There were about a dozen women of various ages and races gathered there. Sitting on sofas, on the floor with the kids, who were also of various ages and races. They were talking or sitting in silence, watching the entertainment screen or juggling babies on their laps.
She wondered why people were forever bouncing babies when it seemed—from her wary observation—that the perpetual motion only caused whatever was in their digestive systems to come spewing out. Of either end.
Not all the babies appeared to appreciate it, either. One of them was burbling in what might have been contentment, but two others were making sounds very reminiscent of emergency vehicles on the run.
It didn’t seem to bother anyone, particularly. Certainly not the field of kids on the floor, playing or bickering over their chosen activities.
“Ladies.”
Conversation died off as the women looked toward the doorway. Children shut up like clams. Babies continued to wail or burble.
“I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
In the moment’s pause, Eve saw the reaction to the thought of cops. The drawing into self, the nervous flicker of eyes, the gathering closer of children.
The abuser might be the enemy and Louise the ally, but cops, Eve thought, were the unknown and could fall into either camp.
“Lieutenant Dallas is Roarke’s wife, and this is her first visit.”
There was relief for some—the easing of tension in faces and bodies, even tentative smiles. And for others, the suspicion remained.
It wasn’t just a mix of ages and races. There was also a mix of injuries. Fresh bruises, fading ones. Mending bones. Mending lives.
She knew their apprehension, felt it herself. And hated that while Louise looked at her expectantly, her skin was going cold, and her throat shutting down.
“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” she managed.
“It’s a miracle.” The woman who spoke stood up. She limped slightly as she crossed the room. Eve pegged her at around forty, and from the looks of her face, she’d taken a nasty and recent beating. She held out a hand to Eve. “Thank you.”
She didn’t want to take the hand offered. Didn’t want the connection, but there was no choice as the woman looked at her with expectation and, horribly, with gratitude. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You’re Roarke’s wife. If I’d had the courage to come to a place like this, to go to the police, to look for help before now, my daughter wouldn’t be hurt.”
She turned slightly, gestured toward a girl with dark curly hair and a skincast on her right arm. “Come say hello to Lieutenant Dallas, Abra.”
The girl obeyed, and though she pressed her body against her mother’s legs, she stared curiously up at Eve. “The police stop people from hurting you. Maybe.”
“Yeah. They try to.”
“My daddy hurt me, so we had to go away.”
There would be a horrible snapping sound when the bone broke. A terrible and bright pain. A flood of greasy nausea. A red haze of shock over the eyes.
Eve felt it all again as she stood there, staring down at the girl. She wanted to step back, far, far back. Away from it.
“You’re okay now.” Her voice sounded thin and distant under the roaring in her ears.
“He hurts my mama. He gets mad and he hurts her. But this time I didn’t hide in my room like she said, and he hurt me, too.”
“He broke her arm.” Tears flooded the woman’s bruised eyes. “It took that to wake me up.”
“You don’t blame yourself, Marly,” Louise said gently.
“We can stay here with Dr. Louise, and nobody hurts you, and nobody yells or throws things.”
“It’s a good place.” Peabody hunkered down as much to take the focus off Eve as to speak to the child. Her lieutenant looked ill. “I bet there’s lots to do.”
“We have chores, and teachers. You have to do your chores and go to school. Then you can play. There’s a lady upstairs, and she’s having a baby.”
“Is that so?” Peabody glanced back at Louise. “Now?”
“First-stage labor. We have full obstetric and natal facilities, and a midwife on staff full-time. Try to keep off that leg as much as possible for another twenty-four, Marly.”
“I will. It’s better. A lot better. Everything is.”
“We really need to speak with you, Louise.”
“All right, we’ll just . . .” Louise trailed off as she got a look at Eve’s face. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine. A little pressed for that time, that’s all.”
“We’ll head up to my office.” Deliberately, she laid her fingers on Eve’s wrist as they walked back toward the stairs. “Your skin’s clammy,” she murmured. “Pulse is rapid and thready, and you’ve gone pale. Let me take you into Exam.”
