Reunion in Death

  "She—she killed somebody? Ms. Darcy? You can't be serious."

  "You want to see how serious I am? We can take this down to Central."

  "But she ... I want to sit down." He did so, dropping into a wide black chair. "I think you must have the wrong woman. Ms. Darcy was charming and refined. She was just in Denver overnight to attend a charity function."

  Eve held out a hand. Peabody slapped a photo into it. "Is this the woman you know as Juliet Darcy?"

  It was a still taken from the disc found in Daily Enterprises and one that matched the image sent by hotel security.

  "Yes, that's ... Jesus Christ." He took off his cap, raked his fingers through his hair. "This shakes you up."

  "I'm sure Spencer Campbell feels the same way." Eve took a seat. "Tell me about the trip."

  Once he'd decided to cooperate, she couldn't have stopped him with a laser blast. He paged the flight attendant to fill in any blanks and as a result Eve was given a full account of the round trip.

  "She was extremely polite." Riggs downed his second cup of coffee. "But friendly. I'd noted by the log that she'd insisted on being a solo. No other passengers coming or going. When she boarded, I thought she looked like someone famous. We get a lot of celebs, and minor celebs, who insist on solos but who don't want the trouble and expense of housing and maintaining a private transpo."

  "I didn't think she was friendly." The attendant, Lydia, sipped bottled water. She was already dressed for her flight, perfectly groomed in a navy jumpsuit with a military touch of gold braid.

  "What did you think she was?" Eve countered.

  "A snob. Not that she wasn't pleasant, but it was a veneer. There was a tone, mistress to servant, when she spoke to me. We offer caviar and champagne along with a fruit and cheese plate to our premier level passengers. She was a little put out by the brand of champagne. She said we could never hope to overtake Platinum or Five-Star in the ratings if we didn't upgrade our service."

  "Did she make or receive any transmissions during the flight?"

  "No. She did some work on her personal, turned it over so I couldn't see the screen—like I cared—when I came back into the cabin to offer her coffee before landing. She called me by name every time she spoke to me. Lydia, this, Lydia that. The way people do when they want you to think they're warm and friendly but that comes off as insulting somehow."

  "She seemed perfectly pleasant to me," Riggs cut in.

  "You're a man." Lydia managed to make the comment soothing and withering. And Eve decided she must be aces at her job.

  "How about the return this morning. What was her mood?"

  "Really up. Happy, sunny, relaxed. I figured she got laid the night before."

  "Lydia!"

  "Oh, Mason, you know you thought the same. She took the full breakfast: eggs Benedict, croissant, marmalade, berries, coffee. Ate like an athlete, and washed it down with two mimosas. Selected the classical music, and kept her privacy light on. I had the screen on the morning media reports, but she ordered it off. A little snippy on that, too. I guess we know why now. That poor man."

  "When she got off the shuttle, did she have ground transpo waiting?"

  "She went into the terminal. Struck me funny at the time." Lydia shook her head. "Somebody snobby like that usually has a car waiting in the private transpo area. But she went inside."

  And through the terminal, Eve thought, where she could go back out and catch any number of transportation options. Cab, bus, tram, private car, even the goddamn subway. And in effect, disappear.

  "Thanks. If you remember anything else, contact me at Cop Central."

  "I hope you get her." Lydia gave Eve a sympathetic look as she scanned her face. "Does that hurt?"

  * * *

  Outside again, Eve rubbed her aching neck. "We'll head back to Central, see what the Denver cops have sniffed out. Once it's verified it was Dunne, and we're multistate homicides, this is going to turn federal."

  "We can't let them take this over."

  "I wish I could say I'd hand it to them on a platter if they could scoop her up, but I'd be lying. I want her." She let out a long breath. "I'm counting on Denver being willing to stall on the identification for a few days."

  Eve fished the sunshades out of her pocket, put them on. Immediately felt better. "Why don't you drive, Peabody? I want to catch a nap."

  Lips twitching, Peabody slid behind the wheel. "Yeah, why don't I?"

