Strangers in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think I got digs?”

  “If you’ve got them, tell me where so I can take you.”

  “Round the corner. Apartment on the third floor, above the Greek place. Told you this was my yard.”

  “Yeah, you did. Break it down. Let’s go.”

  He wasn’t happy about it, she could see, but he did it. “Cost me five easy, quitting this early when I took off to go down and get you.”

  “I bought you a fizzy.”

  Because his stony stare appealed to her, she dug out some credits. Counted fifty. “That’s ten percent of the five you say you lost. I figure it covers your time and your transportation.”

  “Solid.” The credits disappeared into one of several pockets. “You stun any of those people in there?”

  “No.” What the hell, Eve thought. She could add some juice to the fifty. “But the woman screamed like a girl and tried to run. I told her to drop, or I’d stun her.”

  “Would ya?”

  “Damn right. They’d stolen from a lot of people, and they were making dupe cards in the back. Looks like they were lifting IDs, too.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Stealing’s lazy.”

  Intrigued, she looked down at him. “Is it?”

  “Shit, yeah. Any lazy dumbass can steal. Takes brains and some juice to make money. We up here.” He opened a door next to a tiny gyro place. The closet-sized lobby held an elevator. On it the Out of Order sign looked about a decade old. Eve climbed the stairs with the boy. The place smelled like onions and garlic, not entirely unpleasant. The walls were dingy, the steps stained and steep.

  She imagined him climbing up and down them every day, hauling his case. Yeah, it took some juice.

  On the third floor, he dug out a set of keys from one of his pockets, unlatched three locks. “You can come in if you want to meet my granny.”

  Something was cooking. Eve caught the tomatoey scent when she stepped into the tiny room, which was sparse and lace-curtain tidy.

  “That my boy?” someone called through a narrow doorway.

  “Yes, ma’am, Granny. I got somebody with me.”

  “Who you got?” The woman who stepped out of the doorway held a short-handled wooden spoon. Her hair was a white ball of fluff over a face mapped with wrinkles. But her eyes beamed that same vivid green as the boy’s. She wore a baggy brown sweater and pants over her thin frame.

  Fear came into those eyes, and knowledge with it. She might as well have shouted Cop! and thrown her hands in the air like the counterman.

  “There’s no trouble here,” Eve said.

  “This is my granny. Granny, this is Loo-tenit Dallas. She’s the top…She’s a police.”

  “He’s a good boy.” The woman held out a hand so Tiko hurried to her, and she held him tight against her side.

  “He’s not in trouble.”

  “We got them, Granny, that’s what we did. We got them good.”

  “Who? What’s this about?”

  Tiko tugged at her hand. “’Member how I told you I seen those suspicious characters? You said how they was likely stealing hand over fist. And they were. I went down and told Dallas, and I took her where they were, and she went on over there and arrested them good. Ain’t that the way?”

  “Isn’t that the way,” his grandmother corrected absently.

  “Tiko alerted me to suspicious activity, and assisted the NYPSD in identifying a front for street theft and identity fraud.”

  “Oh, my sweet Lord.”

  “Mrs….”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so flustered, I can’t hardly feel my head on my shoulders. I’m Abigail Johnson.”

  “Mrs. Johnson, you have a very interesting grandson, and one who went above and beyond what most people would. A lot of people owe him for it.” She took out a card, searched her pockets until she came up with a pencil stub. “This is my contact information. There’s a reward.”

  “I get a reward? Over my time and transpo?”

  “A good deed is its own reward,” Abigail told him.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s true. However, the NYPSD would like to express its appreciation for good citizenship, and it has a program for just that. If you’ll contact the person I’ve listed on the back of my card, they’ll arrange it.” She handed the card to Abigail, held out a hand to Tiko. “Nice job, kid.”

  “Back at cha. Sorry about the mouse.”

  “Not the first, won’t be the last.”

