Brotherhood in Death (31 page)

“That’s not the plan. Easterday has to suffer first. They have things to say to him, things to do to him. He has to beg, the way they begged. He has to know, the way they knew, begging won’t stop what’s coming.

“Hold here a second.”

She moved over to where Uniform Carmichael stepped in.

“Sorry to pull you back,” she began.

“It’s how it goes, Lieutenant.”

“It’s how this is going. I want you to supervise the canvass. We need to wake up the whole fucking block, Carmichael, dig down for any information. They had transportation, most likely a van, light colored, on the new side. Make sure every uniform has copies of Yancy’s sketches of the suspects. You’re going to need to coordinate with and work with the local PSD.”

“No problem. I’ve got a cousin on the job here. Already gave her a tag, let her know. She’ll help smooth the way if I need it.”

“Good. Let the locals secure the scene. But keep an eye. I don’t know them.”

She walked back to Roarke, Peabody, McNab.

“We’ve done a first pass on the electronics,” McNab told her. “Nothing that hits on this. I’ve got an EDD team taking everything in. You want me on that?”

“No. We’re going to hit Blake’s residence and office. You and Peabody will take the office, and the civilian and I the residence. That way we’ve each got an e-man. Anyplace to land the damn copter near Blake’s office?”

Since she would have objected, perhaps physically, to an ass pat, Roarke patted her shoulder instead. “There’s always a place.”

“Then you’ll fly back with us, and get there from wherever that place is.”

“Copter ride. Woo!” Peabody shrugged. “You had to know it was coming.”

“Reo’s working on the warrant for the electronics. Stickier when it’s a law office, but we’ve got more than enough to get it now. Until we do, turn the place inside out, but don’t touch the electronics or files.”

“Got that.”

“We’re done here for now.” She gave the hallway a last glance. “Let’s move on.”

—

O
n the short flight back to Manhattan, Eve kept in touch with Reo via ’link texts, read what she could of Baxter’s and Trueheart’s and Peabody’s runs on MacKensie and Downing.

“You can see it now, knowing where to look. They all travel on the same shuttle to Elsi Adderman’s memorial—coming and going. They all made annual contributions to a women’s crisis or rape center—not the same amounts, not the same center, but every one of them put some
money where their issues are. None of them are in relationships. All but Downing went to Yale, and we’ll find her connection. All but Blake either dropped out or hit some skid during college. She hit hers later, that’s how it reads to me.”

“Lipski at the crisis center recognized Su, Downing, and MacKensie,” Peabody added.

“And we now know Blake served as legal consultant there. We show Adderman’s sketch to Lipski, she’ll recognize it, too. They had their convergence there, or through the support group either before or after the memories came tumbling back.”

She turned around as Roarke touched down on a rooftop.

“This is only a block or two from the office, and another two from the apartment.”

“It’ll do.” Eve got out, reminding herself she only had to get back in once more.

She turned to Peabody and McNab as the wind buffeted around them, and Roarke bypassed security on the roof access door.

“Wait for the warrant before you hit the electronics. By the book. However you feel about it, these women are serial killers, and the last vic they can get to is already in their hands.”

“Sorry about before,” McNab began.

“Before what?” Eve said, making him smile a little as they went in and started down the stairs.

“Anything to be found, we’ll find it—and send up a signal if and when.”

After they parted ways, she hunched against the wind, rubbed her tired eyes. “I can’t figure if they’ll do him fast or draw it out. They didn’t expect to come on him like they did—that’s a bonus for them. Will they kill him quick, or savor it? Because if they do him fast, we’re not going to have time to stop them.”

“If fast was the goal, you’d have found his body with Betz.”

“Yeah, I tell myself that, then I think—in their place? I’d start calculating how much time, how much risk. If they want to get away with it, they’ve got to get it done and blow.”

“Have you considered they don’t care about getting away?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I have. And that’s a bigger problem.”

She studied the building as they approached. Nothing fancy, but solid. No doorman, but what looked like decent security from her take on it. A Thai restaurant and a discount shoe store on street level.

