Strangers In Death

15

IN SLEEP, SHE ARRANGED THEM. THOMAS ANDERS at the center with the others fanning out like rays. Ava, Ben, Edmond and Linny Luce, Greta Horowitz, Leopold Walsh, Brigit Plowder, Sasha Bride-West.

But no. She shifted restlessly in sleep. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the sun, he wasn’t the center. Not to her. He was only the vehicle, he was only the means.

Expendable, when the time was right. Steady, reliable, not very spectacular, predictable Tommy.

Left with a nice chunk of change. Dirk Bronson lounged in a deck chair behind Ava, sipping a frothy drink. Not a backward glance.

Seed money. The kickoff. The flashy lead-off batter.

Change the lineup.

In the dream, the ball field was summer green and rich brown, the white bases gleaming like marble plates. The players took that field in uniforms black as death. Brigit crouching behind the plate-catcher to Ava’s pitcher-Sasha fussing with her hair at short, Edmond at first, Linny at second, Ben playing the hot corner at third with Leopold and Greta patrolling right and left fields, respectively.

Short a man, Eve thought. They’re short a man at center field.

I’m always the center. Ava smiled, wound up, and winged a high, fast curve. At the plate, Tommy checked his swing.

Ball one.

The crowd, in their black mourning clothes, applauded politely. Nice call, ump. Eve glanced back, scanned the dugout. Even in the dream it seemed strange to see Mira in a ball cap drinking tea out of a china cup. Feeney sat on the bench in his pajamas, sneezing. He’s on the disabled list, she thought, but the rest of the team’s here. Peabody, McNab, Whitney, even Tibble. And Roarke, of course, watching as she watched.

Ava, set, glanced over her shoulder toward third. The pitch missed, low and outside. Ball two.

Ava took a bow, for the crowd, for the field. I can keep this up for years. Slow ball, fast ball, curve ball, slider. It’s not a strike until I’m ready to throw one.

She threw again, high and inside, brushing Tommy back from the plate.

Ball three.

There were mutters from the dugout, restrained hoots from the crowd. As Brigit jogged up to the mound, Ben called over to Eve, We’re playing on the wrong team. Can’t you call the game? Can’t you call it before it’s too late?

Not without more evidence, Whitney said from the dugout. No cause. You need probable cause. There are rules.

Roarke shook his head. Far too many rules, don’t you think? After all, murder doesn’t play by the rules.

Brigit jogged back, gave Tommy a pat on the cheek, then turned to Eve. She’s going to the bullpen. She needs some relief. You have to admit, it’s all a little boring this way, and she’d put in a great deal of time.

I can’t stop it, Eve thought. I can only call them as I see them.

A shadow crossed the field, an indistinct form gliding over the summer grass. No, I can’t stop it, Eve thought again. It had to play out. I can only make the call after the pitch.

I’m sorry, she said to Tommy, there’s nothing I can do.

Oh well. He smiled kindly at her. It’s just a game, isn’t it?

Not anymore, Eve thought as the shadow merged with Ava, as they set, checked, wound up together. Fast ball, dead over the plate.

He lay on the rich brown dirt, the marblelike plate his headstone, and his eyes staring up at the clear blue of the sky.

On the mound, Ava laughed gaily, and took another bow for the now weeping crowd. And he’s out! Want to see the instant replay?

It might’ve been a weird dream, maybe a stupid dream, Eve thought, but she rearranged her murder board in her home office the next morning.

Take a new look, she told herself. Look with fresh eyes.

Roarke came in behind her, studied the board with his hand on her shoulder. “Making patterns?”

“It’s that damn dream.” She’d told him about it when she’d dressed. “See, she’s got her infield-the people she trusts most because she’s seen to it they trust her, or have that connection to her through Anders. She’s aiming to take him out. She’s aimed for him from the first pitch of the first inning, but they don’t see it. He doesn’t see it, even though the batter and pitcher are in an intimate, one-on-one relationship.”

“And she doesn’t throw strikes.”

“Exactly. No, no, not the first inning,” Eve corrected. “The first was Bronson-warmed up on him, got some rhythm going on him. Maybe there were others, before Bronson, between him and Anders.”

