, serious fall, but. Did they happen at the same time?”

  “In my opinion the ribs were broken and healed before the injuries to the arm and shoulder. The fingers—and the right index, the left ring finger were broken at least twice, at different times—both before and after the arm and shoulder. Even with your keen eye, you’ll be forgiven, as you’re not a medical, for missing the slight displacement of the right eye socket.”

  “Magnify it, will you?”

  When he had, she nodded. “Okay, yeah, I see it.”

  “I estimate the orbital and cheekbone injuries, and the second break on the right index finger, occurred after the others.”

  “Somebody tuned her up regularly,” Eve murmured.

  “That would be my initial conclusion.”

  “How old are they?”

  “My analysis, and comp-generated probability, puts them at fifteen to twenty years. But I’d like to send the scans—and if necessary the victim—to Garnet for an expert confirmation.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that. She’s already working on one of mine.”

  “Another?”

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. I need to…” She circled the body, studied it, studied the screen.

  “You’re not going to be off, or not far off on your estimate. You’re too good for that. So that’s going to put her in her mid-twenties to early thirties. Not a child, so unlikely parental abuse. More likely a relationship. A spouse or lover.”

  She held up a finger as her PPC signaled.

  “No results, no data on record in the state outside ’48 to ’52,” she told Morris. “Recalibrate search to nationwide and run.”

  She pocketed her PPC. “Maybe she went rabbit. One too many tune-ups, she goes rabbit. At some point, she wipes her data, or has it wiped so whoever uses her for a punching bag can’t find her. But then she puts it back up, or creates a new identity, for these four years. And it takes some skill to fully wipe out official data. Or money to hire the skill. Takes that to create fresh.

  “I need an e-man with the skills.”

  “I suspect you know where to find one.”

  “Yeah. It’ll take time to run the national, then if that comes up zip, a global. I’ll get Feeney and his team on it. I’ll hit on Roarke for it.”

  She looked back down at Alva. “It’s not going to apply to her murder. I’m not stretching coincidence that she ends up bashed by whoever smacked her around a couple decades ago.”

  “But you need to know. She deserved the knowing.”

  “I do. She does. Let DeWinter know this takes priority over the other. For now. Her killer’s still out there. For all I know the one or ones who killed my other victims are as dead as they are.”

  “Victims?”

  “Female and apparently a fetus or newborn, remains potentially close to forty years old.”

  Once she filled him in, Morris took a long pull of ginger ale. “You’ve had a busy day.”

  “And it ain’t half done. Thanks for the quick work on her. I’m going to find who put her in your house, and as a bonus round, I’m going to track down who beat the crap out of her twenty years ago.”

  “I trust you will.”

  When Eve left, Morris walked back to Alva. “We’ll all look out for you now.”

  * * *

  Eve signaled Peabody to meet her at the car, and considered her options. Rather than tag her former partner and captain of the Electronic Detectives Division, she’d prefer to run it by him face-to-face.

  She wanted to set up her board and book—or boards and books, she amended, as she’d been running two cases and three victims.

  Still, the remains were in DeWinter’s hands now. Until she got something from the bone doc, she had little to do or explore.

  When she spotted Peabody, Eve got behind the wheel. Peabody picked up the pace, then slid in.

  “I’ve got everybody but the head plumber, an electrical engineer, two hardscapers, and the security chief. One of the hardscapers is on his honeymoon in Belize, has been for four days. I left a message for the other, who happens to be the groom’s sister. The others are on other job sites.”

  “Good start. I need to talk to Feeney, so if we have any come in before that’s done, you take them. Keep it routine, just crossing the t’s. We need to evaluate everyone with access.”

  “You need to talk to Feeney about any potential break in the security at the crime scene?”

  “Yeah, that. If there was a breach, what for? Theft, sabotage? Access, it could still be either of those. But it’s most likely someone who knew the site, somebody who worked on the site, knew where to get the crowbar, the plastic. But I need to talk to him about the victim. I got stiffed on a regional run on her. National’s still in progress. And what Morris found tells me we need an e-man on it.”

  She filled in Peabody, finishing up as she pulled into the garage at Central.

  “It sounds like a hard life,” Peabody said as they crossed to the elevators. “And she gave people paper flowers and animals.”

  “And kept her law-and-order book. I wonder what Mira has to say about those habits. Meanwhile, DeWinter will put Alva at the front of the line.”

  When the elevator doors opened, the stench rolled out ahead of the occupant. Eve recognized the undercover Illegals detective despite the stringy hair, the scruffy stubble, and the filthy trench over equally filthy baggies.

  “Jesus, Fruicki, did you bathe in piss?”

  “Pretty much.” He grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Got a meet with a Zeus dealer. Somebody’s added an extra zing to the street sales. He’s my in. Do I look crazy enough for a fix?”

  “You smell bad enough.”

  “Yeah, but that gets me a private ride down.”

