by J. D. Robb
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Easy for you when your metabolism runs like a rabbit, and mine’s a slug on Zoner. Besides, they’re all natural products.”
“Nature’s a vicious bitch.”
A woman came out—short, lavender hair that matched her eyes, a deep purple dress that flowed to her knees. Her data listed her at fifty, Eve recalled, but the perfect, unlined skin carved ten away.
“What can I do to help you?”
“What can you tell me about Darlene Fitzwilliams?”
“Ah, a tragedy. I heard a media report. You’re looking for answers. Seeking death is rarely an answer.”
“Was she a client?”
“I don’t remember her.”
“She had your business card, a pamphlet, and a bottle of your Natural Rest.”
“I see. Casseopia? Would you check, please?”
Casseopia settled on the stool again, swiveled to her counter comp. “Darlene Fitzwilliams, fifty-minute introductory consult, August three of last year. No follow-up on record.”
“Would you pull my notes on that?” Hester gave Eve a quiet smile. “A single consult. It’s difficult to remember the details.”
“I figured you’d . . . intuit that sort of thing.”
The smile never wavered. “My gift is one that intuits, as you say, the inner person. Such as . . .” She turned to Peabody. “You shouldn’t worry so much about your weight. Good nutrition, regular exercise, of course, but you have a very healthy, robust body. Your perception of your body is harsher than the reality.”
“Really?”
“Natural metabolic boosters such as chen pi, sheng jiang, rou gui can be helpful. But you’re young, healthy, and active. It’s the sweet tooth,” she added with a knowing smile, “that challenges you.”
“Your notes.” Casseopia offered Hester a handheld.
“Thank you. Oh yes, so sad,” she murmured as she read. “The loss of her parents, so sudden and tragic. She wasn’t sleeping or eating well—all that stress and grief. I did recommend a sleep aid, and a nutrition plan, and suggested additional sessions to work on emotional healing and acceptance. But . . .”
Hester lowered the handheld. “I remember her now. She wanted to contact her parents.”
“Her dead parents.”
“I understand the skepticism. Contact with those who have moved on in the cycle is not my gift.”
“Your pamphlet says otherwise.”
Hester shook her head. “I can assist, and there are certain herbs and practices that can open and enhance the gift if one has its root. I didn’t sense that root in her, and couldn’t ethically encourage her. She took the aid, and the plan, but didn’t contact me again.”
“She came in a couple more times,” Casseopia said. “I checked for you. She bought more Natural Rest in October and again in December. Purchased some candles and some bath salts.”
“I wish I could have given her more, but I didn’t have the answers she looked for. I’m afraid I don’t have the ones you seek either.”
“Anything in here that causes hallucinations?”
“I don’t traffic in hallucinogens, even natural ones. I believe reality is to be embraced.”
“The Natural Rest stuff, could it cause them in combination with other herbs?”
“I would have given her a list of herbs, foods, medications to avoid while taking the product. I wouldn’t have recommended it if she had been a proponent of altered-reality substances. She was clean, Lieutenant, as both of you are.”
“If you can tell that by looking, we could use you in Illegals testing.”
“That’s not my path. I hope you find the answers you need on yours.”
“She seemed pretty straight,” Peabody commented when they walked out.
“For a psychic nutritionalist. No buzz anyway, but we’ll see what the lab says about the sleep aid. Meanwhile, we’ve got a couple more right in this area, then one in the East Village. And I want to talk to the lawyer. See if you can get her to come in, save us a trip uptown.”
* * *
They interviewed three psychics—waking up one who claimed to commune with spirits only between the hours of midnight and five a.m.
“Nothing there.” Eve got back in the car, aimed it toward Cop Central.
“The second one we talked to? Mikhal Lombrowski? He was the real deal. The others, maybe they had something, but mostly they were looking to score. He was genuine.”
“Why him?”
“My dad’s a sensitive, and he kind of reminded me of my father. He wanted to help her—that’s what came through for me—but he couldn’t give her what she wanted, so like she did with Hester, she cherry-picked, and moved on.”
“I tend to agree. It’s also telling that she went to all of these before she started making those weekly withdrawals. We need to find the one she settled on.”
As she pulled into Central’s garage, Peabody glanced at her signaling ’link. “Huh. The lawyer’s on her way in. We don’t get that kind of result often.”
“Set us up a conference room and give Dickhead a goose on the tox.”
“You want me to goose Dickhead?”
Eve thought of the chief lab tech. “It’ll throw him off coming from you instead of me. Maybe we’ll get happy results there, too.”
She needed to set up the board and book in her office, write everything up.
And if she didn’t have the tox results within an hour, she’d personally go to the lab and sit on Dick Berenski’s egg-shaped head until he produced.
She turned in to Homicide, noted all her detectives and cops were present. “Is there no crime today?”
Baxter, feet on his desk, a ’link at his ear, grinned at her. “Tying one up now, LT. The asshole Trueheart and I took down bright and early this morning’s down in booking.”
She glanced at Trueheart, who’d soon be ceremoniously awarded his gold detective’s shield. Obviously Baxter had dumped the paperwork on his partner.