“But she struck them out, or let them get on base, then picked them off. No score, no memorable stats.”

“Yeah.” She glanced back at him. “For an Irish guy you get baseball pretty well.”

“And still you benched me in the dugout. No batter on deck, either.”

“No, no potential next batter. This ends the game. When she goes for Ben, and she will, it’ll be another game, after a nice, relaxing hiatus. She pitches, she coaches, she manages. And she’s the center.” Eve put her fingertip on Ava’s photo. “She’s always the center. She didn’t call in relief, she called in a shadow. Nobody sees, nobody knows. And the shadow just follows the steps. One strike, in this case, and he’s out.”

“And the shadow fades off, so that she-once more-remains the center. If it follows your metaphor, the late inning relief pitcher only has one job, doesn’t she? Throw the strike.”

“Exactly right. This pitcher doesn’t have to do anything but follow orders. Doesn’t have to strategize, or worry about base runners because there aren’t any. Doesn’t have to depend on the field, or even know them. Follow orders, throw the strike, fade away. No postgame interviews, no locker-room chat. One pitch, and out of the game. It’s smart,” Eve had to admit. “It’s pretty damn smart.”

“You’re smarter, slugger.” Roarke gave Eve’s hair a quick tug. “It’s going to piss her off when you step up to the plate and hit a grand slam.”

“Right now, I’d settle for a base hit. With Bebe Petrelli.”

“Ava would never have considered you’d look that deep in her lineup. And that is the end of the baseball analogies.” He turned her, kissed her. “Good luck with the former Mafia princess.”

Bebe Petrelli lived in a narrow row house on a quiet and neglected street in the South Bronx. Paint peeled and cracked like old dry skin over the brittle bones of the houses. Even the trees, the few left that used their ancient roots to heave up pieces of the sidewalk, slumped over the street. Along the block, some windows were boarded like blind eyes while others hid behind the rusted cages of riot bars.

Parking wasn’t a problem. There couldn’t have been more than a half a dozen vehicles on the entire block. Most here, Eve thought, couldn’t afford the cost and ensuing maintenance of a personal ride.

“Revitalization hasn’t hit here yet,” Peabody commented.

“Or it took a detour.”

Eve studied the Petrelli house. It looked as if it might’ve been painted sometime in the last decade-a leg up on most of the others-and all the windows were intact. And clean, she noted, behind their bars. Empty window boxes sat like hope at the base of the two windows flanking the front door.

“You said both her kids go to private school on Anders’s nickel?”

Why the empty window boxes stirred pity inside her, Eve couldn’t say. “Yeah.”

“And she lives here.”

“Smart,” Eve replied. “It’s smart. What better way to keep someone under your thumb? Give them this, hold back that. Let’s go see what Anthony DeSalvo’s girl, Bebe, has to say about Ava.”

As they walked toward the front door, Eve saw shadows move at the windows on the houses on either side. Nosy neighbors, she thought. She loved nosy neighbors in an investigation. Rich mines to plumb.

No perimeter security, she noted. Decent locks, but no cams or electronic peeps. Locks and riot bars had to serve.

She knocked.

Bebe answered herself, through the inch-wide gap afforded by the security chain. Eve saw both the wariness and the knowledge of cop in the single brown eye.

“Ms. Petrelli, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the crack. “We’d like to come in and speak to you.”

“About what?”

“Once we’re in, we’ll talk about it. Or you can close the door and I’ll call in for a warrant that would compel you to come into Manhattan to Cop Central. Then we’ll talk about it there.”

“I have to be at work in another hour.”

“Then you probably don’t want to waste any more time.”

Bebe shut the door. Eve heard the rattle of the chain through it. When it opened, Bebe stood, tired and resentful, in a red shirt, black pants, and serviceable black skids. “You’re going to have to make this fast, and you’re going to have to talk while I work.”

With that, Bebe turned and stalked toward the back of the house.

Neat and tidy, Eve thought as she glanced at the living area. The furniture was cheap, and as serviceable as the black skids, but like the windows, clean. The air smelled fresh, with just a hint of coffee and toasted bread as they approached the kitchen.

