Vengeance in Death

CHAPTER SIX

Peabody knew when to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. Whatever had been said in the interview room off record hadn't put her lieutenant in a cheerful state of mind. The lieutenant's eyes were hot and broody, her mouth grim, and her shoulders stiff as a board of black market oak.

Since Eve was currently driving uptown behind the wheel of a not entirely reliable vehicle – and Peabody was in the passenger seat – the lieutenant's aide chose the better part of valor.

"Idiots," Eve muttered, and Peabody was dead certain she wasn't referring to the stream of jaywalking tourists who barely missed being mowed down by a maxi-bus.

"Trust, my ass."

At this, Peabody merely cleared her throat and frowned sternly at the smoke-obscured corner of Tenth and Forty-first where a pair of glide-carts were dueling over territorial rights. Peabody winced as the operators rammed their carts together. Metal sang against metal once, twice. At the third butt, a funnel of flame shot skyward. Pedestrians scattered like ants.

"Oops" was Peabody's comment, and she resigned herself when Eve swung her vehicle to the curb.

Eve stepped out into the smoke, caught the scent of scorched meat. The operators were too busy screaming at each other to notice her until she elbowed one of them aside to reach the regulation extinguisher hanging on the corner of the nearest cart.

There was a fifty-fifty shot that it would contain anything but air, but luck fell on her side. She coated both carts with foam, snuffing out the fire and eliciting a stream of furious Italian from one operator and what might have been Mandarin Chinese from the other.

They might have joined forces and jumped her, but Peabody stepped through the stink and smoke. The sight of a uniformed cop had both operators satisfying themselves with threatening curses and vicious glares.

Peabody scanned the crowd that had gathered to watch the show, and furrowed her brow. "Move along," she ordered. "There's nothing more to see here. I always wanted to say that," she murmured to Eve, but got no quick, answering grin in response.

"Make their day perfect and write them up for creating a public hazard."

"Yes, sir." Peabody sighed when Eve walked back to the car.

Ten minutes later, and in silence, they pulled up in front of the Luxury Towers. The droid was on duty at the door and only nodded respectfully when Eve flashed her badge and walked by him. She headed straight to the elevator and stood dead center of the glass tube as it shot them up to the twelfth floor.

Peabody remained silent as Eve pressed the bell at Audrey Morrell's snowy white door. A moment later it was opened by a tidy brunette with mild green eyes and a cautious smile.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Audrey Morrell?"

"That's correct." The woman focused on Peabody, the uniform, and lifted a hand to the single strand of white stones around her neck. "Is there a problem?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions." Eve took out her badge, held it up. "It shouldn't take long."

"Of course. Please come in."

She stepped back into a lofty living area made cozy with soft pastel hues and the clever grouping of conversation areas. The walls were crowded with paintings in dreamy, bleeding colors.

She led them to a trio of U-shaped chairs covered in Easter-egg blue.

"May I offer you anything? Coffee perhaps?"

"No, nothing."

"Well then." With an uncertain smile, Audrey sat.

This would be Summerset's type was Eve's first thought. This slim, pretty woman wearing a classically simple pale green sheath. Her hair was neatly arranged in smooth waves.

Age was difficult to gauge. Her complexion was creamy and smooth, her hands long and narrow, her voice quiet and cultured. Mid-forties was Eve's best guess, with plenty of bucks spent on body maintenance.

"Ms. Morrell, are you acquainted with a man named Summerset?"

"Lawrence." Instantly the green eyes took on a sparkle, and the smile grew wider and more relaxed. "Yes, of course."

"How do you know him?"

"He attends my watercolor class. I teach painting on Tuesday nights at the Culture Exchange. Lawrence is one of my students."

"He paints?"

"Quite well, too. He's working on a lovely still life series right now, and I…" She trailed off, and her hand went back to twist her strand of rocks. "Is he in trouble? Is he all right? I was annoyed when he missed our engagement on Saturday, but it never occurred to me that – "

"Saturday? You had an appointment with him on Saturday?"

"A date, really." Audrey shifted and brushed at her hair. "We… well, we have common interests."

"Your date wasn't for Friday?"

"Saturday afternoon. Lunch and a matinee." She let out a breath, worked up a smile again. "I suppose I can confess, as we're all women. I'd gone to quite a bit of time and trouble with my appearance. And I was terribly nervous. Lawrence and I have seen each other outside of class a few times, but always with art as a buffer. This would have been our first actual date. I haven't dated in some time, you see. I'm a widow. I lost my husband five years ago, and… well. I was crushed when he stood me up. But I see he must have had a good reason. Can't you tell me what this is about?"

