Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “On the Baltic Sea.” At her stony stare, he laughed. “Baltic is here,” he said, holding up the wine bottle. “Sweden and Denmark here, Belarus here, Poland here, and … yes, Latvia up here. So sits Lithuania.” He circled a finger at the point in his invisible air map.

  “How do you know that? Seriously. I could go out, grab twenty strangers off the street, and, unless they’re Lithuanian, odds are low I’d find two who know that.”

  “It pays to know when you have business interests there and in the region. How many people did the Traveler murder?”

  “Jacob Ainsley—I hate when they have a nickname. Traveler because he stayed mobile, using mostly campgrounds, national parks, cheap motels in his quest to murder at least one person in every U.S. state and territory. He used various means—shooting, bludgeoning, stabbing, strangling—but preferred the knife for the close-up work and the blood. Blood he kept labeled by date of kills in a collection of vials.

  “Between 2037 and 2043 he killed fifty-three—that’s known kills. He’d have made it fifty-four, but the woman he targeted in Juneau, Alaska, Marian Moon, former U.S. Army Special Forces, kicked his ass. Ainsley was the first convict transferred to off-planet prison Rexal when it was completed in 2053.”

  “I’ll wager I could grab twenty strangers and so on.”

  “I see your point. Where’s Mirvinastan?”

  “Somewhere on the north side of your imagination.”

  “Just checking.”

  As they approached the house, she saw a table set on one of the patios. Summer-blue linen, scattered tea lights, cheerful flowers, silver heating domes.

  “You had a plan.”

  “I did.”

  “It’s a good plan.”

  He poured more wine and, prepared for anything—even spinach—Eve removed the domes.

  “Pizza.” She felt a ridiculous surge in her heart. “You must really love me.”

  “I must.”

  She sat, reached for his hand one more time. “After dinner, we could walk around the other way, work off the pizza. And we could watch a vid.”

  “Now who loves who? What sort of vid would you like?”

  “Let’s do one of those ancient ones you like so much, where the men all wear hats and the women dress like getting out of bed’s a formal event.”

  “I can make that work.”

  She took her first bite of pizza and thought again it was good to be home.

  17

  In the morning, she woke refreshed and satisfied. Hard not to, she figured, when you had a pond, pizza, popcorn. Add in a pretty entertaining vid followed by a round of lazy sex, and how could you complain?

  And she woke with the man she’d shared all that with sitting across the room, the cat curled in his lap. The stock reports scrolled by on the wall screen, but he appeared to pay more attention to whatever he studied on his tablet.

  “They insist we’ll have storms with heavy spots of rain this afternoon,” he said without looking up.

  “They do?”

  “They’re very confident, so you’ll want your topper if you go out into the field.”

  “Check.”

  Right now she wanted coffee. But when she glanced at the time, she saw she could squeeze in a solid thirty-minute workout.

  “I’m going to hit the gym. I’ve got thirty to spare.”

  “Take twenty, and use the other ten for a swim. That’s the way I started my day, and it’s set me up nicely.”

  “Your day starts in the middle of the night.”

  But she considered it as she rode the elevator down and decided it was a damn good idea.

  Thirty minutes later, system pumped and ready, she came up to grab coffee and to shower. And he still worked the tablet.

  “What’s on there?”

  “The security system McNab and I are designing for the new house. Plus, the other business—sound and entertainment, lighting, communications, and the like.”

  She took her first life-affirming gulp of coffee. “I gave Peabody a time-limited opportunity to gush about her kitchen stuff yesterday.”

  He looked up, smiled. And God, that smile could drain recently pumped muscles into putty.

  “It’s a warm, lovely palette she’s chosen, good materials, an efficient but not stagnant design. Or they’ve chosen, as Ian’s very involved.”

  She shrugged, grunted, then went to shower.

