Survivor in Death

4

HER FIRST STEP WAS CONTACTING FEENEY, captain of the Electronic Detectives Division. He popped on her 'link screen, wiry ginger hair threaded with silver, saggy face, rumpled shirt.

It was a relief to her that his wife's recent attempt to spruce him up with eye-popping suits had gone belly-up.

“I'm catching up,” she said briskly. “You got word on the Swisher case, home invasion?”

“Two kids.” His face, comfortably morose, hardened. “When I got wind, I went to the scene myself. I got a team working on the 'links and data centers. I'm doing the security personally.”

“I like getting the best. What can you tell me?”.

“Good, solid home system. Top of the line. Took some know-how to bypass. Camera shows squat after one hundred fifty-eight hours. Remote jammer, with secondary jam as the system had an auto backup.”

He tugged on his earlobe as he read data from another screen. “Visual security shuts down, backup pops within ten seconds, with alarms both in-house and at security center. Compromised the works.”

“They knew the system.”

“Oh yeah, they knew the system. Deactivated camera alarm, lock alarm, motion alarm. I'm going to pin it for you, but my prelim indicated entrance ten minutes after the camera blanked, four minutes after the secondary jam.”

“Ten minutes? That's a stretch of time. Might've held, insurance the system didn't make the signal, in-house, to the security company. Four after hitting the secondary. Is that as slick as I think it is?”

“Slick enough. They worked fast.”

“Did they know the code?”

“Can't tell you that yet.” He lifted a mug to his lips that had MINE printed on it in murderous red. “Either knew it or had a first-class code breaker. Couple of kids not safe in their own bed, Dallas, it's a fucked up world.”

“It's always been a fucked-up world. I'm going to need all the transmissions, in and out, personal and household. All security discs.”

“You'll have them. I'm putting weight on this one. Got grandchildren that age, for Chrissake. Whatever you need on this one, you got it.”

“Thanks.” Her eyes narrowed as he sipped again. “That real coffee?”

He blinked, eased the mug out of sight. “Why?”

“Because I can see it on your face. I can see it in your eyes.”

“What if it is?”

“Where'd you get it?”

He shifted. Even with her screen view she could tell he squirmed. “Maybe I swung by your office, to update you, and you weren't there. And maybe since you've got a damn unlimited supply of the stuff I got myself one lousy mug. Don't see why you have to be so stingy when you've-”

“You help yourself to anything else while you were there? Such as candy?”

“What candy? You got candy in there? What kind?”

“That's for me to know, and you to keep your hands off. I'll get back to you.”

Thinking of coffee and candy reminded her she'd missed breakfast and lunch. She ordered up data on Grant Swisher, then strode into her office kitchen to grab a nutribar and another hit of caffeine.

Settling, she ordered the data on wall screen, and scanned.

Swisher, Grant Edward, DOB March 2, 2019. Residence 310 West Eighty-first, New York City, September 22, 2051 to present. Married Getz, Keelie Rose, May 6, 2046. Two children of the marriage: Coyle Edward, DOB August 15, 2047, male. Nixie Fran, DOB February 21, 2050, female.

Three of those names would be listed as deceased by end of the day in Vital Records, she thought.

She read through the basic data, requested any and all criminal records, and got a pop for possession of Zoner when Grant Swisher had been nineteen. Medical was just as ordinary.

She dug into finances.

He did well. Family law paid enough to handle the mortgage on the house, a time share place in theHamptons, private schools for both kids. With the wife's income factored in, you had a cozy buffer for a live-in domestic, family vacations, restaurants, and other recreational activities-including a hefty golf tab-and enough left over for a reasonable savings or emergency account.

Nothing over the top, she mused. Nothing, from the looks of it, under the table.

Keelie Swisher, two years younger than her husband, no criminal, standard medical, had a master's degree in Nutrition and Health. She'd put it to use, prior to children, with a position on staff at a high-end city spa. After the first kid, she'd done the professional mother gig for a year, then gone back to the same employment. Repeated the routine with kid number two, but instead of going back as an employee, she'd opened her own business.

