by J. D. Robb
"God, yes, oh God. From the media reports. I saw her on the reports. She was hardly more than a child. You think she was killed in my building, but I don't understand. She was found burned to death in that lot."
"She wasn't killed there."
"You can't expect me to believe anyone on my crew would have a part in something like this." He glanced up, confusion running over his face as he got to his feet. "Roarke?"
"Steve."
"Roarke is a civilian consultant in this investigation," Eve explained. "Do you have any objection to his presence here at this time?"
"No. I don't—"
"Who has the security codes to your building on Avenue B?"
"Ah. God." Steve pressed a hand to his head a moment. "I have them, and the security company, of course. Hinkey, ah . . . can't think straight. Yule, Gainer. That should be it."
"Your wife?"
"Pat?" He smiled weakly. "No. No point in that."
"Your son?"
"No." But his eyes went blank. "No. Trevor doesn't work on sites."
"But he's been to that building?"
"Yes. I don't like the implication here, Lieutenant. I don't like it at all."
"Is your son aware that his grandfather was Alex Crew?"
Every ounce of color drained from Steve's cheeks. "I believe I'd like that lawyer now."
"That's your choice." Standing as shield, Eve thought. Instinct. A father protecting his son. "More difficult to keep certain facts out of the media once the lawyers come into it, of course. Difficult to keep your connection to Alex Crew and events that transpired fifty years ago out of the public stream. I assume you'd prefer if certain details of your past remained private, Mr. Whittier."
"What does this have to do with Alex Crew?"
"What would you do to keep your parentage private, Mr. Whittier?"
"Nearly anything. Nearly. The fact of it, the fear of it has ruined my mother's health. If this is exposed, it might kill her."
"Samantha Gannon's book exposed quite a bit."
"It didn't make the connection. And my mother doesn't know about the book. I can control, somewhat, what she hears about. She needs to be protected from those memories, Lieutenant. She's never hurt anyone, and she doesn't deserve to be put on display. She's not well."
"I've no intention of doing that. I don't want to have to speak to her, to force her to speak to me about any of this."
"You want to shield your mother," Roarke said quietly. "As she shielded you. But there are prices to be paid, Steve, just as she paid them in her day. You'll have to speak for her."
"What can I tell you? For God's sake, I was a child the last time I saw him. He died in prison. He's nothing to do with me, with any of us. We made this life."
"Did the diamonds pay for it?" Eve wondered, and his head snapped around, insult plain on his face.
"They did not. Even if I knew where they were, I wouldn't have touched them. I used nothing of his, want nothing of his."
"Your son knows about them."
"That doesn't make him a killer! That doesn't mean he'd kill some poor girl. You're talking about my son. "
"Could he have gotten access to the security codes?"
"I didn't give him the codes. You're asking me to implicate my son. My child."
"I'm asking you for the truth. I'm asking you to help me close the door your father opened all those years ago."
"Close the circle," Steve mumbled and buried his face in his hands. "God. God."
"What did Alex Crew bring you that night? What did he bring to the house in Columbus?"
"What?" With a half laugh, Steve shook his head. "A toy. Just a toy." He gestured to the shelves, and the antique toys. "He gave me a scale-model bulldozer. I didn't want it. I was afraid of him, but I took it because I was more afraid not to. Then he sent me upstairs. I don't know what he said to my mother in the next few minutes, other than his usual threats. I know I heard her crying for an hour after he left. Then we were packing."
"Do you still have the toy?"
"I keep it to remind me what he was, what I overcame thanks to my mother's sacrifices. Ironic really. A bulldozer. I like to think I razed and buried the past." He looked over to the shelves, then, frowning, rose. "It should be here. I can't remember moving it. Odd."
Antique toys, Eve mused while Whittier searched. Gannon's ex had antique toys in his office and an advance copy of the book.
"Does your son collect this sort of thing, too?"
"Yes, it's the one thing Trevor and I shared. He's more interested in collector's values, more serious about it than I from that standpoint. It's not here."
