"That ought to work," Eve mused. When she reached for her car 'link, Peabody shook her head.
"That's a hands-free. You just tap the second button down on your wheel stem to engage.
"I love technology." Eve did so and watched the 'link screen go to holding blue. "Audrey Morrell, Luxury Towers, New York City. Search number and contact."
Searching…Number is on public list. Contacting…
An efficient two beeps later, Audrey's face came on screen. There was a smear of bright yellow paint on her right cheek and a distracted look in her eyes. "Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Morrell."
"Oh, yes, Lieutenant." Audrey lifted a hand dotted with cerulean blue to her hair. "What can I do for you?''
"Could you tell me where you were between five and seven a.m. this morning?"
"Here, here in my apartment. I didn't get up until just after seven o'clock. I've been in all morning working. Why?"
"Just routine. I'd like to set up a follow-up interview with you. Tomorrow morning, at your residence if that's convenient."
"Well, I, yes, I suppose so. At nine if it won't take more than an hour. I have a private lesson here at ten-thirty."
"Nine's fine. Thank you. Transmission concluded." Eve pulled up at the rear of a line of traffic waiting for the light. "Whoever called Summerset this morning had to know that he's got a thing for Artsy Audrey—as tough as it is to imagine that dried-up stick having a thing for anyone."
"I've been giving it some thought."
"And?"
"It can't be one person acting alone—not if we proceed with the belief that Summerset is innocent. It's not just the murders, but the setup. The killer has to know Summerset's routine, and he has to be certain he doesn't deviate from it. Someone's got to be staking him out, following him, while the killer acts. And the killer, according to profile, requires praise, attention, and rewards. Someone has to be giving them to him."
"That's good, Peabody."
Peabody said nothing for a moment, then sighed. "But you already knew all that."
"It doesn't matter. It's good. Half of detective work is following logic, and you followed it."
"What's the other half?"
"Following illogic." She pulled up in front of the Mermaid Club, noted the police seal on the door was blinking red and the security grilles on the windows were still down and locked.
"Street ghosts don't walk much in daylight," Peabody commented.
"The car will lure them out." Eve stepped onto the street, waited until Peabody stood on the sidewalk. "Engage all tampering deflectors and security measures."
The locks had barely slammed home when she caught the slight movement in the doorway just across from her. "I've got fifty credits for information," she said without bothering to raise her voice. Street ghosts heard everything they wanted to hear. "If I get it, my aide and I won't have to follow through on a tip we got that there are illegal substances in the building."
"It's twenty credits just to ask. Thirty more for an answer."
"Fair enough." She dug in her pocket, pulled a single twenty chip out.
The figure that came toward her was gray. Skin, hair, eyes all the same dust tone as the street sweeping coat he wore. His voice was whisper soft, and the fingers that plucked the credit from Eve's palm did so without touching flesh.
"Do you know Patrick Murray, the floor scraper?"
"Seen him, heard him, don't know him. Dead now though."
"No, he's not quite dead." Like you, she thought, he's in some half world. But Patrick still had a chance to come all the way back. "Did you see anybody go in the club after hours this morning?"
"Seen him." The ghost's gray lips split open over gray teeth in a horrid smile. "Heard him. Don't know him."
"What time?"
"There is no time. Just day, just night. One came when it was more night than day. One came when it was more day than night."
"Two?" Her eyes sharpened. "You saw two different people go in, at two different times."
"First one rang in, second didn't."
"What did the first one look like?"
"One head, two arms, two legs. Everyone looks the same to me. Nice coat. Thick and black."
"Was he still here when the second man came?"
"They passed like ghosts." He smiled again. "One goes out, the other goes in. Then you came."
"You got your coffin up there?'' She jerked a thumb at the building.
"I should be in it now. It's too day out here."
"You keep it there." She passed him another thirty credits. "If I need you and come back, there'll be another fifty for you."
"Easy money," he said and faded back.
"Get me a name on him, Peabody. Run the building for tenants."