  "Is that smug I see on your face?"

  "Damn." Peabody dabbed at her cheek. "I thought I'd got all that off."

  "Swing by a deli on the way. I want a meatball sandwich." Eve kicked the seat back, shut her eyes, and dropped straight into sleep.

  * * *

  Meat was not the operative word in meatball sandwich. It consisted of a couple of hunks of tough bread softened up by an ocean of rusty red sauce and between which swam a trio of ball-like substances, which where, perhaps, some distant cousin to the meat family. To disguise this very loose connection, they were coated with a stringy cheese substitute and spiced so generously they set the average mouth on fire, and successfully cleared the sinuses.

  They were both disgusting and delicious. The smell woke Eve out of a dead sleep.

  "I got the jumbo and had them cut it in half." Peabody was already driving away from the deli in the steady, cautious manner that normally drove Eve insane. "Figured you for a tube of Pepsi this time of day."

  "What? Yeah." Her mind was dull as chamber music. "Jeez. How long was I out?"

  "About twenty, but you were at rock bottom. I kept waiting for you to snore, but you sleep like a corpse. Got some color back though."

  "It's the fumes from the meatballs." Eve broke open the tube, took a huge glug of Pepsi before taking mental inventory. The headache had backed off, and so had the vague other-worldly feeling that had been creeping up on her. "Where are you heading, Peabody, and what century will we be in when we get there at this snail's pace?"

  "I'm simply obeying the city traffic laws while showing courtesy and respect for my fellow drivers. But I'm glad you're feeling better, and I figured since we're in midtown and it's a nice day, we could eat these outside at Rockefeller Plaza. Fuel up, sneer at the tourists, and grab some rays."

  It didn't sound half-bad. "No shopping of any kind."

  "The thought never crossed my mind. For more than a minute."

  Peabody eased down the pedestrian walkway off Fiftieth, slid the front wheel onto the curb, parked, and flipped up the on duty sign.

  "What was that about obeying city traffic laws?"

  "That's driving, this is parking. No point in being obsessive about it."

  They got out, wound their way through the pack of tourists, lunchers, messengers, and the street thieves who loved them, and plopped down on a bench in the plaza with the ice rink at their backs.

  Peabody divided the tower of napkins and handed Eve her half of the sandwich. And they got down to the serious business of eating.

  Eve couldn't remember the last time she'd taken an actual lunch break, one where she'd had what passed for real food somewhere other than at her desk or in the car.

  It was noisy and crowded, and the temperature was deciding whether it would settle for really warm or inch up all the way to hot. Sun lasered off the glass fronts of shops and a vender putting along on a mini glide-cart sang some soaring aria from an Italian opera.

  "La Traviata." Peabody let out a gusty sigh. "I've been to the opera some with Charles. He really gets off on it. Mostly it's okay, but it sounds better out here. This is the best part of New York. Being able to sit out here and eat this really superior meatball sandwich on a summer afternoon and see all these different kinds of people while some guy hawks soy dogs and sings in Italian."

  "Um" was the best Eve could manage with a full mouth as she managed to save her shirt from a wayward gush of sauce.

  "Sometimes you forget to look around and notice and appreciate it. You know, the diversity and all. When I firs
t moved here I did a lot of walking and gawking, but that wears off. How long have you been here? In the city?"

  "I don't know." Frowning, Eve sucked in another bite. She'd bolted out of foster care, out of the system the second she'd been of legal age. And straight into the Academy, into another section of the system. "About twelve, thirteen years, I guess."

  "Long time. You forget to notice stuff."

  "Uh-huh." Eve kept eating, but her attention was on a clutch of tourists and the slick-looking airskater who dogged them. He made the snatch clean, dipping skilled fingers into two back pockets without breaking rhythm. The wallets vanished as he did a fancy turn and veered away.

