by J. D. Robb
“What difference does that make?” Maureen looked down fearfully at the e-book. “If you’re trying to intimate that there was anything going on before Boyd was free—”
“I’m trying to get a timeline, a picture before and after Marsha’s murder. Women know when a man’s interested in them. Was Boyd interested in you?”
“Boyd would never, never have betrayed his vows. Marriage isn’t a convenience to him.”
“The way it was with Marsha.”
“She didn’t fully appreciate him, but he would never have blamed her for it.”
“But you did.”
“That’s not what I said. I simply meant that she wasn’t as devoted to the marriage as it looked from the outside.”
“And you, being a friend of both Boyd’s and Marsha’s were on the inside, and saw the flaws. Boyd was even deeper inside this relationship. The flaws must have been very apparent to him. Very distressing if he felt Marsha was careless about the marriage, about his happiness.”
“She wouldn’t see he was unhappy.”
“But you did. You saw he was unhappy, consoled him when he talked to you about it.”
“No. No. I never . . . he never. He—he’s a very tolerant man. He never said a bad word about Marsha. Not ever. I have to get home.”
“Was he tolerant enough to overlook infidelity? To do laundry, fix his own meals while his wife sneaks around having sex with another man? I didn’t know there were still saints in the world. Does it ever worry you, Mrs. Stibbs, that you may be married to a man who arranged for his first wife’s death?”
“Are you crazy? Boyd would never—he’s incapable. You can’t possibly believe he had anything to do with . . . with what happened. He wasn’t even there.”
“An out-of-town business trip’s a smart alibi.” Peabody eased back in her chair, nodded wisely. “Did you ever wonder if he’d suspected his wife was sleeping around? The letters were right there. The signs were all around him. He could have stewed about it for days, weeks, until he bubbled over. Until he paid someone to come in while he was gone, hit her over the head, and dump her body in the tub. Then he comes home and plays the grieving husband.”
“I won’t have you say that. I won’t sit here and listen to you say such things.” She pushed back from the table with enough force to knock over the water glass. “Boyd would never have hurt her. He’d never hurt anyone. He’s a gentle man. A decent man.”
“A decent man is capable of a great deal when he finds out the woman he loves is screwing another man in his bed.”
“He wouldn’t lay a hand on Marsha, or allow anyone else to.”
“A moment of rage when he found the letters.”
“How could he find them when they weren’t there?”
She was wild-eyed and panting. Peabody felt a cool control settle over her.
“No, the letters weren’t there, because you wrote them and you put them in her drawer after you killed her. You killed Marsha Stibbs because she was your obstacle to Boyd—a man you wanted and she didn’t prize him enough to suit you. You wanted Marsha’s husband and her life and her marriage, so you took them.”
“No.” Maureen pressed her hands to her cheeks, shook her head. “No. No.”
“She didn’t deserve him.” Peabody had the hammer now and used it to coldly shatter Maureen with fast, hard strokes. “But you did. He needed you, someone like you to tend to him the way she wouldn’t. She didn’t love him, not the way you did.”
“She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone.”
“Did you confront her when Boyd was out of town? Did you tell her she wasn’t good enough for him? He deserved better, didn’t he? He deserved you.”
“No. I don’t want to be here anymore. I need to go home.”
“Did she argue with you, or did she just laugh? Didn’t take you seriously, and neither would Boyd until she was out of the picture. He wouldn’t see you until she was out of the way. You had to kill her so you could really live. Isn’t that right, Maureen?”
“It wasn’t like that.” Fat, fast tears poured down her cheeks. She held out both hands, clasped together as if in prayer. “You have to believe me.”
“Tell me what it was like. Tell me what happened the night you went into Marsha’s apartment.”
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.” Sobbing now, she collapsed in the chair, laid her head on the table and covered it with her arms. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean it. I’ve done everything right since. I’ve done everything to make it up to him. I love him. I’ve always loved him.”
In observation, McNab grinned like a madman. “She did it! She broke her down. Closed a cold case. I gotta . . . jeez, I gotta go get her flowers or something.” He started to dash out, turned. “Dallas, she did good.”
