Visions in Death (2 page)

Eve replaced the goggles. "Strip off what's left of her clothes, take her shoes, anything else she was wearing. Jewelry, anything that individualizes her. Carry her down here. Pose her. Take the eyes—carefully. Check the pose, make any necessary adjustments. Wash off all that blood in the lake if you want. Clean up, take your prize, and be on your way."

"Ritual killing?"

"His ritual anyway. They can bag her," Eve said as she straightened. "Let's see if we can find the kill site."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Roark watched her slide her feet back into the shoes. She'd have been better off barefoot, he mused, but that wasn't an option the lieutenant would consider.

Despite the heels, the glamorous dress—worse for wear now—the glitter of diamonds, she was every inch the cop. Tall, lean, steady as the rocks she'd just climbed on to view some new horror. You wouldn't see the horror in her eyes, those long, golden-brown eyes. She looked pale in the harsh lights, and the glare of them only accentuated her sharp features. Her hair, nearly the same color as those eyes, was short, choppy, and mussed now from the breeze off the water.

He watched her stop, hold a brief conversation with a uniform. Her voice would be flat, he knew, and brisk, and reveal nothing of what she felt.

He saw her gesture, and saw the stalwart and more comfortably dressed Peabody nod. Then Eve was peeling off from the group of cops, and heading back to him.

"You're going to want to go on home," she told him. "This is going to take some time."

"I suspect it will. Rape, strangulation, mutilation." He lifted a brow when her eyes narrowed. "I keep my ear to the ground when it involves my cop. Can I help?"

"No. I'm keeping civilians—even you—out. He didn't kill her down there, so we need to find where he did. I probably won't make it home tonight."

"Would you like me to bring you, or send you, a change of clothes?"

Since even with his amazing powers, he couldn't just snap his fingers and put her in boots and trousers, she shook her head. "I've got spare stuff in my locker at Central." She glanced down at the dress, sighed at the smears of dirt, the small tears, the stains from body fluid. She'd tried to be careful, but there you go, and God knew what he paid for the damn thing.

"Sorry about the dress."

"It's not important. Get in touch when you can."

"Sure."

She struggled—knew he knew she struggled—not to wince when he skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin, when he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Yeah. Thanks."

As he walked back to the limo, he heard her raise her voice. "Okay, boys and girls, fan out. Teams of two. Standard evidence search."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

He wouldn't have carried her far, Eve deduced. What would be the point? The added time, trouble, the additional risk of being seen. Still, they were talking Central Park, so it wasn't going to be quick and easy unless they ran into incredible luck.

She did, inside of thirty minutes.

"Here." She held up a hand to stop Peabody, then crouched. "Ground's torn up some. Hand me the goggles. Yeah, yeah," she said after she'd strapped them on. "We got some blood here."

She went down on hands and knees, her nose nearly to the ground, like a hound scenting prey. "I want this area cordoned off. Call the sweepers. I want to see if they can find any trace. Look here."

She got tweezers out of the field kit. "Broken fingernail. Hers," she decided when she held it up to the light. "Didn't make it easy for him, did you, Elisa? You did what you could."

She bagged the nail, then sat back on her heels.

"Dragged her over the grass. You can see where she tried to dig in. Lost a shoe. That's why she's got grass stains and dirt on one foot. But he went back for it. Took her clothes with him."

She pushed to her feet. "We'll check bins in a ten-block radius in case he dumped them. They'll be torn, bloody, dirty. We'll see if we can get a description of what she was wearing, but even without it, we'll look. Kept them though, didn't you?" she murmured. "Kept them as a memento."

"She lives a couple blocks from here," Peabody commented. "Grabbed her close to home, dragged her here, did the job, then carried her over to the dump site."

"We'll canvass. Let's get this coordinated, then take her residence."

Peabody cleared her throat, studied Eve's dress. "You're going like that?"

"Got a better idea?"

———«»——————«»——————«»———

It was hard not to feel a little ridiculous, striding in her ruined dress and mile-high shoes toward the night droid on door duty in front of Maplewood's building.

At least she had her badge. It was one of those things she never left home without. "Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. Regarding Elisa Maplewood. She lives here?"

"I'll need to scan your IDs to verify."

He looked pretty spiffy for so early in the morning, but that was a droid for you. He wore a natty red uniform with silver trim, and was designed to replicate a man in his mid-fifties, just a bit of silver at the temples to match the braid.

"These are in order. Mrs. Maplewood is a live-in domestic, employed by Mr. and Mrs. Luther Vanderlea. What's this about?"

"Did you see Ms. Maplewood tonight?"

"I'm midnight to six. Haven't seen her."

"We'll need to see the Vanderleas."

"Mr. Vanderlea is out of town. You'll need to clear a visit with the desk. Comp's on this time of night."

He unlocked the doors, walked in with them. "Secondary scan for ID," he informed them.

