Strangers in Death

  “I’m going to ride it out. Got inhalers, and decongestants. Don’t work for shit, but I got them. I get a brain tumor, they can fix it, no problem. I get a lousy germ, and they got nothing.”

  “Blows, but—”

  “Come on in, I’ll bring up the file.”

  She studied him, her trainer, her mentor, her longtime partner. He was, in every way that counted, a father. And she thought of the gleeful germs banging each other all over the office. “Ah, actually, I’ve got to get back down. I forgot something.”

  “This’ll only take a minute.”

  “Feeney, I’m not coming in there, I’m not taking one step closer without a hazmat suit. You’re dog sick, you’re contagious, I can actually see your germs flying around in the air having a party. You need to go home.”

  He lowered his head to the desk. “Stun me, will you, kid? I’m too weak to pull my own weapon and do it myself.”

  “Shit.” She glanced back, saw McNab’s cube was empty. Figured. “You.” She jabbed a finger at the closest live body, even if it was clad in a banana yellow skin-suit with knee-high purple airboots. “Your captain needs transportation home. Now. Arrange it. Who’s next in rank?”

  “Ummmm.”

  “Jesus. Get the transpo. I want a vehicle ready to go, and an officer at the elevator door of the garage, this sector, ground level, by the time I get there. If it’s not—who are you?”

  “Um, Detective Letterman.”

  “If it’s not, Detective Letterman, I’m coming back up here and peeling you like the banana you resemble. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do it!” Eve took several deep breaths, like a diver preparing to go under, then holding it, went into the red zone. She grabbed Feeney’s coat, his hat, his scarf. “Come on, get these on.”

  “Wanna die at my desk,” he whimpered, “not in bed like an old man.”

  “Jesus, stop being a baby. You’re not going to die. Get your coat on. Don’t breathe on me. Wear the hat. What the hell’s wrong with you coming in today?”

  His glassy eyes rolled up to hers. “You’re turning into a woman on me, fussing and nagging.”

  Insulted, she yanked the hat down over his ears herself. “Watch it, pal, or I’ll deck you and have a couple of your fruit baskets out there cart you out.”

  “That’s better.” He braced a hand on the desk. “You know, Dallas, I think I’m pretty fucking sick.”

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since I got here. Let’s go.” She put an arm around his waist, led him out. In the squad room, one glare cut off any questions or comments. “Call Maintenance,” she ordered as she hauled Feeney out. “Have them disinfect that office.”

  “Sanders,” Feeney wheezed.

  “Anders,” she corrected and called for the elevator.

  “Remote was a slick one. Custom.”

  “Okay.” When the elevator doors opened, occupants took one look at Feeney. The protests rang out immediately. “Make room or get the hell off.” People scattered, deserted the ship as she pulled Feeney on. “Garage,” she ordered, “ground level.”

  “Shut it down, booted it up the same way,” Feeney continued. “No tampering with the locks. Knew the code or had a clone. Can’t find any indication of cloning. Have to be slick, too.”

  “Okay.” How long did it take to get to the damn garage? How soon after breeding did germs give birth to new ones?

  “Nothing on the house ’links looks hinky. Got a list of ’em in the report.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pocket ’link either. Office ’links. Going back another week on the lot, but nothing popping.”

  “I got it, Feeney.”

  “Nothing popping on his comps either.” He slumped against Eve like a drunk. “Guy had a million of ’em, so it’s taking a while. Personals don’t show anything off.”

  “You get to the wife’s yet?”

  “Whose wife?”

  “Never mind.” When the doors opened, a burly, hard-eyed uniform stepped forward. Letterman, she thought, could live.

  “Captain Feeney?”

  “Right here. Where’s your ride?”

  He gestured to a black-and-white. “Let me give you a hand. Poor bastard looks pretty sick.”

  “What’s the closest health center?” she asked as between them they maneuvered Feeney into the backseat where he simply sprawled out facedown.

  “Got a walk-in clinic on Broadway and Eighteen.”

  “Take him there.”

  “Aw, Dallas,” Feeney mumbled.

