Brotherhood in Death

12

Peabody scrambled to catch up while winding today’s scarf—icy winter blue with candy-green zigzags—around her neck.

“If the two vics were pals, and sex is motive, maybe they shared some of the women on the list.”

Eve slid behind the wheel. “Now you’re thinking.”

“I can think even with my hands on McNab’s bony ass. And it was really just a friendly pat.” She let out a happy sigh as she settled into the passenger seat. “Ah. The seat warmer’s on. Now my not-so-bony ass is happy.”

“I hereby issue a ban on any discussion of your ass or McNab’s.” Eve flicked a gaze in the side mirror, did a zip-switch of lanes. “Roarke’s going to ask security at the hotel if Wymann used the suite, and if so, who used it with him. We connect any of the sidepieces, we have a whole other conversation.”

“On the other hand, why have a sex droid in the bedroom closet—and McNab said it was programmed for the universe of sex—if you’re diddling with live ones regularly?”

“The answer to that is: penis.”

“Oh yeah, how could I forget?” Peabody didn’t mention her ass, but snuggled it happily into the warm. “But don’t you think that has to slow down some once the penis has going on seven decades under its belt? And I just got a mental picture of a penis wearing a belt. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Thanks for sharing that. Before the day’s over, after the sweepers are done, I’m going back to go through the vic’s house, and you know what I’d bet a year’s salary I’m going to find? Boner drugs and other sex . . . extenders.”

“Boner extenders, good one. I’m not going to take the bet because we found boner drugs in the first vic’s place—really his grandfather’s place, so more eeww—and it follows. Okay, here’s another question.”

Since the traffic was hell on Earth and the ad blimps insisted on blatting on about Cruise Wear Specials! (What the hell was cruise wear?), Eve resigned herself to Peabody’s endless curiosity.

“Is this the last one?”

“Probably not, but it’s another. Why do guys always sniff out the young ones? Dudes in their fifties, they’re hunting up sex partners in their twenties. In their sixties, same deal. Into the seventies, they’d go for the twenties if they could get them, and settle for the thirties, maybe forties, if they crash on younger.”

“Same answer: penis.”

“How is it the same answer?”

As Eve made a turn, she watched oblivious tourists huddled at a glide-cart with their bags and wallets all but screaming “Steal Me!” to the canny-eyed street thief who sauntered their way.

She couldn’t save everybody, and kept going.

“The penis needs to convince itself it’s still twenty, and therefore urgently desired by sex partners of the same age. The penis refuses to accept it’s attached to an old guy.”

“Then the penis is self-deluding.”

“It’s good you’ve learned that while you’re still in your twenties. I suspect many women find it a harder lesson once their own decades pass. Now, put the penis in the same box as the asses, and close the damn lid.”

Peabody held her silence for a moment. “You know what’s going to happen with a penis and two asses in the same box, right?”

Despite herself Eve laughed. “Jesus, Peabody, get your mind out of the sex box.”

“It’s not easy since we’re figuring sex as motive.”

“Okay, that’s a point. Sex plays. You don’t bruise and bloody a guy’s genitals and sodomize him unless it’s about sex, so sex plays. Second vic’s got two divorces—the last one more than six years ago. We’ll check out the exes, see if there’s any overlap with the first vic, but it’s a stretch to think Wymann’s ex or exes waited this long for payback. Start digging, see if Wymann’s connected to anyone romantically.”

“Gossip sites, here I come!” Peabody pulled out her PPC.

Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel as another ad blimp announced: Get your summer bikini body in January at Slimderize! Free consult!

Maybe a summer bikini body counted as cruise wear.

“Scenario,” she said, doing her best to block out the blimps. “The senator and Wymann have a little sex club. The women involved join in—either knowing about the other women or not. If not, this is a pisser. If they did know, something went wrong, got ugly. Women form their own club. Murder club.”

“If they went into it knowing, it had to get really ugly.”

“Rape’s ugly. I think brutally sodomizing two men reflects rape. Otherwise, maybe, yeah, you kick him in the balls a couple times, but the rest . . .”

“That sounds like rape club, not sex club. The women on our list weren’t raped.”

“Not that they told us. Why tell us, why hand us a big, fat motive? It’s an angle we need to look at because we’ve got more than one killer. Torture and murder as partners, that speaks of a bond, a shared goal, and, in these cases, a mutual rage.

“We know the senator let in his killers. So he felt no threat. A man who considers women objects, sex toys? He doesn’t see them as a threat.”