"Where were you on Friday afternoon, Ms. Morrell?"

"Shopping for my outfit for Saturday. It took me most of the day to find just the right dress, shoes, the bag. Then I went to the salon for a manicure, a body polish." She lifted her hand to her hair again. "A little highlighting."

"Summerset claims your engagement was for Friday noon."

"Friday." Audrey frowned, shook her head. "That can't be. Can it? Oh, did I mix the dates?" Obviously distracted, she got up quickly and hurried into another room. She came back moments later with a slim silver-toned datebook. As she coded in, she continued to shake her head. "I'm certain we said Saturday. Yes, that's what I have here. Saturday, twelve noon, lunch and theater with Lawrence. Oh dear." She looked at Eve again, her face comically distressed. "Did he come on Friday, when I was out? He must have thought I stood him up, just as I – "

She started to laugh then, sitting down, crossing her legs. "How absurd, and the two of us with our pride and feelings crushed just because we didn't have the good sense to call and verify. Why in the world didn't he at least leave a message at the door?"

"I couldn't say."

"Pride again, I suppose. And shyness. It's so difficult for two shy people to manage." Her smile faded slowly as she studied Eve's face. "But surely this isn't a police matter."

"Summerset is involved in an investigation. It would be helpful if we could verify his movements on Friday."

"I see. No, I don't," Audrey corrected. "I don't see at all."

"I can't give you a great deal of information at this time, Ms. Morrell. Did you know a Thomas Brennen?"

"No, I don't believe so."

You will, Eve thought. By the evening newscasts everyone would know of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy. "Who else knew about your date with Summerset?"

Audrey's fingers tangled with her necklace again. "I can't think of anyone. We're both rather… private people. I suppose I did mention to my beauty consultant when I made the appointment that it was for a special occasion."

"What's your salon?"

"Oh, I always use Classique on Madison."

"I appreciate your time," Eve said and rose.

"You're welcome, of course. But – Lieutenant, was it?"

"Yes. Dallas."

"Lieutenant Dallas, if Lawrence is in any sort of trouble… I'd like to help however I can. He's a lovely man. A gentleman."

"A lovely man," Eve muttered as they headed back to the elevator. "A gentleman. Right. Penthouse floor," she ordered as the tube closed them in. "I want to go over the scene again. Set your recorder."

"Yes, sir." Efficiently, Peabody clipped the minirecorder onto her starched lapel.

Eve used her master code to bypass the police block on Brennen's door. The apartment was dim, the outside light blocked by security screens. She left them in place and ordered the lights to bright.

"It started right here." She frowned down at the bloodstains on the carpet, the walls, and brought the gruesome image of a severed hand into her mind. "Why did Brennen let him in? Did he know him? And why did the attacker hack off his hand? Unless…"

She circled around, moved back to the door, eyed the direction of the bedroom. "Maybe it went this way: The killer's an electronics whiz. He's already messed up the cameras. Can't take a chance that some bored security guard scans discs before he can do the job here then get back to them. So he's taken care of that. He's smart, he's careful. He can get into this place easily enough. Bypass the codes, pop the locks. That'd give him a kick, wouldn't it?"

"He likes to be in charge," Peabody offered. "Could be he wouldn't want to ask to come in."

"Exactly. So he lets himself in. What a thrill. The game's about to begin. Brennen comes out, from the kitchen most likely. He's just had lunch. He's caught off guard, and he's a little sluggish from the tranq. But he grew up on the streets, he grew up rough. You don't forget how to take care of yourself. He charges the intruder, but the intruder's armed. The first injury, it could have been no more than a defensive move. Unplanned. But it stops Brennen, stops him cold. There's blood everywhere. Most likely some of it splattered on the intruder. He'll have to clean up, but he'll worry about that later. Now he wants to do what he came for. He tranqs Brennen a little deeper, drags him into the bedroom."

Eve followed the trail and puddles of dried blood, then stood in the bedroom, eyes keen. She lifted the statue of the Virgin from Eileen's dresser, scissoring the head between her fingers to upend it and check the markings on the base. "The same. The same as at the Conroy scene. Bag this."

"Seems kind of – I don't know – disrespectful," Peabody decided as she sealed the marble image.

"I'd think the Mother of God would find cold-blooded murder a bit more than disrespectful," Eve said dryly.

"Yeah, I suppose." Still, Peabody pushed the sealed statue into her bag where she didn't have to think about it.

"Now, he's got Brennen in here, on the bed. He doesn't want his man to bleed to death. He wants to take his time. Gotta stop that bleeding. So he cauterizes the stump, crudely, but it does the job."