Eve moved to the door of the apartments, let Roarke pop the locks. Then turned on her recorder.

“Until the amended warrant comes through, it’s just straight search. Unless, of course, she’s here eating soy chips and watching screen.”

She ignored the skinny elevator, took the stairs. “She’s on four.”

“I’m aware.”

“She’s going to be the one with the second place—the torture chamber. Not here—this isn’t set up for that—but she’ll have something. We’ve got to dig deeper there. None of the others have enough scratch to buy or rent another property. I couldn’t find anything that indicated any of them inherited a place—or enough scratch to buy or rent.”

A clean, well-lighted stairwell, she thought. And a pretty quiet building. Not fully soundproofed, as she caught the mutter of voices from within an apartment on the second floor. And the backbeat of a party going on when they climbed to three.

On four, she rapped smartly on Blake’s door. Gave it a minute, rapped again, added: “Grace Carter Blake, this is the police.”

That resulted in the door across the hall opening a crack.

“She’s not home.”

Eve turned, studied the slice of dark face, the suspicious dark eye. She held up her badge.

“Do you know where she is?”

“Nope, but she hasn’t been home all day. Don’t think she was home last night, either. Maybe took a trip.”

“A trip.”

“Had some suitcases yesterday—and took some stuff out a couple days ago. Maybe three. Closed down her office is what Ms. Kolo said. She’s on two, and she said how the office was closed yesterday. Today, too. She in trouble?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“Well, she hasn’t been here much the last couple weeks.”

Eve took out the sketches. “How about any of these women?”

The dark eye narrowed, and the door opened another fraction. “Saw her with that one.” One bony finger poked through the crack to point at Su.

“Here?”

“Nope, down the market. Ginaro’s. Couple doors down.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, maybe last week. Probably last week because I was doing my marketing, and I’ve got to do it again tomorrow. They were buying a bunch of produce and such, but they didn’t bring it back here because what they did was haul it on down the street and around the corner.”

“They walked south to the corner, then . . . west?”

“That’s right. If she’s in trouble, she keeps quiet about it. Keeps to herself. Doesn’t party like that bunch downstairs. I can hear them howling and laughing right through the floor.”

“Ms. . . .”

“Jackson.”

“Ms. Jackson, I have a warrant to search Ms. Blake’s residence. We’re going to enter it now. If you want, you can verify that by contacting Dispatch at Cop Central.”

“You got the badge,” she said. “I know how to keep to myself, too.” So saying, she shut the door.

Eve used her master, bypassed the three locks—one standard, two additional police issue.

“She needed to feel safe when she was inside,” Eve murmured. “This is the police,” she repeated. “We’re coming in.”

As a matter of course, she drew her weapon, swept it as Roarke called for lights.

Modest, was Eve’s first thought. Uncluttered with a few nice pieces including a leather sofa she bet Blake bought in her corporate days.

But yeah, she’d taken a few things out.

“Took whatever art was on the wall there—you can see the variation in the tone of the paint, and the hanger’s still there. I’m putting it five to one it was one of Downing’s. Should be a table over there, right? Why have a chair sitting out there without a table? Nothing to put your drink on, and no light.”

“Easier for a woman to carry out a table than a chair.”

“Yeah, it is. No photos, good wall screen, no mess. Let’s clear it.”

They split up, with Eve taking the bedroom and bath off the living space.

They moved systematically: kitchen alcove, smaller room set up as an office—and now without computer or ’link.

“She took clothes,” Eve said as she holstered her weapon. “You can see spaces in the closet. Pretty much cleaned out the bath—no toiletries or enhancers.”

Idly, she opened the drawer in a night table. “Empty.”

Roarke repeated the process on the other side of the wide bed with its simple white duvet. “The same. And the AutoChef in the kitchen is the same as well. Not even a stray bagel.”

“She’s had time to plan, and a place to take what she wanted over time. So when she left, she took whatever she had left that suited her.
It’ll be the same in her office. She’ll have cleared out the electronics. No chances taken. We’ll go through it, but it feels like she took her time, thought it through. When you do that, you don’t make mistakes.”