“We still don’t know the identity of the Realtor.”

And that, Eve thought, was a big hole that needed filling.

“When we find it, we’ll find the killers—but . . . strong possibility there wasn’t a Realtor, but a ploy. We need to know when Wymann was taken, where he was taken from. Eventually, we’re going to learn where he and the senator were taken to.”

“You sound really confident.”

“It’s fucking hard to keep secrets—they wear on you. It’s fucking hard to maintain a bond that leads to murder. One of them’s going to slip.”

By the time she got to the morgue she was jonesing for coffee, and knew she couldn’t face the sludge she’d find in Vending on their way down the white, echoing tunnel.

Barely six, she thought, and realized Morris might not be in yet. But she could take another look at both bodies, and have one of the other MEs run through the findings with her.

She stopped at the short line of machines, scowled at them. Not only would the coffee be piss-warm sludge, but the machine would give her grief. They always did.

Some sort of conspiracy, she thought bitterly.

“Get me a tube of Pepsi, and whatever you want.” She dug in her pockets for credits, passed them to Peabody.

“I’m never going to be able to go back to Vending hot chocolate now, not after experiencing Mr. Mira’s. Even what you’ve got stocked in the vehicle AutoChef doesn’t hit that stupendous mark. Coffee’s as crappy here as it is at Central. Tea . . . maybe.”

“Would you like to see the full menu, perhaps request a sampler?” Eve’s all-too-pleasant tone had Peabody risking a sidelong glance. “Or are you going to plug the damn credits in and get something before I boot your ass?”

“My ass is still in the box.” Pleased with herself, Peabody ordered up the Pepsi, and opted for a Diet Cherry Fizzy.

The machine spit them out, then began to drone on about nutritional value—zero—as Eve turned her back and kept going.

She cracked the tube, using her shoulder to push through the doors leading to autopsy.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to find Morris already wearing a protective cape over a suit the color of wet stone. He’d chosen a tie of shimmery lavender, and twined his black hair into a single thick braid.

He had music on low, something . . . jazzy, she thought.

He glanced up. And though he held his scalpel, he had yet to start the Y cut on Wymann’s body.

“You were quick,” he said.

“Or really slow, considering we didn’t make it in yesterday for Senator Mira.”

For now, Morris set the scalpel down, gestured to a second steel table. “I had our earlier guest brought out of the drawer, as I expected the doubleheader would bring you by this morning.”

He stepped over, brought up the lights.

“Without delving deeper into our newest arrival, and going by a visual exam only, the injuries are similar: facial and genital insults, the ligature marks on the wrists, sodomy by foreign object. In the senator’s case, that foreign object was about two inches in circumference, tapering down to a rounded point on the end. It had also been heated to a degree to cause severe burning around and in the anus.”

Peabody blanched, turned away.

“The proverbial hot poker,” Morris added, giving Peabody a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “The object was used multiple times, with considerable force. The pain would have been excruciating. Again, only with a visual exam, I believe the same object was used on Wymann.”

“That’s beyond rage,” Eve stated. “Maybe we’re looking for sexual sadists—a team like Ella-Loo Parsens and Darryl Roy James.”

“I don’t like thinking there are more like them out there,” Peabody replied, back still turned.

“There are always more. But . . .” No, Eve thought, not like the two twisted lovers they’d recently locked away. Not like that.

“These two weren’t picked randomly. They were targets—and the sex, the sadism, the message left, all clearly read revenge.”

“Revenge was had,” Morris said. “In the biggest of ways. I agree with your insight regarding the contusions. A smooth, weighted sap. There are no indications fists were used.”

“Might break a nail, ruin your manicure. It’s a woman. Women,” Eve added.

“No defensive wounds.”

Because they didn’t give him a chance to fight back, Eve concluded. “Stun marks?”

“One, barely visible even with microgoggles. In the groin.”

“The groin.”

“I sense a theme. A mild stun, enough, in my opinion, to debilitate—and hurt, considering that sensitive area, like a swarm of angry wasps—but not enough to render him unconscious. Which plays to them being female.”

She walked it through. “Two of them could easily get him into the chair. One works on him, the other holds the stunner. Mr. Mira walks in, and they adjust.”

“How is Dennis?”

“He’s good. He’s dealing. What else can you tell me?”

“From the ligature marks on the wrists, recent injuries to the rotator cuffs, arm and shoulder muscles, the victim was restrained with cord, arms above his head, with his full weight pulling downward. The restraints were removed an hour, no more than two, before TOD.”