She circled the bed, studying the grisly rust colored stains. "He gets to work. Secures his man to the bedpost, gets out his tools. He's precise. Maybe he was nervous before, but now he's just fine. Everything is going just as he wants. Now he puts his symbolic audience on the dresser so she has a good view. Maybe he says a prayer to her."

She frowned, looked back at the dresser, put the statue back in place in her mind. "Then he gets down to it," she continued. "He tells Brennen what he's going to do to him, and he tells him why. He wants him to know, he wants him to piss himself with fear, he wants to be able to smell the pain. This is payback, and payback's the big one. Passion, greed, power, they're all part of it, but revenge drives it all. He's waited a long time for this moment, and he's going to enjoy it. Every time Brennen screams, every time he begs, this guy gets off. When it's done, he's flying. But he's a mess, covered with blood and gore."

She moved toward the adjoining bath. It sparkled like gems, the sapphire walls, the ruby insets in the tiles, the silver dials and faucets. "He's come prepared. He had to be carrying a case of some kind, for the knives and rope. He's got a change of clothes in there. He'd have thought of that. So he showers, scrubs himself like a fucking surgeon. He scrubs the bathroom too, every inch. He's a goddamn domestic droid in here. He sterilizes it. He's got plenty of time."

"We didn't find a single hair or skin cell in here," Peabody agreed. "He was thorough."

Eve turned away, walked back into the bedroom. "The ruined clothes go back in his case, along with all his nasty tools. He gets himself dressed, watching where he steps. Don't want to get blood on our shiny shoes, do we? Maybe he stops back here for a last look at his work. Sure he does, he wants to take that image away with him. Does he say another prayer? Oh yeah, one for glory. Then he walks out, and he calls a cop."

"We can review the lobby tapes, check out anyone with briefcases or satchels."

"There are five floors of offices in this building. Every second person carts in a briefcase. There are fifty-two shops. Every third person has satchels." Eve moved her shoulders. "We'll look anyway. Summerset didn't do this, Peabody." When her aide remained silent, Eve turned impatiently. "Brennen was five-ten, but he was a hundred and ninety pounds – and a lot of that was muscle. Maybe, just maybe, a skinny, bone-ass fart like Summerset could take Brennen by surprise, but he doesn't have the arm to have severed flesh and bone with one swipe. And one swipe was what it took. Say he got lucky and managed that – how do you figure he hauled dead weight from here to the bedroom, then managed to drag that nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight up two and a half feet onto the bed? He isn't physical enough. He's got strong hands," she murmured, remembering well how those fingers had gripped her arm from time to time and bruised. "But he's got no muscle, no arm, and he's not used to lifting much more than a tea tray or his nose in the air."

Now she sighed. "And you have to figure that if he's smart enough to play electronic games with us, to fiddle with security discs, he'd have done better than to let himself get tagged walking into the lobby of the murder scene. Why didn't he wipe those discs while he was at it?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Peabody admitted.

"Somebody's setting him up, and they're setting him up to get to Roarke."

"Why?"

Eve stared into Peabody's eyes for a long ten seconds. "Let's seal up here."

"Dallas, I'm no good to you if you stick blinders on me."

"I know. Let's seal it up."

"I need air," Eve said when they were outside again and Peabody's recorder was tucked away. "And food. Any objections to getting both in Central Park?''

"No."

"Don't pout, Peabody," Eve warned as they climbed back into the car. "It's not attractive."

They drove in silence, squeezed into a street level parking spot, and headed off into the denuded trees. The wind had enough kick to make Eve fasten her jacket as they crunched dead leaves under their feet. At the first glide-cart Eve debated between a veggie hash pocket and a scoop of soy fries. She opted for grease while Peabody ordered a single healthy fruit kabob.

"Your Free-Ager's showing," Eve commented.

"I don't consider food a religious issue." Peabody sniffed and bit into a pineapple spear. "Though my body is a temple."

It made Eve smile. She was going to be forgiven. "I'm in possession of certain information that, as an officer of the law, I am duty bound to report to my superior. I have no intention of doing so."

Peabody studied a slice of hothouse peach, slid it off the stick. "Would this information have relevance in a case currently under investigation?"

"It would. If I share this information with you, you would also be duty bound to report it. Not doing so would make you an accessory after the fact. You'd risk your badge, your career, and very likely some portion of your freedom."

"It's my badge, my career, my freedom."

"Yes, it is." Eve stopped, turned. The wind ruffled her hair as she studied the earnest face, the sober eyes. "You're a good cop, Peabody. You're on your way to earning a detective's shield. I know that's important to you. I know what mine meant to me."