  Under the jets, she let her mind open to the work again. Garrett Wicker, and she looked forward to that one. Now, if storms and crap really were happening, she wanted to get to the Singers in Hudson Valley before they hit.

  Especially if getting to Hudson Valley and back involved a jet-copter. Which, sadly, made the most sense.

  But she had to hit DeWinter. Lab first, she decided. And if she got to Central a little later than nine, the son of a bitch could wait.

  Since she’d pushed it off her plate the night before, she needed to contact Reo about Wicker, set that up. Have Peabody set up the meet with the Singers.

  She stepped into the drying tube, closed her eyes as the warm air swirled, and laid out a mental agenda.

  She grabbed the robe on the back of the door. When she stepped back in the bedroom, she saw the covered plates and the pot of coffee waiting.

  The cat, she noted, had chosen to stretch out in the sunlight under the window. She poured more coffee, then considered the plates he’d uncovered.

  The yogurt stuff with the healthy tree-bark stuff that the fat berries made reasonably okay. And she’d get through that because … waffles.

  She immediately coated them with butter and drowned them in syrup.

  “Have a look here.”

  She scooped up some of the yogurt to get it out of the way, and glanced over at the kitchen layout on his tablet. She remembered the design Peabody had rhapsodized over, the soft greens and creams.

  “That’s Peabody’s?”

  “It will be.”

  “That evil science lab–looking kitchen is going to turn into that?”

  “The science lab is no more. Demo’s all but finished, both sides. There was some back-and-forth there, as on the Mavis side, they said do Peabody’s first, and on the Peabody’s, it was do Mavis’s first. And I finally stepped into that to remind them you wouldn’t allow Mavis and her family to move in without the cops, and it would be not altogether pleasant for the cops to move in while construction crews were swarming all over the place.”

  Nodding, she stuffed in waffles. “Damn right on reason one, probably true on reason two.”

  “In any case, the demo’s all but done, so we’ll start on those internal systems very soon. Then we have this.”

  He swiped the screen. Eve let out a laugh.

  “Jesus, that’s Mavis all over. No, it’s her and Leonardo, and the kid. It’s all of them. Who knows about the one that’s still cooking, but that’s the three of them.”

  Color, color, and more color, but not, she thought, crazy. Not Jenkinson’s ties crazy. Cheerful and bright and happy and maybe right up to the edge of crazy so it came off artistic.

  “It’s going to work,” she said. “Because of who they are—all of them. And because you’re helping. You’re helping them make a home. Peabody and McNab, they grew up in one. Now they’re really making their own. Mavis and Leonardo, they made one, made one with the kid, but it was always temporary. This is the real deal.”

  She’d finished off the yogurt without realizing it, and happily attacked the rest of the waffles. “It strikes me, a lot, what a difference it makes when you’ve got one. I had the job, but I’ve seen cops burn out when they didn’t have the home to fold into. How you can lose your edge, or lose what you need to keep that edge from going too sharp.

  “It’s not just waffles and sex.”

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “They don’t hurt.”

  “Don’t hurt a bit. But it’s knowing you can go there, that you’re going to get there no matter how hard and ugly the day. It�
��s not the color schemes and all that, but they make you feel at home. That safe space. Alva had one, then she didn’t. In the end, not feeling safe broke her, so she made her home on the streets.”

  She looked at the cat stretched out in the sunlight.

  “I think she let herself forget the safe spaces as much as she did the prison Wicker locked her in. Delgato, he lost home, because his addiction dragged him down so far he couldn’t climb out.”

  “And let himself forget making and keeping a home takes work and care.”

  “Yeah. Did she have one?” Eve wondered. “The woman behind the wall? Did she think she’d go home that night, or the next day? Into that safe space, take what was inside her there? Did she have someone waiting for her? Did they just forget her when she didn’t come back?”

  “She has you now.”