On a small metal table sat a white plastic laundry basket. From it, Bebe took a shirt, then folded it with quick, efficient moves.

“You don’t need to sit,” she snapped out. “Say what you have to say.”

“Ava Anders.”

The hands hesitated only a second, then pulled out another shirt. “What about her?”

“You’re acquainted.”

“My boys are in the Anders sports programs.”

“You’ve attended Mrs. Anders’s seminars and mothers’ breaks. Retreats?”

“That’s right.”

“And both your boys are recipients of scholarships through the Anders program.”

“That’s right.” Bebe’s eyes flashed up at that, and some of the fear, some of the anger leaked through. “They earned it. I got smart boys, good boys. They work hard.”

“You must be very proud of them, Ms. Petrelli.” Peabody offered a hint of a smile.

“Of course I am.”

“Their school’s a clip from here,” Eve commented.

“They take the bus. Have to change and take another.”

“Makes a long day, for them and you, I imagine.”

“They’re getting a good education. They’re going to be somebody.”

“You had some rough times in the past.”

Bebe tightened her lips, looked away from Eve and back to her laundry. “Past is past.”

“The DeSalvos still have some money, some influence in certain circles.” Eve glanced around the tiny kitchen. “Your brothers could help you out, you and your boys.”

This time Bebe showed her teeth. “My brothers aren’t getting near my boys. I haven’t said word one to Frank or Vinny in years, or them to me.”

“Why is that?”

“That’s my business. They’re my brothers, aren’t they? It’s not a crime if I don’t want anything to do with my own brothers.”

“Why does Anthony DeSalvo’s only daughter hook up as an LC?”

“As a way to stick it to him, you want to know so bad. Ended up sticking it to myself, didn’t I?”

A lock of graying hair fell over her brow as Bebe yanked out a boy’s sports jersey to fold. “He wanted me to marry who he wanted me to marry, live the way he wanted me to live. Like my mother, looking the other way. Always looking the other way, no matter what was right in her face. So I did what I did, and he didn’t have a daughter anymore.” She shrugged, but the jerkiness of the movement transmitted lingering pain to Eve. “Then they killed him. And I didn’t have a father.”

“You did some time, lost your license.”

“You think I got shit around here, with my boys in the house? You think I’m on the shit?” Bebe shoved at the laundry basket, threw her arms wide. “Go ahead, look around. You don’t need a warrant. Look the hell around.”

Eve studied the flushed face, the bitter eyes. “You know how you strike me, Bebe? You strike me as nervous as you are pissed off. And I don’t think it’s because you’re on anything.”

“You cops, always looking to screw with somebody. Except when it matters. What good did you do when they killed my Luca? Where were you when they killed my Luca?”

“Not in the Bronx,” Eve said evenly. “Who killed him?”

“The fucking Santinis. Who else? Fucking DeSalvos mess with them, they mess with us. Even if Luca and me, we weren’t the us.” She gripped the basket now, as if to steady herself. And her knuckles went as white as the plastic. “We had a decent place, a decent life. He was a decent man. We had kids, we had a business. A nice family restaurant, nothing fancy, nothing important. Except to us. We worked so damn hard.”

Bebe’s fingers tightened on, twisted a pint-sized pair of jockies before she tossed them back in the basket. “Luca, he knew where I came from, what I’d done. It didn’t matter. The past’s past, that’s what he always said. You’ve got to make the now and think about tomorrow. So that’s what we did. And we built a decent life and worked hard at it. Then they killed him. They killed a good man for no good reason. Killed him and torched our place because he wouldn’t pay them protection. Beat him to death.”

She stopped to press her fingers against her eyes. “What did you cops do about that? Nothing. The past isn’t the past with your kind. Luca got killed because he married a DeSalvo, and that’s that.”

She began to fold clothes again, but her movements were no longer efficient, and the folds no longer neat. “Now my boys don’t have their father, don’t have the decent place to grow up. This is the best I could do, the best of the worst. I don’t own a restaurant, I work in one. I rent out a room and a bath upstairs so I can pay the goddamn rent, and so somebody’s here to watch over my kids when I have to work nights. This is the life I’ve got now. My boys are going to have better.”