“Yeah.” Eve continued to look through the glass, look into the pity she saw stir in Peabody’s eyes. “She did good.”
By the time she sent Maureen Stibbs down to Booking, Peabody was drained. She felt as if her insides had been put through some huge mechanical wringer that squeezed all the juices out.
When she headed back toward the bull pen, her parents rose from a bench and walked to her.
“What are you guys doing here? We’re not supposed to meet up until we have that fancy dinner we had to postpone last night.”
“We’re so proud of you.” Her mother cupped her face, laid a soft, warm kiss on her forehead. “Very proud of you.”
“Okay . . . why?”
“Eve called us in.” She bent down, brushed her cheek over Peabody’s. “She arranged for us to watch you work.”
“My interview?” Peabody’s mouth fell open. “You saw?”
“It was very difficult, what you did.” Phoebe drew her close.
“It’s the job.”
“A very difficult job. And one you were meant to do.” She eased her daughter back to study her face. “When we leave tomorrow, it’ll be easier to say good-bye knowing that.”
“Tomorrow, but—”
“It’s time. We’ll talk more tonight. You have work now.”
Sam reached down, gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze. “Officer Peabody.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Go be a cop.”
A little misty-eyed she watched them walk toward the down-glide. Then the sentiment dried up in amused shock as McNab bounded off the up-glide carrying an armload of white and yellow daisies.
“Where’d you get those?”
“Don’t ask.” He handed them to her, then broke their mutual agreement by hauling her in for a hard kiss in a public area. “She-Body, you rocked.”
“I nearly blew it.”
“Hey. You kicked ass, you did the job, you closed the case. End of story.” He was so proud he could have burst the pink buttons on his purple shirt. “And you looked really sexy doing it. I was thinking we could play Interview later tonight.” He winked at her.
“You were observing?”
“You think I’d miss it? It was a big fucking deal for you, so it was bfd for me, too.”
She sighed, gave in, and buried her nose in flowers that were no doubt stolen. “Sometimes, McNab, you’re really sweet.”
“So, I’ll give you a good taste of me later. Got to roll. I’m behind.”
Carrying the flowers, she walked into the bull pen, and was flustered, delighted, embarrassed when several detectives called out congratulations. Flushing, she went into Eve’s office. “Lieutenant?”
Eve held up a hand to hold her off and continued to study the results of the probability scan on spa centers. She and the computer agreed that Europe was the most likely destination given Julianna’s profile, with Paris just nipping out the rest of the field.
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Major city, major media, major cops. Why not this place, what’s it, Provence, or this other near the Swiss border in Italy?”
SUBJECT PREFERS URBAN ATMOSPHERE WITH CONVENIENT ACCESS TO THEATER, RESTAURANTS, AND SHOPPING. QUESTIONED OPTIONS ARE
LOCATED IN THE COUNTRYSIDE, APPEALING TO THOSE WISHING A MORE BUCOLIC SETTING AND HAVING LITTLE OR NO DESIRE FOR OUTSIDE ACTIVITIES. L’INDULGENCE IS THE TOP-RATED TREATMENT CENTER IN PARIS, WITH FULL SALON, SPA, BODY SCULPTING, AND EMOTIONAL WELL-BEING FACILITIES. THEIR PRODUCTS ARE FORMULATED OF ALL- NATURAL INGREDIENTS AND CAN BE PURCHASED ONLY THROUGH THIS CENTER. SKIN AND BODY TREATMENTS ARE—
“If I’d wanted a PR quote, I’d’ve asked for one. How do you book?”
RESERVATIONS FOR DAY PACKAGES AND/OR HOTEL SERVICES MUST BE MADE DIRECTLY WITH THE FACILITY BY GUEST, GUEST REPRESENTATIVE, OR AUTHORIZED TRAVEL AGENCY. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT REQUESTS FOR RESERVATIONS BE MADE AT LEAST SIX WEEKS IN ADVANCE.
“Six weeks.” Eve pondered, drummed her fingers.
“Are you going to Paris to a spa, Lieutenant?”
