Brotherhood in Death

  “And if you’d check the one marked Elsi—I’m looking for Elsi Lee Adderman.”

  “Sure thing, BFF.”

  “Those two tonight, if you can. And one more—it can be tomorrow, but if you can analyze the oldest sample?”

  “It’ll mean stopping some of the DNA searches, but sure. Or I can try to eyeball. That’s not total, but seeing as I’m Queen of Hair and Fiber, I can do the eyeball on say the oldest group of like five or six, analyze them.”

  “Do what you do. When you get a name on the oldest sample, I want it. Do you need my weight to clear any of the OT on this?”

  “Hell, D.” Harvo circled a finger in the air, then tapped it on her chest. “Queen here. Dickhead never questions the queen. Ah, hey, I get these are rape vics, and don’t want to make light. But if I think too much on that, it screws with my skill.”

  “Harvo, do it your way. Getting the results is what counts.”

  “I’ll get ’em, then you’ll get ’em.”

  “Thanks. What do you call that hair—the hair on your head?”

  Harvo grinned. “My crowning glory.”

  “Yeah, yeah. The color.”

  “Lava Flow. Jiggly, huh?”

  “Definitely jiggly. Stay in touch.”

  Updating could wait, she thought, and took what was left of her tube with her to check in with Roarke.

  He’d shown her his private office and the unregistered equipment early in their relationship. A matter of trust, she thought. And had added her to the very few who could gain entrance.

  She put her palm on the plate at the door.

  When the door opened she saw him—hair tied back in work mode, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows—behind the wide black U of the command center with all its glittery buttons.

  New York glittered, too—showing her night had fallen hard—outside the wide privacy-screened windows.

  He worked a swipe screen with one hand, a keyboard with the other. Paused to glance in her direction.

  “Your color’s come back a bit. And you’ve a look in your eye that tells me you’ve had more luck so far than I.”

  “I’ve got names. The other two women in the painting. I’ve got them both. The younger killed herself last fall—and a little digging shows me all four of the others traveled to a suburb of Columbus for her memorial. Harvo’s working right now to verify they were in Betz’s trophy case.”

  “You hit well. Give me the name of the one who’s still alive, and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Grace Carter Blake. She’s a lawyer, a Yale lawyer, who left her high-paying corporate law firm—where she was on track to make partner—about six years ago. And now? She has her own small firm that specializes in representing rape victims and battered spouses, and she serves as the legal counsel for three rape crisis centers.”

  “Well now, you have been busy.”

  “It’s falling into my lap at this point—and still doesn’t get me to Betz or Easterday, or the women who want them dead. I’ve got their names, I’ve got their addresses. I’m going to send someone to Blake’s residence of record and her office, but she won’t be there. She made a good living for a stretch of time, Roarke. Maybe enough she could sock some away, enough so she could buy the sort of property where you could carry out torture without worrying about security and neighbors.”

  “I’ll look into that, but you need something in your system.”

  “Yeah, I do, because it’s revving now, and it’s telling me it’s really empty. But I don’t want any stinking broth. And it needs to be something I can eat while I work.”

  “It won’t be pizza.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair. What is this, prison? No coffee, no pizza.”

  “Chicken stew, with dumplings.”

  She wanted to bitch, but there wasn’t time. Besides . . . “I like chicken and dumplings.”

  “I know it, and we have it on tap. Why don’t you see to that for both of us while I start this next search?”

  “I need to have my incomings transferred up here. I’ve got some coming in.”

  Roarke shifted, playing fingers over those jewel-like buttons. “Done. You can do whatever you need—including eat—at the auxiliary.”

  She programmed for two, and chose a bottle of wine—she figured he’d earned it, even if she would, for the moment, stick with water or cold caffeine. Since he was deep into it, she set the bowl and a wineglass beside him, turned to her own machine as it signaled an incoming.

  Reineke’s report, she noted, and began to read.

  They’d been thorough, she noted, though suicide had been clear and obvious. She read through statements from neighbors, from coworkers, from family. And from the doctor who had prescribed the sleep aid.

  She’d had insomnia. She’d gone to a therapist for troubling dreams, and to a support group because those dreams had awakened a fear of men, of sex, of being raped by demons.

  She’d joined a church.

  Eve read the copy of the suicide note.

  I’m so sorry for the pain I’m causing. I’m not strong enough, I’m not brave enough. I can’t face the demons anymore, can’t fight what they’ve done to my mind, my body, my soul. I need to make it stop, and this is the only way I know how. Please forgive me for taking the coward’s way. I love my family, and I know this will hurt you. I’m so grateful to my friends, my sisters of the soul, for all the support, for the understanding, for the clarity of vision they helped me find. But the vision is too hard, too dark, and I need to close my eyes, finally, close my eyes and rest. It gives me peace to know I can. I will. Don’t grieve too hard or too long because I truly am going to a better place. Let that comfort you as it does me.

  Elsi

  She hadn’t been ready to remember, Eve thought, so she hadn’t been ready to survive.

  In a very real sense, those six men had killed her the night they’d raped her. And those she could find would pay. She’d make it her life’s work, if needed.

