by Nora Roberts
“No,” he repeated as a dog the size of a Shetland pony trotted in. The dog looked at Eve. Eve considered her stunner. But the dog only whined and bellied over to Dickenson.
“Mr. Dickenson,” Peabody all but crooned. “Let me help you up. Let me help you to a chair.”
“Marta. No. I know who you are. I know you. Dallas. Murder cop. No.”
Because pity outweighed her distrust of a giant dog, Eve crouched down. “Mr. Dickenson, we need to talk.”
“Don’t say it. Don’t.” He lifted his head, looked desperately into Eve’s eyes. “Please don’t say it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He wept. Wrapping his arms around the dog, swaying and rocking on his knees, he wept.
It had to be said. Even when it was known, it had to be said, for the record, and Eve knew, for the man.
“Mr. Dickenson, I regret to inform you your wife was killed. We’ve very sorry for your loss.”
“Marta. Marta. Marta.” He said it like a chant, like a prayer.
“Can we call someone for you?” Peabody asked gently. “Your sister? A neighbor?”
“How? How?”
“Let’s go sit down,” Eve told him, and offered her hand.
He stared at it, then put his, trembling, into it. He was a tall man, well-built. It took both of them to pull him to his feet where he swayed like a drunk.
“I can’t . . . What?”
“We’re going to go sit down.” As she spoke, Peabody guided him into a spacious living area full of color, of comfort and the clutter of family with kids and a monster dog. “I’m going to get you some water, all right?” Peabody continued. “Do you want me to contact your sister?”
“Genny? Yes. Genny.”
“All right. Sit right here.”
He eased down, and the dog immediately planted its massive paws on his legs, laid its enormous head in his lap. As Peabody went off to find the kitchen, Dickenson turned to Eve. Tears continued to stream out of his eyes but they’d cleared of the initial shock.
“Marta. Where’s Marta?”
“She’s with the medical examiner.” She saw Dickenson jerk, but pushed on. “He’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of her. I know this is difficult, Mr. Dickenson, but I have to ask you some questions.”
“Tell me how. You have to tell me what happened. She didn’t come home. Why didn’t she come home?”
“That’s what we need to find out. When was your last contact with your wife?”
“We spoke at about ten. She was working late, and she called as she was leaving the office. I said, get a car, Marta, get the car service, and she called me a worrywart, but I didn’t want her walking to the subway or trying to hail a cab. It’s so cold tonight.”
“Did she arrange for a car service?”
“No. She just laughed. She said the walk to the subway would do her good. She’d been chained to her computer most of the day, and she—she—she wanted to lose five pounds. Oh my God. Oh God. What happened? Was there an accident? No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Murder cop. You’re Homicide. Somebody killed Marta. Somebody killed my wife, my Marta. Why? Why?”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her?”
“No. Absolutely not. No one. No. She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Peabody came back in with a glass of water. “Your sister and her husband are on their way.”
“Thank you. Was it a mugging? I don’t understand. If someone had wanted her bag, her jewelry, she’d have given it to them. We made a promise to each other when we decided to stay in the city. We wouldn’t take stupid chances. We have children.” The hand holding the water began to shake again. “The children. What am I going to tell our kids? How can I tell our kids?”
“Are your children home?” Eve asked him.
“Yes, of course. They’re sleeping. They’ll expect her to be here when they get up for school. She’s always here when they get up for school.”
“Mr. Dickenson, I have to ask. Were there any problems in your marriage?”
“No. I’m a lawyer. My sister’s a criminal court judge. I know you have to look at me. So look,” he said with eyes welling again. “Look. Get it done. But tell me what happened to my wife. You tell me what happened to Marta.”
Fast, Eve knew. Fast and brief. “Her body was found shortly after two this morning at the base of an exterior stairway of a building approximately eight blocks from her office. Her neck was broken.”
His breath came out, tore, sucked back again. “She wouldn’t have walked that far, not at night, not alone. And she didn’t fall or you wouldn’t be here. Was she—was she raped?”
“There was no indication of sexual assault from the initial examination. Mr. Dickenson, did you attempt to contact your wife between your last call and our arrival here?”
“I’ve been calling her ’link every few minutes. I started around ten-thirty, I think, but she didn’t answer. She’d never have let me worry like this, all this time. I knew . . . I need a minute.” He got shakily to his feet. “I need a minute,” he repeated and rushed out of the room.
The dog looked after him, then walked cautiously to Peabody, lifted a paw to her knee.
“Sometimes it’s worse than others,” Peabody murmured, and gave the dog what comfort she could.
***
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Nora Roberts is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels. She is also the author of the bestselling futuristic suspense series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more than 400 million copies of her books in print. Visit her online at www.noraroberts.com and facebook.com/noraroberts.