“Ava Anders offered you a way to give your boys a better life.”

“They earned their scholarships.”

“There was a lot of competition for those scholarships,” Eve said. “A lot of kids qualified, just like yours. But yours got them. Full freight, too.”

“Don’t you say they didn’t earn what they got.” She lashed toward Eve like a whip. “If you say that to me, you’re going to get out of this house. You get your damn warrant, but you’ll get out of my house.”

“She offered a lot,” Eve continued. “Little vacations, drinks by the pool. Did she single you out, Bebe?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Compliment you on your boys, commiserate with you on your losses. She knew where you came from, too, and what you’d done. One little favor, just one little favor, and she’d set your boys up.”

“She never asked me for a damn thing. Get the hell out of my house.”

“Where were you on March eighteenth from one to five A.M.?”

“What? What? Where I am every blessed night. Here. Do I look like a party girl? Do I look like I spend my nights out on the town?”

“Just one night, Bebe. The night Thomas Anders was murdered.”

She went very white, and her hand lowered to the table to brace her body. “Are you out of your mind? Some crazy, hyped up LC killed him. It’s all over the screen. Some…” Now she lowered to the chair. “God, God, you’re looking at me? At me because I used to be in the life? Because I did some time? Because I got DeSalvo blood?”

“I think that’s why Ava looked at you, Bebe. I think that’s why she took a good, hard look. Me, I’d’ve asked for some of the ready, too. Get myself a nicer place, closer to the school. But you were smart not to be too greedy.”

“You think I…How was I supposed to get to their swank place in New York? How was I supposed to get inside?”

“Ava could help you with that.”

“You saying, you’re standing here in my kitchen saying that Ava-Mrs. Anders-hired me to do her husband? I’m a goddamn hit man now? Mother of God, I cook for a restaurant, to put food in my boys’ mouths and clothes on their backs. I’m going to do hits for a living, why in hell am I folding laundry?”

“Doing Ava a favor would be a way to get your kids a good education,” Peabody put in. “A way to give them a chance for better.”

“They earned it. Do you know what I had to swallow to sign my boys up for the program? To take charity, to let them know they had to take handouts? Dom wanted to play ball so bad, and Paulie wants what Dom wants. I couldn’t afford the fees, the equipment, so I swallowed it and signed them up. They earned the rest. They earned the rest,” she repeated as she got to her feet. “Now I got nothing more to say. You get your warrant to take me in if that’s the way it is. I’m going to call Legal Aid. You get out, ’cause I’ve got nothing more to say.”

Shook her,” Peabody said when they were back on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, it did. She relaxed some when we veered off into her family. Stayed bitchy, but relaxed. That’s interesting.”

“She didn’t like seeing us at the door either. Most don’t,” Peabody admitted. “But she got the jumps the minute she made us. Guilty conscience, maybe.”

“Maybe. The boys are good levers, excellent buttons to push. Takes half a minute to see she’d do most anything for her sons. Ava would’ve seen that, factored that. Used that.”

“She’d have to get from here to there and back again,” Peabody considered. “I know you said Ava could’ve helped her with that, but I don’t see Ava putting down bread crumbs by hiring personal transpo for her.”

“No, neither do I. Have to be subway or bus. Take the neighbor on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. Let’s see what they say about the comings and goings. Then we’ll go have a talk with her boarder.”

I mind my own,” Cecil Blink stated the minute Eve stepped inside the musty, overheated row house. “What’s she done?”

There was an avid look in his eye, and the smell of fried meat substitute in the air. “We’re just making inquiries in the neighborhood. Why would you assume Ms. Petrelli had done anything?”

“Keeps to herself. That’s what they say about serial killers, ain’t it?” He nodded knowledgeably, and a thin storm of dandruff trickled from his scalp to the shoulders of his red-checked bathrobe. “And she don’t say three words to nobody if one will get her by. Don’t trust a closed-mouthed female. Used to own a restaurant, before they beat the horseshit and guts out of her husband and tossed him in the river. Mafia, that’s what. She’s connected.”

