Apprentice in Death

  “Ow,” Eve said again. “In addition, the information your father gave us led us to a dead end. He said nothing regarding the townhouse where you were located, therefore none of the terms of the deal were met.”

  “You set me up, it’s entrapment—and none of this bullshit in here will hold up. I heard you arguing about how you couldn’t try me as an adult because of the deal.”

  “Really?” Reo shifted to Eve, blue eyes open and sincere. “I don’t believe we mentioned the deal—already voided prior to this Interview—or any of the terms within. On the record.”

  “Nope. Sure didn’t. Why would we? It didn’t apply. You’re going down—bitch—for twenty-five counts of murder, for conspiracy to murder, for multiple assaults with a deadly. Then there’s attempted murder on a police officer, assault with a deadly on same. There’s possession of illegal weapons, possession and use of false identification. And the record will show, in your own words, your intent to murder your family and others.

  “I see a hundred years—maybe more—of life in a cage on Omega. The sun’s not going to shine for you again, Willow.”

  “It’ll never happen.” But for the first time, fear lit in Willow’s eyes. “I’m fifteen. You’re not going to lock me up forever when I’m only fifteen.”

  “Keep thinking that—and maybe touch base with Rayleen Straffo if you see her on Omega. She was ten when I closed the cage door on her. You guys should really hit it off.”

  “I know my rights! I know my rights! None of this Interview is valid. I’m a minor. Where’s my child services representative?”

  “You never asked for one—and . . .” Reo took another document out of her briefcase. “We obtained your mother’s permission to interview you.”

  “She can’t speak for me.”

  “Legally, she can. Of course, if you’d asked for a representative, or a lawyer, one would have been provided for you.”

  Reo folded her hands neatly on her briefcase. “Willow Mackie, you have confessed, on this record, in detail, to the charges Lieutenant Dallas listed. There are more to add. Given the vicious and violent nature of your crimes, you will be held to account for them as an adult.”

  “I want a lawyer. Now. I want a rep from child services.”

  “Do you have a lawyer you wish to contact?”

  “I don’t know any fucking lawyers. Get me one, and I mean now.”

  “Arrangements will be made to obtain legal counsel for you, and though you are considered an adult in these matters, child services will be contacted. Do you have anything to add?”

  “Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I’m going to fucking end all of you.”

  “Well then.” Reo rose.

  “Peabody, have the prisoner returned to her cell. Interview end.” Eve got to her feet. “It’s the plushest accommodation you’re going to have for the next century.”

  “I’ll find a way.” Though her eyes burned with hate, with rage, and stayed steady on Eve’s, her hands trembled.

  “You locked your own door,” Eve said, and walked out.

  Eve went straight to her office. She wanted coffee. Actually, she wanted a really big, really stiff drink, but coffee would do.

  Reo followed her in. “I’ve got to deal with the next steps of this, but I wanted to say, before I do, you played her perfectly in there.”

  “Wasn’t hard. She wanted to brag, wanted to rub it all in my face—or authority’s face. I just gave her the platform. Lock her up tight, Reo, tight and long.”

  “You can count on me.”

  “I am.”

  Alone, she turned to the board, to the dead.

  “You’ve given them justice,” Mira said from the doorway.

  “I brought her in. The rest is up to Reo and the courts.”

  “You’ve given them justice,” Mira repeated. “And saved unknown others from ending up on your board. You convinced her to reveal herself—and believe me, Eve, that record will be studied by psychiatrists, by law enforcement, by legal minds for decades.”

  “I barely had to bait her, she was so primed to show off how smart she is, how much better she is.”

  “You never lost control, and never let her see you were in control throughout. Her narcissism, her utter disregard for any semblance of a moral code, her need to be first, and her enjoyment of the kill, it came through so clearly. Some will argue her adolescence and her father’s influence drove her to do the unspeakable.

  “It won’t fly,” Mira added as Eve spun around. “She’s calculating, organized, intelligent. She’s a psychopath, and one who was given permission by a parent to embrace her desire to kill. I can promise you I’ll tear down any attempt by her lawyer to build her as a misguided teenager, coerced and manipulated by her father. Trust me on that.”

  Count on Reo. Trust Mira. “I do. I do, and that’ll help me sleep tonight.”

  “You should go home, get started on that.”

  “Yeah, working toward that.”

  But before she could get out of her office, Whitney walked in.

  “Good job, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You locked her up with her own words, but that doesn’t negate the work that went into getting her in the box. Today, at least, the city’s a safer place. I need you in the media center in ten.”

  She literally felt everything in her sag. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d take this off you if I could. But the fact is, the people of New York deserve to hear from the primary of the investigation that identified and apprehended the two people who terrorized them for nearly a week.

  “Turn that around,” he added. “In under a week you and your team identified and apprehended two people who, if still at large, would surely be responsible for more deaths. Chief Tibble and I will both attend, but we agree the statement comes from you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get the hell out of here, Dallas, and get some ice on that eye.”