"Yes, sir." She climbed back in the car. "Two men. That backs Summerset's story."
"Our killer doesn't know enough about ghosts to have covered himself there. All he had to do was pass over money and promise more."
"Those types give me the creeps." Peabody punched in the request, waited for her ppc to search and find. "You'd think they could walk through walls, the way they look."
"You fix on Tranquility for a few years, you'd look the same. File all the names in case our ghost decided to load up his coffin and find another graveyard. Then contact McNab, have him meet us at the house."
"McNab?"
"Don't be pissy," Eve ordered, engaging wipers as a thin, wet snow began to fall. "I need Summerset's 'link logs checked." She engaged the car 'link again and contacted the hospital for an update on Murray.
"He could come out of it," she said as she drove through the gates of her home. "There's more brain wave activity, and he responded to VR stimulus. His wife's with him."
She barely stopped the car when she noted another vehicle scooting down the drive behind her. Her initial annoyance at the interruption faded when she recognized the car.
"Feeney."
He got out of his car, his skin pink from the Mexican sun, his clothes rumpled, his wiry red hair topped by an incredibly silly straw hat.
"Hey, kid." He dragged a box out of the car and, nearly staggering under its weight, carried it toward her. "Just got back, and the wife wanted me to bring you over a little thank-you for lending us the place. Some place."
He rolled his eyes. "Peabody, you gotta tag Dallas for a couple weeks there. It's a frigging Mex palace right on a damn cliff. You can be lying in bed, reach out the window and pluck a mango right off the tree. Got a pool the size of a lake and a droid to do everything but zip your fly in the morning. You going to let me in? This thing weighs fifty pounds if it weighs an ounce."
"Sure. I didn't think you were coming back till…" She trailed off when she reached the door and realized today was the day he was due back. "I lost track."
He dumped the box on a table in the foyer, rolled his shoulders. "So, what's new?"
"Nothing much. I got three homicides and an attempted, connected. Mutilations. Guy contacted me personally, set it up as a game with religious overtones. Last victim's in a coma, but will probably pull through. Roarke knew all the victims back in Dublin and Summerset just bounced to the top of the suspect list."
Feeney shook his head. "Never changes. I tell you I never turned on the screen for two weeks for anything but sports and—'' He stopped and his droopy eyes went wide. "Summerset?"
"I'll fill you in while we do the search. McNab's on his way over."
"McNab." Feeney danced after her, ditching his straw hat and his vacation mood as he went. "EDD's working with you on this?"
"Our guy's an electronics and communications whiz. He's got a high-end jammer among his toys. McNab's been cutting through the layers, and he managed to nail the source. But we haven't found his hole."
"McNab. The boy's good. I've been bringing him along."
"You can talk techno-jazz when he gets here. Right now I've got a straight search—and a 'link log to verify." She paused at the entrance to Summerset's quarters. "Y
ou want in, or do you want to go back and find your party hat?"
"I'll just call the wife and tell her I won't be home for supper."
Eve grinned. "I missed you, Feeney. Damned if I didn't."
He grinned wickedly. "The wife took six hours of video. She wants you and Roarke to come over for dinner next week, and the show." Wiggling his brows, he turned to Peabody. "You come too."
"Oh, well, Captain, I wouldn't want to horn in on—"
"Stow it, Peabody. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer too. That's chain of command."
"Another incentive," Peabody decided, "for increasing my rank. Thank you, Lieutenant."
"No problem. Recorder on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Feeney, Captain Ryan; Peabody, Officer Delia entering quarters of Summerset, Lawrence Charles, standard search for evidence."
She'd never been inside Summerset's private domain. It was just one more surprise. Where she'd expected the stark and utilitarian, straight edges and minimal style, was a lovely living area with soft, blending tones of blue and green, pretty trinkets on tables of honey-hued wood, generous, giving cushions, and an air of welcome.