  “Stay with him,” Eve continued. “I’ll contact his wife. When she gets there, if she wants you to stay, you stay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Name?”

  “Klink.”

  “Take care of him, Officer Klink.”

  She slammed the door, stepped back. And watching Klink drive Feeney away wondered if she had time for a detox session.

  She settled for scrubbing her hands as if her next task were to perform surgery. And tagging Feeney’s wife on the move, made her way back to her own division to track down McNab. She had visions of EDD throwing an orgy of biblical proportions without Feeney in command. Just as she was about to try for McNab, she swung into her own bullpen and saw him.

  His back was to her, but there was no mistaking Ian McNab. Who else had that skinny build, the long tail of blond hair flopping down the back of a shirt that resembled the view through a kaleidoscope? And who else would have his flat ass on her partner’s desk?

  “McNab, get your pitiful excuse for an ass off Peabody’s desk and into my office.”

  She didn’t bother to wait to see if he obeyed. She didn’t doubt he would, or that he’d slip Peabody a little pinch or tickle before he did. Some things she didn’t need to witness.

  By the time she got coffee, he was bouncing into her office. “Hey, Dallas, I just came down to—”

  “Who’s the ranking officer under Feeney?”

  “Ah, that would be…yeah, that would probably be DS Reedway. Why?”

  “I just had Feeney hauled off to the health center. His—”

  “Jeez.” MacNab’s soft green eyes clouded with worry. “Is he that bad? He looked rough this morning.”

  “Bad enough. Inform your Detective Sergeant that your captain’s out sick. If he needs any information or assistance, he can contact me.”

  “She. DS Melodie Reedway.”

  “A cop named Melodie. It’s just not right.” She waved that off. “If your ranking officer has no objections, I’d like you as primary e-man on the Anders investigation. You’re annoying, but at least I know what to expect from you.”

  He grinned at her. “I’ve been working it. I came down to give you an update.”

  “Feeney just gave me one on the way down to transpo—or partially. Have you started on the wife’s electronics?”

  “We focused on the vic’s first, and he has serious boatloads. Fairly iced. Guy liked UTD—up-to-date,” he translated when Eve frowned. “I can shift over to the wife’s if you want. Anything special I’d be looking for?”

  “Yeah, her having a conversation with the killer would be nice. You know the particulars of the case, you’re a detective. You’ll know when you see or hear it. Get back up there, McNab.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’ll give Mrs. Feeney a call, let her know.”

  “Already done. But you could check in with an Officer Klink. He’s with Feeney.”

  “Okay. Hey, it’s mag about Peabody doing Now tonight. She’s freaked. I was giving her a pep talk just now.”

  “As long as that’s all you were giving her. Leave now, and don’t touch my partner on the way out.”

  She shut the door behind him. After topping off her coffee, she sat at her desk, put her boots up on it. And studied her murder board.

  Anders, Thomas A., she thought. Age sixty-one, wealthy and successful. Married, no children. Loving uncle to his only nephew, who stands as a major heir and su
ccessor. Enjoyed sports and electronic toys—and according to his spouse, kinky sex. Staunch friend. Fair employer. Golf dates, tennis dates, season tickets to every sport known to man. Boxed seats.

  Swiveling away from the murder board she brought the file up on her computer, flipped through for the crime scene photos not on the board, then studied her own record of the victim’s closet/dressing room area.

  Suits, sure. Looked like maybe a dozen. Two tuxes. Dress shirts, ties. Yeah, yeah. All that took up one wall of the room. The short wall. And filling the two longer walls were the casual clothes, the sports clothes. Golf pants, khakis, sports shirts, shorts, track pants, sweatshirts. And in the drawers, what had she seen when she’d opened the drawers?

  Dress socks, she recalled, pulling it into her head. High-end sweaters—the cashmere, the merino wool, the alpaca. Lots of T-shirts—short-and long-sleeved. A lot with sports logos, team emblems. His own brand. Dozens of sports socks. Boxer shorts. Plain white boxers, plain white undershirts. Tailored pajamas.