He turned, his face was sheet-white now and seemed to have fallen in on itself. "It doesn't mean anything. I must have misplaced it. It's just a toy."
29.
"Could it have been moved?" Eve studied the shelves. She had a vague sort of idea what a bulldozer looked like. Her knowledge of machines was more finely tuned to urban style. The maxibuses that belched up and down the avenues, the airjacks that tore up the streets in the most inconvenient places at the most inconvenient times, the droning street-cleaning units, the clanking recycler trucks.
But she recognized models of old-fashioned pickup trucks and service vans, and a shiny red tractor, not unlike the one she'd seen on Roarke's aunt's farm recently.
There were toy replicas of emergency vehicles that were boxier, clunkier to her eye than what zipped around the streets or skies of New York. And a number of bulky trucklike things with scoops or toothy blades or massive tubes attached.
She didn't see how Whittier could be sure what was missing, or what was where. To her eye, there was no rhyme or reason to the collection, but a bunch of little vehicles with wheels or wings or both cobbled together as if waiting for a traffic signal to turn green.
But he was a guy, and her experience with Roarke told her a guy knew his toys very well.
"I haven't moved it. I'd remember." Steve was searching the shelves now, touching various vehicles or machines, scooting some along. "I can't think why my wife would either, or the housekeeper."
"Do you have any of this sort of thing elsewhere on the premises?" Eve asked him.
"Yes, a few pieces here and there, and the main collection upstairs in my office, but . . ."
"Why don't you take a look? Peabody, could you give Mr. Whittier a hand?"
"Sure. My brothers have a few model toys," Peabody began as she led Steve out of the room. "Nothing like what you've got here."
Eve waited until their voices had faded. "How much is this kind of deal worth?" She waved her thumb toward the shelves as she turned to Roarke.
"It's a bit out of my milieu, but antique, nostalgic, novelty collections of any kind have value." He picked up a small, beefy truck, spun the wheels. The quick smile confirmed Eve's theory that such matters were indeed guy things. "And the condition of the pieces add to it. These are all prime, from what I can see. You're thinking the toy's been lifted."
"Strong possibility."
He set the truck down but didn't release it until he'd pushed it gently back and forth. "If Trevor Whittier stole it from his father, if the diamonds were indeed hidden inside it—and that's where you're heading?"
"Past heading. I'm there. I don't think you should be playing with those," she added when he reached for the tractor.
He made a sound that might have been disappointment or mild embarrassment, then stuck his hands in his pockets. "Then why kill? Why break into Samantha's house? Why not be toasting your good fortune in Belize?"
"Who says he knows they're in there?" She watched Roarke lift a brow. "Look at his profile. He's a lazy, self-centered opportunist. I'm betting if Whittier does a check of his collection, he'll find several of the better pieces missing. Stupid bastard might just have sold them, and the diamonds along with them."
She wandered up and down the shelves, scanning the toys. "Samantha Gannon's ex has a collection."
"Does he now?" Roarke nodde
d. "Does he, really?"
"Yeah. Not as extensive as this, at least not the collection I saw in his office. Put Trevor Whittier together with the ex." She put the tips of her index fingers together. "Point of interest, antique toys and games. Gannon's ex had an advance copy of the book, and might very well have talked about it."
"Intersections," Roarke said with a nod. "It really is a small little world, isn't it? The ex buys pieces from Whittier's son, or at least knows him, socializes perhaps, shares this interest. Because of that, he mentions the book, talks it up. Samantha's grandmother owned an antique store. I believe she still does. Another sort of intersection, another common thread that might've prompted a conversation."
"Worth checking. I want an all-points out on Trevor Whittier. I want to sweep him up and into Interview, and I want a damn warrant to search his place. All of that's going to take some fast talking." She frowned toward the doorway. "What do you think? Will Whittier keep quiet, or will he try to warn Trevor we're looking for him?"
