Brotherhood in Death (29 page)

Still working on the other subject. I’m going to take my pad on this date thing, see if there are any more details to work in and refine the search.

Yancy

“Good work. Damn good.” She ordered the ID photo he’d attached on screen.

Young, she thought, and very, very pretty with wide green eyes and long, wavy brown hair.

Quickly, she scanned the data. Born in Crawford, Ohio, both parents living, and still married—to each other. Two younger siblings, one of each. Exemplary student, entered Yale on partial scholarship. Taking the track toward medicine—course work, extracurricular. And moving right along the track through her first year and nearly through the second.

All more than good until the previous spring, when grades took a dive.

“Like MacKensie,” Eve murmured.

Dropped out, moved to Manhattan, worked as an aide at New York Hospital.

“Never reported a rape, but . . .”

Eve yanked out her communicator, tagged Reineke.

“Yo, boss.”

“Last September you caught one—a suicide. Elsi Lee Adderman. Early twenties, mixed race, green and brown. East Fourth, off of Lex.”

“Ah, wait a sec . . . Yeah, yeah. I got it. The Bathtub Lament. Slashed her wrists. Soaked about twenty-four, if I got it right, before one of the women she worked with—hospital work—talked the super into opening the door. Girl had missed two shifts, didn’t answer her ’link or her door. We caught it. Nothing hinky about it, Dallas. Straight up self-doing.”

“She leave a note?”

“Yeah. Something about not being able to face the demons—not illegals, as that came clean, and we didn’t find any in her place—and how she was sorry. ME ruled it right off, so there wasn’t much to do on it.”

“I need the book—everything you have.”

“Shit. What did we miss?”

“Nothing. I think she’s tied to what I’m on. Can you get me that report?”

“Sure thing. Just having a post-shift brew with my partner and a couple others. I’ll walk back to Central, send it to you.”

“Appreciate it.”

She continued to scan the article—more an obit, she supposed. Memorial to be held September twenty-first—vic’s hometown.

“Computer, search for travel on September twenty and twenty-one, 2060, on the following names.”

She reeled them off, pushed up—wanted coffee—paced, and drank Pepsi.

They did to Elsi Lee Adderman what they’d done to the woman on disc. Somewhere between the gang rape in April, like an anniversary, and September 2060, she’d remembered enough. She’d met the other women.

Support group. Just had to be.

Elsi couldn’t live with it, couldn’t handle it. She’d opted out.

Somewhere between September and now, the rest of them had plotted full payback.

It fit like one of the fur-lined gloves Roarke kept buying her.

But it didn’t help her find Betz, find Easterday.

Task complete. On September 20, 2060, Carlee MacKensie, Lydia Su, Charity Downing traveled from Laguardia Transportation Center to Columbus, Ohio, with a return flight on September 21, 2060.

“How far is Crawford, Ohio, from Columbus?”

Working . . . Crawford is nine-point-six miles from Columbus, and is a thriving bedroom community.

“Computer: Search manifest for that shuttle flight. Give me the names of the passengers, female, between the ages of forty and fifty.
Start with passengers matching that criteria with seats behind, in front, or beside any of the three previous subjects. Coming and going.”

Working . . .

Sisterhood, she thought. They went to the memorial. They went to pay their respects to one of their own to mourn her, and to cement the vow to avenge her. They
all
went.

Initial task complete.

“On screen, one at a time, name and ID shot. Go.”

Working . . . Marcia Baumberg, age forty-two.

“No,” Eve said when the ID shot came up. “Next.”

Grace Carter Blake, age forty-four.

“Stop. There. Gotcha. Run this subject, full run. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.”

The painting—and/or Yancy’s sketch from the wit’s memory—hadn’t been far off. The face was leaner, the mouth maybe a little wider. But this was the fifth woman.

“Computer, pause run. Tell me when current subject attended Yale.” Because she did, high probability she did. Or had some connection.

Grace Carter Blake attended Yale University from September 2035 to May 2043, including postgraduate work. Subject graduated with honors from Yale Law School.

“When did they take you to that room, Grace? That basement?”

Insufficient data.

“Yeah, for now. Continue run.”

She went back, pulled up the incoming from Harvo.

