by J. D. Robb
Peabody, already working it on her PPC, nodded. “Her lawyer’s still in the city, a partner in a law firm downtown. Divorced, one child. Male, age fifteen.”
“We inform, and get them covered. The APA’s in Denver now, married, two minor children. We contact, inform, inform local authorities.”
As she started down the line, her desk ’link signaled. She glanced, impatient, at the readout. Then her stomach sank.
“Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
Too late, Eve thought as she pulled up outside the SoHo loft. I’m too late. With Peabody she walked past the officers outside the building, and into the elevator.
“We’ll want all security, want to knock on all the doors. Contact Morris.”
“Already done. Dallas, I informed Whitney. He’s moved your media conference to sixteen hundred, and will keep a lid on this as long as possible.”
Eve stepped out of the elevator, into the living area. Upmarket, she thought. Wealthy bohemian. “Who owns it?”
“Delongi, Eric, and Stuben, Samuel. Mid-divorce. The loft is on the market, and currently untenanted.”
“Lieutenant.” One of the officers stepped to her. “No visible sign of break-in, no visible sign of struggle or theft. She’s in the bedroom. A real estate agent found her. He was showing the apartment to a couple of clients. My partner’s got them in the second bedroom.”
“Keep them sequestered. We’ll work the scene first.” She stopped at the kitchen, studied the single go-cup of coffee on the counter. “Was that here when you arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Record and bag, Peabody.”
She moved on, stopped at the bedroom doorway.
Not a child this time, she thought as she studied the body. But young. Early twenties. Whose daughter was she?
“Victim is female,” she began for the record. “Early to mid-twenties. Privacy screens are engaged here, and throughout the living area.” She scanned the room. “There’s no sign of struggle. Victim appears to be fully dressed.”
With her hands and feet sealed, Eve entered to examine the body. “Ligature marks on ankles, facial bruising, bruising around the neck consistent with manual strangulation. ME to confirm.”
She crouched, angled herself to see the victim’s wrists. She expected to see police restraints, as with Deena, but this victim’s wrists were bound with some sort of colorful cord.
“Cording around wrists, deviation from Deena MacMasters’s homicide. Get the ID, TOD, Peabody.”
Blood on the sheets, she noted, consistent with violent rape. She hadn’t been a virgin, not likely, but she’d suffered the same pain and terror.
“Bruising on thighs and around genital area. No underwear. She’ll have been sodomized, too, and smothered, repeatedly. It’s not a fucking copycat. Why did he use cord instead of cuffs?
“Not a cop’s kid,” she concluded. “The cuffs were another symbol. What’s the cord symbolize?”
“Victim is identified as Karlene Robins,” Peabody stated, “age twenty-six, Lower West Side address, with cohab Hampton, Anthony, employed by City Choice Realty. TOD is sixteen-thirty-eight, yesterday.”
Peabody looked over at Eve. “That’s before we had the sketch, before we had a name, before—”
She broke off when Eve held up a hand. “Irrelevant. Look for her bag, her ’link, appointment book. You won’t find them, but look. Flag for ME,” she continued for the record. “Tox screen priority.
“She’s Jaynie Robins’s daughter, the child services agent who removed Darrin Pauley into foster care during the Irene Schultz investigation. She came to show the apartment. He poses as a client, and all he needs to do is be ready when the right property comes up. Not a college student this time. That wouldn’t do the job. No, this sort of property? Young exec, or trust-fund baby. Arty type, for this neighborhood, I’d say. Likes music, or the arts, the scene. He brings her coffee. Nice gesture. Hey, I picked some up for you, too. Takes her out, sets her up, just like Deena. Except for the restraints.”
“It plays for me. Dallas, there’s no bag, no purse, nothing of hers. They’ve got a couple of comps, but they’re for show. The security station’s locked. I mastered it, and the cams are shut down, the discs removed, the drive’s been corrupted.”
“There’s building security on a place like this, too. We’re going to roll her, then I want you to check that out. I’ll start on the wits when I’m done here.”
When they rolled the body over, Eve bent down to examine the cords. “Some kind of bungee cord?”
“For kids.” Peabody blew out a breath. “You use it to hang stuff from their cribs or strollers so they can pull. Bright, primary colors and designs usually. Stimulate the eye.”
“Child services. Symbolic, like the cuffs.” He’d had fun with this, she thought. The little jabs and pokes. “Check out building security, and make sure EDD’s on the way.”
She moved to the second bedroom, signaled the officer on duty to step out. All three people began to speak at once. Eve simply held up a hand, then pointed at the man sitting alone.
“You. You’d be the real estate agent. I’m Lieutenant Dallas. Name, please.”
“Chip Wayne. I work for Astoria Real Estate.” He took out a card, passed it to Eve. “I had an appointment this morning with Mr. and Mrs. Gordon, to show them this loft. It’s just gone back on the market, and—”
She held up a hand again. “How do you gain access?”
“It’s a code. All listing agents are given a code for access, and have to input their own ID code. I just—”
“What time did you arrive?”