“If she has another place, we’ll find it.”

Eve nodded, began the search.

The warrant for the electronics came through, for all the good it did. When they left, they walked south, turned west at the corner.

“Parking lot over there. And not the kind that’s going to keep their surveillance feed for a damn week. We’ll check anyway.”

Dead ends, she thought, one after another, and connected with Peabody.

No electronics in the offices. No files.

“Go home,” Eve ordered. “Get some sleep. Have McNab set up a search on Su’s vehicle. Use variations of all their names for it, all five women. Use variations of all her family names. Set an alarm for any hits, and tag me if you get one.”

“I’m not playing mum.” Roarke put an arm around her as they walked back. “But it’s common sense to say you need some sleep.”

“What I want is coffee, and something I can twist to bust through one of these dead ends. Maybe we got a hit on the searches while we’ve been in the field.”

“I’ve checked. Nothing yet. Some take more time than others.”

She didn’t have time. Easterday didn’t have time.

—

I
n the copter, she closed her eyes. If she could clear her mind, she thought, maybe something would slide in, something she’d missed or overlooked.

The next thing she knew, Roarke was unhooking her harness.

“Dropped off a minute.”

“Because however much you want to keep at this, your system needs
sleep. So will they,” he reminded her as he slipped an arm around her waist.

“They can take shifts. But yeah, they need sleep, food, conversation.”

It felt like walking through water, getting to the door, moving into the warm.

“They won’t kill him tonight. I should’ve gotten to that. You were right. Fast would mean they’d have done it and left him. They’ve got him where they want him, and they need to sleep, to talk, to make him pay. The killing’s the easy part. Making him pay takes time.”

He led her to the elevator rather than the stairs, and went straight to the bedroom.

“Will you take a soother to ease my mind?”

“I haven’t had coffee in hours. I’m soothed enough. I get I need sleep or I’d have to take a booster, and I don’t want a booster. I’ll go down until five hundred hours. Where’s the cat?”

“I suspect with Summerset, as we were among the missing. Do you want him?”

She did, foolishly, but not enough to send Roarke to get him.

“Just wondered.”

She undressed, still in that underwater state. How long had she been up? She couldn’t figure it—didn’t matter. She’d go down now and start again before dawn. It was all she could do.

She slid into bed, ready, willing to go under, but the minute she closed her eyes, even with Roarke’s arm around her, the recording of the gang rape began to play in her head.

“Stevenson—Billy—couldn’t live with it, so he killed himself.”

“Hush now. Put it away.”

“I keep seeing her eyes, the terror in them.” She turned over, pressed her face to his shoulder. “And that moment when the terror’s too big, so you have to go away. Go inside, go somewhere else. I know what it is when it’s too big to stand. When the pain and the fear and the
knowing
you can’t stop it is too much to stand. And they just . . . devoured that terror. They wanted it. They wanted it so they kept at it, and found others, so they could revisit their fucking youth. It’s like that, isn’t it? Like going to a reunion and remembering when you were the hotshot on the field or the king of the goddamn campus.”

“There’s no logic or reason to it, darling. There’s no humanity in it.”

He was so warm, so solid, his hand stroking her back as if to soothe the dark thoughts away. She could feel her insides begin to shake, sense the wild tears that solved nothing burn closer.

God. God. She didn’t want to break again.

So she lifted her face. “Show me, will you? Remind me what it’s meant to be. How it always should be.”

“You’re so tired,” he murmured.

“Be my soother.” She tipped her face up again, touched his lips with hers. “I’ll be yours.”

She was his, and the miracle of belonging never failed to bring some light into the dark.

She knew what this physical act could mean when driven by violence, by a quest for power, when it was driven by need, by passion and lust. And she knew, from him, what it meant when driven by love.

That had saved her.

He was gentle with her and she with him, knowing gentleness was needed for both. Long, quiet kisses, like balm on a wound, all comfort to tend battered, bleeding souls.