  “Tiko, go ahead and wash up for supper now. Say good-bye to Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “See you around. You come on back to my yard, I’ll make you a good deal.” When he dashed off, Abigail drew a slow breath.

  “I homeschool him two hours every evening, seven days a week. We go to church every Sunday. I make sure he’s got clothes and good food. I—”

  “There’s no trouble here, Mrs. Johnson. If you have any, you contact me.”

  Eve jogged down the stairs, and back out into the cold. A good deed might be its own reward, she thought as she pressed a hand to her aching cheek. But she could sure as hell use an icebag with hers.

  9

  EVE WALKED INTO THE HOUSE PREPARED FOR her daily snarkfest with Summerset, who would no doubt have something withering to say about the black eye she was brewing.

  And he wasn’t there.

  She stood for a moment in the empty foyer almost expecting him to materialize like smoke. Puzzled, she poked her head in the front parlor. Fresh flowers, nicely simmering fire—but no Bony Ass. Mild concern jabbed its way through the puzzlement. Maybe he’d caught something like what Feeney had—and there was no possible way she was playing nurse for the resident ghoul.

  Still, if he was lying unconscious somewhere in a pool of fever sweat…Roarke would just have to get his ass home and deal with it.

  She started to turn to the house comp to run a search for him, then the top cop bitch jumped like a rabbit when Summerset’s disembodied voice floated into the room.

  “As I assume you might have some interest in your partner, you should be aware that Detective Peabody’s appearance on Now begins in approximately four minutes.”

  “Fuck.” Eve breathed out the word, scowled at the intercom. “I know what time it is.” Or she did now. Annoyed, she started up the stairs, and his voice followed her.

  “You’ll find cold bags in the top, far right drawer of your office kitchen.”

  She hunched her shoulders—oh, she heard the smug satisfaction—and kept going. In her office she dumped the file bag on her desk, ordered the proper channel on screen. And because her cheek throbbed like a bitch in heat, retrieved and activated the stupid cold bag. With the blessed chill pressed against her face, she booted up her computer. Might as well deal with the next irritation on her list, she thought, and write up her report on the Times Square bust.

  She’d barely begun when Now’s theme music boomed on. With half an ear, she listened to Nadine’s intro, spared a glance at the screen where the reporter’s cat’s eyes stared soberly back at her. Polished and powerful was the image, Eve supposed, with the streaky blonde hair, subtle jewelry, the good legs highlighted in a sleek copper suit. Of course, most of the viewing audience hadn’t seen Nadine dance half naked at a sex club after a pitcher of zombies.

  She introduced Peabody as the dedicated, decorated police officer, and cited some of the more media-worthy cases she’d helped close. When the camera panned over to her partner, Eve pursed her lips.

  Trina hadn’t gone freaky on her hair and face, Eve noted. She looked young, but not soft, so that was good. The suit, with its military cut, probably worked. And if you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t notice the utter terror in Peabody’s eyes.

  “Don’t screw up,” Eve muttered.

  Nadine led her in, softballing a few, and Eve could see Peabody begin to relax. Not too relaxed, Eve thought. She’s not your friend when you’re on air. Nobody’s your friend when you’re on air.

  “Damn
it, now I’m nervous.” And because of it, Eve rose and paced in front of the screen as she watched.

  Handling it, handling it. Pursuing all leads, blah, blah, blah. Unable to comment on specifics, yada, yada. Peabody confirmed there had been no sign of forced entry—that was okay—and better, dropped in there were indications the security system had been compromised.

  They circled around each other on the sexual nature of the murder. It was Nadine’s job to dig for details and Peabody’s duty to avoid giving them. Standing in front of the screen, Eve felt a quick little twist of pride. They both did nice work.

  Enough got in, just enough to confirm the murder had sexual elements. But the tone, the message, transmitted clearly that Thomas A. Anders was the victim. A life had been taken.

  Wrapping it up now, Eve realized. Thank Christ.

  “Detective,” Nadine began, “Thomas Anders was a wealthy man, a strong, visible presence in social and business circles. His prominence must bring a certain pressure onto the investigation. How does that influence your work?”

