“Jeez, I could almost feel it.”
“Saw stars. Pain grinds right down into the gut. Dizzy, half sick. Gotta do the rest, gotta do it while you’ve still got the courage, and the strength.” She mimed the blows, imagined them. Tipped forward, gripped the sink as if for support.
“They got her prints off the sink? Where?”
Peabody pulled out her PCC, called up the file. “Pretty much where your hand is. Good imprints—all four fingers and thumb, left hand.”
“Yeah, cause she’s still holding the sap in her right, had to grab hold to stay upright. Good grip, good prints. Got to bleed a little, from the face.”
She turned, reached out for a washcloth. “Should be two of these. She takes one, holds it to her face, maybe dampens it first. So we get a little of her blood in the sink. But the cloth’s not here when we find her.”
“Killer took it? Why?”
“To keep the illusion she was beaten. Trudy takes the cloth, probably puts some ice in it, just to cool her face. None of her clothes had blood on them, except for the nightgown. Most likely she wore it while she clocked herself. Don’t want to mess up a nice outfit. Besides, she’s going to want to lie down for a while anyway. Sleep off the pain.”
“It still doesn’t make sense.”
“Call up the list of her belongings. Is there a vid cam?”
“Hold on.” Peabody shoved at her hair, then found the file. “No cam, but… hey. There’s a disc for one. Unused. It was in her purse.”
“Tourists don’t come to New York without a vid cam. Just like our pal, Larry. And she used recordings before. Sleeps it off, first. Has to have her wits about her when she documents her injuries. Sets the stage, works up some tears, some shakes. Puts the finger on Roarke, or me. Or both of us.”
Eve looked toward the bed, could picture Trudy sitting there, her face battered, tears streaming. “‘This is what they did to me. I’m afraid for my life.’ All she has to do is get a copy of it delivered to one of us. Have to have some subtext on the recording. ‘I don’t know what to do. Should I go to the police? But she’s the police. God help me,’ blah-blah. ‘He’s so rich, so powerful. What will happen if I take this recording to the media. Will I be safe?’”
“Figuring you’d read between the lines.”
“And when we contact her, she’ll insist one of us come here. No ‘link conversations that can be turned around on her. Face-to-face. Give me the money, or I ruin you. But it doesn’t get that far.”
“Because her delivery boy took her out.”
“Had to come in the door. I just don’t buy the window, not with this scenario. Security’s not heavy here. Anybody wants to walk in, they walk in. Or he could’ve been staying at the hotel. Keep him close that way, under her thumb that way. At her beck and call. We’ll run the registration list again, go deeper there. Find a connection. Better if your minion’s close by. She tells him to come up.”
“She couldn’t be feeling her best, even with the blockers, the alcohol.”
“No, and she’d want to be able to complain to somebody. Fix me a drink. Get me some soup. Maybe bitching—if she’d sent the disc with him—why we hadn’t jumped already. What’s taking us so long? Maybe she slips about the amount she’s going to demand, or maybe she just pushes the wrong button. But she’s not concerned. Pacing around in her nightgown. She’s there.”
Eve pointed so that Peabody would assume Trudy’s position. “Back to him. He picks up the sap, takes her down. Rug burns on the heels of her hand. Get down, Peabody.”
“Cops have no dignity.” Peabody went down on her knees, shot her hands out as if catching herself.
“And again, from above. One more to make sure. Blood. Had to get some blood on him. Now he’s got to figure it out, cover his tracks. Take the weapon, take the ‘link, take the camera. Record would be on the hard drive, if anyone decided to look. Make sure. Washcloth, towel, sock. Anything with her blood on it. Wrap everything up in a towel. Go out the window. Leave the window open. Logic says the killer came in that way.”
By the window now, Eve looked out. “Down and gone, no problem. Or…” She studied the distance to the window of the next room, the emergency platform. “Next room was empty. Maybe…”
She turned back. “Let’s have the sweepers take a look next door. I want those drains checked for blood. Bring them in now. I’ll go down and deal with the desk droid.”