Hey, Dallas! Forty-nine samples. Fun for me. I’m going to hang in the lab extra to play. I got three DNA matches for you already—easy as peasy. Data with IDs attached. Send you more as it comes. Harvo—QofH&F

Quickly, Eve opened the attached report. New names, three women, current ages fifty-two, thirty-four, and twenty-three.

She tagged Harvo.

The screen filled with what looked like an active sea of lava. Then Harvo turned toward the screen, and Eve realized that rather than an exotic natural disaster, it was Harvo’s hair.

“Hey, Dallas! Click-bang on the timing. I just hit another one. I’m doing them alpha order, and figured I’d send them to you in groups.”

“Harvo, you’re my new best friend.”

“Solid! Let’s go get drunk and troll some beefcake.”

“Later. You’ve got one there labeled Grace.”

“Lemme see . . . yep, got two for Grace—a brunette, looks natural eyeballing, and a redhead that’s not.”

“I’m looking for one that’s probably from between 2035 and 2043. But if you’d run both next, hit me back as soon as you verify. I’ve got a Grace Carter Blake, and I want to verify it. I’d appreciate it.”

“You got it.” The tiny green hoop at the center point of her left eyebrow winked as she turned her head to check some odd piece of equipment.

“And if you’d check the one marked Elsi—I’m looking for Elsi Lee Adderman.”

“Sure thing, BFF.”

“Those two tonight, if you can. And one more—it can be tomorrow, but if you can analyze the oldest sample?”

“It’ll mean stopping some of the DNA searches, but sure. Or I can try to eyeball. That’s not total, but seeing as I’m Queen of Hair and Fiber, I can do the eyeball on say the oldest group of like five or six, analyze them.”

“Do what you do. When you get a name on the oldest sample, I want it. Do you need my weight to clear any of the OT on this?”

“Hell, D.” Harvo circled a finger in the air, then tapped it on her chest. “Queen here. Dickhead never questions the queen. Ah, hey, I get these are rape vics, and don’t want to make light. But if I think too much on that, it screws with my skill.”

“Harvo, do it your way. Getting the results is what counts.”

“I’ll get ’em, then you’ll get ’em.”

“Thanks. What do you call that hair—the hair on your head?”

Harvo grinned. “My crowning glory.”

“Yeah, yeah. The color.”

“Lava Flow. Jiggly, huh?”

“Definitely jiggly. Stay in touch.”

Updating could wait, she thought, and took what was left of her tube with her to check in with Roarke.

He’d shown her his private office and the unregistered equipment early in their relationship. A matter of trust, she thought. And had added her to the very few who could gain entrance.

She put her palm on the plate at the door.

When the door opened she saw him—hair tied back in work mode, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows—behind the wide black U of the command center with all its glittery buttons.

New York glittered, too—showing her night had fallen hard—outside the wide privacy-screened windows.

He worked a swipe screen with one hand, a keyboard with the other. Paused to glance in her direction.

“Your color’s come back a bit. And you’ve a look in your eye that tells me you’ve had more luck so far than I.”

“I’ve got names. The other two women in the painting. I’ve got them both. The younger killed herself last fall—and a little digging shows me all four of the others traveled to a suburb of Columbus for her memorial. Harvo’s working right now to verify they were in Betz’s trophy case.”

“You hit well. Give me the name of the one who’s still alive, and I’ll see what I can find.”

“Grace Carter Blake. She’s a lawyer, a Yale lawyer, who left her high-paying corporate law firm—where she was on track to make partner—about six years ago. And now? She has her own small firm that specializes in representing rape victims and battered spouses, and she serves as the legal counsel for three rape crisis centers.”

“Well now, you have been busy.”

“It’s falling into my lap at this point—and still doesn’t get me to Betz or Easterday, or the women who want them dead. I’ve got their names, I’ve got their addresses. I’m going to send someone to Blake’s residence of record and her office, but she won’t be there. She made a good living for a stretch of time, Roarke. Maybe enough she could sock some away, enough so she could buy the sort of property where you could carry out torture without worrying about security and neighbors.”

“I’ll look into that, but you need something in your system.”