So the swimming fatigue eased into a kind of dreamy wonder. He would give, she would give, and together they would find solace.

Patient hands on her skin, warming where the cold was buried so deep she’d never have reached it. His lips telling her wordlessly she was loved—she was cherished.

Then the words, those murmurs in Irish, like a soft caress over the unspeakable ache.

She gave them back to him, running her fingers through that silky hair, along those strong shoulders. To touch, just to touch, the miracle in her life.

Held warm and close in the dark, she felt that dreamy wonder begin the gradual lift to dreamy arousal.

She let it go—he knew the moment she did, the instant all the dark thoughts left her. And only the two of them remained in her heart, her mind.

With her wrapped around him, offering, asking, he could let it go. Only her, only this. Only love.

Only love, with her heart beating thickly under his lips, with her long, lean body moving. And her hands, so strong, so sure, gliding over him.

A warrior she was, would always be. But even a warrior needed tending.

He slipped inside her, gently, still gently, filling her as he murmured the words beating in his own heart. They moved slowly, riding long, sweet waves.

When those waves broke, they broke in beauty and a devotion neither had known with another.

“Can you sleep now?”

She let out a long sigh. “I think. But . . . let’s just hold on awhile. Okay?”

“We’ll hold on, you and I.”

Once again he felt her let go, this time into sleep. He lay quiet for a time, making certain she slept without the dark chasing her. Then he let himself follow her, still holding on.

—

S
he woke in the dark, heart pounding. Someone was screaming, and she feared it was her.

“It’s all right. It’s all right now.” He gripped her, swearing all the while. “It’s just the alarm.”

“It’s—what? It’s five?”

“No, it’s not yet bloody four. It’s the alarm I set on the searches. Just give me a moment, let me see what the buggering hell it is.”

“You got a hit. Lights on, twenty percent. You got a hit.”

“Let me bloody see, will you?”

Gone was the tender lover of the night, and in his place was a very annoyed, very tired man. He grabbed the PPC he’d set on the nightstand, scowled at it.

“Get coffee,” he snapped, “for both of us. I’ll not deal with this without coffee first. And yes, we’ve a hit. Let me see it through on this bleeding thing to make certain it’s worth being ripped awake.”

She didn’t argue. She wanted to, but she wanted coffee more. And it was so rare to see him tired and out of sorts, she’d give him that bloody minute before she pushed.

“There it is, there it is. Oh, she’s clever this one, and I’ll wager she had some help with it. But there it is.”

“What? Say what or I dump the damn coffee.”

“An address. Give me the shagging coffee.” He grabbed it, downed half the mug, hot and black. “An address, if I’m not mistaken, that is no more than a couple of blocks from Central. I need this coffee and a shower—and not a bloody boiling one. The copter is still outside, and we can be there in minutes.”

“I need to set it up.”

“Do what you need to do. I’m having a shower, cool enough to clear my head.”

“Give me that thing.” She snatched the PPC from him. “Go.”

She read the address—he was right. Close enough to Central that a cop with a decent arm could throw a rock through the window.

She started to tag Peabody, remembered she was naked, blocked video.

“Peabody,” came the muffled, slurred answer.

“We’ve got an address. Get to Central. I’ll be there within fifteen. Tag Baxter. I want him and Trueheart. And Uniform Carmichael. Are you getting this?”

“Yeah. I got it. I got it.”

“Bring McNab if he wants in—and Carmichael needs to tap three more uniforms. Move now, Peabody.”

“I’m up. I’m moving. I’ll make the tags.”

Eve clicked off—she’d deal with the rest on the way. But for now, she rushed into the bathroom and, bracing herself, stepped into the shower.

This time the scream she heard was her own. “Oh fucking hell, it’s freezing.”

“It’s set at ninety degrees, precisely.”

Because he sounded like himself, and amused about it, she gave him a snarl. “Get out, because it’s going up to one-oh-one. I’m out in two minutes.”

He left her to it, grabbed a towel, heard her heartfelt groan of relief after she called for jets at 101 degrees.

