by J. D. Robb
“It helps to talk it through. I haven’t been able to give her much time. I wanted to give her this, talk it through. I need a face, I need a name. But I’ve got this picture.”
She looked back at Mira. “Young, pregnant, proper. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Proper.”
“Probably well brought up, so either married or planning to be. Because pregnant. Healthy—no signs of abuse. Good, practical shoes, good, subtle jewelry—including the ring. She probably wore a dress or a suit—that’s long gone. She went up there to meet someone. Maybe she was coerced, maybe she was deceived, but it was important enough for this young, proper woman to go up to a construction site, at night, either alone or with her killer. She couldn’t have believed she was in danger. She hadn’t carried the kid that long, taken that much care, to risk it, or herself.”
“Someone she knew?”
“I keep circling to that when I can give it five minutes. Maybe the husband or lover. Maybe he was married and promised her the usual bullshit. She believed him, and now he’s in a box. So he had to get rid of her.”
She rose again, shook her head again. “But that doesn’t hold strong for me. She goes poof, somebody’s going to ask questions. Somebody knows about the relationship. So that doesn’t play all the way through.
“Anyway, thanks for the time.”
“If it really did help, I’m happy to give it.”
It did help, Eve thought as she made her way back to Homicide. Some consults with Mira, like this one, pushed her to pick through her own brain, study the angles she’d pushed. See the strengths and weaknesses of embryonic theories.
And with Mira’s help she was forming a picture of Jane Doe.
And now she had to put her aside, again, and focus on Alva.
As she stepped off the glide on Homicide, the elevator doors opened. Reo stepped out.
“Took you long enough.”
“Hey.” Reo gestured. “Let’s talk.”
“You got the warrant.”
“Yes. But we need to go over some things.”
She breezed into the bullpen, then arrowed straight toward Eve’s office.
Deceiving appearances, Eve thought again. With her fluffy blond hair, pretty-girl looks, and faint southern drawl, she presented a picture of female sweetness, and that often came off as weakness.
Inside that pretty package lived steel and sharp brains and cunning.
In her straight-lined red dress, Reo flicked a glance at the murder board.
“I’m not sitting in that vicious chair. Everybody knows it’ll bite your ass, and everybody knows that’s why you have it in here. It’s outlived its purpose.”
Eve studied her miserable visitor’s chair. “I like that chair.”
“Then you sit in it.”
Reo slid into Eve’s desk chair, set down her briefcase. Crossed her legs.
Maybe she still had shoes and their hidden meanings on the brain, because Eve studied Reo’s.
“Why are you wearing those shoes?”
Reo lifted her foot, turned it right and left as she studied her heels—high and thin and red to pop against the more somber gray of the body.
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“They can’t be comfortable.”
“Actually, they have a very nice cushion and excellent arch support.”
“Yeah, right. Why those particular shoes?”
“They go with the dress, add a nice polished look. They say I’m a serious, professional woman, but I also have style.”
“Huh. They say all that?”
“They do. Why the interest?”
“Just trying to get a picture on another case. What about the warrant?”
“The boss and I went over the financial data you already found. Obviously we can charge him with tax evasion, fraud, and all the connected goodies. Now, while going after one of the Bardov family would be satisfying, it’s also a bit deflating to do the dance over relatively small potatoes.”
“There are going to be bigger potatoes. And why is it potatoes? Why isn’t it small apples, or elephants?”
Reo tilted her head as if giving that serious thought. “I have no idea. But we tend to agree there may be bigger potatoes—or elephants. Even a cursory study indicates his outlay is considerably larger than his income—even the unreported income. So this leads the cynical mind toward the possibilities of money laundering and/or cash transactions, which may involve blackmail, force, intimidation, or other nefarious means.”
“Nefarious. That’s a word for it.”