Living Well, Eve mused. Didn't sound much like Nutrition, but it must have worked. She tracked the business, shaky first year, middling second. But by the third year, Keelie Swisher had developed a solid clientele, and was cruising.

She ran the boy. No criminal, no Hag for sealed juvenile records. No flags on the medical to indicate violence or abuse-though there were some bumps, some breaks. Sports related, according to the medicals. And it fit.

He had his own bank account with his parents listed on it. She pursed her lips over the regular monthly deposits, but the amounts weren't enough to arrow toward illegals sales or criminal profits.

She found the same pattern, with smaller amounts, in Nixie's account.

She was pondering it whenPeabody came in carrying a white bag, stained with grease and smelling like glory. “Picked up a couple of gyros. Ate mine, so if you don't want yours, I'll be happy to take it off your hands.”

“I want it, and nobody should eat two gyros.”

“Hey, I lost five pounds when I was on medical. Okay, I put three back on, but that's still two by anybody's math.” She dropped the bag on Eve's desk. “Where's Nixie?”

“Summerset.” Eve dumped the nutribar she'd yet to open in her desk drawer and pulled out the gyro. She took a huge bite and mumbled something that sounded like “Slool ressa.”

“Got the school records on both.” Translating, Peabody pulled out two discs. “Their school officials were pretty broken up when I notified. Nice schools. Coyle did well, no suspicious dips in grades or attendance. And Nixie? That kid's a blade. Aces all the way. Both scored high on IQ tests, but she's a level up from her brother, and makes the most of it. No disciplinary problems on either. A couple of warnings about talking in class or sneaking game vids, but no major. Coyle played Softball and basketball. Nixie's into school plays, does the school media flash, school band-plays the piccolo.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It's a wind instrument. Kinda like a flute. These kids have a lot of extracurricular, good grades. Didn't have time to get in trouble, from my view.”

“They both have their own bank accounts, and make regular monthly deposits. Where do kids get up to a hundred bucks a month?”

Peabodyturned to the wall screen, scanned the data. “Allowance.”

“Allowance for what?”

She looked back, shook her head at Eve. “Their parents probably gave them a weekly allowance, spending money, saving money, that sort of thing.”

Eve swallowed more gyro. “They get paid for being a kid?”

“More or less.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

“Household like that, the way this is shaping up, the kids probably had regular chores, even with a full-time domestic. Keeping their rooms clean, clearing the table, loading the recycler. Then you got your birthday or holiday money, your school report money. Being a Free-Ager, we did bartering more than pay, but it comes to the same.”

“So if everybody stayed a kid, nobody'd have to get a job. They could have seen something at school,” she continued beforePeabody could comment. “Heard something. Something off. We'll take a look at teachers and staff. We can run the adults' business associates and clients, fan out from there to friends, neighbors, social acquaintances. These people weren't picked out of a hat.”

“Doesn't feel like it, but can we discount straight urban terrorism?”

“It's too clean.” Roarke had it right on that one, she thought. “You want to terrorize, you're messy. Kill the family, rape and torture first, wreck the house, slice up their little dog.”

“They didn't have a little dog, but I get you. And if it was terrorism, some whacked-out group would be taking credit by now. Did we get any reports in? EDD, sweepers, ME?”

“I talked to Feeney. He's on it. Fill you in on the way.”

“To?”

“Morgue, then Central.” She rose, stuffing the last of the gyro in her mouth.

“Want me to let Summerset know we're leaving?”

“Why? Oh. Hell. Yeah, do that.” She crossed to the door joining her office with Roarke's. “Hey.”

He was rising from his desk, slipping on one of his dark suit jackets.

“I'm heading out,” she told him.

“So am I. I've rearranged a few things. Should be back no later than seven.”

“I don't know when.” She leaned against the jamb, frowning at him. “I should put the kid in a safe house.”

“This house is safe, and she's fine with Summerset. A more detailed media bulletin's come through. It doesn't list the names, as yet, but reports on anUpper West Side family, including two children, killed early this morning, in their home. Lists you as primary. Details to follow.”