  “I…I guess I’d say murder equalizes. When a life’s taken, when one individual takes the life of another, there’s no class system, no prominence. Wealth, social standing, business, those might all go to motive. But they don’t change what was done, or what we as investigators do about it. We work the case the same way for Thomas Anders as we do for John Doe.”

  “Still, some departmental pressure would be expected when the victim has prominence.”

  “Actually, it’s the media that plays that kind of thing up. I don’t get it from my superiors. I wasn’t raised to judge a person’s worth by what he owns. And I was trained as a cop, as a detective, that our job is to stand for the dead—whoever they were in life.”

  Eve nodded, dipped her hands into her pockets as Nadine cut away to end the segment and preview the next.

  “Okay, Peabody, you can live.”

  Ordering the screen off, Eve sat at her desk and got back to work.

  There she was. Roarke stood in the office doorway, took a few enjoyable minutes to just watch her. She had such a sense of purpose, such a sense of focus on that purpose. It had appealed to him from the first instant he’d seen her, across a sea of people at a memorial for the dead. He found it compelling, the way those whiskey-colored eyes could go flat and cold as they were now. Cop’s eyes. His cop’s eyes.

  She’d taken off her jacket, tossed it over a chair, and still wore her weapon harness. Which meant she’d come in the door and straight up. Armed and dangerous, he thought. It was a look, a fact of her, that continually aroused him. And her tireless and unwavering dedication to the dead—to the truth, to what was right—had, and always would, amaze him.

  She’d set up her murder board, he noted, filling it with grisly photos, with reports, notes, names. And somewhere along the line in her day, she’d earned herself a black eye.

  He’d long since resigned himself to finding the woman he loved bruised and bloody at any given time. Since she didn’t look exhausted or ill, a shiner was a relatively minor event.

  She sensed him. He saw the moment she did, that slight change of body language. And when her eyes shifted from her comp screen to his, the cold focus became an easy, even casual warmth.

  That, he thought, just that was worth coming home for.

  “Lieutenant.” He crossed over, lifted her chin with his hand to study the bruising under her eye. “And so, who’d you piss off today then?”

  “More like who pissed me off. He’s got more than one bruise.”

  “Naturally. Who might that be?”

  “Some mope named Clipper. I busted a snatch, switch, and drop.”

  “Ah.” He cocked his head. “Why?”

  “Good question. This kid named Tiko dragged me into it.”

  “This sounds like a story. Do you want some wine to go with it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Before you tell me the story, did you catch Peabody’s appearance?”

  “Yeah. Did you?”

  Across the room he contemplated the wine selection, made his choice for both of them. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I thought she did brilliantly.”

  “She didn’t screw up.”

  He laughed, opened the bottle. “High praise, Lieutenant. It’s you who trained her. The last thing she said. It’s you who trained her to stand for the dead, no matter who they were in life.”

  “I trained her to work a case. She was already a cop.”

  “As you were, when Feeney trained you. So it trickles down.” He walked back to hand her a glass of wine. “It’s a kind of inheritance, isn’t it?” With his own wine, he sat on the corner of her desk. “Now, about that eye.”

  He listened, by turns amused and fascinated. “How old is this Tiko?”

  “I don’t know. Seven, maybe eight. Short.”

  “He must be very persuasive as well as short and seven.”

  “He digs in, that’s for sure. It wasn’t much of a detour anyway.” She shrugged. “And you had to admire his logic, pretty much down the line. They’re stealing from potential customers, which cuts into his business. I’m a cop.”

  “Top bitch cop.”

  “Bet your ass. So as such I’m supposed to fix it.”

  “As you did.” He brushed a finger over her cheek. “With minimal damage, I suppose.”