  She sent Yancy the name of the last woman—confirmed for him he’d been on target with the younger.

  She spoke to the uniforms she sent to Blake’s residence, and her office, tagged Reo yet again for warrants to enter and search both.

  She ate as she worked, and her stomach didn’t revolt. She was done with that now. The next time she watched that obscenity of a recording, she’d handle it without breaking.

  She glanced at Roarke, thought how lucky she was she hadn’t remembered before she was ready, how lucky she was he’d been there—right there—when she had been. She wouldn’t have chosen the Bathtub Lament—not her style. But there were other ways to end things. She might have chosen one without being fully aware she had chosen.

  So she’d stand for Elsi Lee Adderson, just as she would for the murdered men who’d raped her.

  She took another incoming, one of Harvo’s insanely cheerful reports—and confirmed Grace Carter Blake and Elsi as rape victims.

  She got up for water. Roarke—give him one more—was right. She’d do better for now with water.

  “That’s you, fucker,” he said with such satisfaction, she stopped.

  “Which fucker?”

  “I had here a short list of properties in the Bronx, and I’ve been pulling all manner of data on this fucker—Betz. We’ll give him a score as a clever fucker, but I’m better. I’ve got the address for a property under the name of Elis Frater.”

  “Where the hell did you come up with that name—it’s not even close.”

  “Elis—a nickname for Yale, apparently based on a shortened version of the founder’s name. Frater is brother in Latin. I did a wide search for names with brother or brotherhood, any and all languages.”

  “No shit?” She figured she might have thought of that—eventually. “You’re going to have to take the insult, ace. You’re
a hell of a cop.”

  “Not in this lifetime. He also has an offshore account in that name, with a tidy sum of three-point-four million—and change.”

  “I need to get there. There might be something else. More recordings, something.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  “I need the other data you’re after.”

  “The search will continue to run without me. We can be there and back fairly quickly if we take the copter.”

  “The copter.”

  He smiled. “You did say earlier you might have need for one.”

  “Yeah, I did.” God, she hated to fly. “Yeah, let’s do it. I need any incomings here to come to my pocket ’link.”

  He sighed as he rose. “I just gave you Elis fucking Frater out of thin air, and you have to ask?”

  He had a point.

  20

  She really hated to fly, and zipping over Manhattan, between spears of buildings, scooting around trundling sky trams didn’t help the chicken and dumplings settle in comfort.

  It would be a short zip to the Bronx, she reminded herself, and she spent most of it on her ’link.

  Peabody would be a little pissy—Peabody loved to fly. Go figure. And Eve needed to alert the local PSD she was coming in.

  “Reo came through. We’ve got the warrant, and there’s no activity as yet at the Betz residence—the other one. Glasgow cops picked up Ethan MacNamee, and are currently holding him.”

  “That’ll keep him alive. Will you get him back here?”

  “I’ll damn well get him back here. I’ll be copying that ugly recording to Scotland, once I touch base with the commander.”

  Because she felt the copter shudder, she made the mistake of glancing through the windscreen. The moving lines of cars and burning lights made her head spin. Better than her stomach, she told herself, but swallowed hard.

  “If we identify the house in the painting—and I’m working that by backtracking through old records, looking for an address on at least one of these bastards back in college—we may want to use this damn copter again.”

  “A moonlight flight over Connecticut. Ah, romance.”

  She hissed out a breath when he began the descent.

  “Where are you going to land this thing? Why didn’t I think of that before? Why is this damn thing shaking so much? Christ, I hate this! Where are you putting down?”

  “Safe as houses.” He said it as he fought a vicious wind shear.

  “People break into houses all the time. Houses burn down. What makes them safe?” she demanded. “Where are you putting this flying tube?”

  “On the very handy rooftop of the building we’re going to visit.” If the bloody wind didn’t bash them into it first. “Can’t get much closer than that.”

  No, but now there were a lot of buildings entirely too close to that windscreen for her comfort.

  He set down on the convenient, if narrow, flat roof near what she thought must be a maintenance shed. But her breath didn’t come easy until he’d switched off the copter and the engine purred into silence.

  “Thank Christ.” She unhooked her harness, jumped out onto reassuring concrete, and into the wild wind. “Roof access,” she shouted, nodding at a steel door. “We go in like the suspects are inside. We clear, floor by floor. I know you’re carrying.”

  “Of course I am. Do you want me to pop the locks?”

  She pulled out her master, turned on her recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke, expert civilian consultant, entering residence of Frederick Betz. Duly warranted.”

  She used her master, nodded to Roarke.

  They went in fast, high and low.

  “This is the NYPSD,” she called out. “We’re coming in, and we’re armed.”

  They went down a short stairway to another door, repeated the procedure, and the warning.

  Eve took out her flashlight, swept with it and her weapon.

  “Feels empty,” she said quietly, “but we clear.” She gestured him one way, took the other.

  There were rooms full of furniture, but more like storage areas than livable spaces. A pristinely clean bathroom, and stairs leading down.

  “Clear,” she called out.

  “And clear here, but you should come see this.”

  She wanted to go down, clear the second floor, the first, but she moved in the direction of Roarke’s voice.