Smiling, Reo swiveled left and right in the chair. “And since I know, the boss knows, everybody in my world knows you don’t want to sweat Alexei Tovinski, Yuri Bardov’s favored nephew, over his financial machinations, we want all the t’s crossed before he’s picked up.”
Reo gave Eve her big, southern smile. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had coffee?”
Eve walked to her AutoChef. “I’m going to use those machinations—and his habit of knocking up women he’s not married to—to sweat him for two murders. Alva Quirk and Carmine Delgato. I suspect, as you do, those aren’t his first. Wouldn’t it be nice if they were his last?”
She handed Reo a mug of coffee, then, since she wasn’t about to use the visitor’s chair, eased a hip down on her desk.
“Yes, it would. It very much would. So let’s talk.”
Eve leaned over, hit her interoffice. “Peabody, my office.”
After a brief pause, Peabody responded, “I need five minutes! I’ve got something!”
“Bang,” Eve murmured.
“Bang what?”
“The fabric I found on Delgato’s windowsill. Harvo tracked it down to type, dye lot, manufacturers, venues in New York. Peabody’s working on finding out where Tovinski bought the suit, pants, whatever, made from that expensive Italian wool. How do you figure he’s going to explain snagging his fancy pants on the windowsill of a dead man’s flop?”
Reo sipped coffee. “I can’t wait to find out. That sort of physical evidence adds weight to the circumstantial. It connects the two men—though Tovinski won’t be the only person in the city of New York with a garment made from that fabric.”
“Dye lot narrows it—and Harvo says it’s new, not yet dry-cleaned. It’s weight.”
“It’s weight,” Reo agreed.
“They both needed more money than they earned to feed their addictions. Women for Tovinski, the horses for Delgato. They worked together to defraud the Singer company, by straight theft, by doctoring invoices, by changing orders to cheaper material. I’m betting Tovinski’s skimmed plenty from his favorite uncle.”
“The thought crossed my mind. And if so, favorite or not, Tovinski will be lucky to live long enough to go to trial.”
“I don’t want him dead; I want him in a cage. I’m going to have a chat with Bardov. I just have to put enough together to convince him not to order a hit. I think—”
She broke off as Peabody’s boots sounded a double-time clomp toward the office.
Her partner’s face shined bright, her smile spread wide. “Got the fucker! Hey, Reo.”
“Hey, Peabody. I completely love the potential of your new house.”
“Isn’t it just the maggiest of mags? We just settled on the colors and materials for the kitchen and—”
“Shut up, both of you, shut up about houses and kitchens, or you’ll have to arrest me and Reo charge me for punching both of you. How did you get the fucker?”
“It wasn’t Leonardo, thankfully, because he got shaky over it. Leonardo was one of the designers who ordered the fabric and the dye lot,” she added for Reo. “But Casa Della Moda—that’s house of fashion in Italian—ordered the same fabric—for one customer.”
“You got him.”
“Oh yeah. Tovinski has all his suits made there—custom. Picks out the fabric from samples, the buttons, the design, all of it. They make his shirts, too. He picked up this particular suit four days ago
. I was curious enough to ask. Eighteen thousand. Add two more for custom silk lining.”
“Harvo hits again. And good work, Peabody.”
“Good enough for coffee?”
Eve jerked a thumb at the machine. “We’re going to get a forensic accountant to start on the finances. With what we have so far, they’ll have a head start. We’re already authorized to go into Singer’s business accounts. There’s going to be discrepancies, and they’re going to point to him and Delgato. Could be others in on it and, if so, we’ll find them.”
Eve pushed up, moved to the board.
“Consider this, consider a possible connection between Alva Quirk and the woman whose remains we found on another site previously owned by Singer. Both of them almost certainly killed at night, when the site was closed. The use of substandard materials. Yeah, common on the old site, but who’s to say there wasn’t skimming and theft and fraud?”
She tapped a finger on Tovinski’s photo. “Who’s to say he wasn’t there?”
“He’d have been a teenager, right?”