She looked away to where two uniformed nannies watched their young charges play on the grass. Nearby a jogger stopped along the path to stretch, to shift the bottle of anti-mugging spray on his hip when a licensed beggar meandered in his direction. Overhead, a park security copter cruised lazily with monotonous thudding blades.

"This information I have affects me personally, so I've made the choice. It doesn't affect you."

"With respect, Lieutenant, it does. If you're questioning my loyalty – "

"It isn't a matter of loyalty, Peabody. This is the law, this is duty, this…" Heaving a breath, she dropped down on a bench. "This is a mess."

"If you share this information with me, will it help me assist you in apprehending the killer of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy?"

"Yes."

"Do you want my word that said information remains between us?"

"I have to ask for it, Peabody." She looked over as Peabody sat beside her. "With regret, I have to ask you to promise me you'll violate your duty."

"You have my word, Lieutenant. With no regret."

Eve squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Some bonds, she realized, were formed quickly and held fast. "It started in Dublin," she began, "almost twenty years ago. Her name was Marlena."

She related it all, carefully and concisely, using the cop speak that both of them understood best. When it was done, they continued to sit. Eve's lunch lay untouched on her lap. Somewhere deeper in the park birds sang, their voices competing with the drone of traffic.

"I never thought of Summerset having a daughter," Peabody said at length. "Losing her like that. There's nothing worse, is there?"

"I suppose not. But somehow something worse always comes along. Revenge. Marlena to Summerset to Roarke. It fits like a skin suit. A shamrock on one side, the Church on the other. A game of luck, a mission from God."

"If he set Summerset up, knew he'd be in the Towers, doctored the discs, he had to know about his date with Audrey Morrell."

"Yeah. People are never as discreet as they think they are, Peabody. My guess is at least half that painting class knew they were eyeballing each other. So, we check out the art students." She rubbed her eyes. "I need a list from Roarke – the names of the men he killed. The names of everyone he can think of who helped him track them."

"Which list do you want me to run?"

It surprised Eve to feel her eyes sting. Overtired, she told herself and willed back the tears. "Thanks. I owe you big for this."

"Okay. You going to eat those fries?"

With a half laugh, Eve shook her head and passed them over. "Help yourself."

"Dallas, how are you going to get around the commander?"

"I'm working on that." Because it made Eve's stomach uneasy, she rubbed it absently. "Right now, we have to get back to Central and goose McNab on the jams. I have to deal with the media before this explodes. I need the sweeper's and ME's reports on the Conroy homicide, and I have to have a fight with Roarke."

"Busy day."

"Yeah, all I have to do is fit the commander in, and it'll be perfect."

"Why don't I go harass McNab and you can go bribe Nadine Furst?"

"Good thinking."

Eve didn't have to find Nadine. The reporter was in Eve's office, grinning at Eve's communication center. The guts of it were spread over the desk.

"A little electronic blip, Dallas?"

"Peabody, go find McNab and kill him."

"Right away, Lieutenant."

"Nadine, how many times have I told you to stay out of my office?"

"Oh, dozens, I imagine." Still grinning, Nadine sat down and crossed her shapely legs. "I don't know why you bother. So, who was Shawn Conroy and why was he killed in Roarke's house?"

"It wasn't Roarke's house, it was one of Roarke's properties, of which he has legion." She angled her head, lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "That's a qualification I'm sure you'll include in your report."

"My exclusive report." Nadine smiled her sunny smile. "Which will include a statement from the primary."

"You'll get your statement, and your exclusive." Eve shut the door, locked it.

"Hmm." Nadine lifted one perfectly arched brow. "That was entirely too easy. What's it going to cost me?"

"Nothing yet. You're running a tab. The NYPSD is investigating the murder of Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, unmarried, forty-one years of age, bartender by trade. Following an anonymous tip, the primary in the case – with the assistance of Roarke – discovered the victim in an empty rental unit."

"How was he killed? I heard it was nasty."

"The details of the crime are not available to the media at this time."

"Come on, Dallas." Nadine leaned forward. "Gimme."

"Nope. But the police are investigating a possible connection between this crime and the murder, on Friday last, of communication tycoon – and Irish citizen – Thomas X. Brennen."

"Brennen? Jesus. Friday?" Nadine leaped to her feet. "Brennen's been killed? Christ Almighty, he owned majority stock in Channel 75. Holy God, how did we miss this? How did it happen? Where?"

"Brennen was killed in his New York residence. Police are pursuing leads."

"Leads? What leads? God, I knew him."

Eve's eyes narrowed. "Did you really?"