“I'll have to deal with that.”

“And so you will.” He came to her, cupped her face, kissed her. “You'll do your job, and we'll figure out the rest. Take care of my cop.”

As she'd expected, the chief medical examiner had taken charge of the Swisher homicides. It wasn't the sort of detail Morris would pass to someone else, however qualified or skilled.

Eve found him, suited up, over the body of Linnie Dyson. “I've taken them in order of death.” Behind his microgoggles his dark eyes were cool and hard.

There was music playing. Morris rarely worked without it, but this was somber, funereal. One of those composers, she imagined, who'd worn white wigs.

“I've ordered tox screens on all victims. Cause of death is the same in all. There are no secondary wounds or injuries, though the minor male vie had several old bruises, two fresh, with minor lacerations-long bruising scrapes on his right hip and upper thigh. His right index finger had been broken, set, and healed at some point within the last two years. All injuries look consistent to me with a young boy who played sports.”

“Softball primarily. Fresh deal sounds like he got it sliding into base.”

“Yes, that fits.”

He looked down at the little girl, at the long slice in her throat. “Both minor vies were healthy. All vies had a meal at approximately seven p.m., of white fish, brown rice, green beans, and mixed-grain bread. There was an apple dish with wheat and brown sugar topping for dessert. The adults had a glass of white wine, the children soy milk.”

“The mother, the second adult female, was a nutritionist.”

“Practiced what she preached. The boy had a cache somewhere,” Morris added with a faint smile. “He'd consumed two ounces of red licorice at about ten p.m.”

Somehow it cheered her to know it. At least the kid got a last taste of sweet. “Murder weapons?”

“Identical. Most likely a ten-inch blade. See here.”

He gestured to the screen, magnified the wound on the child's throat. “See the jags? There, on the edge of the diagonal. Swipe down, from his left to his right. Not a full smooth blade, or a full jagged. Three teeth serrating from the handle, the rest smooth-bladed.”

“Sounds like a combat knife.”

“That would be my take. It was employed by a right-handed individual.”

“There were two.”

“So I'm told. Eyeballing it, I'd have said the same hand delivered the killing blows, but as you can see…” He turned to another screen, called for pictures, split screen on Grant and Keelie Swisher. Magnified the wounds.

“There're slight deviations. Male vic's wound is deeper, more of a slicing motion, more jagged, while the female's is more of a draw across. When all five are put up…” He nodded as the screen shifted to show five throat wounds. “You can see that the housekeeper, the father, and the boy have the same slicing wound, while the mother and the girl have the more horizontal drawing across. You'll want the lab to run some reconstructs, but it's going to be a ten-inch blade, twelve at the max, with those three teeth near the handle.”

“Military style,” she stated. “Not that you have to be military to obtain one. But it's just one more piece of the operation. Military tactics, equipment, and weapons. None of the adults did military time, or appear to have any connection to the military. Can't link any of them, at this point, to paramilitary or game playing.”

Then again, she thought, sometimes a cozy family was the perfect cover for covert or dark deeds.

“I've cleared the Dysons.” Eve glanced back at Linnie. “Have they seen her yet?”

“Yes. An hour ago. It was… hideous. Look at her,” he urged. “So small. We get smaller, of course. Infants barely out of the womb. It's amazing what we enlightened adults can do to those who need us most.”

“You don't have any kids, right?” Eve asked.

“No, no chick nor child. There was a woman once, and we were together long enough to consider it. But that was… ago.”

She studied his face, slickly framed by black hair pulled cleanly back in one sleek tail that was bound in crisscrossing silver twine. Under the clear, protective suit, stained now with body fluids, his shirt was silver as well.

“I've got the kid, the one they didn't get. I don't know what to do with her.”

“Keep her alive. I would think that would be priority.”

“Got that part handled. I'll need those tox reports, and anything that pops, as soon as.”

“You'll have them. They wore wedding rings.”

“Sorry?”