Eve tapped the photo again before she looked back at Reo. “Born to kill. And we both know you don’t have to be an adult to kill. I do believe it’s going to come up in conversation when he’s in Interview.”
“He’ll have a lawyer on tap. A good one.”
Eve smiled. “Are you afraid of a mob lawyer, Reo?”
“Not even a little.”
“Me, either. Peabody, get the warrant and the files to the best accountant we’ve got, then write up the statement from the fancy-pants house.”
“I’ve got it.”
As Peabody rushed out, Eve leaned on the desk again. “He’s weak,” Eve began. “He thinks he’s tough, feels invincible because he’s always had protection. He’s always been inside the club with his uncle patting his head. But he’s weak. The women, and the way he sets them up, the way he hides them. From each other, too, I bet.”
“I tend to agree with that,” Reo said. “I can’t see those women, or his wife, tolerating the others. Or not well.”
“He struck Alva from behind, he lay in wait for Delgato and took him out with a paralytic. He’s used to giving orders, being feared. He’s not that smart. Roarke said his financial—what’s the word you liked?—machinations were sloppy. I’ll break him.”
“You wouldn’t know about any bigger elephants in those sloppy financials, would you?”
Eve glanced over, eyes cool. “Smaller ones generally grow into bigger ones, don’t they?”
Reo just nodded. “We’ll leave it there. Now, let’s take the next fifteen—because I have to get back to the office—to make sure we’re approaching this upcoming interview from the same angle. Then I’ll come back when he’s ready for the box, and we’ll sweat him together.”
When they’d finished, Eve updated her board, both sides, then sat to do the same with her book.
She wanted that sit-down with Yuri Bardov, but knew it had to wait until she broke his nephew, until she had that wrapped. And the day was already clicking away.
She needed the accountant to find what Roarke had. Since it wasn’t something she could push, she went down to Evidence for Alva’s books.
She hadn’t expected to cart back an evidence box holding more than two dozen.
But Alva, the rule-follower, had each one dated. For expediency, she started with the last, opting to work her way back.
When she realized that book detailed Alva’s time at the shelter, she set it aside, took out the previous.
It was a nightmare from the start.
It twisted in her heart, in her guts, the despair, the self-blame, the fear, the loneliness.
She’d known all that, could still feel it if she let herself.
Trying isn’t enough. I overcooked dinner and wasted food. Three slaps. Garrett hates to yell at me, so I have to do better. Accidents don’t happen. Saying they do is a lie and a weak, whiny excuse for being careless. I broke the glass. Two slaps. I tried to hide the broken glass and that’s deceitful, disgusting, and dishonest. I deserved the broken finger. He hates when I make him punish me, but the pain will remind me to be careful, to value what he works so hard to give me.
She read page after page of vicious, systematic, sadistic abuse. Day after day, with few respites.
And though the writing was nearly illegible, she read the last day Alva spent in that prison, read of the beating. She hadn’t felt well—he cited lazy, ungrateful—so hadn’t cleaned the house to his standards, didn’t have the evening meal ready, embarrassed him by not weeding the flower bed in front of the house so the neighbors could see how stupid and lazy she was.
The rape followed the beating, though he called it his right, her duty.
“Dallas.”
She looked over, saw Peabody. She hadn’t heard her. How could she have heard her when she’d been living a nightmare?
“Alva Quirk’s—or Alva Elliot’s—brother and sister are here. They just got on a shuttle and came.”
“Take them to the lounge. Stay with them. I’ll be right there.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m, ah, I’m going to text Morris to expect them. Get them settled in the lounge.”
Alone, she sat back, breathed it out. Should she tell them about these books? No, she didn’t think so. Not now.
But she very deliberately printed out Garrett Wicker’s ID shot and, rising, added it to her board.
“Once I put her killer away, you miserable, sadistic fuck, I’m coming for you.”