“He was alive when they hanged him.”

“Yes, he was, and his hands free so he attempted to drag the noose from his neck. It’s his own skin under his fingernails, along with fiber from the cord.”

Morris shifted his attention, and Eve’s, to the neck. “This wasn’t a sharp drop—not the trapdoor on the gallows, or a chair kicked out that could snap the neck, but a gradual strangulation. The drag of his own weight tightened the cord, increased the pressure, choking him. He died slowly, and painfully.”

“Not just an execution. Those are done quickly, efficiently. They wanted him to know, to feel, to suffer. It was torture to the end.”

“Yes. A torturous death. Other than that, I can tell you there were no other injuries. He’d had regular face and body work—what you’d call tune-ups—and was in excellent health. His last meal, consumed approximately fourteen hours before his death, included lobster bisque, a field green salad, and some Pouilly-Fuissé. As there were traces of vomit in his mouth, I can only guess at the amounts consumed.”

“What did he do—did they do—to earn this level of vengeance? I’m looking at rape, but this brutality? It’s beyond even that.”

“Kids maybe.” Steadier, Peabody took a testing sip from her fizzy. “Maybe they went for kids.”

“Pedophilia . . . Yeah, that could work up this sort of rage. There’s not even a whiff of that around either, and the first, at least, had regular sex with adults. But we’ll look. Because anyone who considered this justice believes the crime is horrific.”

“If it was,” Morris commented, “both men kept it well hidden. They lived public lives, where the media slides every act under the microscope. Hiding the horrific takes a great deal of skill and work, particularly if more than one person is involved. Secrets rarely hold.”

“Agreed. Now that we know we’re looking for secrets, and possibly the horrific, it should be easier to find. He’s going to run about the same,” Eve said, glancing at Wymann. “His injuries, COD, the works. But if you come up with any surprises, let me know.”

“I will, of course, but that reminds me. I thought little of it at the time, but the senator has a small tattoo.”

“Lots do.”

“Including myself. His was barely visible, again, due to the bruising. Groin area.”

“He has a tat there?” Eve said as Peabody went, “Ouch!”

“Just to the left of the root, we’ll say, of the penis.” He offered Eve microgoggles, took a pair for himself.

“Check the new guy,” she told Morris as she put on the goggles, bent down, searched. “Yeah, yeah, I see it now. Barely. It . . . it looks Celtic, right? Like one of those Celtic symbols. Mira’s not Irish or Scots, though. Is it?”

“Arabic, perhaps, or American Indian. But . . . yes, your second victim has the same. Same tat, same area.”

“Can you tell me when? How long ago they got the ink?”

“I’ll work on that. I’ll excise the dermis, test it myself, and send it to the lab.”

“What the hell does it mean? Peabody, get a picture of it. Let’s run it, see if it has a specific meaning.”

“You’re already there, ah, with the goggles.”

Eve only rolled her eyes, dragged out her ’link. She called up the camera function, took three shots. “It’s going to need to be enhanced, cleaned up.”

“I can do that,” Peabody began, but Eve was already tagging her expert.

“Hey.”

“And a hey back to you,” Roarke said.

“Quick one, just in case you know. What’s this symbolize or mean? Wait a sec.”

She fumbled a little, but managed to send him the image.

“Can you see the tat? There’s a lot of bruising and discoloration, but—”

“I see it, yes. And it happens I do know its meaning, as my mates and I nearly had the same done one memorably drunken evening. It’s a Celtic symbol for brotherhood.”

“‘Brotherhood.’ Yeah, that fits. Why didn’t you get the ink if you were drunk enough to think about it?”

Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Not quite drunk enough to forget identifying marks aren’t wise for some of us in certain areas of business. I’ve a meeting in a moment, unless you need more.”

“No, that’s great. Thanks. Buy that solar system.”

She clicked off, looked back at both victims. “Brotherhood,” she repeated.

—

Back in the car, she headed for Central. “Tag Harvo at the lab. See if the Queen of Hair and Fiber found anything on the rope fibers. Odds are low, but we’ll check. And whatever other hair or fibers the sweepers managed to get to her.”

As Peabody contacted the lab, Eve tried Mira’s personal ’link.

“Eve.”

“Sorry it’s so early.”

“Not at all. We’re up. I thought I’d come in early today in any case.”

“I need some time.”

“As much as you need, whenever you need it. I can come to you.”

“That would save me some steps. I need to tell you Jonas B. Wymann’s been murdered.”