"I think he'll try to cooperate. That would be his first instinct. Do the right thing. He won't consider, or believe, his son's a murderer. It won't be in his scope. In trouble, yes, in need of help. But not a cold-blooded killer. If he begins to think in that direction, I don't know what he might do."
"Then let's keep him busy as long as we can."
***
She called Baxter and Trueheart in to handle Whittier. They'd accompany him to his downtown offices, where he kept a few pieces of his collection.
"I need you to wait for the wife," Eve directed Baxter. "Keep her with you. I don't want either of them to have the opportunity to contact the son. Let's keep him out of this mix as long as we can. We get some luck, and we pick him up before he knows we're looking for him."
"How long do you want them wrapped up?"
"Try to get me a couple hours. I need to get a warrant for Whittier junior's place, and I want to get to Chad Dix. I'm going to send a couple uniforms out to Long Island, where Whittier's mother's living. Just to be safe."
"We'll stall. Maybe he'll let us play with the fire truck."
"What is it with guys and little trucks?"
"Come on, you had your dollies and tea parties." A lesser man would have shrunk under her withering stare. "Okay, maybe not."
"Keep them wrapped," Eve ordered as she started out. "If it starts to unravel, I want to hear about it."
"Yeah, yeah. I bet this sucker has a working siren."
Eve heard the high-pitched scream of it as she passed into the foyer. "Excuse my idiot associate, Mr. Whittier. We appreciate your cooperation."
"It's fine. I want this straightened out." He managed a smile. "I'll just go and . . ." He gestured toward his den. "I'll just make sure the detective doesn't . . ."
"Go right ahead. You're waiting for the wife," Eve said in an undertone to Trueheart. "If the son happens by, keep him here, contact me."
"Yes, sir."
"Peabody, with me."
"No place I'd rather be." Peabody glanced at Roarke. "You coming with us?"
"I doubt the lieutenant has use for me at the moment."
"I'll probably get around to you."
"My hope eternally springs."
She paused on the sidewalk. "If you want to stay available, I'll let you know when we have Trevor in custody."
"I appreciate it. Meanwhile, I could do a little search among known collectors and see if a piece fitting the description has been on the market in the last few months."
"That'd cover some bases. Appreciate it. Let's get the commander to wheedle a warrant for us. I want to talk to Chad Dix. Proving a connection there adds a couple of bars to the cage."
Roarke lifted Eve's chin with his hand—a gesture that had her wincing, and Peabody wandering discreetly away. "You're very steely-minded on this one, Lieutenant."
"No touching on the job," she muttered and nudged his hand aside. "And I'm always steely-minded."
"No. There are times you run on guts and wear yourself out emotionally, physically."
"Every case is different. This one's by the stages. Unless Trevor's figured it all out by now, he's not a particular threat to anyone. We'll have his parents under wraps, and I'm sending a couple of uniforms to keep tabs on the grandmother's place. We've got Gannon protected. Those are his most obvious targets. I'm not dealing with wondering who some psycho's going to kill next. Puts a little more air in my lungs, you know?"
"I do." Despite her earlier warning, he touched her again, rubbing a thumb along the shadows under her eyes. "But you could still use a good night's sleep."
"Then I'll have to close this down so I can get one." She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets, sighed heavily because she knew it would amuse him. "Go ahead, get it over with. Just make it quick and no tongues allowed."
He laughed, as she'd expected, then leaned down to give her a very chaste kiss. "Acceptable?"
"Hardly even worth it." And the quick gleam in his eye had her slapping a hand on his chest. "Save it, pal. Go back to work. Buy a large metropolitan area or something."
"I'll see what I can do."
At Eve's signal, Peabody stepped up to the car. "It must really set you up, having a man like that look at you the way he does every day."
"At least it doesn't keep me off the streets." She slid in, slammed her door. "Let's cook this bastard and maybe we can both get home on time for a change."
***
Trevor detested visiting his grandmother. The concept of age and illness disgusted him. There were ways, after all, to beat back the worst symptoms of the aging process. Face and body sculpting, youth treatments, organ transplants.