  He shambled off, leaving the fetid odor lingering in the air. Eve eyed the elevator.

  “No,” she said, turned on her heel, and aimed for the stairs.

  “He really looked like a jonesing junkie,” Peabody commented as they clanged up.

  “He smelled like a corpse covered in cat piss.”

  She went up two levels, hung a left, and took an elevator from another bank.

  It might have been packed with cops, but it smelled normal.

  “I’m heading straight up to EDD. Get what you can going, and I’ll check in. If you don’t need me to take an interview, I’ll set up the boards and books. Just keep me in the loop.”

  “Can and will.”

  At the first opportunity, Eve slithered out of the elevator to take the glides to EDD. More noise, as voices echoed, but more air to breathe and fewer bodies pushed together.

  Then she made the turn into the carnival that was EDD.

  Colors clashed and smashed. Patterns streamed and soared. Bold, bright, bewildering. Neon baggies, skin pants, overalls in tones only known to nature in solar systems far away. Zigzags, spirals, lightning bolts, and starbursts.


  E-geeks sat in cubes, at desks—always bouncing—or danced along from one point of the big bullpen to the other to the strange music playing in their heads.

  She spotted Ian McNab, Peabody’s main dish, at his station, skinny hips ticktocking as he stood, tapping fingers on a screen, rainbow airboots shuffling, his head bopping so his long blond tail of hair swung with the movement.

  Beyond the usual circus, she got the impression of speed and focus. So something was up.

  She headed for the relative sanity of Feeney’s office.

  He, too, stood, one old brown shoe tapping as he worked a screen. His silver-threaded ginger hair exploded—like a cloud of shock—around his basset hound of a face. His eyes, all cop, focused on the screen.

  Unlike those in the bullpen, he wore a suit—the color of dung that had baked a few hours in the hard sun. The knot of his brown tie had gone crooked at the collar of his industrial-beige shirt.

  She smelled cop coffee and sugar.

  He grunted, stepped back a half step. And spotted her.

  “Don’t have anything yet. I sent a couple of boys out as soon as I could spare them.”

  “Okay. You’re working a hot one.”

  He held up three fingers. “We’re nearly there with the first—got nearly thirty hours on it, and we’ve broken through. Second just came in last night. And the third, the big, hit this morning.”

  He held up a finger, this time as a signal to wait, and stepped over to his AutoChef. “Want coffee?”

  She accepted she’d been spoiled, but good coffee, Roarke’s blend, waited in her office. So she could wait, too.

  “I’m good.”

  “Spitzer Museum took a hit. It’s a small, exclusive joint, Upper East. Privately funded, heavily secured—got all the bells and whistles. And somebody melted right on through, looks like about midnight. Only took one. A painting by that French guy, that Monet guy. Water lilies. Curator said it was insured for a hundred and twenty million. Get that? For a picture of flowers.”

  Feeney shook his head, slurped some coffee. “Anyway, I couldn’t send top tier on your case. We’re booking it here to find out how the living fuck they got through enough security it should’ve slammed shut on a housefly buzzing in.”

  He slurped more coffee, gave her a long eyeballing over it.

  “Jesus, Feeney, you know he wouldn’t—”

  “Shit, Dallas, I’m not saying that. I’m thinking about maybe tagging him up, seeing if he’s got time and room to consult on it.”

  “That’s up to you and Roarke.”

  “I’m thinking about it. It’s a challenge, this here. Pretty slick, pretty fucking smart. I can’t say I’m not enjoying it, but Roarke could maybe add to it.”

  “Was it one of his security systems?”

  “No, and that might be their mistake. Who knows? They had it privately designed. It’s good, and I’m saying it’s goddamn good. Somebody knew his shit to get through it.”

  “Like maybe one of the designers.”

  Feeney smiled, full teeth. “Looking there, but we’re on the tech. Once we get through the one that’s breaking, make a little more headway on the second, I can spare McNab or Callendar for you, for short sprints. You know the kid’s spending his off time working with Roarke on a personalized security system for the house Mavis and Leonardo bought.”

  “Yeah, I knew that. And Peabody’s burying me, when she catches me off guard, in tile samples and paint color and Christ knows for their end of the place.” Then she shrugged. “It’s going to be good for all of them. Anyway, there’s no real rush on my e’s, not yet. I’ve got other avenues to work.”

  “Give me an overview. I need to clear my brain cells for a few.”

  So saying, he picked up a wonky bowl—his wife’s creation—from his desk and offered Eve the candied almonds inside.

  Unlike his coffee, his almonds were top-notch. She popped one into her mouth as she started her rundown.

  “Looks like we’re both looking at inside jobs. You likely have two a few decades apart.”

  “Yeah, and the Singer business has hooks in both.”

  And that bugged her. Bugged the crap out of her.