“I’m just tired.” She eased away. “We’re running on two hours’ sleep. I don’t need a doctor, I need an interview.”
“Okay, all right, but you don’t get the interview unless you down a protein booster.”
There was activity on the second floor as well. Voices behind closed doors. And weeping.
“Therapy sessions,” Louise explained. “Sometimes they can get intense. Moira, a moment?”
Two women were standing outside of what Eve assumed was another therapy room or office. One turned, and her gaze skipped over Louise and fastened on Eve. She murmured something to her companion, gave her a long hug, then started down the hall.
Eve knew who she was. Moira O’Bannion, formerly of Dublin. The woman who’d known Roarke’s mother, and after more than thirty years had told him that what he’d known of his beginnings was a lie based on murder.
Sickness curdled in Eve’s belly.
“Moira O’Bannion, Eve Dallas, Delia Peabody.”
“I’m so glad to meet you. I hope Roarke is well.”
“He’s good. He’s fine.” Sweat began to slide like cold grease down her spine.
“Moira’s one of our treasures. I stole her.”
Moira laughed. “Recruited, we’ll say. Though dragooned wouldn’t be far off. Louise is fierce. You’re having the tour.”
“Not exactly. It’s not a social call.”
“Ah. I should let you get to business then. How’s Jana doing?”
“Four centimeters dilated, thirty percent effaced last check. She’s got a ways to go.”
“Let me know when she’s ready, will you? We’re all excited about the new baby.” Moira smiled at Peabody. “It’s good to meet you both, and I hope you won’t be strangers. My very best to Roarke,” she said to Eve and stepped out of their way.
“Moira’s brilliant,” Louise said as she led the way to the next level. “She’s making a big difference here. I’ve been able to—ha—dragoon some of the best therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, and counselors in the city. I bless the day you stomped into my clinic downtown, Dallas. It was the start of the twisty path that led me here.”
She opened a door, gestured them inside. “Not to mention leading me to Charles.” Briskly, she walked to a cabinet, and opened it to reveal a minifridgie. “Which reminds me, we’re setting up that dinner party I keep trying to pull off. Night after tomorrow, Charles’s place—it’s cozier than mine—eight o’clock. Suit you and McNab, Peabody?”
“Sure. Sounds like fun.”
“I’ve cleared it with Roarke.” She handed both Eve and Peabody a bottled protein booster.
She’d have preferred ice-cold water and an open window so she could lean out, just breathe. “We’re in the middle of an investigation.”
“Understood. Doctors and cops learn to be flexible and live with canceled social engagements. Barring emergencies, we’ll expect you. Now sit, drink your protein. Lemon flavored.”
Because it was quicker than arguing and she could use a boost, Eve opened the bottle and chugged.
The office was a big step up from the one Louise kept at her clinic. Roomier, more fancil
y furnished. Efficient, as you’d expect, but with style.
“Swankier digs here,” Eve commented.
“Roarke insisted, and I confess, he didn’t have to twist my arm. One of the elements we’re aiming for here is comfort. Hominess. We want these women, these kids, to feel at ease.”
“You’ve done a good job.” Peabody sat and savored her drink. “It feels like a home.”
“Thanks.” Cocking her head, Louise studied Eve. “Well, you look better. Color’s back.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Eve dumped the empty container in the recycler slot. “So. Celina Sanchez.”
“Ah, Celina. Fascinating woman. I’ve known her for years. We went to school together for a couple of years. Her family’s loaded, like mine. Very, very conservative, like mine. She’s the black sheep. Like me. So, naturally enough, we’re friends. Why are you looking into her?”
“She paid me a visit this morning. Claims she’s a psychic.”
“She is.” Louise frowned, and got herself a bottle of fizzy water. “A very gifted sensitive, who practices professionally. Which is why she’s the black sheep. Her family disapproves of and is embarrassed by her work. As I said, very conservative. Why did she come to see you? Celina specializes in private consult, and party work.”