  Eve merely shot out her leg, catching his shins and sending him into a short but graceful swan dive. When he rolled, she pressed a booted foot to his throat. She munched on her sandwich until his vision cleared, then waved her badge in front of him and jerked a thumb at the uniformed Peabody.

  "You know, ace, I can't figure if you're stupid or cocky, lifting wallets with a couple of cops in the audience. Peabody, you want to confiscate the contents of this moron's pockets?"

  "Yes, sir." She hustled up, went through the half-dozen pockets and slits in the baggy trousers, the three in the loose shirt, and came up with ten wallets.

  "The two you got out of the right knee slit belong to them." She gestured toward the happily unaware tourists who were taking holo-shots of each other. "Brown-haired guy with sunshades, blonde guy with the Strikers ballcap. Why don't you save them some shock and dismay and return them before you call in a beat cop to deal with the rest."

  "Yes, sir. Lieutenant, I never saw the move."

  Eve licked sauce off her fingers. "We all notice different kinds of stuff, Peabody."

  As her aide rushed off, the street thief decided to try his luck. But as he started to scramble up, Eve bore down, closing off his windpipe for ten warning seconds. "Ah, ah, ah." She wagged a finger at him and polished off her tube of Pepsi.

  "Cut me a break, why doncha?"

  "What, like go and sin no more? I look like a priest to you?"

  "Goddamn cop."

  "That's right." She heard the amazed tourists take back their property with babbling thanks. "I'm a goddamn cop. Nice day, isn't it?"

  * * *

  "I'll drive back," Eve said when that little bit of lunch-time business was finished. "I'd like to get to Central before my retirement kicks in." She read her wrist unit. "And you're going to have to get moving if you're going to pick up Maureen Stibbs and bring her in for Interview."

  "I thought I'd put that off a day or two."

  Eve glanced over as she slid behind the wheel. "You said you were ready."

  "I am. But, well... You're really busy right now, and not a hundred percent yet. I need you to observe in case I run into trouble. It can wait until you're up for it."

  "I'm up for it today, so don't use me as an excuse."

  Peabody's stomach jittered. "If you're sure."

  "You're the one who has to be sure. If you are, tag Trueheart. Two uniforms are more intimidating than one on a pickup. Fill him in, and have him go with you, then have him stand post inside the door in the interview room. He should say as little as possible, and look grim. As much as Trueheart can look grim. Snag a black-and-white for transpo. Use my authorization."

  "Should I drive or should he?"

  "Let him. Tell him he should give her the occasional blank stare in the rearview. You do all the talking. Try to keep her from lawyering up too fast. You've just got a few questions, need to clear a few things up. You know she wants to cooperate as she was the victim's friend, and this procedure may bring her husband some closure. Blah, blah. Get her in, then start playing her."

  "I just need one favor. If I start to lose her, if I start to go wrong, will you step in?"

  "Peabody—"

  "I'd just feel better about it, more confident, if I knew I had a net."

  "Okay. You take a tumble, I'll catch you."

  "Thanks." Peabody took out her communicator to signal Trueheart and fill him in on the assignment.

  * * *

  Eve went straight into a 'link conference with the primary in charge of the Denver homicide. Detective Green was seasoned and irritable.

  Eve liked him immediately.

  "Got a shit load of latents off the rooms. Coupla housekeepers, maintenance guy who dinked with the entertainment system after a complaint from the last tenants. Last tenants ID'd as Joshua and Rena Hathaway out of Cincinnati. Had the rooms for three days, checking out the day our girl checked in. They're clean. Got the vic's—just in the living area on him—coffee table, knife and fork, cup and saucer, juice glass. And we got Julianna Dunne's every-fucking-where."

  He paused, slurped some coffee. "Got her visually ID'd from hotel discs, from the bellman and lobby staff. We're running hair outta the bathroom traps for DNA, just to sew her up."

  "Sewing her up isn't the problem. It's bagging her first. Have you contacted Federal yet?"

  Green shifted, snorted, slurped. "Don't see there's any fucking hurry for the Feebs."