“I . . . we know him. He was a close friend of Edward’s.”

“He died the same way.”

“Oh, dear God. Are you at Central?”

“Heading there now.”

“I’ll be on my way in ten minutes.”

“Can you put Mr. Mira on?”

“Oh, yes, just a moment.”

Eve heard murmuring, shuffling. Then Dennis Mira’s gentle face came on her screen. “This is very distressing,” he said. “Jonas Wymann. He was a brilliant economist.”

“Yes, I heard that. Mr. Mira, do you know when your cousin got his tattoo?”

“Edward?” Those dreamy green eyes went blank. “Edward had a tattoo? That doesn’t seem in character at all, does it?”

“You weren’t aware he had one?”

“No. I can assure you he didn’t have one when he went off to college. We spent the last weekend before he did at the beach, and there was some midnight skinny-dipping involved. I would have noticed no matter where it might have been. I do tend to forget things here and there, but I’m sure I’d remember that.”

“Okay, that’s helpful. One more thing: your last name? No Celtic connections?”

“Celtic? No. There’s a bit on my mother’s side, if that helps.”

“That’s all I needed.” She imagined Mira had been at the bruising scrape on his temple with a healing wand regularly, as it barely showed now. “You’re feeling okay?”

“Absolutely fine. And how are you?”

“Good. I’m good. If you’d tell Dr. Mira I’ll be waiting for her. Thanks.”

“You be careful now. Someone very, very angry doesn’t want you to find them.”

“You got that right. I’ll be in touch.”

“He’s about the sweetest man on the planet,” Peabody commented.

“And insightful. ‘Angry,’ he said. Not sick, twisted, dangerous, violent. Angry,” she repeated with a slow nod. “And he’s right because it’s anger leading the charge. What have you got?”

“Rope’s as common as they come, like you’d figure. And no hair other than the vic’s on the body. No fiber.”

“They had to get him back in the house. Wrapped or rolled him in plastic.” She nodded again, visualizing it. “At least two of them, so they could carry him inside. After what they did to him he’d be too weak to fight even if he’d been conscious. Wait until the middle of the night, haul him in there, unroll him, and string him up.”

She pulled into Central’s garage, beelined for her space. Then sat a moment, thinking.

“It’s a hell of a lot of trouble. A body dump’s easier, but it’s not enough here. Taking an injured, probably unconscious man back into an upscale neighborhood, even middle of the night, says the murder site’s as important as the murder. Home. A safe place. A safe, upscale place. It has to mean something.”

“Maybe the killer or killers are familiar with the safe, upscale place. If we go back to sex, maybe that’s somewhere it happened. If it deals with rape—”

“It’s going to.”

“Okay, maybe that’s where the rapes took place.”

“Maybe. Just maybe. Get in touch with the housekeeper again while I’m with Mira,” Eve ordered when they got out, walked to the elevator. “You gotta figure somebody who cleans your house, washes your sheets, like that, has a pretty good idea what you do in it and in them.”

She got a sudden flash of Summerset—horrifying—and willed it away. Far away.

“Any signs of sexual activity in the Spring Street house other than the boner drugs since the grandfather died. And have McNab drill the house and sex droids at Wymann’s, same deal.”

“I know rape’s about violence, power, control more than sex,” Peabody began.

“It’s about all of that. All of it. If sex wasn’t a factor, sex wouldn’t come into it.”

“Still, both the vics could get, and did get, plenty of sex. They were both powerful in their field, in their lives. Prosperous, attractive older men who could have paid high-class LCs if they needed to. Why force anyone?”

Eve thought of Richard Troy—no way to avoid it. He’d raped his own child, again and again, because he’d been a predator, a brutal man, and one with a purpose. But when all that was put aside?

“Because they could. I want to hear from Baxter and Trueheart the minute they get back. Two men don’t know each other for half a century, stay pals, then end up murdered the same way unless there’s overlap. At least one of the women on the senator’s list is going to be on Wymann’s. Let’s find which one.”

She went straight to her office, grabbed the time she had to update her board and book. She needed to talk to both of Wymann’s ex-wives, his daughter, any known associates, companions.

The overlap was there; she could already see pieces of it. And at some point, she’d find the major cross, the point of origin.

She needed to try to convince someone at Inner Peace to talk to her about Su and MacKensie. Try to get some data on those insomnia studies.

She heard the quick click of heels, pushed up from her desk so Mira could take the single decent chair.