“She claims she witnessed a murder.”
“My God. Is she all right?”
“She wasn’t there. She had a vision.”
“Oh. That must’ve been horrible for her.”
“So you buy it. Just like . . .” Eve snapped her fingers.
“If Celina came to see you, told you she’d seen a murder, she saw one.” Thoughtfully, Louise sipped at her water. “She doesn’t hide her gift, but she keeps it all very professional and, well, you could say, surface.”
“Define ‘surface’,” Eve prompted.
“She enjoys what she does—what she has—and she’s geared it toward entertaining more than counseling, let’s say. She keeps it light. I’ve never known her to get involved with anything like this. Who was killed?”
“A woman was raped, strangled, and mutilated in Central Park last night.”
“I heard about that.” Louise sat behind a glossy and feminine desk. “There weren’t a lot of details. Your case?”
“Yeah. Celina had a lot of the details that weren’t released. You’re vouching for her?”
“I am. Yes, I’d believe her, no question. Can she help?”
“Yet to be determined. What do you know about her, on a personal front?”
Louise lifted the water bottle again, and took her time drinking. “I don’t like dishing about my friends, Dallas.”
“I’m a cop. I don’t dish.”
Louise blew out a breath. “Well, as I said, she’s from a wealthy, conservative family who doesn’t approve of her. It takes considerable strength of character to buck your family.” She toasted herself, drank. “Her father’s side is aristocratic Mexico, though he moved to Wisconsin for several years for some business or other. They live in Mexico now, and Celina bolted for New York, made it her place while we were still in college. As much, I’d say, because she wanted the city as because this particular city was several thousand miles from her family, yet on the same continent.”
She shrugged, considered. “I’d say she’s a straightforward, goal-oriented type. She studied parapsychology in college, and related subjects. She wanted to know everything she could about her gift. For a sensitive, she’s a logical, somewhat linear woman. She’s loyal. It takes loyalty to keep friends for a decade or so. Ethical. I’ve never known her to intrude, psychically, or to use her talent to exploit. Did she know the woman who was killed?”
“Not, she said, in this particular life.”
“Hmm. I remember having discussions with her about connections, past, present, to come. Not your style, I know, but a valid and accepted theory, even in some scientific circles.”
“What about personal relationships?”
“Other than friendships, you mean. She was involved with someone for a few years. Songwriter, musician. Lovely man. They broke it off a while ago. Around a year ago.” She shrugged. “Too bad. I liked him.”
“Name?”
“Lucas Grande. Reasonably successful. He’s had a number of songs published and produced, and works regularly as a session musician. He scores vids, too.”
“Why’d they split?”
“That feels like dish. How does this relate?”
“Everything relates until I know it doesn’t relate.”
“Basically, things cooled off between them. They just weren’t happy together anymore, so they went their separate ways.”
“It was mutual?”
“I’ve never heard Celina trash him any more than a woman does when she splits with a guy. I don’t see her all that often—not enough time—but from what I could see, she handled it well enough. They loved each other, then they didn’t. They moved on.”
“Did she ever mention Elisa Maplewood to you?”
“That’s the woman who was killed? No. I never heard the name before this morning on the news.”
“Luther or Deann Vanderlea?”
“Antiques?” Louise’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “I know them a little. I think one of my uncles plays golf with Luther’s father, something like that. It’s possible that Celina knows them, socially. Why?”
“Victim worked for them. Domestic.”
“Ah. You’re reaching, Dallas.”
“Yeah, but you never know just what you’ll grab out there.”
“You must be really proud,” Peabody said as they got back into the car.
“Huh?”
“Place like that.” She looked back toward Dochas. “What Roarke’s done here.”
“Yeah. He puts his money where a lot of people can’t even bother to put their mouths.” As Eve started to pull out, Peabody laid a hand on her arm. “What?”