“The parents. Not everyone does these days.” Morris nodded toward the scribed band Eve wore on the ring finger of her left hand. “It's not very fashionable. Wearing them is a statement. I belong. They'd made love, about three hours prior to death. They used a spermicide rather than long-term or permanent birth control, which tells me they hadn't ruled out the possibility of more children in the future. That, and the rings, Dallas? I find that both comforts and angers me.”

“Anger's better. Keeps you sharper.”

When she walked toward Homicide in the massive beehive of Cop Central, she spotted Detective Baxter at a vending unit, getting what passed for coffee. She dug out credits, flipped them to him. “Tube of Pepsi.”

“Still avoiding contact with vending machines?”

“It's working. They don't piss me off, I don't kick them into rubble.”

“Heard about your case,” he said as he plugged in her credits. “And so did every reporter in the city. You got most of them hassling the media liaison and hammering for an interview with the primary.”

“Reporters aren't on my to-do list right at the moment.” She took the tube of Pepsi he offered, frowned. “You said most. Why is Nadine Furst of Channel 75 even now sitting on her well-toned ass in my office?”

“How do you know? Not about the ass, anybody could see Furst's got an excellent ass.”

“You've got cookie crumbs on your shirt, you putz. You let her into my office.”

With some dignity, he brushed off his shirt. “I'd like to see you turn down a bribe of Hunka-Chunka Chips. Every man has his weakness, Dallas.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'll kick your well-toned ass later.”

“Sweetheart, you noticed.”

“Bite me.” But she studied him as she broke the tube's seal. “Listen, how's your caseload?”

“Well, as you're my lieutenant I should say I'm ridiculously overworked. I was just coming in from court when I was distracted by Furst's ass and cookies.”

Keying in his code, he ordered a tube of ginger ale from the machine. “My boy's writing up the three's on one we caught last night. Double D that went nasty. Guy'd been out drinking and whoring, according to the spouse. They got into it when he crawled home, smacked each other around-as per usual according to the neighbors and previous reports. But this time she waited until he'd passed out, then cut off his dick with a pair of sheers.”

“Ow.”

“Fucking A,” Baxter agreed, and took a long gulp. “Guy bled out before the MTs got there. Damn ugly mess, let me tell you. And the guy's dick? She'd stuffed it in the recycler, just to make sure it didn't get in any more trouble.”

“Pays to be thorough.”

“You women are cold and terrifying creatures. This one? She's damn proud of it. Says she's going to be a hero to neofems throughout our fair land. Maybe so.”

“You got that closed. Anything else hot?”

“We don't have any more actives than we can handle right now.”

“Anything you don't feel comfortable passing on?”

“You want me to dump my caseloads on somebody else. I'm your boy.”

“I want you and Trueheart on witness duty. My residence.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I'll get my boy. They did two kids?” His face sobered as they walked toward the bull pen. “Did them while they slept?”

“It'd have been worse if they'd been awake. You and Trueheart are baby-sitting the eyewitness. Nine-year-old female. Keep it off the log for now. I still have to report to Whitney.”

She moved through the bull pen, then into the glorified closet that was her office.

As predicted, Nadine Furst, Channel 75's on-air ace, sat in Eve's ratty desk chair. She was perfectly groomed, her streaky blonde hair swept back from her foxy face. Her jacket and pants were the color of ripe pumpkin, with a stark white shirt beneath that somehow made the whole getup more female.

She stopped recording notes into her memo book when Eve walked in. “Don't hurt me. I saved you a cookie.”

Saying nothing, Eve jerked a thumb, then took the chair Nadine vacated. When the silence went on, Nadine cocked her head. “Don't I get a lecture? Aren't you going to yell at me? Don't you want your cookie?”

“I just came from the morgue. There's a little girl on a slab. Her throat's cut from here, to about here.” Eve tapped a finger on both sides of her own throat.

“I know.” Nadine sat in the single visitor's chair. “Or I know some of it. A whole family, Dallas. However hard-shelled you and I might be, that gets through. And with a home invasion like this, the public needs some of the details, so they can protect themselves.”

Eve said nothing, just lifted her eyebrows.