In just over two minutes, she darted back into the bedroom, dry but still naked, then dived into her closet.

By the time she dived out, dragging on trousers, he was already wearing his own, and a black sweater—and sliding a clutch piece into an ankle holster.

“I don’t want to see that weapon unless somebody’s pointing one at you.”

She dragged on a black sweater—one she’d grabbed at random rather than by plan—shrugged into her weapon harness. She strapped on a clutch piece as well, pulled on her boots.

“I need blueprints, schematics of the building to set up this op. We need to move fast.”

“I can access those or pilot the copter. Which would you like?”

“Shit. Walk me through how to access—the fast way.” She snagged her coat, tossed him his. “Magic coats, pal. They’re going to be armed, and they’re not going to be happy.”

To save time, she turned to the elevator.

“How many are you pulling in?” he asked her.

“Peabody, McNab, Baxter, Trueheart, Uniform Carmichael, and three uniforms he picks. I can tap more, but I need to see the building, get a sense of it. We’ll get eyes and ears on it—you can help there. I don’t want to drag Feeney in.”

“He’d want you to, and be right pissed you didn’t.”

“Crap.” She pulled out her comm as she ran out the front door. Not the ’link—the comm, more official. If Feeney slept through the signal, that wasn’t her fault.

She made it fast, left the voice communication, ended it as she strapped into the godforsaken jet copter.

“This time of day we could almost drive there this fast.”

“It’s here, it’s ready.”

He lifted off at a speed that had her stomach remaining at ground level and whimpering. But she set her teeth, and contacted a duty officer to inform him she was coming in by air, and by civilian. Her comm beeped an incoming before she was done.

Feeney left his own message.

On my way.

“How do I access the blueprints?”

As he soared over buildings, Roarke gave her step-by-step directions in the simplest terms he could manage.

“That doesn’t sound exactly legal.”

“It’s a gray area.”

She grunted, followed the steps until she was looking at the floor plan of a two-story building, with full basement.

“That’s where they have him,” she muttered, and began to study the egress, the access, and working out the bones of her op.

He landed with some bumps on the helipad, and she jumped out into the cold, angry wind. She badged them both inside, jumped on the elevator.

“Doors front, rear, side. Corner building. Prime real estate. There’s a basement, and my money says that’s where they’ve got the torture room set up. No access to the basement from the outside, so we have to go in from above.”

“They’ll hear you coming.”

“Maybe, but if I had a torture room— I don’t, do I?”

“No. Perhaps Charmaine can design one.”

“Har har. If I had a torture room, it would be fully soundproofed.” She jumped off on her level. “I’m going to confiscate a conference room. You want to be a hero?”

“Yours, darling? Every day.”

“Ha. Help me transfer the board from my office. And program a vat of real coffee. I need to get the blueprints, the schematics up on screen so I can really see them. Peabody should be here pretty quick, but not quick enough.”

“Doesn’t your conference room have a swipe board?”

“I hate those things.” She hissed out a breath. “But okay, faster.”

“Ah, technology.” This time he did pat her ass. “You program the vat of coffee, and I’ll transfer your data. You can set it up how you please after. What room?”

She shoved open a door, saw it empty. “This one.”

In her office, she hit the AutoChef while Roarke sat down at her desk. Since she didn’t actually have a vat, she calculated, then programmed three large pots. It should get them going.

“Swipe board or not,” she muttered, stuffing Yancy’s sketches in a file.

“I’m going to start setting up. Maybe you could bring the rest of the coffee.” She strode out without waiting for his answer.

In the conference room, she scowled at the computer. “Activate swipe board.”

You are not registered for this room and this equipment at this time.

“Bite me. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Register it, goddamn it.”

The use of profanity is not—

“I’ll beat you to death with a hammer, then stomp what’s left into dust. I’ll torch the dust. Register this room and this equipment at this fucking time to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She slapped her badge on its pad. “Scan it. Do it. Or I swear, you’ll be in the recycler in two minutes flat.”

