The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  “And you’d be Dallas.” His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. “I’d be McNab, with EDD.”

  She didn’t groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. “You’re one of Feeney’s.”

  “Joined his unit six months ago.” He glanced around her dim, cramped office. “You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD.”

  He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. “Nothing like a woman in uniform.”

  “Peabody, McNab.”

  Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. “This is the EDD dress code?”

  “It’s Saturday,” McNab said easily. “I got the call at home, thought I’d swing in and see what’s up. And we’re a little loose over at EDD.”

  “Obviously.” Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.

  “With three of us in there, we’ll be standing in sin. But I’m game.” He shifted enough to let her by, then followed, letting his gaze skim down to judge curves.

  Not bad, thought McNab. Not bad at all.

  When he lifted his gaze and encountered Eve’s stony stare, he cleared his throat. He knew Eve Dallas’s reputation. She didn’t tolerate bullshit. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ve got a homicide, Detective, and I may have another by this time tomorrow. I need a trace on communication. I need a location. I need to find out how the hell this prick is jamming our lines.”

  “Then I’m your man. Calls coming in on this unit?” At Eve’s nod, he moved closer. “Mind if I take your chair, see what I can do?”

  “Go ahead.” She rose, moved aside for him. “Peabody, I’ve got to get over to the morgue this afternoon. Try to head off Mrs. Brennen, get a statement. We’re going to split the restaurant list between us. We’re looking for someone who works and lives on the premises, someone who emigrated into New York, and someone with a possible connection to Thomas Brennen. I’ve got a list of Brennen’s nearest friends and associates. Narrow it down, and narrow it fast.” She handed Peabody a hard copy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And check close on anyone named Riley—or Dicey.”

  McNab stopped the under-the-breath humming that seemed to be the theme song of every electronics man Eve knew. “Dicey Riley?” he said and laughed.

  “I miss the joke, McNab?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Dicey Riley’ is an Irish pub song.”

  “Pub?” Eve’s eyes narrowed. “You Irish, McNab?”

  She caught the slight flare of insult flicker over his pretty face. “I’m a Scotsman, Lieutenant. My grandfather was a Highlander.”

  “Good for him. What’s the song mean—what’s it about?”

  “It’s about a woman who drinks too much.”

  “Drinks? Not eats?”

  “Drinks,” he confirmed. “The Irish Virus.”

  “Shit. Well, half these are pubs anyway,” Eve said as she looked down at her own list. “We’ll run another check on Irish bars in the city.”

  “You’ll need a twenty man task force to hit all the Irish pubs in New York,” McNab said easily, then turned back to his work.

  “You just worry about the trace,” Eve ordered. “Peabody, run the names and locations for the bars. The uniform back yet with the discs from the Towers?”

  “He’s en route.”

  “Fine, have the bars broken down geographically. I’ll take the south and west, you take north and east.” Even as Peabody left, Eve turned to McNab. “I need something fast.”

  “It’s not going to be fast.” His boyish face was grim with purpose now. “I’ve already gone down a couple of layers. There’s nothing. I’m running a scattershot trace on the last transmission that came through. It takes time, but it’s the best way to trace through a jam.”

  “Make it take less time,” she snapped. “And contact me as soon as you break through.”

  He rolled his eyes behind her back as she strode out. “Women,” he muttered. “Always wanting a miracle.”

  Eve hit a dozen bars as she worked her way down to the medical examiner’s building. She found two bar owners and three crew who lived above or behind the business. As she pulled her unit into a third-level parking space at the ME’s, she called up Peabody.

  “Status?”

  “I’ve got two possibles so far, and my uniform’s going to smell like smoke and whiskey for the next six months.” Peabody grimaced. “Neither of my possibles claims to have known Thomas Brennen or to have an enemy in the world.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting the same line. Keep at it. We’re running out of time.”

  Eve took the stairs down, then coded herself into security. She avoided the discreet, flower-laden waiting area and moved straight into the morgue.