He wasn’t happy about it. The room was occupied, and moving guests generally made them unhappy.
“They’ll be a lot unhappier if they’re in there while my crime scene team’s tearing up the room. You’ll be a lot unhappier if I go through the trouble of getting a warrant to shut down this establishment until my investigation is closed.”
That did the trick. While she waited, she checked in with Baxter.
“What’s the status?”
“They’re making up for lost time. I think we’ve walked five fricking miles. And it’s spitting some wet snow.”
“So button up. What are they doing?”
“Shopping mostly. Just bought a little tree after looking at all the little trees in the borough of Manhattan. They’re talking about heading back, thank the tiny baby Jesus. If anyone’s tailing them but me and my faithful sidekick, I’m a monkey.”
“Stick with them.”
“Like glue.”
In Midtown, Baxter shoved his communicator back in his coat pocket. On his earpiece he heard Zana talk about lunch. Should they buy some dogs and stay out a while longer? Or go drop off their things, have lunch at the hotel?
“Hotel,” he mumbled. “Go to the hotel. The one with a nice warm coffee shop across the street.”
Trueheart shrugged. “It’s nice being out. Being able to see all the decorations. The snow just adds.”
“You kill me, kid. It’s thirty degrees, windy, and this snow is more like sleet. The sidewalks are jammed, and we’re walking the soles of our shoes thin. Shit. Damn it. They’re going for the dogs.”
“And glide-cart coffee.” Now Trueheart shook his head. “They’ll be sorry.”
“And now she’s window-shopping. Typical female. He’s got to haul the bags, buy the dogs, juggle it all so she can sigh over a bunch of sparklers they’ll never be able to afford.”
“If they’re blackmailers they can.”
Baxter gave Trueheart a look of pride and approval. “Now that’s the kind of cynicism I like to hear. Take the point, move on the cart once he’s got his dogs. Order up a couple. It’s crowded. Hard to keep a visual going. I’ll hang back in case she talks him into going in the store.”
Baxter eased right, toward the buildings, and caught a glimpse of Zana looking over her shoulder, smiling as Bobby came over, balancing food and packages.
“I’m sorry, honey!” She laughed, took one of the bags, one of the dogs. “I shouldn’t have left you with all that. I just wanted a peek.”
“You want to go in ?”
She laughed again. “I can hear the pain in your voice. No, I just wanted to look. I wish I’d thought to wear a hat, though. My ears are cold.”
“We can go back, or we can buy a hat.”
She beamed at him. “I’d really like to stay out just a little while more. There’s a place across the street.”
“The one we walked by to get to this side of the street?”
“I know, I know,” she said with a giggle. “But they had hats and scarves. On sale. You could use a hat, too, honey. Maybe a nice warm scarf. And I just can’t face that hotel room again right now, Bobby. I feel like I’ve been let out of prison or something.”
“I know. I guess I feel the same way.” He shifted the bag holding their tree. “We’ll go buy hats. Then we could walk over, watch the skaters, get another look at the big tree.”
“That’d be just perfect. What makes a soy dog taste so good when it’s cooked outside on a cart in New York? I swear you can’t get a real grilled dog anywhere on the planet outside of New York.?
??
“Pretty damn good,” he agreed around a bite of it. “Especially if you don’t think about what’s in it.”
Her laugh was light and blissfully happy. “Let’s not!”
When they got to the corner, squeezed in by the crowd, he managed another bite. “I didn’t know I was so hungry. Should’ve gotten two.”
They made it to the curb. He started to step out, when Zana gasped. His fingers closed over her arm like a vise.
“I spilled my coffee, that’s all. Damn.”
“You burned?”
“No. No.” She brushed at the stain on her coat with her hand. “Just clumsy. I got bumped a little. Gosh, I hope this doesn’t stain. Oh, now we missed the light, too.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“Tell that to everyone else,” she murmured. “People weren’t pushing so much, I wouldn’t have coffee on my coat.”
“We’ll get something and—”
He pitched forward, straight into the path of an oncoming cab.