“That's part of it,” Nadine insisted. “I'm not saying ratings aren't involved, or I don't want my journalistic teeth in something this juicy. But the sanctity of the home should mean something. Keeping your kids safe matters.”

“See the media liaison.”

“The ML doesn't have squat.”

“Should tell you something, Nadine.” Eve lifted a hand before Nadine could sound off. “What I've got at this point isn't going to help the public, and I'm not inclined to give you the inside edge. Unless…”

Nadine settled back, crossed her exceptional legs. “Name the terms.”

Eve stretched out, flipping the door shut, then turned around in her chair so that she and Nadine were face-to-face. “You know how to slant reports, how to spin stories to influence the public who you love to claim has a right to know.”

“Excuse me, objective reporter.”

“Bullshit. The media's no more objective than the last ratings term. You want details, you want the inside track, one-on-ones, and your other items on your reporter's checklist? I'll feed you. And when this goes down and I get them-and I will get them-I want you to bloody them in the media. I want you to skew the stories so these fuckers are the monsters the villagers go after with axes and torches.”

“You want them tried in the press.”

“No.” It wasn't a smile that moved over Eve's face. Nothing that feral could be called a smile. “I want them hanged by it. You're my secondary line, if the system gives them a loophole even an anorectic bloodworm has trouble wiggling through. Yes or no.”

“Yes. Was there sexual assault on any or all of the victims?”

“None.”

“Torture? Mutilation?”

“No. Straight kills. Clean.”

“Professional?”

“Possibly. Two killers.”

“Two?” The excitement of the hunt flushed onto Nadine's cheek. “How do you know?”

“I get paid to know. Two,” Eve repeated. “No vandalism, destruction of property, no burglary that can be determined at this time. And at this time, it is the opinion of the primary investigator that the family in question was target specific. I've got a report to write, and I have to speak to my commander. I'm cooking on three hours' sleep. Go away, Nadine.”

“Suspects, leads?”

“At this time we are pursuing any and all blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Disappear now.”

Nadine rose. “Watch my evening report. I'll start bloodying them now.”

“Good. And Nadine?” Eve said as Nadine opened the office door. “Thanks for the cookie.”

She set up her office case board, wrote her report, read those submitted by EDD and Crime Scene. She drank more coffee, then closed her eyes and went through the scene, yet again, in her mind.

“Computer. Probability run, multiple homicides, case file H-226989SD,” Eve ordered.

Acknowledged.

“Probability, given known data, that the killers were known by one or more of the victims.”

Working… Probability is 88.32 percent that one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers.

“Probability that the killers were professional assassins.”

Working… Probability is 96.93 percent that the killers were professional and/or trained.

“Yeah, I'm with you there. Probability that killers were hired or assigned to assassinate victims by another source.”

Working… Wholly speculative inquiry with insufficient data to project.

“Let's try this. Given current known data on all victims, what is the probability any or all would be marked for professional assassination?”

Working… 100 percent probability as victims have been assassinated.

“Work with me here, you moron. Speculation. Victims have not yet been assassinated. Given current known data-deleting any data after midnight-what is the probability any or all members of the Swisher household would be marked for professional assassination?”

Working… Probability is less than five percent, and therefore these subjects would not be so marked.

“Yeah, my take, too. So what don't we know about this nice family?” She swiveled around to the board. “Because you're dead, aren't you?” She shoved another disc in the data slot. “Computer, do a sort and run on subsequent data pertaining to Swisher, Grant, client list. Follow with sort and run on Swisher, Keelie, client list. Highlight any and all subjects with criminal or psych evals, highlight all with military or paramilitary training. Copy results to my home unit when complete.”

Acknowledged. Working…

“Yeah, you keep doing that.” She rose, walked out.

“ Peabody.” She gave a come-ahead that hadPeabody pushing back from her desk in the bull pen.

“I've got a complaint. How come Baxter and most of the other guys always get the good bribes? How come being your partner means I get shafted on the goodies?”

“Price you pay. We're heading to Whitney. Do you have anything new I should know about before we report?”