  The air there was cold, and carried the sly underlayer of death. The doors might have been steel and sealed, but death always found a way to make its presence known.

  She’d left Brennen in Autopsy Room B, and since it was unlikely he’d taken himself off anywhere, she approached the security panel, holding up her badge for the scan.

  Autopsy in progress, Brennen, Thomas X. Please observe the health and safety rules upon entering. You are cleared, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

  The door clicked, then unsealed with a whoosh of chilly air. Eve stepped in to see the trim and dapper form of Dr. Morris, the ME, gracefully removing Brennen’s brain from his open skull.

  “Sorry we’re not finished up here, Dallas. We’ve had a flood of check-ins without reservations this morning. People—ha, ha—dying to get in.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  Morris checked the weight of the brain, set it aside in fluid. His waist-length braid made a curling line down the back of his snowy white lab coat. Under it he wore a skin suit of virulent purple. “He was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man, and had once suffered a broken tibia. It mended well. He enjoyed his last meal about four and a half hours before death. Lunch, I’d say. Beef soup, bread, and coffee. The coffee was drugged.”

  “With?”

  “A midline soother. Over-the-counter tranq. He’d have felt pretty relaxed, maybe with a slight buzz.” Morris manually logged data into his portable log and spoke to Eve across the white and mutilated remains. “The first injury would have been the severed hand. Even with the soother in his system, that would have caused shock and quick, traumatic blood loss.”

  Eve remembered the walls of the apartment, the ghastly sprays of blood. She imagined the severed arteries had spurted and pumped like a fire hose on full.

  “Whoever hacked him stopped the blood jet by cauterizing the stump.”

  “How?”

  “My guess would be a hand torch.” He grimaced. “It was a messy job. See where it’s all blackened and crispy from the stump to the elbow. Say ouch.”

  “Ouch,” Eve murmured and hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “What you’re telling me is Brennen basically collapsed after the first attack—which accounts for the little to no sign of struggle in the apartment.”

  “He couldn’t have fought off a drunk cockroach. Victim was restrained by his remaining wrist. Drugs administered were a combination of adrenaline and digitalis—that would keep the heart beating, the brain conscious while he was worked over.” Morris blew out a breath. “And he was worked over good. Death didn’t come quick or easy for this Irish rover.”

  Morris’s eyes remained mild behind his safety goggles. He gestured with a sealed hand to a small metal tray. “I found that in his stomach along with his lunch.”

  Eve frowned down at the tray. The object was about the size of a five-dollar credit. It was glossy white with a bright green image painted on it. On the other side was an oblong shape that met at one end with crossed lines.

  “A fou
r-leaf clover,” Morris supplied. “It’s a symbol for good luck. Your murderer has a strong and nasty sense of irony. On the back—that funny shape? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I’ll take it with me.” Eve slipped the token into an evidence bag. “I intend to ask Dr. Mira to consult on this case. We need a profile. She’ll contact you shortly.”

  “Always a pleasure to work with Mira, and you, Lieutenant.” The communication band on his wrist buzzed. “Death Palace. Morris.”

  “Mrs. Eileen Brennen has arrived and requests to view her husband’s remains.”

  “Take her on into my office. I’ll be there shortly.” He turned to Eve. “No use her seeing the poor bastard like this. You want to interview her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use my office as long as you need it. Mrs. Brennen can see the body in twenty minutes. He’ll be . . . presentable by then.”

  “Thanks.” She headed for the door.

  “Dallas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Evil is—well, it’s not a term I like to toss around like candy. Kind of embarrassing.” He moved his shoulders. “But the guy who did this . . . it’s the only word I can think of that fits.”

  Those words played back in Eve’s head as she faced Eileen Brennen. The woman was trim and tidy. Though her eyes were dry, her face was waxy pale. Her hands didn’t shake, but neither could they be still. She tugged at the gold cross that hung on a thin chain to her waist, tugged at the hem of her skirt, combed fingers through her wavy blond hair.