  “I need more. She’s basically a ghost at this point. I have an age range—young twenties. Basic height and weight—right about average, but small-boned. I’ve got shoe size. I know she had long, narrow fingers. She probably had money. Designer shoes, good jewelry. Had conservative lady tastes or wanted to project that image—the shoes and jewelry again. And I know she was thirty-two weeks pregnant, or thereabouts, when she took the bullets.

  “Three shots, thirty-two caliber. I got that lab report mixed in with everything else yesterday.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  The quiet patience in his voice made her stop eating to look at him. “You learned of the remains less than forty-eight hours ago. And in that time, closed two murders. I’d say you have quite a lot.”

  “I’m not giving myself grief. Really.” But. The but struck her hard and clear. “Alva’s case broke because Tovinski’s name popped in the first interviews, and Delgato’s murder was so damn sloppy. We did good work, but we had things fall on our side fast. And I know DeWinter’s not scratching her ass on the remains. I just need more.”

  “And you hate depending on someone else to get it for you.”

  “Maybe.” She polished off the waffles. “Oh hell yeah, I do. I can’t see her. I can’t put her up on my board and look at her face or read her background and piece together who she was. Can’t interview her friends, family, coworkers if she had any. Was she married, or was the ring a blind to keep people off her back because she was pregnant? Who was the father? Too many questions I can’t begin to answer until I know who she was.”

  “You plan to talk to the Singers today,” he said as she rose to go to her closet.

  “It sounds like the grandmother had her hands on the wheel during that period. The father was supposed to, but my take is he was more interested in flitting around the world than getting his hands dirty.”

  She poked her head out. “Know anything about that?”

  “Well before my time, but I can ask around.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. It bugs me, the wall bugs me. Superior material there, crap on the rest. Where’d they get it? From another site? Had to be a quick, fast, in-a-fucking-hurry job, so you can’t, you know, order a bunch of bricks.”

  “A great deal of construction in that area at that time,” he pointed out from the doorway of her closet.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got that. Like I’ve got Singer was a player back then, too—and Bardov either partnered or invested in Singer projects. Which tells me there wasn’t much problem with the big shots on hooking up with a mobster. Yeah, yeah, yeah again, post-Urbans, desperate times and all that, but that connection’s still there. So.”

  She wanted to grab black, just whatever in black, but he stood there in the damn closet.

  “Okay, fine. I’m going to take down another cop—fucking wife-beating, smug, bullying bastard. And I’m going to interview Elinor and J. Bolton Singer—as long as I can get to them today. And since I’ll be in the area, I may give Bardov another push, see if I can talk to his wife.”

  She threw up her hands. “What in this vast labyrinth of clothes do I put on, and why?”

  “First, power and authority are what you project. The clothes only confirm what you already are. The Singers are wealthy, and so are you.”

  He held up a hand before she could object. “Which means you speak to them on the same level, and you show you’re on the same level. Money and status matter to Elinor Singer. That much I know.”

  He chose slim pants in smoke-gray leather, passed them to her. Then a T-shirt—on the silky side and several shades lighter. Like the topper, she remembered.

  “Go with a vest again—three-button style.” He handed her one the color of the pants but with a thin stripe in the lighter gray.

  “The tee shows off your very-well-toned arms, and projects power and strength, but the material’s rich.”

  He turned to the wall of boots. She figured he’d go with the lighter gray and what she thought of as a girlier style.

  Instead he lifted a smoke-gray pair, thick soled, that laced over the ankle.

  “Add the edge. Military style. Authority.”

  “Okay, I like it.”

  “Then suck this up. Diamond studs—very small, barely noticeable. They’ll be noticed, believe me, by the women.”

  “Shit.” The idea actually brought on a twinge of pain. “A bullpen full of cops’ll notice, too.”

  “I’m sure you’ll all deal with it.” He toyed with the fat diamond she wore around her neck. “You might wear this over your shirt instead of under for the Singers.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He cupped her face. “It matters to me you wear it.”

  “You got that stupid button in your pocket?”