Mira rushed in. She wore a winter-white scarf with glints of icy silver carelessly wrapped around her neck. The clicks had come from the high silver heels of gray boots. Her coat was a soft cloud of blue over the bolder pop of her blue suit.

Eve expected to find her upset. Instead, she found Mira angry.

“I could use some coffee,” Mira said briskly as she tossed her coat and scarf on Eve’s visitor’s chair.

“Sure.”

“I should tell you, right away, Jonas was always polite and pleasant to me on the occasions we’d meet. We had socialized a bit more in the past, as his first wife and I were—are—friendly.”

“Yeah?”

“Vanessa’s a pediatric surgeon, and an interesting woman. We’re friendly enough to have the occasional lunch when it fits into our schedules—which isn’t often, as she’s based in Chicago. Though we aren’t and weren’t close enough for confidences, it was no secret she and Jonas divorced because he was unfaithful.”

“Must’ve pissed her off.”

“I imagine so, but she never spoke of it to me.” She took the coffee Eve handed her, sipped, and paced. “She handled it quietly, and built a life and a career, raised her daughter. She remarried about twelve years ago—quite a gap between marriages—and appears very happy. She has grandchildren she visibly adores, and appears close and content with her second husband’s children and grandchildren.”

“One of her grandchildren would be Jonas Baker.”

“Yes.”

“That’s who found Wymann.”

“Oh.” Mira sank onto Eve’s desk chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s a fine young man, very talented. Whatever acrimony Vanessa might have felt for Jonas, they were absolutely united in their love and support of that boy. Their daughter and her husband had a different attitude toward his ambitions.”

“Yeah, I got that much.”

“I’ll tell you in my personal and professional opinion, Vanessa didn’t care enough about Jonas to kill him. She moved on, and more than two decades ago.”

“She’s alibied for at least part of the time Wymann was held. She had to know the senator.”

“Of course.” Settling a bit, Mira crossed her legs. “We were all young, newly married couples, so we did socialize here and there. Vanessa and I also shared an intense dislike for Mandy. But I can’t think of the last time she or Edward came up in any of our conversations. They haven’t been part of her circle, not in more than twenty years.”

“What do you know about the second wife?”

“Not a great deal. She was considerably younger, and the grapevine reported she’d been one of his flings. Unlike Vanessa, she didn’t go quietly, and the word was he had to buy her off to get her out. I don’t know where she is or if she remarried, but I could easily find out.”

“So can I. Don’t worry about it. Would you say he and the senator shared a predilection for casual sex, for affairs, and for using younger women?”

“Absolutely.”

Eve stepped onto boggy ground. “Senator Mira has a daughter.”

“Gwen, yes. She—” Understanding struck, a quick shock that made her jolt. “Oh, no. I can tell you on both personal and professional levels, no. Edward would never have touched Gwen, and wouldn’t have allowed Jonas to, if he’d been inclined. I would have known, Eve. Gwen would have come to me if I’d missed the signs.”

“What about going younger. Kids?”

“Again, no. Both these men wanted conquests—proof of their own virility. Children don’t provide that. They sought out young, attractive women. I understand why you’d ask given the violence of the murders, but this isn’t about children.”

“Okay. I needed to cross it off.”

“It can’t be a coincidence they both regularly sought out those conquests, and were killed in the same manner. Was there a message?”

“Same one.”

Mira sipped her coffee, gathered her thoughts. “So while the killers may perceive this as justice, it’s retribution, and the method indicates sexual retribution. A partnership forged for that purpose, carried out swiftly and brutally. The killers are goal-oriented, and bound to each other by this mutual purpose. It’s possible they’re lovers, but while the killers are violent and brutal, they’re also complex and calculated. This isn’t piquerism, and I don’t believe we’re looking for sexual sadists.”

“No, they’re making a point, not getting off. They’re focused. The second murder is almost a mirror image of the first.”

“Organized, intelligent. Patient. It took time to set this up. And controlled,” Mira added. “They took Dennis out of the equation, but didn’t kill him. He isn’t a target, and it isn’t justice to kill a man who isn’t involved. What’s this about a tattoo?”

“Both men had a Celtic symbol inked on their groin. Pretty obvious symbolism there. It stands for brotherhood.”

“‘Brotherhood,’” Mira murmured. “Sexual. Virility. A symbol of their bond, and their . . . predilection.”

“Somewhere along the way, they crossed a line. From seduction or mutual gratification to rape.”

“You make that leap due to the nature of the torture.”