Looking old was, to his mind, a product of laziness or poverty. Either was unacceptable.
Illness was something to be avoided at all costs. Most physical ailments were temporary and easily rectified. One simply had to take proper care. Mental illness was nothing but an embarrassment to anyone associated with the patient.
He considered his grandmother a self-indulgent lunatic, overly pampered by his father. If so much time and money wasn't wasted making her comfortable in her mad little world, she'd straighten up quickly enough. He knew very well it cost enormous amounts of money—his inheritance—to keep her in the gilt-edged loony bin, to pay for her housing, her food, her care, her meds, her attendants.
Pissed away, he thought, as he drove his new two-seater Jetstream 3000 into the underground parking facility at the rest home. The crazy old bat could easily live another forty years, drooling his inheritance, what was rightfully his, away.
It was infuriating.
His father's sentimental attachment to her was equally so. She could have been seen to, decently enough, in a lesser facility, or even a state-run project. He paid taxes, didn't he, to subsidize those sort of facilities? What was the point of not using them since he was paying out the nose for them in any case?
She wouldn't know the damn difference. And when he was in charge of the purse strings, she damn well would be moved.
He took a white florist box out of the trunk. He'd take her the roses, play the game. It would be worth his time and the investment in the flowers she'd forget ten minutes after he gave them to her, if she knew anything. If by some miracle she remembered knowing anything.
It was worth a shot. Since the old man seemed to know nothing, maybe his crazy old mother had some lead buried in her fogged brain.
He took the elevator to, lobby level, gearing himself up for the performance. When he stepped off, he wore a pleasant, slightly concerned expression, presenting the image of a handsome young man paying an affectionate duty call on an aged and ailing relative.
He moved to the security desk, setting the box of flowers on the counter so the name of the upscale city florist could be read by the receptionist. "I'd like to see my grandmother, Janine Whittier? I'm Trevor. I didn't call ahead as it's an impulse visit. I was passing the florist's and I thought of Grandma and how much she loves pink roses. Ne
xt thing I knew I was buying a dozen and heading here. It's all right, isn't it?"
"Of course!" The woman beamed at him. "That's so sweet. I'm sure she'll love the flowers nearly as much as she'll love seeing her grandson. Just let me bring up her schedule and make certain she's clear for visits today."
"I know she has good days and bad days. I hope this is a good one."
"Well, I see here she's been checked into the second-floor common room. That's a good sign. If I could just clear you through." She gestured toward the palm plate.
"Oh, sure. Of course." He laid his hand on it, waited while it verified his identification and his clearance. Ridiculous precautions, he thought. Who in hell would want to break into an old people's home? It was the sort of thing that added several thousand a year to the tab.
"There you are, Mr. Whittier. I'll just scan these." She ran a handheld over the roses to verify the contents, then gestured. "You can take the main staircase to the second floor, or the elevator if you prefer. The common area is to the left, down the hall. You can speak to one of the attendants on duty. I'm sending up your clearance now."
"Thank you. This is a lovely place. It's such a comfort to know Grandma's being so well looked after."
He took the stairs. He saw others, carrying flowers or gifts wrapped in colorful paper. Staff wore what he assumed were color-coded uniforms, all in calming pastels. In this unrestricted area, patients wandered, alone or with attendants. Through the wide, sunny windows he could see the extensive gardens below, with the winding paths where more patients, attendants, visitors strolled.
It amazed him, continuously, that people would work in such a place, whatever the salary. And that those who weren't paid to be here would visit, voluntarily, on any sort of regular basis.
He himself hadn't been inside the place for nearly a year and sincerely hoped this visit would be the last required of him.
As he glanced at the faces he passed he had a moment's jolt that he wouldn't recognize his grandmother. He should have refreshed his memory before the trip out, taken a look at some photographs.
The old all looked the same to him. They all looked doomed. More, they all looked useless.