The bag he held went flying. The last thing he heard before he hit the pavement was Zana’s screams and the shrill shriek of brakes.
* * *
While Eve waited for the room to be cleared and the sweepers to arrive, she ran a check on Trudy’s debit and credit statements. The charges and withdrawals had just been put through. Spent a few bucks on Friday at the drugstore, she noted. Time stamp confirmed that that came after the socks, after the bank.
Lining up your ducks.
Market, too.
What happened to the bags?
As she was working out a theory, her communicator beeped.
“Dallas.”
“We’ve got a problem.” Baxter’s face held none of its usual sarcasm. “Male subject’s been hit by a cab, corner of Fifth and Forty-second.”
“Well, Jesus Christ. How bad?”
“Don’t know. MTs are on-scene. Wife’s hysterical. They were on the sidewalk, waiting for the light. I had them on audio, Trueheart had a reasonable visual. But the corner was packed. He only got a look at the guy doing a header into the street. He got clipped pretty good, Dallas, I know that. Damn near run over. I got the cabbie here.”
“Have some uniforms take him down to Central until we can get his statement. Stick with the subjects. Where are they taking him?”
“ER at Boyd Health Center. Straight shot down Fifth.”
“I’ll meet you there. One of you go in the ambulance with him. I don’t want either of them out of your sight until I’m there.”
“You got that. Jesus, Dallas. Guy was eating a dog, drinking bad coffee. Then he just flew. MTs are giving the wife something to calm her down.”
“Make sure she’s coherent. Damn it, Baxter, I don’t want her put out.”
“Let me get on that. I’m out.”
She whirled toward the door, pulling it open just as Peabody pushed from the other side. “Sweepers are heading up.”
“We’ll get them started. We’ve got to go. Bobby’s heading to the hospital. Hit by a cab.”
“Hit by—what the hell—”
“Don’t ask, I can’t tell you. Let’s just get this moving, and get there.”
She went in hot, dodging clogged traffic as her sirens blasted. And doing her best to ignore quick, sharp pinches of guilt.
Had she put Bobby in a position to be hurt? Two cops on him, a homer with audio. Still not enough?
“Could just be an accident.” Peabody tried not to whimper as they threaded between a van and a cab with a layer of cheap paint to spare. “People, especially out-of-towners, have road accidents in New York every day. Step out too far, don’t look where they’re going. Gawking at the buildings instead of watching the lights.”
“There’s no point in hurting him. No point.” She rapped her fist on the wheel. “What does it get you? Roarke’s not going to cough up two mil because some guy he doesn’t know is in the path. Why should he? Why would he? It serves no purpose to hurt Bobby.”
“You said Baxter reported he was eating and drinking, at the curb. He gets bumped, or slips. It’s sleeting, things are slippery. Dallas, sometimes things just happen. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.”
“Not this time. No bullshit coincidence.” Her voice was fierce and furious. “We missed it, that’s all. We missed something, someone, and now we’ve got a witness in Emergency.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I made the call, so it’s on me. You make copies of the recording. Get a copy shot down to the lab. I want to be able to hear everything, every voice.”
She pulled up to the emergency entrance. “Park it,” she ordered, jumping out. “I need to get in there.”
She strode to the doors, through.
It was the usual place of pain. Victims waiting to be heard, to be helped. The sick slumped in chairs. The healthy waiting impatiently for whoever they’d come with to be treated, released, admitted.
She spotted Trueheart, somehow younger in a sweatshirt and jeans. He sat close to Zana, holding her hand, murmuring to her as she wept.
“Eve! Eve!” Zana jumped up, threw herself into Eve’s arms. “Bobby. Oh, my God. It’s all my fault. Bobby’s hurt. He’s hurt so bad. I don’t know—”
“Stop.” Eve pulled back, gave Zana one brisk shake. “How bad is he hurt?”
“They didn’t say, they won’t tell me. He was bleeding. His head. His head, and his leg. He was unconscious.” Tears spurted. “I heard them say concussion, and something broken, and maybe—”
“Okay, what happened?”