Identification scanned and verified. This room and this equipment is registered to Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

“Damn right. Activate the motherfucking swipe board.”

Board is now activated. Profanity is against regulations, and must be reported.

“This time you can blow me. And bring up all data currently transferred from my office comp.”

Images flickered on. Ignoring the drone of the comp informing her of the regulations, and her violations, she began to arrange them in the way she needed.

“Activate wall screen.” She frowned at her PPC, at the comp, at the screen, and started the sticky—for her—transfer when Roarke came in with two large pots. “Save this comp’s motherboard and transfer the blueprints to the wall screen. I’ll get you coffee.”

She’d barely picked up the pot when it was done—so she shoved the pot at him.

“I have to see this.”

He poured for both of them while she stepped closer to the screen, shoved her hands into the coat she’d yet to take off, and fell silent.

Like a general, he thought, studying the battlefield. He said nothing, just handed her a mug of coffee, until she finally nodded.

“Okay,” she said, turning just as she heard the clomp of Peabody’s boots, the prance of McNab’s.

They both looked a little hollow-eyed, Eve noticed, but sniffed the air like hounds on the hunt.

“Is that the smell of real coffee?” Peabody asked.

“Grab some. This is the building. It’s two blocks from here.”

“Son of a bitch.” McNab angled his head, currently covered in yet another watch cap of green and blue stripes. “How’d you nail her?”

“Utility bills,” Roarke said. “The property itself? Ownership’s buried behind two interlocking shells, and under that, it turns out, is deeded to Grace Blake’s great-grandmother—and they used the woman’s maiden name. And the deed is in trust, as the woman herself is deceased. And the trust—”

“Get into that later,” Eve ordered.

“Well, it’s a clever ruse and worth the time, but for now, it was the payments for the heat and so on. Still not in her name, or I’d have found it sooner, but again, the great-grandmother—one Elizabeth Haversham—nee Pawter—and the utilities came to an account under Beth Pawter, so it took some doing to link it up.”

He glanced at Eve, who was again studying the screen. “She has an
account in that name, if you’ve an interest, with a brokerage firm in Iowa, where Elizabeth Pawter Haversham lived. It’s well funded, that account, even with the cost of the building and its expenses coming out of it. Until a year ago, the dead Mrs. Pawter rented that building for a nice, steady income.”

“Because she started to plan how she wanted to use it,” Eve said, still studying the screen. “She met at least one of the others, found their mutual history, and it began.”

Uniform Carmichael arrived next, with three others. Baxter and Trueheart followed.

While they made short work of the coffee, Feeney walked in.

“There better be some of that left.” He stole the mug McNab had just poured in case there wasn’t. “That the target?”

“That’s the target, and here’s how we’re going to take it.”

It would work, Eve thought as she went over the timing, the contingencies. And by hitting the target before first light, they’d take the women by surprise—and likely unprepared.

She frowned as she noticed Roarke step out while she went over positioning with Baxter and Trueheart. When she glanced back, he walked in carrying a stack of bakery boxes.

Every cop in the room caught the scent of yeast and sugar.

She should’ve known.

“Donuts may be a cliché, but they do the job, don’t they?” Roarke set the boxes on the conference table. “And so will all of you.”

He shot Eve a quick grin as hands darted and grabbed for jelly-filled or crullers, bear claws or honey-glazed.

“Stuff them in, and suit up. Feeney, the donut king’s with you. Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart, with me. Uniform Carmichael, take your men to the pre-op location. We go in quiet.”

She gave Roarke a long, flat stare when he offered her a donut.

“Bavarian cream—with sprinkles. Be happy oatmeal would have taken too long, and can’t be eaten on the go.”

There was that. She took the donut, and followed her own orders. She stuffed it in, and she suited up.

—

N
ew York was rarely quiet, but at just past five in the morning, it hit a lull. Night-shift workers still had time on the clock, and the day shift hugged their pillows. Street LCs would have called it a night, and those higher on the food chain slept in their own beds or the client’s—depending on the payment schedule.