  “I want to see the body you found. I insist on seeing it. It’s my right.”

  “You will, Mrs. Brennen. We’re arranging that. If I could have a few minutes of your time first, it would be very helpful.”

  “How do I know it’s him? How do I know it’s my Tommy until I see him?”

  There was no point in offering hope. “Mrs. Brennen, we’ve identified your husband. Fingerprints, DNA, and the visual ID of the doorman at the Luxury Towers. I’m sorry, there’s no mistake. Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Some water.”

  “I don’t want anything. Nothing.” Eileen sat with a little jerk, her hands closing and unclosing. “He was to join us today, in Dublin. Today. He only stayed back in New York this past week to finish up some business. He was coming today, stopping off in London first last night.”

  “So you weren’t expecting him until today.”

  “No. He didn’t call last night, he was supposed to call from London, but sometimes he gets busy.” She unclasped her purse, shut it again, repeating the movement over and over. “I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think anything of it,” she repeated and fisted her hand over the cross until the rounded points dug into her palm.

  “So you didn’t try to contact him?”

  “The children and I, we went out to dinner and to an entertainment center. We got home late, and Maize was cross. I put her to bed and went to sleep. I just went to sleep because I was tired and I didn’t even think of Tommy not calling from London.”

  Eve let her wind down, then sat across from her in one of Dr. Morris’s soft brown cloth chairs. “Mrs. Brennen, can you tell me about the business your husband stayed in New York to see to?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know that much about it. I don’t understand all of that. I’m a professional mother. I have children to raise, three houses to run. We have another home in the country. In the west of Ireland. I don’t understand business. Why should I?” she demanded in a voice that cracked.

  “All right. Can you tell me if your husband mentioned anyone who concerned him? Someone who threatened him or disturbed him.”

  “Tommy doesn’t have enemies. Everyone likes him. He’s a fair man, a kind-hearted one. You’ve only to ask anyone who knows him.” Her eyes, a pale blue, focused on Eve’s face again, and she leaned forward. “You see, that’s why you must be wrong. You must have made a mistake. No one would hurt Tommy. And the Luxury Towers is very secure. That’s why we chose it for our home in New York. So much crime in the city, and Tommy wanted me and the children safe.”

  “You met your husband in Ireland.”

  Eileen blinked, distracted. “Yes, more than twelve years ago. In Dublin.”

  “Did he still have friends from that time, associates?”

  “I . . . he has so many friends. I . . .” She passed a hand over her eyes. “There would always seem to be someone who’d call hello to him if we were out. And sometimes he’d go to a little pub when we were in Dublin. I don’t care much for pubs, so I didn’t often go. But he’d get a yearning now and then and go in for an evening.”

  “What was the pub?”

  “The name? The Penny Pig, I think it’s called.” Suddenly Eileen gripped Eve’s arm. “I have to see him. I have to.”

  “All right. Just give me a moment. I’ll be right back.” Eve stepped outside the office, pulled out her communicator. “Peabody.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “The Penny Pig. Any of the pubs on your list by that name?”

  “Just a second . . . no, sir. Nothing with Pig at all.”

  “Just a thought. Keep at it. I’ll be in touch.” She shifted, contacted Dr. Morris. “She needs to see him.”

  “He’s as good as he’s going to get here. I’ll pass you both through.”

  Eve opened the office door. “Mrs. Brennen. If you’ll come with me now.”

  “You’re taking me to him.”

  “Yes.”

  As much for support as guidance, Eve took Eileen’s elbow. Their footsteps echoed down the white-tiled corridor. At the door, Eve felt the woman stiffen and brace. Heard her draw in a breath and hold it.

  Then they were inside. Morris had done what he could, but there was no disguising the trauma. There was no way to soften death.

  Eileen let out the breath in one choked sob. Just one, then she drew it in again and gently pushed Eve’s supporting hand aside.