“We’re partners now, right?”
“As you never fail to remind me.”
“We’re friends.”
Dubious, Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Is this going to get sloppy?”
“People have private stuff. They’re entitled. But friends and partners are entitled to unload on friends and partners. You didn’t want to go in there.”
It shouldn’t show, Eve thought. It wasn’t allowed to show. “I went in there.”
“Because you’re aces at doing things you don’t want. Things other people would walk away from. I’m just saying that if something gets over you, you can unload. That’s all. And it wouldn’t go beyond me.”
“You see me doing anything that interferes with the job?”
“No. I only—”
“Some people have personal stuff that can’t be cleared up with a nice little heart-to-heart and ice-cream sundaes.” She whipped away from the curb, cut off a cab, and punched it through a yellow. “That’s why it’s personal.”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re going to sulk because I’m not crying on your shoulder, you can just suck it up.” She swerved down a side street without a thought to destination. “That’s what cops do. They suck it up, do the job, and don’t go around looking for somebody to pat their head and say, ‘There, there.’ I don’t need you to play the understanding friend so I can dump my guts all over the floor for your perusal. So just . . . shit, shit, fuck.”
She yanked the wheel, double-parked and, ignoring the furious blasts of horns, slapped on the On Duty light.
“Out of line. Out of orbit. Way out. None of that was called for. None of it.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m tired,” she said, staring out the windshield. “Beyond protein booster tired. And I’m edgy. And I just can’t get into all the whys of it. I just can’t.”
“It’s okay. Dallas, I’m not sulking. I’m not pushing.”
“No, you’re not.” Hadn’t been, Eve admitted. “And you’re not taking a punch at me, even when I deserve it.”
br /> “You’d hit me back, and you hit harder.”
With a short laugh, Eve rubbed her hands over her face, then made herself shift in the seat, meet Peabody’s gaze. “You’re my partner, and you’re my friend. You’re good in both areas. I’ve got . . . the shrinks would call them issues. I have to deal with them. If you observe something in my behavior that affects an investigation, I expect you to call me on it. Otherwise, I’ve got to ask you, as my partner and my friend, to leave it alone.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Let’s get moving before there’s a riot, and they drag us out of the car and stomp us to death on the street.”
“I’m for that.”
She drove the next block in silence. “I’m going to drop you off at home,” Eve said. “We need sleep.”
“Does that mean you’re going home to work on the case alone?”
“No.” Eve smiled a little. “I’m going to take my meeting with Mira, then go home and crash for a while. I’ll work some tonight. If you want to do the same, you could push at the ribbons some more. And verify Abel Maplewood’s whereabouts on the night of.”
“Can do. What are we going to do about Sanchez?”
“I’m going to sleep on it.”
Since her head was messed up, Eve figured it was a really good time to see a shrink. Or a really bad time. Either way, it wasn’t smart to miss or cancel an appointment with Mira.
Mira would take it fine, but her admin would punish you.
So instead of lying facedown on some flat surface, catching some much-needed sleep, she was sitting in one of Mira’s cozy scoop chairs, accepting a cup of tea she didn’t want.
Mira had a soft, pretty face surrounded by soft, pretty hair the color of natural mink. She enjoyed attractive, monochromatic suits. Today’s was the green shade of good pistachio ice cream. She wore a trio of beaded necklaces with it, in a darker shade of green.
Her eyes were the same blue as her scoop chairs and, while invariably kind, rarely missed a detail.
“You’re exhausted. Haven’t you slept at all?”
“Couple hours. I drank a booster.”
“All well and good. Sleep is better.”
“Next on my list. Tell me about him.”
“Angry and violent, with that anger and violence targeted toward women. I don’t believe his use of the red ribbon was accidental. Scarlet, the brand for whores. There’s a duality in his view on women. Whores to be used and abused, yes, but the pose, the location, indicate an awe of them. A religious pose, a castle. Madonna, queen, whore. He chooses his symbols.”