She glanced across the bull pen to where Santiago sat morosely under a big black cowboy hat with a shiny silver band. “How much longer do you have to wear that?”
“A bet’s a bet.” Behind him, Carmichael smiled smugly. “And he lost.”
“I went double or nothing with her—it’s a sickness.”
She decided not to comment on Jenkinson’s tie, because it looked like an explosion of radioactive waste. Instead she escaped to her office, set up her board. Armed with coffee, she sat at her desk and wrote everything up, in detail, adding a query to Mira.
Then, with more coffee, she put her boots on the desk, her eyes on the board and let her brain play with theories. And, still thinking, she pulled up an incoming from Morris.
“Dallas.”
She held up a finger to hold Peabody off, finished reading. “Morris found traces of peyote, cannabis, phencyclidine, and mint inside the female vic’s nasal passages, sinuses.”
“She inhaled it?”
“Inhaled this—he believes in vapor form. Ingested more in liquid form. What about the lab?”
“Berenski says he’ll have the final when he has it—then I played the innocent underling card, said how you were all over my ass, complimented that weird facial hair he’s been growing lately. He said to give it another twenty.”
“Good job. If she wasn’t taking this crap voluntarily, somebody was doing a hell of a number on her. Morris confirms, even without the elements we haven’t nailed down, she’d have been in a euphoric and altered state.”
“Maybe she didn’t know what she was inhaling and ingesting, or maybe whoever mixed all this up told her it was what she needed to communicate with her parents.”
“Either way, whoever gave it to her is responsible for two deaths.”
“Her lawyer’s here—the family lawyer, I
mean. I had her taken to the conference room.”
“Let’s go dig out who stood to gain.”
Gia Gregg sat ramrod-straight at the conference table, talking on an ear ’link. She gave Eve a nod and continued her conversation. She wore a black suit, sharp as a scalpel, and her hair in a dark crown of tight curls with shimmering red highlights. It suited her coffee-regular skin and her cool green eyes.
She completed her conversation, then removed the ear ’link and slipped it into a pocket of her jacket.
“I’m sorry. It’s a difficult and busy morning.”
“We appreciate you coming in.”
“Sean Fitzwilliams has arrived in New York. I spoke with him before I came in, and he instructed me to give you my full cooperation. The family is, understandably, devastated. And they want answers, Lieutenant, Detective, because no one who knew Darlene believes she did what the media is gleefully claiming.”
She took out a notebook, set it on the table. “I intend to take careful notes of our conversation, as I and my clients also want answers. Have you any leads?”
“Our investigation is active and ongoing.” Eve sat, took the lawyer’s measure. A solid rep, Roarke had told her, and he would know. Her own research indicated Gia Gregg had represented the rich and richer with a steady hand for more than three decades.
“At approximately eight thirty last evening, Darlene Fitzwilliams entered her brother’s apartment. Within minutes she stabbed him three times in the chest with a pair of nine-inch shears and immediately walked out to the apartment’s terrace and jumped to her death.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s fact. However,” she added before Gia could protest, “our investigation leads us to believe Miss Fitzwilliams was under the influence of a hallucinogenic cocktail.”
“Darli— Miss Fitzwilliams did not use. In fact, part of her work in the Fitzwilliams Foundation supported rehabilitation and education centers for illegals abuse.”
“The final toxicology report is still forthcoming, however, the preliminary has already identified several substances in her system, including valerian, diazepam, peyote, phencyclidine, and cannabis.”
Gregg’s eyes widened at the length of the list. “Then someone dosed her without her knowledge or consent.”
“That may be. If she consented, it’s highly probable she did so in the belief the substances would aid her in communicating with her parents. Were you aware she’d been seeking the help of psychics and mediums for that purpose?”
“Not until this morning. I’ve also spoken with Henry, her fiancé. He told me what you found in her closet, and about the bank account, the withdrawals. Someone used her grief, someone did this to her and Marcus.”
“At this point, with the evidence we have, I agree with you.”
Gia’s shoulders relaxed for an instant. “We need to issue a media release. Darlene’s reputation is being—”
“We’re not going to do that. Her reputation isn’t my concern. Finding whoever provided her with illegals, whoever convinced her to take them or gave them to her without her consent is. Who stands to gain by their deaths?”
“Both Darlene and Marcus leave a considerable estate in their own rights, and have numerous beneficiaries. The foundation itself would be the largest for both.”
“Who gets the biggest piece of the pie?”
“Before their parents’ death, we had a meeting—the four of them—regarding updating their estate plans, beneficiaries. Darlene chose to leave ten million to Henry on the event of her death, as well as her share of the home they purchased.”
“Funny he didn’t mention that.”