  Interesting.

  She added some notes to the file. After a quick knock, Peabody poked her head in. “Dallas, Ben Forrest is here. He’d like to see you.”

  Eve thought of the murder board, started to tell Peabody to have him wait, then thought better of it. “Send him on back.”

  She finished her notes, saved to the file. When the next knock sounded, she called out an absent, “Come in.”

  “Lieutenant, I appreciate you—”

  She watched Ben’s face. Watched the tired eyes go wide, and the stunned horror turn them glassy. “God, oh, God.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Forrest.” She stood, angled so she blocked his view of his uncle’s photos. “I wasn’t thinking. Let’s take this outside.”

  “I—I…I know what you told me, and what they’re saying in the media. How he died. But…”

  Eve took her coat off the hook, tossed it over the board. “Sit down.” She gave him a light shove to see that he did, then got him a bottle of water.

  “Who would do that to him? Who would humiliate him that way? Killing him wasn’t enough?” Rather than drink, Ben slapped the bottle against his palm. “It wasn’t enough to take his life?”

  “Who would want to humiliate him that way?”

  When his gaze lifted to Eve, the fury burned. “I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know. If I did, if I even thought, maybe, maybe him or her, I’d tell you. I loved him, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “I believe you. You traveled with him on occasion. On business, or pleasure. Golf trips, sports events.”

  “Yeah. I guess we averaged at least a trip a month.”

  “Ben, look at me. I believe you loved him, and I’m telling you if you hold back you’re not helping him. So think before you answer me. When you traveled, just the two of you, did he ever seek out women, did he ever arrange for companionship—professional or otherwise.”

  “No. Wait.” He held up a hand, closed his eyes, and took a few breaths. “We nearly always shared a two-bedroom suite. We could hang out together that way. I can’t swear that he was always alone in his section of the suite, or that he never went on the prowl after I was down for the night. I can’t swear to it. I can only swear to you that I never saw or heard any sign of that kind of thing. I never knew him to seek out companionship. He used to ask me, to razz me sometimes, about finding a woman and settling down. Lieutenant, he was settled. If you’re digging through the dirt somebody smeared on him, you’re never going to find who did this to him. Because it’s a goddamn lie.”

  “Okay, Ben. How about this? The two of you traveled a lot together, just the two of you. Did you ever hit any strip clubs, sex clubs? Just a boys’ night out kind of thing?”

  “No. That wasn’t Uncle Tommy’s style, and he’d’ve been embarrassed to go to a place like that with me. We went to games, sports bars, that kind of thing.”

  “All right.”

  He nodded, then twisted off the cap, drank the water. “They contacted Ava, and said we could have him now. I’m taking care of the arrangements. I wanted to come here to see if there’s anything. Anything you can tell me.”

  “I can tell you that your uncle is my priority. Are you having a memorial?”

  “Tomorrow.” He drank again. “We didn’t want to wait. Brigit’s helping with the details. He’d want simple. He liked simple best.”

  “Who decorated the house?”

  He let out a surprised laugh. “Ava. And yeah, it’s not simple. Uncle Tommy liked it though, got a kick out of what he called Ava’s Palace.”

  “I bet. The style’s a lot different in his office.”

  “Yeah. Guy world. That’s what he’d say.”

  “Did he take sleep aids?”

  “I…I don’t think so. I mean, maybe once in a while. I don’t remember him mentioning anything like that, but I don’t guess it ever came up. I know he liked the door closed, the drapes drawn when he went to bed. He said it was the only way he could get a good night’s sleep. So, I guess that sort of thing was his sleep aid.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Anyway, thanks.” He got to his feet, and his gaze traveled back to the board covered now by Eve’s coat. “I’m glad I saw that. Not the images, I’ll never be glad of that. I’m glad I saw that you had that in here. That you’re looking at it, that you can’t turn around in this room without seeing what was done to him. It helps me know you mean it. He’s your priority.”

  Alone, Eve turned back to the board. She lifted off her coat, tossed it over the visitor’s chair. And she looked into Ava Anders’s eyes.