“Sure, if someone knocks me unconscious, puts me in shackles, and drags my lifeless body in. But I’m thinking this might be right up Julianna’s alley. A girl needs a break from killing to relax, be pampered, and make sure her skin retains that youthful, dewy look.”
She glanced up, gestured at the flowers. “So, McNab came through. Where’d he steal them?”
“I don’t know.” Peabody sniffed them sentimentally. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. You let my parents come in and observe. You don’t like having civilians observe an interview.”
“I made an exception.”
“They said they were proud of me.”
“You’re a good cop. Why shouldn’t they be proud of you?”
“It just means a lot to hear them say it. I want to thank you for sending that note in, snapping me back on track. I’d gone way off. I knew I was losing her and couldn’t figure where I’d gone off.”
“You picked it back up, and you got it done. How do you feel about it?”
“Good, I guess. I feel good about it.” But she lowered her arms, drooping the flowers toward the floor. “Jesus, Dallas, I feel sorry for her. Her whole world’s broken into little pieces. It was an accident. She’s being straight about that. She worked herself up to confront Marsha, told her how she felt about Boyd. They argued, it got physical, and Marsha went down hard, hit her head. Hit it wrong. Then Maureen panics and tries to cover up.”
“And they’ll plead it down to Manslaughter. Manslaughter when it should be Murder Two.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Maybe she panicked, for a minute or two, she panicked and was sorry and shocked. But then what did she do? Does she call for help? On the slim chance Marsha Stibbs could be revived or saved, does she call for help? No, she seized an opportunity. She not only covers up the crime, but she goes just a few steps further. She plants false evidence that paints a dead woman with adultery, leaves that dead woman’s husband, a man she herself claims to love, with the pain and doubt and misery of wondering if his wife could have lied to him, cheated on him, betrayed him. She casts a cloud over the life she stole so that everyone who knew Marsha Stibbs would look through that cloud and see a woman who was a cheat, so she can bide her time, pave the road, and eventually step into her place.”
Eve shook her head. “Don’t waste your pity on her. If you’ve got pity, give it to Marsha Stibbs, who had her life taken for no reason other than she had what someone else wanted.”
“Yes, sir, I know you’re right. I guess it just has to settle in.”
“Peabody. You stood for Marsha Stibbs in that interview. You did a good job for her.”
Peabody’s face cleared, and so did her lingering doubts. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Go home, snazz yourself up for this fancy deal you’ve got going tonight.”
“It’s not end of shift.”
“I’m springing you an hour early and you want to argue about it?”
“No, sir!” Peabody pulled a yellow daisy out of her bunch, offered it.
“You passing on stolen property, Officer?” Amused, Eve twirled it, then turned to her beeping interoffice ’link. “Hold on. Dallas.”
“Lieutenant.” Whitney’s face filled the screen. “I want you and your team in my office. Fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Peabody.” Eve pushed to her feet. “Want your flower back?”
Fifteen minutes didn’t give Eve enough time to finish compiling and analyzing all the data to support her hunch on Julianna’s personal holiday. Instead she worked out an oral pitch in her head to pursue that hunch on the way to Whitney’s office.
The pitch stalled when she walked in and saw Roarke.
He sat in one of the chairs facing the commander’s desk, apparently very much at home. Their gazes met, locked, and she knew instantly that whatever was going on she wasn’t going to like it.
“Lieutenant.” Whitney gave a quick come-ahead signal. “Officer Peabody, I’m told you closed a homicide case this afternoon, with a full confession in Interview.”
“Yes, sir. The Marsha Stibbs matter.”
“Good job.”
“Thank you, Commander. Actually, Lieutenant Dallas—”
“Had complete confidence in Officer Peabody’s ability to investigate and close this case,” Eve interrupted. “That confidence was justified. Officer Peabody pursued this investigation primarily on her own time while continuing to serve as my aide and as part of the investigative team formed in the Julianna Dunne homicides. A commendation regarding this matter has been added to Officer Peabody’s file.”
“Well done,” Whitney said while Peabody stood speechless. “Come,” he called out at the knock on his door. “Captain, Detective.” He nodded at Feeney and McNab.