  “It’s my Tommy. This is my husband.” She stepped closer, approaching the white-sheeted figure as if he were sleeping. Eve said nothing when Eileen traced fingertips over her husband’s cheek. “How can I tell our babies, Tommy? What will I tell them?”

  She looked over at Eve, and though her eyes swam, she seemed determined to hold onto her tears. “Who could have done such a thing to such a good man?”

  “It’s my job to find out. I will do my job, Mrs. Brennen. You can rely on that.”

  “Finding out won’t bring Tommy back to me or our children. Finding out’s too late, isn’t it?”

  Death, Eve thought, made everything too late. “It’s all I have for you, Mrs. Brennen.”

  “I don’t know if it can be enough, Lieutenant Dallas. I don’t know if I can make it be enough.” She bent over, softly kissed her husband’s lips. “I always loved you, Tommy. From the first.”

  “Come with me now, Mrs. Brennen.” Eileen didn’t resist as Eve took her arm. “Come outside. Who can I call for you?”

  “I—my friend Katherine Hastings. She lives . . . she has a place on Fifth Avenue, a shop. Noticeable Woman.”

  “I’ll call. I’ll have her come and meet you here.”

  “Thank you. I need . . . someone.”

  “Do you want some water now? Coffee?”

  “No, just to sit down.” And she all but collapsed into a stiff-backed chair in the waiting area. “Just to get off my feet. I’ll be fine.” She looked up, blue eyes swimming in a white face. “I’ll be all right. I have the children, you see. I have to be all right.”

  Eve hesitated, then pulled the evidence bag out of her pocket. “Mrs. Brennen, have you ever seen this before?”

  Eileen concentrated on the token as if it were a rare piece of art. “No. That is, of course I’ve seen a shamrock before, but not this little button.”

  “Shamrock?”

  “Of course, that’s what it is. A shamrock.”

  “How about this?” Eve turned the token over.

  “A fish.” She closed her
eyes now. “A symbol of the Church. Will you call Katherine now, please? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Right away. Just sit and try to rest a minute.”

  Eve rushed through the call to Katherine Hastings, offering little explanation. She was skimming her hard copy of the pub list as she did so. She had no Penny Pig, no Four-Leaf Clover, nothing with fish or church. But she had three locations with Shamrock in the name.

  She snagged her communicator. “Peabody, concentrate on locations with Shamrock in the name.”

  “Shamrock, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s a hunch. Just do it.”

  Eve walked into the Green Shamrock at three P.M. She’d missed the lunch crowd—if there’d been one—and found the small, dark pub nearly deserted. A couple of sad-looking customers sat huddled over thickly foamed beers at a back table while they played a desultory game of gin. Though she saw no on-site gambling license displayed, she ignored the piles of credits beside the mugs of beer.

  A young woman with a white apron and rosy cheeks was whistling as she wiped tables. She smiled at Eve, and when she spoke Eve heard that lovely lilt of Roarke’s native land.

  “Good afternoon to you, miss. Can I get you a menu? It’s just sandwiches this time of day, I’m afraid.”

  “No, thanks.” There was no one manning the bar, but Eve slid onto a stool before pulling out her badge. She saw the young waitress’s eyes widen.

  “I haven’t done anything. I’m legal. I have papers.”

  “I’m not with Immigration.” From the hasty relief on the girl’s face, Eve imagined the papers were still wet, and likely fake. “Are there rooms for rent on the premises? Do any of the employees, or the owner, live on-site?”

  “Yes, ma’am. There are three rooms. One in the back and two upstairs. I have one upstairs myself. It’s up to code.”

  “Who else lives here—what’s your name?”

  “I’m Maureen Mulligan.”

  “Who else lives on-site, Maureen?”

  “Well, Bob McBride did until last month when the boss fired him for laziness. Bob had a hard time lifting a pint, you see, unless it was up to his own lips.” She smiled again and began to scrub at the bar industriously. “And now there’s Shawn Conroy who takes the back room.”