  “The guy in charge now, he doesn’t give me the buzz, but some hide that really well. He’s pretty well covered on the older murder—away at college—and since he owns the place, it’s hard to work out why he’d bash somebody for seeing him there. But you’ve gotta look.”

  “You’ve already got the expert consultant, civilian, on the construction angle. Still…” Feeney looked back at his screen. “I might give him a tag.”

  She looked at the screen, and couldn’t decipher the figures and symbols. But Roarke could. “He’ll have more fun with you. I’ve got to get going.”

  She popped another almond on her way out. “Good hunting.”

  “Back at you,” he said, and refocused on the screen.

  As she made her way to Homicide, her PPC signaled.

  No results, she read on her national search. She tagged Roarke. Feeney could do the same, she thought—and, yeah, Roarke would enjoy the challenge, but she needed an e-man now.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I know you’re tied up with the Hudson Yards site, but there’s nothing much I can do on that one until DeWinter’s done her thing. And I had to put my first vic ahead on that. Morris found some old injuries—it looks like regular physical abuse—and I need her to confirm a time line.”

  “All right.”

  “Meanwhile I need some e-work, and Feeney’s slammed. He’s probably going to tag you on the hottest of the three they’re working.”

  “The Monet.”

  “You know about it?”

  He smiled at her. “Not directly. Water Lilies, 1916. A brilliant work, and worth well over a hundred million. Double that to a private collector. Wouldn’t it be fun to consider how it was done, and who wanted that particular painting?”

  He would have once, she thought.

  And nobody would have caught him.

  “I figured, and what I need’s not so much fun. My vic doesn’t show up on a national search. She popped up as Alva Quirk for a space of time, but nothing before. No records. So she had them wiped. I figure she got tired of being tuned up, took off, did what she could to go into the wind. I need to find her.”

  “A thorough washing of official records takes considerable skill or money. Or both.”

  “You could determine if it’s that thorough.”

  “I could, yes. I’ve still some scheduling to untangle, and if I understand you, we’ll be shut down for several days or more, but for Building One.”

  “I have to prioritize.”

  “Understood. Send me what you have on your victim. I’ll see what I can do when I can do it. Ah, and Feeney’s tagging me now.”

  “Me, first.”

  He smiled again. “Darling Eve, you’re always first. Now, I do wonder what the NYPSD did without me.”

  “I look at it this way. We’re saving the world from somebody who can steal a dead French guy’s flower painting. See you later.”

  She clicked off, and turned into Homicide.

  The only carnival in her bullpen lived in Jenkinson’s tie. To her eye, it looked like a sunset on Pluto, after the sun went nova.

  She wondered it didn’t burn through his shirt.

  Deliberately she walked down into her office, retrieved the sunshades she put in a drawer. She slid them on and walked back to the bullpen.

  When he saw her, Jenkinson smirked.

  “Status.”

  “Healthy, not close to wealthy, but pretty fucking wise. Baxter and Trueheart caught a floater—East River. Carmichael and Santiago are in Interview with a suspect on the knifing on Avenue B they caught last night.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where his partner barked into his ’link. “Reineke’s running down a lead on the case we caught day before yesterday. We’re moving on it. Peabody’
s in Interview with one of yours.”

  She scanned the case board as he spoke, nodded. “I’m in my office.”

  “You got a twofer this morning. If we wrap this up, we can give you a hand if you need it.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  In her office, she tossed the sunshades back in the drawer and hit the coffee. She gave herself a moment, just one moment, to stand at her skinny window, fueling up, looking out at the city she’d sworn to protect and serve.

  A lot of Alvas out there, she thought. She could have been one of them. Her beatings had started young, ended when she’d been eight and killed the man who’d beat her, raped her, terrified her.

  Maybe Alva had killed her abuser. Maybe she’d killed, then run, then tried to vanish.

  A hard life, Peabody had said. And a damn hard end to it.

  Eve turned away from the window. She set up both sides of her office board. Front for Alva Quirk, back for her unidentified victims.

  She sat, started a book for Alva, another for the Jane Doe.

  She continued on the book when she heard Peabody’s bootsteps.

  “Status?”

  “I interviewed the security chief. He’s clear, Dallas. I was kind of hoping he’d be the link, but he was—and I verified—in Connecticut at his parents’ seventy-fifth anniversary party. There’s video of a lot of it. He and his husband took a limo to and from because they wanted to be able to drink and stay late. I have the limo company, talked to the driver. He dropped them at home on Third Avenue at zero-two-twenty-two. There’s security on their building, and they didn’t go out again until they both left at zero-eight-sixteen this morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want to add he’s upset. He’d like clearance to check on the security, find the breach. I told him we were on that. He’d seen Alva around. Not on-site, but on the street.”

  “We’ll clear him when we’ve cleared the scene. He may spot something, since he’s worked it. Feeney’s got people on it now. Do you need me on the next?”

  “I’ve got it. It’s the IT guy, and he’s coming in now.”

  “If you get a buzz, pull me in.”