  “You’re a liar,” Eve stated aloud. “You’re a liar, and I’m going to prove it.”

  8

  EVE CHECKED THE TRANSMISSION HERSELF, THEN rechecked it. It was indisputable that Greta Horowitz contacted Ava Anders, the call originating from the house in New York and going to the room registered to Ava on St. Lucia. The transmission ran from 6:14 A.M. to 6:17 A.M.

  With her eyes closed, Eve replayed the copy of the transmission provided by EDD. Ava had blocked video, but Eve did the same herself when calls came in while she was in bed. A pity though, a damn shame. It would’ve been good to see Ava’s face, to read her body language. Still, the voice was pitch-perfect—every hill and valley. Sleepy annoyance, to impatience, to shock and through to grief. Every note perfectly played.

  Still…

  “Computer, send a copy of this transmission, and a copy of the recorded interview with Ava Anders today to the lab. Mark attention Chief Berenski. Memo attached: Require voice print analysis and verification ASAP. Require verification recorded voices are the same individual, and that neither sample was prerecorded or transmitted from a remote location. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

  She added the case file name and number.

  Could’ve worked it that way, Eve mused. Tricky, but not impossible. A voice double, a transmission bounce. She’d have EDD take another look at that possibility. But if that didn’t work…

  She did a search on private transportation, and the fastest shuttle time possible from New York to St. Lucia. The results frustrated her.

  Not enough time, she admitted. There just hadn’t been enough time to travel from the crime scene back to St. Lucia, back to the hotel room on the island to take the call, not even if Ava had gone off book with the transportation. Physics gave her an unimpeachable alibi.

  She went back to the time line, tried to find a hole in it. Her ’link signaled, with an order to report to her commander.

  To save time, she squeezed herself on an elevator. She rode up partway with cops, lawyers, and a small, long-eared dog.

  “Eye wit,” the cop standing beside the dog told her.

  “That so?”

  “More like nose witness. Owner got himself mugged while he was walking Abe here. Claims Abe’ll ID the guy who mugged him by smell.” The cop shrugged. “We got three possibles, so, what the hell.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

&n
bsp; Eve tried to work out how they expected to convince the PA to bring charges against a suspect on the nose of a dog as she covered the rest of the distance to her commander’s office.

  “Go right in, Lieutenant.” The admin gestured. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Commander Whitney sat at his desk, his back to the view of the city he’d protected and served more than half of his life. His face showed the years, but Eve had always felt it showed them in a way that mattered. Showed in the lines and grooves dug into his dark skin that he’d lived those years, and remembered them.

  He wore his hair short, and though she suspected his wife would have preferred it otherwise, he let the salt sprinkle liberally over the pepper. He carried his big, wide build well, and held his command with a strong hand.

  “Commander,” she began, then paused as the man sitting in the high-backed visitor’s chair facing the desk rose. “Chief Tibble.”

  Not just the commander, she thought, reevaluating, but the Chief of Police.

  “Lieutenant.” Whitney pointed to the second chair. “Have a seat.”

  She obeyed, though she preferred standing, preferred giving her oral reports on her feet.

  “Lieutenant.” Tibble took the jump, and made her wonder why, if this was his meet, she wasn’t sitting in The Tower. “I asked the commander to give me a few minutes with you here. Regarding the Anders investigation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sat back. A lean man, he favored good suits, and—as she recalled—a good Scotch. Like Whitney, he’d come up through the ranks, and though he was now—essentially—a politician, the office hadn’t shoved the cop out of him.

  “My reason for asking is somewhat personal.”

  “Did you know Mr. Anders, sir?”

  “No, I didn’t. My wife, however, is acquainted with his widow.”

  Eve thought: Crap.

  “They’ve served on several committees together. In any case, when my wife contacted Mrs. Anders to offer her condolences, Mrs. Anders expressed considerable concern over how the current media tone will affect not only her late husband’s reputation, the business, but the charitable programs associated with Anders Worldwide. I’m in the position of asking you to assist in damping down the media.”