“He doesn’t know. Darlene was also firm on that stipulation. He’s a proud man. He was raised by a single mother who worked very hard to support him and his sister. He was able to go to college and grad school because of her hard work, and his own. Scholarships, interning. He made his own. And you can trust that when it became apparent he and Darlene were serious, her parents did a thorough background check on him.” Gia sighed. “He’s a good man. I’m very fond of him myself. He loved her. The money? It didn’t play a part for him—in fact, it was an obstacle initially. I’m also aware he works for your husband, who would also have done a thorough background on him. Henry wouldn’t work for Roarke in such a key position if he weren’t ethical and clean.”
“She had a lot more than the ten.”
“Yes. There are individual bequests to family members, most sentimental rather than monetary. Marcus, for instance, left Darlene his apartment. There’s a difficult area here, as he predeceased her.”
“By a couple minutes.”
“By seconds would amount to the same, legally. He left most of his property to her, so—though I will study on this—it appears this will flow into her estate. As I said, the bulk goes to the foundation, and to individual organizations the foundation supports. Darlene earmarked several for single bequests or for continuing grants.”
She took a disc from her bag, offered it. “I have a list for you, though I can’t see how it applies. Darlene researched and investigated all grant requests. She, Marcus, Sean, and two other foundation officers would then review and vote on the grants.”
“They—these officers, staff—draw a salary?”
“Yes.”
“Who runs the show now?”
“Sean would be acting president, and acting CEO of the business. I can also tell you these aren’t positions he wants. He and his wife are well settled in Europe. His youngest child is in school there, his oldest—with his first wife—lives minutes away with his own wife and children. The loss of Darlene and Marcus is shattering, and so close to the loss of Gareth and Bria. It’s going to take time and work to restructure the positions, the responsibilities.”
“Best guess?”
“They’ll try to keep it in the family. I would recommend they divide both Marcus’s and Darlene’s positions. Several candidates stand out, but none of them would kill for the job.”
“People kill for all sorts of reasons,” Eve said. “Maybe one of them told her about a medium, guided her where they wanted her to go. Who was she close to? Who would she tell when she decided to go this route?”
“Marcus, and obviously he didn’t know. Henry, the same. And Louise Dimatto, whom I know you’re aware was a close family friend. Darlene had other friends, of course, but those three were her foundation. If she told none of them, she told no one. I wish she had. I wish she’d talked to me. We had a good personal relationship.”
Tears swam into her eyes, and she paused for a moment until she’d controlled them.
“If she’d come to me, I might have been able to help her. I could have used my resources to find her the right person, someone gentle and kind as well as gifted.”
“So she could talk to her dead parents.”
“While I may be a bone-deep skeptic on such matters, I discount nothing. But I know this: If she’d been able to reach them, they’d have told her to move on with her life, and they’d never have suggested she use drugs. So I have to conclude she didn’t reach them.”
“We’re going to agree on that.”
“The family requested I ask when they can have Marcus and Darlene.”
“We’ll release the bodies as soon as we can.”
“Sean—particularly—would like to see them. Henry, he needs to see Darlene.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Eve gentled her tone, just a little. “No one needs to see Darlene as she is now. Trust me on that.”
“They’ll insist.”
“Let me talk to the ME, see if anything can be done to . . . minimize the damage.”
“That’s very kind of you, and much appreciated.”
“You’re going to be with the family. If you get any sense, hear anything that leads you to believe someone played a part, I w
ant to hear it.”
“You can depend on it. I won’t, but I also won’t withhold any information that pertains to their deaths. They mattered to me, Lieutenant, as much more than clients.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Obviously complimenting Dickhead’s excuse for a goatee worked, as Eve had his report in her inbox when she returned to her office.
The minute she read it, she sent a copy to Mira, then headed out.
“Dallas?” Peabody called from her desk. “Are we back in the field?”
“I need Mira first. Work out the best route to hitting the rest of the psychic list. I’ll be back in ten.”
She had to get through Mira’s snarly admin, but she needed answers. Louise was an option, she thought as she jumped in an elevator despite the crowd inside. She’d given Louise the data mostly to keep her busy, but she’d be a good source.
Still, she was strictly medical, and Mira was both a medical and a head doctor. And a superior profiler.
By the time Eve made it to Mira’s office, she was ready to attack. It came as a slight letdown to see the admin’s desk unoccupied and Mira’s office door open.
“Did someone slay the dragon?”
Mira glanced over. “She’s still at lunch. I’ve only gotten back myself now. Your toxicology report—”
“Have you read it?”
“I just reviewed it. Sit.”
“No, I’m revved up, need to get back in the field. That combination inside her—inhaled, ingested—that’s extreme.”
“Yes. Even in these minute amounts, and particularly when combined with regular use of this sleep aid. The aid itself is perfectly harmless, and potentially beneficial, but no sensitive, no legitimate one, would combine these other substances, even not knowing the client was taking a valerian-based holistic.”
“She’d hallucinate.”
“She would have been very susceptible to hallucinations, yes. I’m having tea.”
“No, please. I mean go ahead, but I don’t have time for it.”
In sapphire blue heels to complement her winter white suit, Mira ordered tea from her AutoChef.
“Not only would she have experienced an altered state—a sensation of extreme well-being—but a kind of spacial confusion. I’m surprised she was able to navigate to her brother’s apartment.”