“I just don’t know.” Now she sank back into the chair. “We were just waiting for the light. We’d gotten some soy dogs and coffee. It was cold, but it felt so good to get out. And I said I wanted to buy a hat, and they were across the street. Then I spilled my coffee, so we missed the light and couldn’t go. We were waiting and he just fell. Or slipped. I just don’t know. I tried to grab his coat. I got my hand on it. I think I did.”
She stared down at her hand. Eve noted the light bandage. “What happened to your hand?”
“I spilled the coffee. It splashed all over when I grabbed for him. Burned my hand a little. I started to fall. I think. Somebody pulled me back. But Bobby…”
Zana wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. “The cab hit him. It tried to stop, but it was too quick, and it hit him, and then he flew back, and fell. So hard.”
“Where is he?” She looked at Trueheart.
“They took him to Treatment Room Two. Baxter’s on the door.”
“Zana, stay here. Trueheart, stand by.”
She strode through the waiting area, straight by a nurse who called out for her to stop, and swung right when she saw Baxter at a pair of double swinging doors.
“Goddamn it, Dallas. We were ten feet away. One on either side.”
“Wife thinks he slipped.”
“Yeah, yeah, maybe. What are the odds? They’re working on him. Arm’s broken, that’s for certain. Maybe the hip, too. Head took a hard crack. I couldn’t tell how bad, and the MTs wouldn’t say.”
Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “You get any sense somebody helped him in front of that cab?”
“Second-guessing myself now. We had a good tail on them, good observation. But it’s insane out there, Dallas. You know how it is this time of year. Sidewalk is a sea of people, and everybody’s either in an all-fired hurry, or they’re gawking and taking vids. You got street thieves making more this holiday week than they do in six regular months. If I had to swear nobody got by us, I couldn’t. The thing is…”
“What?”
“Just before, she spilled coffee on herself. Said she got bumped. And I got this little tingle, started moving in a little. Then our guy’s airborne.”
“Fuck.”
* * *
Chapter 15
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EVE SENT BAXTER BACK TO STAND WITH Trueheart, then paced in front of the treatment room doors as the sharp scents a
nd harried sounds washed over her.
She hated hospitals, health centers, emergency treatment centers. Places, she thought, full of sickness and pain. Of death and misery.
Of waiting.
Had she put Bobby here? Had her need to push things forward put him in harm’s way? A personal need, she thought now. She wanted to slam the door on this part of her past, lock it away again. Not only for her own peace of mind, she admitted, but to prove she could. Because of that, she’d taken a risk—a calculated one, but a risk nonetheless.
And Bobby Lombard was paying the price.
Or was it just some ridiculous accident? Slippery, crowded streets, people in a hurry, bumping, pushing. Accidents happened every day. Hell, every hour. It could be just that simple.
But she couldn’t buy it. If she ran it through a probability program and it came up one hundred percent, she still wouldn’t buy it.
He was unconscious, broken and bloody, and she’d sent him out so she could sniff the air for a killer.
It could be him, even now, it could be Bobby who’d done murder. People killed their mothers. A lifetime of tension, irritation, or worse, and something snapped inside them. Like a bone, she thought, and they killed.
She’d killed. It hadn’t been only the bone in her arm that had snapped in that awful room in Dallas. Her mind had snapped, too, and the knife had gone into him. Over and over again. She could remember that now, remember the blood, the smell of it—harsh and raw— the feel of it wet and warm on her hands, her face.
She remembered the pain of that broken bone, even now through the mists of time. And the howling—his and hers—as she killed him.
People said that sound was inhuman, but they were wrong. It was essentially human. Elementally human.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
God, she hated hospitals. Hated remembering waking in one, with so much of herself—such as it was—gone. Evaporated.
The smell of her own fear. Strangers hovering over her. What’s your name? What happened to you? Where do you live?
How could she know? And if she’d remembered, if her mind hadn’t closed up and hidden away, how could she have told them?