  “Guy had skinny arms, but they were as long as a gorilla’s. Anyway, I figure the kid’s got a flop—he’s too clean and warmly dressed for street—probably with his gray market supplier. Couldn’t’ve been further off there. Little apartment off Times Square with a granny cooking his supper. Great-grandmother,” she added. “I ran them on the way home.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Neither’s been in any trouble. The same can’t be said of Tiko’s mother. Illegals busts, solicitation without a license, shoplifting that upped to petty theft that upped to grand larceny. Last couple busts were down in Florida. The granny’s been guardian since he was about a year old.”

  “The father?”

  “Unknown. She was afraid I was going to call Child Services. Afraid I was going to call them in, and she could lose the kid.”

  “Another cop might have.”

  “Then another cop would’ve been wrong. Kid’s got a decent roof over his head, warm clothes on his back, food in his belly, and somebody who loves him. It’s…”

  “More than we had,” Roarke finished.

  “Yeah. I thought about that. There’s no fear in this kid, and that’s about all that was in me at his age. No meanness either, and you had plenty of that running your Dublin alleys. Had to have plenty of it. He’s got the chance of a good life ahead of him because someone cares enough.”

  “From what you’ve said, he sounds like the kind who’ll make the most of that chance.”

  “That’s my take. And I thought about Anders. He wasn’t afraid, and from everything I find, he wasn’t big on the mean. But his chance at life was taken. Because someone cared enough to end him.”

  “Cared enough. Interesting choice of words.”

  “Yeah.” She looked over at her murder board, looked at Ava Anders’s ID photo. “I think it fits. Listen, I couldn’t get by the lab to browbeat Dickhead into running a voice print. I’ve got a couple samples here. It probably wouldn’t take you long.”

  “It probably wouldn’t.” He considered it over a sip of wine. “I might do that for you, if you fixed my supper.”

  It seemed a fair trade. And if she went for one of her own personal faves—spaghetti and meatballs—he hadn’t specified a choice. She continued her run on Ava Anders first, left another message on Dirk Bronson’s—the first husband’s—voice mail. Then she wandered into the kitchen to program the meal.

  She’d only set the plates on her desk when Roarke came back in. She wondered why she even bothered with the lab.

  “Good news is, it didn’t take long. Bad news, from your standpoint anyway, they’re a match.”


  “Shit. Could the St. Lucia transmission have been by remote?”

  “It’s not reading that way. I ran it through several types of filters. As your expert consultant, civilian, I have to tell you Ava Anders received that transmission while in the room registered to her in St. Lucia.”

  “She couldn’t have made it back there from New York in the time frame.”

  “No. It’s a bit too tight for that.”

  “Maybe the time frame’s off. Anders was still alive—unconscious, dying, but still alive when the security was booted back, the doors locked again. Maybe it didn’t take her as long as I calculated for the setup, and if she reactivated it all by remote, she might have been on her way back to St. Lucia earlier. It’d be tight, but maybe not too tight.”

  “Ground time from the crime scene to a shuttle hangar, and the same from shuttle to hotel on the island have to be added in. You’re reaching, Eve.”

  “Damn right I’m reaching.” Irritated, she scooped up some spaghetti. “I know she’s in it. Okay, the vic liked electronics. Could he have a security setup that could be turned off and on by long-distance remote?”

  “Not impossible. What do your e-men say?”

  “Cloning remote—good shit—short-range. But they weren’t looking for long. And Feeney’s dog sick with a cold.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I had to practically carry him down to transpo, send him off to a health center, call his wife.”

  Roarke didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Haven’t you been the busy little scout today.”

  “Bite me.”

  “I rarely think of anything else but. I can take a look at the system. As for financials, I haven’t found anything off there. No suspicious withdrawals or transfers, no accounts tucked away. Not yet.”

  Clean, covered, Eve thought. But her gut kept adding “calculated” to that. “If she didn’t do it herself and had it done, maybe she didn’t use money. There are other incentives. Sex, position, blackmail. Friendship. Isn’t there some saying about a real friend’s the one who helps you hide the body? She’s got a couple of women who strike me as real friends.”