  When she went out to the bullpen, she saw Roarke talking with Lowenbaum beside Peabody’s desk. Lowenbaum broke off, stepped to her, held out a hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “Back at you.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  “Media conference, then I’m going to sleep for a couple years. After that.”

  “Deal.”

  She turned to Roarke, shoved a hand through her hair. “It’s going to be a little while longer. We’ve got a media conference, then I’ll deal with the paperwork, and we can go.”

  “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  “Peabody, let’s get this over with.”

  “I’m skipping the media deal. I’m finishing the paperwork. I want to go home, too,” Peabody said before Eve could object. “They don’t need me in the media center, and I need to tie this up. I really need to tie it up and put it away.”

  Eve looked at her partner’s tired face, hollow eyes. “Okay. Good work, Peabody.”

  “Good work all around.”

  With a nod, Eve headed out to give New York a face, such as it was.

  21

  The media circus could have been worse. She’d had worse. Since Kyung, the media liaison—who wasn’t an asshole—told her to use her own words and judgment, she gave what she felt was a straightforward statement.

  “Through the efforts of the NYPSD, its officers and technicians, two individuals have been identified, apprehended, and charged with the twenty-five murders and numerous injuries incurred as a result of the attacks at Wollman Rink, Times Square, and Madison Square Garden. Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, have confessed to these crimes, and as the investigation also uncovered their plans to target others, confessed to same.”

  Of course that wasn’t enough—it never seemed to be enough. She answered questions, some salient, some stupendousl
y stupid. She answered those that targeted Willow’s age.

  “Yes, Willow Mackie is fifteen. At fifteen she killed twenty-five people in cold blood. The investigation uncovered her plan to kill more, including her own mother and her seven-year-old half brother. Due to the nature of her crimes, she will be tried as an adult.”

  When pressed, she gave a bare-bones summary of Willow’s arrest, then had to pull back a flash of temper when one of the reporters shouted out:

  “My information is Willow Mackie was injured during her arrest. Was this retaliation for allegedly killing a cop?”

  “Have you ever had a flash grenade tossed in your general direction? No? Ever had somebody in full body armor firing a laser rifle, a handheld, a blaster at you? Missed those, too? Every member of the team involved in apprehending the individual charged with twenty-five murders, including Officer Kevin Russo, put their lives at risk to protect and serve. Every member of the team acted and reacted in a lawful and appropriate matter to the threat, as the record of the arrest will show. Now if you—”

  “Follow-up!” Nadine called out, interrupting what would likely have been an unwise assessment of the previous reporter’s intelligence. “Lieutenant Dallas, did you incur your very visible injuries during the arrest of Willow Mackie?”

  “She objected, violently, to being arrested.”

  “Would that include what appears to be a severe gash on your hand? Did she also have a knife?”

  “Yes, and yes. I guess I forgot to ask if any of you have ever had someone try to slit your throat with a combat knife. She missed. If any of you want to play up the angle of her age, like we should sympathize, just make sure you include the names of the twenty-five. Ellissa Wyman, Brent Michaelson . . .” she began, and named every one.

  “That’s all you get.”

  “One moment, Lieutenant.” Tibble stepped forward, gave the entire room the hard eye until everyone settled. “I have personally reviewed recordings taken from Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Lieutenant Lowenbaum, and others during the confrontation and arrest of Willow Mackie. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and a civilian consultant all received direct strikes deployed by Willow Mackie, and were spared serious injury only due to their body armor.”

  He allowed just a hint of temper to show as he turned the hard eye on the original questioner.

  “Age doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot, in my opinion, when you’re armed with laser rifles, flash grenades, and you know how to use them. More, if you use them to strike at civilians, at police officers, and rack up kills like trophies. Lieutenant Dallas and her team risked their lives today, as they do every day, to save yours, to save your spouses, your sons and daughters, your friends and neighbors. If anyone wishes to question the necessary actions of the courageous men and women who risked all to stop that unconscionable number at twenty-five, talk to me.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, you’re dismissed, with gratitude.”

  “Sir.”

  She got out, got the hell out, pitifully grateful Roarke was right there waiting for her.

  In the car, she put her head back, closed her eyes. “There’ll be others who’ll pull that.”

  “If you mean using her age to pump up a story, or the fact that she got a few bumps during the arrest, yes, I expect so. Just as I know they’ll be drowned out. Put it away, darling.”

  “Tibble was pissed. You don’t see that every day.”

  “The fact he was, and let it show, has impact. You knew all twenty-five names.”

  “Some things stick with you.”

  He let her rest, hoped she slept, but she shifted, sat up as he drove through the gates.

  “You’re going to want me to eat, but I feel a little off. I don’t know if I can deal with food.”

  “Maybe a little soup. It’ll help you sleep.”

  Maybe, she thought, but . . . “Don’t tranq it.”

  “I won’t.”