“Nice work.” Feeney gave Peabody a wink and a little arm punch as he joined them. “Roarke.” He dipped his hands in his pockets, gave his bag of nuts a little rattle. Something was up, he thought, and it was bound to be interesting.
“Julianna Dunne.” Whitney began with the name, pausing on it as he scanned the faces of his officers. “She has committed three homicides in this city. A fourth in another—though Denver Police and Security is . . . reluctant to confirm that at this time.” His lips curved, a sharp, knowing smile as he looked at Eve. “She is also responsible for seriously injuring an officer.”
“Commander—”
He cut off Eve’s protest with one narrowed stare. “It’s fortunate you recover quickly, Lieutenant. However, these are the facts, facts that the media are actively broadcasting. Facts that this department must respond to. Two of the victims were prominent men, with prominent connections. The families of Walter Pettibone and Henry Mouton have contacted this office, and the office of Chief of Police Tibble, demanding justice. Demanding answers.”
“They’ll get justice, Commander. My team is actively, doggedly, pursuing all leads. An updated progress report will be in your hands by end of shift.”
“Lieutenant.” Whitney eased back in his chair. “Your investigation is stalled.”
“The investigation is multipronged.” Eve swallowed the outrage that burned into her throat. “And with respect, Commander, is not stalled but rather complex and layered. Justice isn’t always served swiftly.”
“She’d been kept where she belonged, there wouldn’t be an investigation.” Feeney’s anger snapped out. “We put her away once, and now because a bunch of morons and bleeding hearts open the cage door, we’ve got to put her away again. That’s a damn fact. It was Dallas who pinned her then, and maybe the media, this office, and the office of the damn chief should remember that.”
When Eve put a hand on his arm, he shook her off. “Don’t tell me to calm down,” he shot out, though she hadn’t said a word.
“I’m fully aware of the history in this matter.” Whitney’s voice stayed level. “And so is Chief Tibble. And the media, I can promise you, will be reminded of it. But it’s today we have to deal with. Julianna Dunne remains at large, and that’s a very big problem. She taunted you,” he said to Eve. “And the opinion is she’ll continue to do so. Would you agree, Lieutenant, that Dunne selected New York as her primary loc
ation as payback? That her work here is a personal attack on you?”
“I would agree, Commander, that the subject harbors a grudge, and while her work is satisfying in and of itself to her, by killing here she gains the added benefit of involving me in combat.”
“She has no particular interest in or connection to the men she’s killed. Which makes your investigation more problematic.”
“It’s unlikely we’ll track and apprehend her by identifying her next target or targets.” She felt a little warning beat at the base of her skull. “The investigation is better served by concentrating on the subject’s pattern—personal pattern. How she lives, works, plays. She isn’t a woman to deny herself the comforts and luxuries she’s always believed she deserves and which were denied to her for nearly nine years in prison. I’m currently compiling and analyzing data in that area to support what I believe is a valid theory.”
“I’d be interested in reviewing that data and hearing that theory, but in the meantime, let’s just backtrack a minute.” He steepled his hands, tapped the index fingers together. “The computer probabilities oppose the view held by Dr. Mira and the primary as to the identity of one of the potential targets. Who—after reviewing all data and reports—I believe is and has been the central target all along. This individual’s willingness to cooperate could very well result in Dunne’s early apprehension and a closure to this case.”
The beat became a pounding. “Utilizing civilians—”
“Is often expedient,” Whitney finished. “Particularly when the civilian is known to be . . . skilled in pertinent areas.”
“Permission to speak with you privately, sir.”
“Denied.”
“Commander.” Roarke spoke for the first time, in a soft tone, a direct contrast to the rising tension in the room. “If I may? She’ll come at me sooner or later, Eve. We arrange to make it sooner, it gives us the advantage and may save another life.”
“I object to using a civilian as bait.” She looked directly at Whitney. “Whoever, whatever he might be. As primary of this investigation, I have the right to refuse employing tactics I feel generate unacceptable risk to my men, or to civilians.”