He said it as if he were giving her hot news, so Eve pasted a look of interest on her face. “You don’t say?”

“I do say, and right out loud. Probably was running illegals outta that restaurant, and they killed him-rival Mafia types. That’s how it’s done.”

“I’m going to look into that, thanks. Meanwhile, did you notice anyone in the neighborhood out very early in the morning on March eighteenth? This past Tuesday. Say four A.M.?”

“I mind my own.”

Like hell. “Maybe you were restless that night, or got up for a drink of water. Maybe you noticed activity out on the street. Someone walking, or getting out of a car or cab?”

“Can’t say I did.” Which seemed to disappoint him. “Her next door, she comes home late-midnight maybe-three nights a week. They say she cooks for Fortuna’s restaurant. Me, I don’t go to restaurants. They charge an arm and a leg.”

“Any visitors next door?”

“Boys have boys over. Probably up to no good. Woman who lives there with her-Nina Cohen-has some other biddies over every Wednesday night. Say they’re playing bridge. Couple of the other neighborhood women got boys her boys fool with, go over now and then. Her boys don’t go to school around here. Not good enough for her. They go to private school. They say on scholarships or some such thing. More likely Mafia money, if you ask me.”

“Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“I’m going to be locking my doors double quick. A closed-mouth woman’s a dangerous woman.”

Unable to resist, Eve gave him a closed-mouthed smile, and left.

The boys are well-behaved,” Peabody reported. “She keeps a clean house. Both the neighbor and her husband were sound asleep-bedroom’s at the back-on the night in question during the time line. She gives Petrelli big mother points.” When Eve only nodded, and continued to sit in the car, Peabody looked around. “What are we doing now?”

“Giving Bebe a little more to think about. Unless she’s going to blow off work, she should be coming out soon.” Eve settled back. “You know what would be an even bigger incentive for somebody who earns mother points? You give the kids this big juicy carrot, then you threaten to yank it away. Unless.”

“Get the boys in school, into the camps, give them a good taste of how it can be. Then, it’s the old ‘If you want them to keep this, you have to do this one little thing for me. Nobody’ll ever know.’”

“It could play. There’s something about her though.” Eve studied those hopeful window boxes and tapped her fingers on the wheel. “But there’s also something under the something. So we give her a little more to think about.”

It didn’t take long. Bebe came out of the house wearing a dull brown coat. Don’t notice me, it said to Eve. Just getting through here, just getting by.

Her gaze flashed to the car, to Eve, and her mouth folded into a sharp, thin line. The neighbor might’ve given her points for motherhood, but Eve gave her points for shooting up her middle finger. It took spine to flip off a couple of cops who were dogging you for murder.

Bebe stomped up the block. Giving her a few yards, Eve eased from the curb and slowly followed. Two and a half blocks to the bus stop, Eve thought. Had to be a bitch in the worst of the winter, in the rain, in the wind. Eve slid back to the curb as Bebe stood at the stop, arms folded, eyes straight ahead.

When the bus lumbered up, Bebe stomped on. And Eve pulled out to follow. It chugged to the next stop, then the next, belching its way out of the tattered neighborhood into the next. The houses grew brighter, the sidewalks smoother, the vehicles more plentiful and newer.

“Has to be hard,” Peabody said, “to come out of where you landed to work for somebody else in what you used to have.”

“Slap you in the face every day.” She watched Bebe get out at the next stop, shoot her a furious glare, then hurry down the block to a whitewashed restaurant with a bright yellow awning.

“Peabody, see what precinct covers this area. And let’s see if we can impose on a couple of our brothers from the Bronx to have Italian for lunch.”

“Going to keep the pressure on.”

“Yeah. She’s tough, but she’ll pop.”

“I don’t know. I think making another pair of cops is just going to piss her off, dig her in. Legal Aid lawyer’s going to call us whining about harassment.”

“She didn’t call Legal Aid. She’ll pop,” Eve repeated. “Twenty says she pops before end of shift today.”

“Today? With those DeSalvo genes?” Peabody snorted at the idea. “I can use twenty. You’re on.”