“I talked with McNab. Purely professional,” Peabody added quickly. “We hardly made any kissy noises. Feeney put him on the household 'links and d and c's, and Grant Swisher's units from his office. He's running all transmissions from the last thirty days. So far, nothing pops. Did you see the sweepers' report?”

“Yeah. Nothing. Not a skin cell, not a follicle.”

“I'm doing runs on the school staff,” Peabody continued as they squeezed onto an elevator. “Pulling out anything winky.”

“Winky?”

“You know, not quite quite. Both schools are pretty tight. You gotta practically be pure enough for sainthood to work there, but a few little slips got in. Nothing major at this point.”

“Pull out military, paramilitary backgrounds. Even those-what are they?-combat camps. Those recreational places where you pay to run around playing war. Take a hard look at teachers in the e-departments.”

Eve rubbed her temple as they stepped off the elevator. “The housekeeper was divorced. Let's eyeball the ex. We'll get the names of the kids' pals. See if any of those family members should be checked out.”

“He's waiting for you.” Whitney's admin gestured even as Eve strode toward her desk. “DetectivePeabody, it's good to have you back. How are you feeling?”

“Good, thanks.”

But she drew in a deep breath before they entered Whitney's office. The commander still intimidated her.

He sat, a big man at a big desk, his face the color of cocoa, his short cropped black hair liberally dusted with gray. Peabody knew he'd done his time on the streets, nearly as much time as she'd been alive. And he rode his desk with the same fervor and skill.

“Lieutenant. Detective, it's good to see you back on the job.”

“Thank you, sir. It's good to be back.”

“I have your writtens. Lieutenant, you're walking a thin line taking a minor witness into your own custody.”

“Safest place I know, Commander. And the minor was emotionally distressed. More so at the prospect of going with GPS. As she's our only witness, I felt it best to keep her close, to have her monitored, and to attempt to keep her emotionally stable in order to gain more information from her. I've assigned Detective Baxter and Officer Trueheart to witness protection, off the log.”

“Baxter and Trueheart.”

“Baxter's experience, Trueheart's youth. Trueheart has a kind of Officer Friendly way about him, and Baxter won't miss the details.”

“Agreed. Why off the log?”

“At this time the media is unaware there was a survivor. It won't take much longer, but it gives us more of a window. Once they know, the killers know. These men are trained and skilled. It's highly possible this was an operation executed under orders.”

“Do you have evidence of that?”

“No, sir. None to the contrary either. There is, at this time, no clear motive.”

It was going to be the why, Eve thought, that led to the who.

“Nothing that pops in any of the victims' data or background,” she added. “We're beginning further runs, and I will continue to interview the witness. Mira has agreed to supervise, and to counsel.”

“Nothing in your report indicates this as a spree killing or home terrorism.”

“No, sir. We're running like crimes through IRCCA, but haven't hit anything with these details.”

“I want your witness under supervision twenty-four/seven.”

“It's done, sir.”

“Mira's name will have considerable weight with GPS. I'll add mine.” The chair creaked when he leaned back. “What about legal guardians?” Sir?

“The minor. Who are her legal guardians?”

“The Dysons, Commander,” Peabody said when Eve hesitated. “The parents of the minor female who was killed.”

“Jesus. Well, they're unlikely to give us any trouble over the situation, but you'd do better to get their permission, officially. Doesn't the child have any family left?”

“Grandparent. One on the father's side who lives off planet. Maternal grandparents are dead. No siblings on either side.”

“Kid can't catch a break, can she?” Whitney muttered.

She caught one, Eve thought. She lived. “DetectivePeabody? You spoke with the grandmother.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I notified next of kin. At that time, I was told the paternal grandmother was not legal guardian in case of parental death or disability. And, to be frank, while shocked and upset, she made no statement to indicate she intended to come here and attempt custody of the minor.”

“All right then. Dallas, speak with the Dysons at the first opportunity, and tidy this up. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

When they were walking back toward the elevator, Peabody shook her head. “I don't think now's the best time-for the Dysons. I'd let that slide another twenty-four anyway.”

The longer the better, Eve thought.