"Sure, I met him dozens of times. Station functions, charity events. He even sent me flowers after – after that business last spring."

"The business where you nearly got your throat slit."

"Yes," Nadine snapped and sat again. "And I haven't forgotten who made sure I didn't. I liked him, Dallas. Damn it, he's got a wife, kids." She brooded a moment, pretty fingers tapping her knee. "The station's going to be in an uproar when this hits. And half the media around the world. How did it happen?"

"At this point, we believe he surprised an intruder."

"So much for security," she muttered. "Walked in on a damn burglary."

Eve said nothing, pleased that Nadine had jumped to that particular conclusion.

"A connection?" Her eyes sharpened. "Shawn Conroy was Irish, too. Do you believe he was involved in the burglary? Did they know each other?"

"We'll investigate that angle."

"Roarke's Irish."

"So I've heard," Eve said dryly. "Off the record," she began, and waited for Nadine's reluctant nod. "Roarke knew Shawn Conroy back in Ireland. It's possible – just possible – that the house where Conroy was taken out was being cased. It was furnished – well, as I'm sure you can imagine how well. And the new tenants weren't due to move in for a couple of days. Until we nail things down a bit, I'd like to keep Roarke's name out of it, or as far in the background as possible."

"Shouldn't be hard at this point. Every station, and certainly ours, is going to hit with the Brennen story – then we'll do a lot of retrospectives, biographies, that sort of thing. I've got to get this in."

She leaped up again. "Appreciate it."

"Don't." Eve unlocked the door, opened it. "You'll pay for it eventually."

And now, Eve mused, rubbing her temple, she could only hope she could bluff and bullshit her commander with half as much success.

"Your report seems sparse, Lieutenant," Whitney commented after Eve had finished backing up her written report with an oral one.

"We don't have a lot to work with at this stage, Commander." She sat, face composed, voice bland, meeting Whitney's sharp dark eyes without a blink. "McNab from EDD is working on the jams and trace, but he doesn't appear to be having much success. Feeney will be back in about a week."

"McNab has a very good record with the department."

"That may be, but so far, he's stumped. His words, Commander. The killer is highly skilled in electronics and communications. It's possible that's his link with Brennen."

"That wouldn't explain Conroy."

"No, sir, but the Irish connection does. They knew each other, casually at least, in Dublin some years ago. It's possible they continued, or renewed, the acquaintance in New York. As you've reviewed the tape of the transmissions I received from the killer, you know the motive is revenge. The killer knew them, most likely in Dublin. Conroy continued to live in Dublin until three years ago. Brennen has his main residence there. It would be to our benefit to enlist the aid of the Dublin police to investigate that angle. Something these men did, or some deal they were part of in Ireland in the last few years."

"Roarke has interests there as well."

"Yes, sir, but he's had no recent dealings with either Conroy or Brennen. I checked. He's had no business or personal contact with them in a more than a decade."

"Revenge often takes time to chill." He steepled his fingers and studied Eve over the tips. "Do you intend to bring Summerset back into Interview?"

"I'm weighing that option, Commander. His alibi for the time of Brennen's murder is weak, but it's plausible. Audrey Morrell confirmed their date. It's more than possible they confused the times. The manner of Brennen's death, and Conroy's as well, doesn't fit Summerset. He isn't physical enough to have managed it."

"Not alone."

Eve felt her stomach stutter but nodded. "No, not alone. Commander, I'll pursue the leads. I'll investigate Summerset and any and all suspects, but it's my personal belief, and a strong personal belief, that Summerset would do nothing to harm or implicate Roarke in any way. He is devoted – even overly devoted. And I believe, Commander, that Roarke is a future target. He's the goal. That's why I was contacted."

Whitney said nothing for a moment as he measured Eve. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice had been steady. He imagined she was unaware that she'd linked her fingers together and that her knuckles were white.

"I agree with you. I could ask you if you'd prefer to be taken off the case, but I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll interview Roarke." He paused while she remained silent. "And I imagine there will be no official report of said interview. Be careful how far you bend the rules, Dallas. I don't want to lose one of my best officers."

"Commander." She rose. "His mission isn't complete. He'll contact me again. I've already got a feel for him, an impression of type, but I'd like to consult with Dr. Mira on a profile as soon as possible."

"Arrange it."

"And I intend to work as much as possible out of my home. My equipment there is… superior to what's available to me at Cop Central."

Whitney allowed a smirk to twist his wide face. "I bet it is. I'm going to allow you as much free rein as I can on this, for as long as I can. I can tell you that time will be short. If there's another body, that time's going to be even shorter."

"Then I'll work fast."