“The nature of the torture screams: You did it to me, I do it to you. Maybe they did it together, maybe they had a fricking contest,” Eve continued before Mira could speak, “but they crossed that line. Put aside your personal feelings on both victims. Tell me, from what you know of them, what you can profile, were they capable of not only raping women, but also forming their own sort of partnership from doing the act?”

Mira sat back, rubbed her fingers at her temple. “It isn’t easy to set aside personal feelings for a professional opinion when there’s such a long history.”

“If you can’t—”

“Not easy,” Mira interrupted. “But.” She drew a breath, met Eve’s eyes directly. “I believe Edward was a sociopath. A highly functional, highly intelligent, and highly successful sociopath. He believed himself above the rules when it came to . . . everything. And certainly when it came to relationships. So he married a woman who wouldn’t hold him to those rules. He—What’s the most dignified term?—propositioned me once.”

“What? You didn’t mention that before.”

“It was decades ago, shortly after Dennis and I were engaged. I never told Dennis because it would have hurt him, and to what purpose? And I knew, even then, Edward only did so because I belonged to Dennis.”

Mira studied her coffee, drank some, sighed.

“Dennis’s memories of Edward are colored by childhood, but he’ll tell a story about them as boys, and it’s obvious the man was a bully even then.”

“Proposition is sort of dignified. Was it?”

“We were at his grandparents’ house—I’d nearly forgotten. I’d used the powder room, and as I came out, Edward was there. He backed me into the powder room, suggesting we should get to know each other better. He trapped me against the wall, and as he moved in, I put my knee on his groin. I told him if he ever put his hands on me again I’d break them both off at the wrist.”

She set the coffee cup aside, folded her hands together. “It frightened me—you understand.”

“Yeah. He was physical with you?”

“Initially, yes. Rough, I suppose, and completely sure I’d be responsive. He backed off, laughed, claimed he was just testing me for his cousin. He never touched me again. But . . .”

“Spill it,” Eve demanded. “You’re not helping if you hold back.”

“I’m not, and I won’t hold back.”

She picked up the coffee again, just stared into it. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and concluded I’m being rational rather than reactionary. Eve, women like you and I, women who’ve suffered sexual abuse, we have a sense about predators. For us, it helps us with our work, for others it’s a survival instinct. These men were predators. I recognized it in them. I assumed they simply hunted the willing, then discarded them. But, yes, I believe these men could have formed a bond, a pact that crossed the line from the willing.”

Mira set the coffee aside again, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “And because I assumed, because I didn’t look deeply enough, it may very well be that women who were their victims have crossed the line into murder.”

“That’s bullshit.” Annoyed, Eve jabbed a finger into Mira’s shoulder. “And bullshit doesn’t help, either. Unless you’re going to tell me you’re all of a sudden a sensitive who can see into somebody’s head or the future or the past, being a smart shrink doesn’t mean you know every damn thing about every damn body. We may have a couple of victims who crossed their own line, but that’s a choice they made.”

“That’s completely unsympathetic and oddly comforting.” And comforted, Mira took the hand Eve had jabbed her with. “I can know in my head you’re right. It’s harder to get the rest of me there.”

“Here’s something that might help. The two victims?” Eve gestured toward her board and the crime scene images. “Did they have any other ‘brothers,’ any other close friends with similar ‘predilections,’ to use your fancy word?”

“I . . . Oh God.”

“Yeah.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her pockets, studied the board. “They may not be finished serving justice.”

While Mira absorbed that, Eve tossed out the next. “These three women.” She tapped a finger on MacKensie, Downing, and Su. “I’m looking hard at them. Su’s Downing’s alibi, Su went to Yale, Su went to one of those life enhancement centers—Inner Peace—and so did MacKensie. Different times, but they both end up there. And Su and Downing both did—separate—sessions in an insomnia study.”

“That many connections . . . You can’t put them together—at Inner Peace or in the studies. But—”

“Yeah, but.”

“I don’t know that organization. Inner Peace.”

“Maybe you could find out more about it.” Which would not only give Mira something tangible to do, but would save Eve the time. “Whoever’s in charge there would be more likely to talk to you than to a cop. Same with the insomnia deal. I can get you the contact, the dates of each suspect’s term.”

“Yes. Yes, let me see what I can do on those.” With a brisk nod, Mira rose, gathered up her coat and scarf. She stood a moment, studying the board. “Those three,” she murmured. “What did Edward and Jonas do that could make those women—if you’re right—murder so brutally?”