  He reached in, drew out the gray button that had fallen off her ugly suit the first time he’d met her.

  “Same thing.” She lifted her shoulders. “It’s the same damn thing, which makes us a couple of saps for each other.”

  “There’s no one else I’d rather be a sap for.” He kissed her, stepped back. “I’ll get the earrings.”

  “Really small, right?”

  “Practically invisible.”

  She rolled her eyes, but dressed. And dressed, decided she looked like a cop—vital to her—and a woman who could handle herself.

  She took the earrings. Not practically invisible, she thought, but they were pretty small.

  But it all felt better—more her—when she strapped on her weapon.

  “And there you have it,” he said with a nod of approval. “Let me know if and when on the copter. I’d pilot you myself, but I’m a bit crowded today.”

  “I’m hoping for ten, maybe eleven. It all depends on how quick I can wrap up Wicker.”

  “Just tag me. And don’t forget your topper when you leave for Hudson Valley. And these.”

  He handed her sunshades with smoke-gray lenses.

  “I’m going to lose them.”

  “Probably, but before you do, they add another edge.”

  She glanced toward the mirror to see. “Man, they’re excellent. I’m going to hate losing them. Gotta go.” She kissed him hard. “Got APAs to push and scientists to nag.”

  “Good luck on all of that, and take care of my cop.”

  “Look at her.” Eve waggled the sunshades. “She can take care of herself and anybody else she needs to.”

  He counted on just that.

  * * *

  Eve tagged Reo, coordinated with her on Wicker. It involved some legal maneuvers—which she happily left in Reo’s lap.

  She texted Peabody, gave her the outline.

  And with renewed energy and purpose, fought her way through traffic.

  She appreciated the sunshades, as the sun beamed like a laser. And its strength in a solid blue sky made her think the infamous “they” missed the mark again on rain.

  Once again, she walked through the lab and up the steps to DeWinter’s area.

  The bones, the woman’s, the fetus’s, lay on the tables as they had the day before.

  This time, no kid full of questions lounged in the room. And no DeWinter w
orked with those bones.

  A little steamed, she checked DeWinter’s office—empty—then made her way to the next section.

  She found Elsie Kendrick working on the sketch, with the computer-generated version on-screen while she used a large sketch pad.

  Not complete, not yet, but for the first time Eve had an image.

  Delicate features, yes, but sharp. Slender nose, a bowed mouth, high cheekbones, long, almond-shaped eyes, very deep-set, and ears small, close to the head.

  A striking face, Eve thought, the sort that would have stayed striking had she been allowed to live decades longer.

  “Middle East heritage,” Eve said, and Elsie jolted.

  “You gave me a start! And good eye. Yes, from her tests and studies this far, Dr. DeWinter’s determined Middle Eastern genetics. Most probably Lebanese.”

  “What about the fetus?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’ve focused on her. I don’t have enough for the holo or for running facial rec, but I’m getting close.”

  “I can see her.”

  “Yes.” Elsie smiled a little. “It’s a strong, memorable face even with its delicacy. Maybe because of it. I haven’t added it yet, but going by genetics, she’d have had dark hair, likely true black. And extrapolating from the era when she died, the profile of her personality you and Dr. Mira provided, I see her with long, straight hair, simply styled.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, too. Where’s DeWinter?”

  “On her way in. She ran a little late this morning. Her usual child care provider’s still down, so she went with her backup.” She smiled again. “Miranda had some objections. She should be here any minute.”

  “Okay. Can you make me a copy of what you’ve got so far?”

  “I could, but if you give me a bit more time, I should have her finished. A few hours more, I’ll have the full body—best probability pre-pregnancy and at TOD.”

  “Send me the complete as soon as you have it, but I’ll take what you’ve got now. I can add in the confirmed data points, run it through any missing persons for the time frame, try facial recognition. I could hit there.”

  She turned as she heard the click of heels.