“Yeah, I do, because it’s revving now, and it’s telling me it’s really empty. But I don’t want any stinking broth. And it needs to be something I can eat while I work.”

“It won’t be pizza.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. What is this, prison? No coffee, no pizza.”

“Chicken stew, with dumplings.”

She wanted to bitch, but there wasn’t time. Besides . . . “I like chicken and dumplings.”

“I know it, and we have it on tap. Why don’t you see to that for both of us while I start this next search?”

“I need to have my incomings transferred up here. I’ve got some coming in.”

Roarke shifted, playing fingers over those jewel-like buttons. “Done. You can do whatever you need—including eat—at the auxiliary.”

She programmed for two, and chose a bottle of wine—she figured he’d earned it, even if she would, for the moment, stick with water or cold caffeine. Since he was deep into it, she set the bowl and a wineglass beside him, turned to her own machine as it signaled an incoming.

Reineke’s report, she noted, and began to read.

They’d been thorough, she noted, though suicide had been clear and obvious. She read through statements from neighbors, from coworkers, from family. And from the doctor who had prescribed the sleep aid.

She’d had insomnia. She’d gone to a therapist for troubling dreams, and to a support group because those dreams had awakened a fear of men, of sex, of being raped by demons.

She’d joined a church.

Eve read the copy of the suicide note.

I’m so sorry for the pain I’m causing. I’m not strong enough, I’m not brave enough. I can’t face the demons anymore, can’t fight what they’ve done to my mind, my body, my soul. I need to make it stop, and this is the only way I know how. Please forgive me for taking the coward’s way. I love my family, and I know this will hurt you. I’m so grateful to my friends, my sisters of the soul, for all the support, for the understanding, for the clarity of vision they helped me find. But the
vision is too hard, too dark, and I need to close my eyes, finally, close my eyes and rest. It gives me peace to know I can. I will. Don’t grieve too hard or too long because I truly am going to a better place. Let that comfort you as it does me.

Elsi

She hadn’t been ready to remember, Eve thought, so she hadn’t been ready to survive.

In a very real sense, those six men had killed her the night they’d raped her. And those she could find would pay. She’d make it her life’s work, if needed.

She sent Yancy the name of the last woman—confirmed for him he’d been on target with the younger.

She spoke to the uniforms she sent to Blake’s residence, and her office, tagged Reo yet again for warrants to enter and search both.

She ate as she worked, and her stomach didn’t revolt. She was done with that now. The next time she watched that obscenity of a recording, she’d handle it without breaking.

She glanced at Roarke, thought how lucky she was she hadn’t remembered before she was ready, how lucky she was he’d been there—right there—when she had been. She wouldn’t have chosen the Bathtub Lament—not her style. But there were other ways to end things. She might have chosen one without being fully aware she had chosen.

So she’d stand for Elsi Lee Adderson, just as she would for the murdered men who’d raped her.

She took another incoming, one of Harvo’s insanely cheerful reports—and confirmed Grace Carter Blake and Elsi as rape victims.

She got up for water. Roarke—give him one more—was right. She’d do better for now with water.

“That’s you, fucker,” he said with such satisfaction, she stopped.

“Which fucker?”

“I had here a short list of properties in the Bronx, and I’ve been pulling all manner of data on this fucker—Betz. We’ll give him a score as a clever fucker, but I’m better. I’ve got the address for a property under the name of Elis Frater.”

“Where the hell did you come up with that name—it’s not even close.”

“Elis—a nickname for Yale, apparently based on a shortened version of the founder’s name. Frater is brother in Latin. I did a wide search for names with
brother
or
brotherhood
, any and all languages.”

“No shit?” She figured she might have thought of that—eventually. “You’re going to have to take the insult, ace. You’re a hell of a cop.”

“Not in this lifetime. He also has an offshore account in that name, with a tidy sum of three-point-four million—and change.”

“I need to get there. There might be something else. More recordings, something.”

“Then we’ll go.”

“I need the other data you’re after.”

“The search will continue to run without me. We can be there and back fairly quickly if we take the copter.”

“The copter.”

He smiled. “You did say earlier you might have need for one.”

“Yeah, I did.” God, she hated to fly. “Yeah, let’s do it. I need any incomings here to come to my pocket ’link.”