"Who'd have figured it?" Eve shook her head. "You look at this and picture a guy who enjoys life, even has friends. Feeney, take the communications center, will you. Peabody—That'll be McNab," she said when the buzz sounded from the recessed house monitor on the south wall. "Clear him through, Peabody, then I want you to start in here. I'll take the bedroom."
Four rooms spread out from the living area like ribs of a fan. The first was an efficient office and control center where Feeney rubbed his hands together and dived into the equipment. Opposite that was an equally efficient kitchen that Eve ignored for now.
Two bedrooms faced each other, but one was doubling now as an artist's studio. Eve pursed her lips, studied the watercolor still life in progress on the easel. She knew it was fruit because she saw the huge bowl with overflowing grapes and glossy apples on the table under the window. On the canvas, however, the fruit was having a very bad season.
"Don't quit your day job," she murmured and turned in to his bedroom.
The bed was big, with an elaborate pewter headboard that twisted into vines and silvery leaves. The duvet was thick and spread neatly over the mattress without a wrinkle. The closet held two dozen suits, all black, all so similar in style they might have been cloned. Shoes, again black, were housed in clear protective boxes and ruthlessly polished.
That's where she started, checking pockets, searching for anything that would signal a false wall.
When she came out fifteen minutes later, she could hear Feeney and McNab happily chirping about mainframes and signal capacitors. She went through the bureau drawer by drawer and shut down any threatening shudder that she was pawing through Summerset's underwear.
She'd been at it an hour, and was just about to call Peabody in to help her flip the mattress when she looked at the single watercolor over a table decked with hothouse roses.
Odd, she thought, all the other paintings—and the man had an art house supply of them—were in groupings on the walls. This one stood alone. It was a good piece of work, she supposed, moving closer to study the soft strokes, the dreamy colors. A young boy was the centerpiece, his face angelic and wreathed with smiles, his arms loaded with flowers. Wild flowers that spilled over and onto the ground.
Why should the kid in the painting look familiar? she wondered. Something about the eyes. She moved closer yet, peering into that softly painted face. Who the hell are you? she asked silently. And what are you doing on Summerset's wall?
It couldn't be Summerset's work, not after the canvas she'd seen in his studio. This artist had talent and style. And knew the child. Eve was almost certain of that.
For a better look, she lifted it from the wall and carried it to the window. Down in the corner she could see a sweep of writing. Audrey.
The girlfriend, she mused. She supposed that's why he'd hung it separately, underplanting it with fresh roses. Christ, the man was actually love struck.
She nearly re-hung the painting, then laid it on the bed instead. Something about the boy, she thought again, and her heart picked up in pace. Where have I seen him? Why would I have seen him? The eyes. Damn it.
Frustrated, she turned the painting over and began to pry it from its gilded frame.
"Find something, Dallas?" Peabody asked from the doorway.
"No—I don't know. Something about this painting. This kid. Audrey. I want to see if there's a title—a name on the back of the canvas. Hell with it." Annoyed, she reached up to tear off the backing.
"Wait. I've got a penknife." Peabody hurried over. "If you just slit the backing up here, you can re-seal it. This is a nice, professional job." She slipped the tip of her knife under the thin white paper, lifted it gently. "I used to do the backings for my cousin. She could paint, but she couldn't turn a screw with a laser drill. I can fix this when—''
"Stop." Eve clamped a hand on Peabody's wrist when she spotted the tiny silver disc under the backing. "Get Feeney and McNab. The fucking painting's bugged."
Alone, Eve lifted the painting out of its frame and, turning it, looked down in the signature corner. Below Audrey's name, deep in the corner that had been covered by the frame, was a green shamrock.
*** CHAPTER TWENTY ***
"They could keep an eye on him during his personal time," Eve said as she drove hard to the Luxury Towers. "Odds are Feeney and McNab will find another couple paintings of hers through his quarters, wired."
"Shouldn't Roarke's bug eaters have tapped them?"
"Feeney'll find out why they went undetected. You got anything on her yet?"