“We met outside just after eleven. We had an eleven o’clock showing. We—we came up together, and began with the living area. Ah, Mrs. Gordon wandered off to look at the bedrooms. We encourage clients to look around, and then she—”
Eve stopped him again. “The place is furnished, but the records show it’s been untenanted for three months.”
“It’s staging. Rented by the owners. To, ah, give the prospective buyers a better feel for how it looks, lived in. I don’t know how that woman . . . I don’t know how she can be here. The log says the agent from City Choice showed it yesterday, and logged out at twelve-thirty.”
“Is that so?”
“The building is well secured.” He looked almost pleadingly toward the couple huddled together in a chair. “It’s prime property. Quiet, safe.”
“Yeah, safe.” Eve looked over at the woman. Not much older than the victim, she judged. Shaking, teary. “You found the body.”
“I—I wanted to see the bedrooms. Especially the master. We want a large master, with a view if we can get it. So I . . . And she was there, on the bed. Dead. She looked dead. I screamed for Brent, and I ran away from the—from her.”
“Did you go into the room? Any of you?”
“Nobody went in. I play a cop on screen.” Gordon smiled weakly. “City Force, maybe you’ve caught it.”
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. Brash young detective, maverick. Anyway, a lot of it’s bullshit, I guess, but you get how you have to secure a crime scene. So we didn’t go in, or touch anything after Posey found the woman. We called nine-one-one.”
“Okay. Mr. Wayne, how far in advance do you make these appointments for showings?”
“It depends. In a case like this one, fast as you can. There was a contract on it, but it fell through. We heard about it yesterday, but City got the jump on us. They must have somebody on the inside, somebody at the lending company who gave them the head’s up. I contacted the Gordons as soon as I got word, but we couldn’t make it in until this morning.”
“Why them, particularly?”
“It’s just what they’re looking for. The location, the property, the price range. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for.”
Gordon gave him a look of quiet disbelief. “Chip, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“The ow
ners are bound to be willing to renegotiate the price, considering. We can—”
“Brent, I want to go. Can’t we leave? Please.”
“Give me your contact information,” Eve told them, “and you’re free to go. We may need to talk to you again.”
Eve walked the loft again, made notes, ran it through her head while the sweepers began their part of the job.
“Cams off on building security, too, and the virus . . . it looks like it infected that system. They’re linked up with the individual security. It’s not the same system as the first murder,” Peabody continued, “but it’s the same brand. A commercial model. Also, the other residents aren’t home. Word is everybody works days. The building is typically empty from around nine in the morning to around five in the afternoon, weekdays. I started a background on the other residents. I’m not getting anything that clicks.”
“He scoped it out. He wouldn’t have had much time, but he did his homework. He was waiting for the opportunity, and knows how to take advantage of it. She should have a record of the appointment on her office comp, something there. We’ll get his name. Whatever name he used. Where’s the cohab this time of day?”
“He works from home primarily. Research consultant. Their place is only a few blocks from the real estate agency.”
“We’ll take him first. The parents, they’re in Brooklyn, right?”
“Yeah. The mother works as a family counselor now.”
Eve nodded, took a last look before calling the elevator. “It’s all about family, isn’t it?”
17
ANTHONY HAMPTON WORE CASUAL OFFICE WEAR, a trim goatee, and high-end skids. He greeted Eve and Peabody with a quick smile, and a harried look in green eyes that sparked against warm brown skin.
“Ladies. What can I do for you today?”
“Anthony Hampton?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, with my partner Detective Peabody.”
“Cops?” His smile turned to a grin as he studied the badges. “That’s a first. Is there a problem in the building?”
“No, sir. We’d like to come in.”
“Okay, sure, but . . .” He glanced behind him. “We’re kind of in mid-chaos around here. Getting married on Saturday.”
Eve felt the clench in her gut, but stepped inside. The hard, she realized, just became brutal. And brutal should always be done quickly. “Mr. Hampton, I regret to inform you that your cohab, Karlene Robins, is dead.”
“What? Jesus, that’s not funny. If this is one of Chad’s sick jokes—”
“Mr. Hampton, the body of Ms. Robins was found this morning. She’s been officially identified. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Come on, come on, that’s fucking bullshit.” The anger slapped out as he grabbed Eve’s arm, shoved her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Mr. Hampton.” Eve countered the grip, muscled the man into a chair. “Karlene was murdered in a loft in SoHo, where we believe she took a client for a showing. Did she take a client on a showing yesterday?”
“That’s what she does. That’s what she’s doing right now.” He dragged out his pocket ’link. “Right now.” He punched a single key. And shoved at his hair as a musical voice informed him Karlene was unavailable. “Karlene, I need to talk to you. Goddamn it, Karlene, now. Whatever you’re doing, I need to talk to you now.”
“Anthony.” Peabody crouched down, laid a hand over his. “We’re very sorry.”
“She’ll tag back. She will.” His breathing began to heave and hitch. “She’s just busy. It’s a crazy week.”
“When did you last speak with her?”
“I . . . Yesterday, when she left for work. But, we texted a few times.”