  "You're playing my song. That's a lot of latents to sort through, Detective. Seems to me it might take some time to clear out all the excess and pinpoint Dunne."

  "Might. And shit has a habit of getting misplaced around here. Could be misplaced forty-eight hours anyway. Could be seventy-two if we have, say, a little equipment problem. Especially if I were pursuing other leads."

  "There's a lot of data on her through IRCCA, but I've got more. Stretch that time frame out some, and I'll send you everything, including my personal notes."

  "It so happens I'm a slow reader. And you know how you want to make sure you got everything in a nice package with a bow before you go and bother those busy Feebies with pesky stuff like murders. When I get to the point I have to make that call, I'll contact you first and give you some lead time."

  "Appreciate it."

  "Campbell was one of the good ones. The genuine article. You bag her, Lieutenant, and you can count on Denver to help you sew her up so she can't ooze her way out again."

  When she'd completed transmitting the data to Green, Eve pushed away from her desk, walked to her window. She focused on the window in the building across the street.

  Hours of disc time, Julianna had said. So you watched me, Eve mused, but you didn't see. Not what you thought you saw. Sisters, my butt. The only bond between us is murder.

  Notching a hip on the narrow sill, she let her mind clear and empty as she watched the fretful air traffic. An ad blimp crept by hyping rental condos on the Jersey shore.

  She'd gone to the Jersey shore once with Mavis for a very strange, very drunk weekend. Mavis had reminisced sentimentally about working the boardwalk one summer, scoping for marks, running cons. Just a couple of years before Eve had busted her for doing the same on Broadway.

  That was a bond, Eve thought. If she had any sort of sister, it was Mavis.

  Mavis changed her appearance more often than the average teenage boy changed his underwear. Julianna was doing the same now, but not for the fashion statement.

  Or maybe that was part of it. It was that female exploration—one that had always baffled Eve—to re-invent oneself, to experiment with new looks. To attract someone? Maybe, maybe, she mused as she pushed away to pace. But there had to be more, something satisfying to self first. A person would look in the mirror and find themselves new, fresh, different.

  When it came to fussing with hair and enhancements and treatments, Eve felt her personal space, and her control over self was violated. But it occurred to her that the opposite was true for most people. They liked having everything focused on themselves, on their appearance.

  Julianna would have missed that in prison. Making use of the prison salon would hardly have satisfied her.

  Would she risk giving herself that satisfaction here? Not in the city, Eve decided. She wouldn't be so foolish as to risk exposing herself to a beauty consultant in the same
pool where she killed. Where her face was splashed all over the screen.

  No, they were spinning wheels looking there.

  People who worked on faces, on features and hair and bodies noticed faces and features and bodies. How many times had she heard Mavis and the terrifying consultant Trina chattering about this one or that one.

  Eve didn't doubt Julianna was dealing with her own hair these days. Somehow most women appeared to know how, even though those who could afford it went to consultants. But she'd be yearning for a relaxing, indulgent day, even a weekend, of treatments.

  And it would have to be top drawer.

  Europe, Eve decided. She'd continue to check all the major salons and spa centers in the city, but her money was on Paris or Rome.

  "Computer." She whipped back to her desk. "Run a global search on beauty salons, spas, and treatment centers. List top twenty. No, make that fifty. Worldwide."

  working ...

  "Secondary search. Top five transportation companies that have service between New York and Europe."

  secondary search acknowledged. working ...

  "Okay, it's worth a shot." She checked at her wrist , unit, swore. "When search is complete, save data on hard drive, copy and save same on disc."

  acknowledged ...

  Satisfied with the new thread to tug, Eve made one quick 'link call then headed out to keep her promise to Peabody.

  On the way, she juggled her mental notes. Poison, she thought as she nipped onto a glide. Both personal and aloof, traditionally more a female weapon than blades or bludgeons.

  Kill without contact. That was important to Julianna. The sex had been a kind of necessary evil in the past.

  Demeaning to both parties, she'd said, Eve remembered. Penetrating. Plunging.