  And found a small, well-equipped lab.

  “I’m going to venture I’ll find another account or two,” Roarke said, “as it looks as if Betz has a small illegals operation here. And I’ll wager he’s cooking rape drugs in his leisure time.”

  She stepped in toward a glass-fronted refrigerated cabinet, studied the organized crates of vials.

  “He has family money, family business—though my data is he doesn’t do a lot. He likes to bet on the horses. So he cooks up illegals on the side to support his habit, to have more to stow away. This is his fucking hobby,” Eve said and turned away. “Let’s clear the rest.”

  They went down to the next floor, split up again.

  This time she called Roarke.

  “Suitcase—guest room. Bed’s mussed up like somebody stretched out there. Bottle of liquor, a glass.” She spoke softly as she eased open the suitcase.

  On top of a jumble of clothes—a handmade sweater she recognized from the work Peabody did—was a framed photo of Petra Easterday.

  “Easterday,” she told Roarke. “He came here to hide. A brother would have access to a brother’s house, right?”

  “He didn’t unpack, or repacked hastily.”

  “I think didn’t unpack. Brought the suitcase up, got a bottle, laid down, and drank.”

  “Feeling sorry for himself,” Roarke concluded.

  “Yeah, poor, sad serial rapist had a fucking bad day. Let’s go down. If we box him, he’ll try to run. He may try to fight, but he won’t be much trouble.”

  They turned out of the room, toward the stairs. And stopped halfway down when they saw Betz.

  The first floor and its entranceway remained dark but for the beam of her flash. And that spotlighted the man hanging from the pendant light above the main floor hallway.

  She’d known the chances were slim she’d find him alive, take him alive into the box and batter him into a shaking mass over what she knew. But she’d hoped. She’d hoped deeply after viewing the recording she’d have her chance at him.

  “And that’s four of six,” she stated. “They didn’t wait to deal with him, took the chance and got him in here, finished him way before their usual time frame.

  “Clear first. They’re not here, but Easterday might be.”

  She found an overturned table and broken glass on the floor leading toward the rear of the house.

  Then blood—some spatter, some smears.

  She stepped around it, continued to clear, saw drag marks.

  “The house is clear,” she told Roarke, “and they’ve got Easterday. It reads he was down here, probably a little drunk, when they came in. Maybe he figures his brother Betz is coming in, then he sees them, tries to run. They go after him, stun him. He goes down, takes that table with him, hits his head. They drag him back. I bet they wanted him to watch. Like he watched Betz rape them. Now he can watch while they execute Betz.”

  She holstered her weapon, called for the lights. “I need to let the locals know what we’ve got here, but it’s our case. I’ll pull Peabody in after all.”

  “If you suggest I go back home, you’ll make me very angry.”

  “I should, but I won’t. And I don’t want to,” she admitted. “I can handle this. I will handle it. But I want you with me. It helps having you with me.”

  “Always.”

  “It helps knowing that, too. I think, unless they’re stupid—and so far, not a bit—they know
they don’t have much of a chance to get to the last one, to MacNamee. They might take more time with Easterday. They might because he’s the last one they’ll have. Otherwise, he’s already dead, and they’re in the wind.”

  Because he knew her, he brushed a hand down her hair. “If it were me, and I’d come this far, was this determined, it would be the first. I’d want to . . . do justice to the last.”

  She nodded, took out her ’link to tag her local contact. “This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, NYPSD. I’ve got a body.”

  She contacted Whitney, leaving it to him to play politics with the Bronx brass, if necessary, called in her own sweepers, and had a conversation with the two local detectives who came in on the roll.

  By the time Peabody and McNab arrived—riding in hot in a black-and-white—she had the latest victim lowered to the floor, and had established TOD.

  “Twenty-fifteen. We didn’t miss them by a full hour. They had to get this address out of Betz—or one of the others. They went to town and back on him. Shorter time frame, bigger beating.”

  “He’s the one who drugged them,” Roarke said.

  “Drugged them?”

  Eve glanced up at Peabody. “It’s on the recording from the bank box. We have all six of them. Gang rape, by turns—like a sporting event. This one injected the vic—their first the way it reads—with something that made her go from screaming, fighting, and begging them to stop to begging for more.”

  “They injected her?” Under the bright splash of his watch cap, McNab’s green eyes went hard and cold. “With something like Whore?”

  “Something like it, this one cooked it up himself. He’s got a lab upstairs here where he’s kept at it.”

  She saw something on McNab’s face that had her speak sharply. “We’re on the record here, Detective.”

  He simply swung away and went to work on the entrance door.

  “As with previous victims,” Eve continued, “the victim has a symbolic tattoo in the groin area. ME to determine if this victim was stunned in this area as well, as the damage to said area is very severe. Weighted saps again, most likely. However, further injuries are burns that may have been caused by the same heated implement used to sodomize the victim. Other evidence of burning and bruises on the torso, which was not evident on the two other victims connected to this one. The facial bruising is, again, severe. The gouges around the neck and throat were most likely caused by the victim himself in an attempt to free himself from the noose. There is skin tissue and blood under the fingernails, both hands.”