“She lives here, but she didn’t come home last night?”
“She had some work, a client on the hook. And then she was going to Tip’s to do some wedding stuff. She stayed with Tip last night. Tip. I’ll get ahold of Tip, and then . . .”
Eve let him play it out, let him call the friend, listen to her tell him she hadn’t seen or heard from Karlene. She watched anger and disbelief take its horrible slide into grief.
“She—she’s at work. She’s at work. I can contact her boss, and she’ll—”
“Anthony.” Peabody repeated his name, in that same gentle way.
His eyes changed, filled with desperate pain. “But she can’t be dead. That can’t be true.”
“When did she text you?”
“I don’t remember, exactly. Here.” He shoved the ’link at Peabody. “It’s logged. It’s right in there.”
As Peabody took the ’link, stepped away to check its log, Eve pulled a chair over to face him, sat. “Mr. Hampton, look at me now. Detective Peabody and I need your help. Karlene needs you to help us find who hurt her.”
“How is she dead? How is she dead?”
“We believe whoever she took to the loft killed her. Do you know who the client was?”
“That can’t be. This is all . . . not real.”
“Who was the client?” Eve repeated.
“It was some rich guy. Some wannabe artist from a rich family. Young guy.”
“Have you met him?”
“No. But—”
“Do you know his name?”
“She probably told me. I don’t know.”
“She’d have a memo book here, an appointment book.”
“She keeps one here, one in her bag, one at work. Anal. In the office.” He stared hard at Eve’s face, intensely, as if he had to focus on her to form each word. “We share the office here. I work at home. I work at home, and sometimes she does. We’re getting married on Saturday.”
“Can we get her book, take her book?”
“I don’t care.”
Eve signaled Peabody. “Do you know how this man, the one she was with yesterday became her client?”
“I’m not sure. She’s been looking for the right place for him for a few weeks. Big fish. She said big fish. The SoHo loft. That just popped up again. She was so excited. It was just the right property for him, she said. Exactly what he wanted, and the commission would be extreme. She had to move fast.
“Where’s Karlene?”
“We’re going to take care of her now.”
Slowly, he shook his head side-to-side. “She doesn’t like to be taken care of. She takes care of herself. Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
“Yes.”
He buried his face in his hands, began to rock, began to weep. Eve rose, moved quietly away to where Peabody waited.
“A text came in to his ’link at fourteen-ten, and another at eighteen oh-three.”
“She was bound and raped by the time the first went out, dead before the second.”
“He had the friend’s name, gave the word, spending the night and so on, the way Hampton stated. The memo book lists an appointment with D.P. for yesterday at nine-thirty a.m., the SoHo address. I went back through it, and there are a couple others. And one, the initial one from the looks of it, that lists an appointment with Drew Pittering.”
Eve went back to Anthony to ask for permission to search through Karlene’s things, and to take both his ’link and the memo book.
“Who can we call for you, Anthony?” Peabody asked him when they’d done all they could. “Let me call someone for you.”
“My—my family. They’re in town for the wedding. They’re here, in the hotel. They’re here for the wedding.”
When they walked back outside, Peabody pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I know it’s never easy, and notification just doesn’t get to be routine. But that? It had to be one of the worst. All the wedding stuff lying around. It killed me.”
Eve pushed it aside, viciously, as she had inside the apartment. “Hampton didn’t recognize the sketch. But Darrin wouldn’t need to stalk her here. Cohab works at home. Makes it too hard to take her there. But her line of work, that makes it easy to take her i
n a locked, empty space. You pose as a rich guy, young, attractive—and I bet charming sticks in there. She’d check it out, that’s routine. Check out his ID, but he’d have covered that.”
“I ran the name, along with the image, and his age—and I got nothing.”
“He’s already wiped it. But she’d have checked him out. Maybe there’s something on her comps here or at work. It’s not going to have his real address, but it’s another pin in the map.”
“You’re cutting it close to the media conference.”
“Fucking media.” Eve raked at her hair. “I need you to go by her office, get whatever you can.”
“What about notifying her parents? Oh, Jesus, Dallas, don’t make me do that solo.”
“Take a grief counselor with you. And get the parents into Central. I want to talk to the mother.” She considered the fact Peabody would have to get to Brooklyn and back. “You take the vehicle. I’ll catch the subway back to the house.”
“Okay. Dallas, we couldn’t have stopped this. We couldn’t,” Peabody insisted. “We had nothing to connect Karlene to Deena. Nothing.”
“He knew that. He counted on that. Maybe he’s counting on us not being able to make the connection between the two of them yet. It’s a big leap without the springboard. I’m going to give him more reason to count on that.”
On her way to the subway, Eve tagged Nadine. Sometimes the media had its uses.
As usual, the media liaison tried to prepare Eve, and as usual, Eve threatened bodily harm.
She walked into the media room at Central, and took her position between Commander Whitney and Captain MacMasters. The liaison stepped forward to outline the procedure, the rules, then asked the captain to give his statement.
In full dress blues, MacMasters took the podium. He stood like a cop, straight, with his eyes level.