She got a tube of water, drank half of it to relieve her dry throat. She looked back at the books, then picked up the last one. The one Alva had filled with peace, happiness, growing confidence.
They could read some of it now, maybe take some comfort in their sister’s words. Eventually, when it was done, when justice was served, she’d send it to them.
14
Eve gave them as much time as she could spare, told them as much of the progress as she felt necessary. In the end, she arranged for them to be taken to the morgue.
“They won’t be able to take her home yet,” Peabody said as they walked back to Eve’s office.
“No.”
“Before you came in, I found out they hadn’t even booked a hotel or anything, so I gave them a couple of recommendations. They just wanted to get here, just wanted to see her.”
“Morris’ll take care of it.”
“These are her books, from before.” Peabody looked at the stacks on Eve’s desk. “A lot of them. Do you want me to take some?”
“No, I’ve got this, and she’s very detailed on the abuse. So there’s that after we close this end of it down.”
“Are we going to Oklahoma?”
“When we close the investigation of her murder and Delgato’s, the timing of that depends on how quickly DeWinter gets us what we need on our other victim. But we won’t be going to him. Not his turf, Peabody. We’ll get him on ours.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Oklahoma—you know, cowboys—but I like that better.” She looked at the stacks again. “How bad was it?”
“As bad as it gets. He’d have killed her eventually. In a way, he did. I’ve got Nadine on tap for this, and she’s getting other reporters on tap. I’m feeding her what I can.”
“She’ll dig up the rest.”
“Exactly. When we’ve got him in the box, when we start sweating him, I’m giving her the go. He deserves that,” she murmured. “He deserves having his officers, his neighbors, absolute strangers know who he is. What he did to her.”
“I’m hungry.”
“What?”
“Let’s have some lunch.”
Sincerely stunned, Eve watched Peabody go to her AutoChef and bring up the menu of choices.
“Hey, you’ve got grilled rosemary chicken sands with pepper jack cheese. We should spring for fries with that.”
When she punched through the shock, it hit her.
“Are you playing Roarke?
”
“I can’t match the accent or the mmm sexy, but being your professional and platonic partner, I’m taking his lead. You need the boost if we’re going to kick some Russian gangster’s ass, and follow it up—soon—by kicking that fucking abuser’s ass. And I get one, too. That’s a good deal for me.”
Peabody took out the plates, passed one to Eve. Taking her own, Peabody looked at the visitor’s chair.
“I’m sitting on the floor.”
Once she’d ordered two tubes of Pepsi—diet for herself—she did just that.
Eve sat, ate a fry. “Reo’s getting a search warrant for Tovinski’s residence and his office—or will when the accountant comes through. I hit Feeney up for McNab and Callendar to take the electronics.”
“His uncle’s going to hear about all this.”
“Counting on it. It just might bring him to our turf.”
“No trip to the Hudson Valley? Big sigh!” Peabody nibbled on her sandwich. “I’d love to see the Hudson Valley.”
“You may yet. The elder Singers need to chat with us. Singer senior might have a hand in the skimming. He was a crap CEO.”
Eve, no nibbler, bit into the sandwich and her incoming signaled.
“Accounting,” she said with her mouth full. “I told them to send me an alert if they found anything. Very preliminary,” she read. “Discrepancies re invoices, material, and equipment changes. Unaccountable income stream. This is good.”
“The sandwich or the data?”
“Both.” She took another bite, then copied the report to Reo.
Get the search warrants. We’re picking him up.
She hit interoffice for Officer Carmichael. “I want two of your biggest, baddest uniforms to pick up a suspect. I’m sending you the information.”
“Copy that, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll send it,” Peabody told her. “I’ve got it right here.”
“Accountant says it could take a couple days to cover everything.” Eve smiled. “And that’s before we get to Tovinski’s electronics, and his second set of books. We’re going to grill him, Peabody. Just like this chicken.”
Then she frowned at the visitor’s chair again. “I like that chair.”