"No, sir. All I get from the run is that she's forty-seven, born in Connecticut. She studied at Julliard, did three years at the Sorbonne in Paris, another two at the art colony on Rembrandt Station. She teaches privately and donates instruction time at Culture Exchange. She's lived in New York for four years."
"She's connected. He's diddled with her records. I'll eat Feeney's ugly new hat if she's from Connecticut. Run the females on the Irish link. All female relatives on the six men who did Marlena. Put it on the monitor so I can see."
"Take a minute." Peabody opened Eve's file, found the labeled disc, and inserted it. "Display females only, with full data."
Eve pulled over a block from the Luxury Towers as the faces began to run. "No." She shook her head, signaling Peabody to go on to the next, and the next. She cursed under her breath, snarled at a glide-cart operator who slid up to try to hawk his wares. "No, damn it. She's in here, I know it. Wait, hold on, go back one."
"Mary Patricia Calhoun," Peabody read off. "Nee McNally, widow of Liam Calhoun. Resides Doolin, Ireland. Artist. Her tax-exempt number's up to date. Age forty-six, one son, also Liam, student."
"It's the eyes, just like the kid in the painting. She's changed her hair, brown from blond, had some face work done. Longer, thinner nose now, more cheekbone, less chin, but that's her. Split screen, display image of Liam Calhoun, son."
The picture popped, joining mother and son. "That's him, from the painting." She stared hard into the older and no less angelic face, the bright and brilliant green eyes. "Got you, bastard," she murmured, then shot back into traffic.
• • •
The doorman from their first visit paled when he saw them. It only took a jerk of Eve's thumb to have him moving aside.
"They must have planned this for years, starting with her." Eve stepped to the center of the glass elevator. "He'd have been about five when his father died."
"Before the age of reason," Peabody commented.
"Right. And she'd have given him the reason. She gave him the mission, the motive. She turned him into a killer. Her only son. Maybe the tendencies were there, heredity and genetics, but she exploited them, used them. Dominated him. That's what Mira said. A dominating female authority figure. Toss in religion and lean it toward vengeance, add in a good brain for electronics, and the training
, you can make yourself a monster."
Eve rang the bell, then laid a hand on the butt of her weapon. Audrey opened the door, offered a hesitant smile. "Lieutenant. I thought we'd agreed on tomorrow morning. Have I mixed up times again?"
"No, change of plan." She stepped in, careful to block the door as she scanned the living area. "We have some questions for you, Widow Calhoun."
Audrey's eyes flickered, then went dead cold, but her voice remained smooth. "I beg your pardon?"
"This round's mine. We made you, and your only begotten son."
"What have you done to Liam?" Audrey curled her hands into claws and leaped forward, aiming for the eyes. Eve dipped under the swipe, pivoted, and wrapped an arm tight around Audrey's neck. She was half Eve's size and no match for a choke hold.
"Her Irish is up, Peabody? Did you hear it? Connecticut, my butt." With her free hand, Eve reached into her back pocket for her restraints. "It's a musical accent, isn't it?"
"My personal favorite." She took Audrey's arm once Eve had clapped on the cuffs.
"We're going to have a nice long chat, Mary Pat, about murder, about mutilation, about motherhood. The three M's, you know?"
"If you've harmed a hair on my boy's head, I'll pull out your heart and eat it."
"If I've harmed him." Eve lifted her brows, and beneath them her eyes were iced. "You doomed him the first time you tucked him in with a bedtime story of revenge."
Disgusted, she turned away, pulled out her communicator. "Commander, there's been a break in the case. I require a search and seizure warrant for the premises and personal effects of Audrey Morrell." She paused. "Also known as Mary Patricia Calhoun."
• • •
They found Liam's hole behind a false wall in a converted pantry. Along with the equipment was a small table covered with a cloth of white Irish lace. Candles sat on it, surrounding a beautifully sculpted marble statue of the Mother of God. Above her, her Son hung from the golden cross.
Is that how she'd wanted Liam to see themselves? Eve wondered. As saints and sufferers? As divine mother and sanctified child? And Audrey herself as the untouched, the wise, the chosen.