  She leaned on him as they walked to the front door, leaned as exhaustion crept back inch by inch. Because it’s done, she told herself. Because it’s over.

  Summerset and Galahad stood in the foyer, as they might after any workday. But it wasn’t any day. She could have pulled out an insult, to make it more ordinary, but Summerset had wrestled with his own trauma.

  She didn’t have it in her.

  Apparently, neither did he.

  He scanned her face, the bruises, but didn’t smirk or comment.

  “Will you let me tend to your injuries, Lieutenant?”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  He nodded, looked at Roarke. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. You look better.”

  “I’m fine. We’ve had quiet times, the cat and I. Now you’ll have your own. There’s chicken soup, with noodles. I thought soothing would be best after this day.”

  “Thanks for that.” Roarke wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist, turned her toward the stairs.

  “Lieutenant?”

  She glanced back, so tired now she nearly floated. “Evil doesn’t have an age.”

  “No. No, it really doesn’t.”

  She thought briefly of her home office, of checking on the paperwork, but couldn’t do it. Not now, not yet.

  “Just an hour down,” she told Roarke as they turned into the bedroom. “Then I’ll think about food and the rest. Just an hour down first.”

  “I could use that myself.”

  The cat leaped on the bed as they undressed, bumped his head against her side as she crawled into bed. She gave him a couple of strokes, found it comforting. More comforting yet when he curled his tubby body into the small of her back.

  And perfect, finally perfect, when Roarke slid in beside her, drew her close.

  She ached, everywhere, from the bruises, from fatigue, from the headache drumming behind her eyes.

  But held between two loves, she slept.

  And slept straight through until the first narrow break of dawn.

  Disoriented, she stared over to where Roarke sat—not in business mode, but elegantly casual, working by the light of his PPC.

  The cat had taken over Roarke’s spot on the bed, stretched out luxuriously.

  Eve started to speak, found her throat bitterly dry. “What?” she managed. “What time?”

  “Early.” Roarke set aside his PPC, rose. “Lights on ten percent. That eye’s more colorful, but we’ll work on it now. Let’s have a look at the rest.”

  He whipped the covers off.

  “Hey!”

  “As I suspected. You’ve quite an assortment. We’ll wand you, and try the jet tub.”

  “Coffee. Just coffee.”

  “Not just, but that as well. Maybe some scrambled eggs and toast to start, see how that settles.”

  “I’m not sick.” She sat up, winced. “Maybe sore.”

  “So the wand, the jets, the food. Otherwise I’ll devil you into taking a blocker, and we’d both rather I didn’t have to.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Besides, the healing wand eased some of the soreness, and the tub—along with whatever he put in the water—helped more.

  And the coffee helped everything.

  She ate the eggs, which settled fine. In fact they woke up her appetite. “Now I’m starving.”

  He turned to her, caught her face in his hand, kissed her. Long, soft, deep.

  “Well, that’s not what I was hungry for. But now that you mention it, I think I’m up to it.”

  “We’ll give those bruises a little longer to heal.” But he kept her face framed in his hands, kissed her again. “I’m just glad to see you.”

  “Where did I go?”

  “Darling Eve, you had grief behind your eyes. So much grief and fatigue. It’s gone now.”

  “I just needed sleep. And you. And the cat.” She let out a
long breath. “And this.”

  Now he pressed his lips to her forehead. “There’s one more thing you might want. Come with me.”

  “I was thinking I want pancakes.”

  “We can get to that.” He pulled her to the elevator and in. Programmed the destination manually.

  “A swim would be good,” she considered. “Might help work out the stiffness.”

  When the doors opened she was, for the second time that morning, disoriented. “How many rooms do you . . .”

  She trailed off as her gaze arrowed in on the wide U, studded with controls, the sleek leather chair in its curve.

  “Command center. Holy shit, holy shit!”

  It was, sort of, like walking into the design he’d shown her only days before. The walls painted that quiet, easy color that wasn’t exactly green, wasn’t exactly gray. And the absolute magnificence of her new workstation, an entire wall of screens.

  “Did I sleep for a week?”

  “You’ve been out of the office, so to speak, for a few days. And the crew took advantage. Double shifts. There are still some details, some work, but it’s up and running.”

  “That?” She pointed at the big, wide U of deep—maybe commanding—brown with its flecks and veins of dark green and that not-quite-green base for an array of controls. “That’s up and running?”

  “I figured that would be your priority. Test it out.”

  She beelined for it, absolutely delighting him. Ran a hand over the stone, studied the controls. “How do I . . .” She laid her hand on a palm screen.

  It hummed, but did nothing.

  “You haven’t told it what to do, have you?” Amused, Roarke joined her.

  “Like . . . Open operations?”

  The command center came to life, controls flashing on, glinting like jewels—the sort of jewels she appreciated most.

  Operations open, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

  “Holy shit,” she said again. “Just like that.”

  “I had a bit of time this morning. It’ll take a bit more to transfer everything to your comfort zone, but yes, just like that.”