It irritated, but Eve passed her badge through the electronics on the fancy desk in the black-and-white lobby.

Your identification is verified, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. What is the nature of your business?

"I need to speak with Mrs. Luther Vanderlea, regarding her employee, Elisa Maplewood."

One moment while Mrs. Vanderlea is contacted.

The droid hovered while they waited. Quiet music played. It had switched on when they'd started across the lobby. Set to activate, Eve assumed, when a human entered.

Why people needed music to cross a room, she couldn't say.

The lights were dim, the flowers fresh. A few good pieces of furniture—in case you wanted to sit down and listen to the recorded music—were arranged tastefully. There were two elevators in the south wall, and four security cameras to sweep the lobby.

The Vanderleas had a lot of bucks under the belt.

"Where's Mr. Vanderlea?" she asked the droid.

"Is this an official inquiry?"

"No, I'm just a nosy so-and-so." She waved her badge under his nose. "Yes, this is an official inquiry."

"Mr. Vanderlea is in Madrid on business."

"When did he leave?"

"Two days ago. He's due back tomorrow evening."

"What—" She broke off as the comp signaled.

Mrs. Vanderlea will see you now. Please take Elevator A to the fifty-first floor. You will find Mrs. Vanderlea in Penthouse B.

"Thanks." Even as they crossed the checkerboard floor, the elevator doors opened. "Why do we thank machines?" Eve wondered out loud. "They couldn't possibly give a shit."

"One of those innate human traits. That's why programmers have them thanking us, too, I guess. You ever been to Madrid?"

"No. Maybe. No," she decided. She'd been a lot of places over the last couple of years. "I don't think. Do you know who designs shoes like the ones I'm wearing, Peabody?"

"The shoe god. Those are magolicious shoes, sir."

"No, not the shoe god. These are the product of a man, a devious flesh and blood man, who secretly hates all women. By designing shoes like this, he can torture them for profit."

"They make your legs look a hundred feet tall."

"Yeah, that's what I want all right. A pair of hundred-foot legs." Resigned, she stepped off on fifty-one.

The door to Penthouse B was wide as a truck, and opened by a petite woman in her thirties wearing a moss-green dressing gown.

Her hair was long and sleep-tousled, and was a deep, dark red with subtle gold streaks streamed through it.

"Lieutenant Dallas? God, is that a Leonardo?"

Since she was goggling at the dress, it didn't take Eve long to conclude she was talking about it. "Probably." As Leonardo was not only the current darling of the fashionable set, but also the main squeeze of Eve's closest friend. "I was... at a thing. My partner, Detective Peabody. Mrs. Vanderlea?"

"Yes, I'm Deann Vanderlea. What's this about?"

"Can we come in, Mrs. Vanderlea?"

"Yes, of course. I'm confused. When they called from downstairs and said the police wanted to see me, my first thought was something happened to Luther. But I'd have gotten a call from Madrid, wouldn't I?" She smiled, uncertainly. "Nothing's happened to Luther, has it?"

"We're not here about your husband. This concerns Elisa Maplewood."

"Elisa? Well, she's in bed at this hour. Elisa can't be in any trouble." She folded her arms. "What's this about?"

"When did you last see Ms. Maplewood?"

"Right before I went to bed. About ten. I went to bed early. I had a headache. What
is
this?"

"I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Vanderlea, but Ms. Maplewood is dead. She was killed earlier tonight."

"That—that's just ridiculous. She's in bed."

The simplest, cleanest way, Eve knew, was not to argue. "You may want to check on that."

"It's nearly four in the morning. Of course she's in bed. Her suite is back here, off the kitchen."

She swept away, through the spacious living area, furnished in what Eve recognized as antiques. A lot of gleaming wood and curved lines, deep colors, complex patterns and sparkling glassware. It flowed into a media room, with the wall screen recessed, and the game and communication center housed in some sort of cabinet. Armoire, she corrected. That's what Roarke called those big-ass cabinets.

A dining room angled off to the side, with the kitchen behind it.

"I'd like you to wait here, please."

Snippy now, Eve noted. Irritated and afraid.

Mrs. Vanderlea opened a set of wide pocket doors and walked into what Eve assumed was Elisa Maplewood's personal area.

"This place is
huge
," Peabody whispered.

"Yeah, lots of space, lots of stuff." She looked around the kitchen. Everything was silver and black. Dramatic, efficient, and so clean she doubted even a team of sweepers would come up with a single mote of dust.

It wasn't that different a setup than the one in Roarke's house. She didn't think of the kitchen as hers. That was Summerset's province, and she was more than happy to let him rule there.

"I've met her before."

Peabody glanced back from her ogling of the massive AutoChef. "You know Vanderlea?"

"Met them, don't know them. One of the 'dos' I got dragged to. Roarke knows them. I didn't place the name, who the hell can remember all those
people?
But her face clicked."

She turned as Mrs. Vanderlea hurried back into the room. "She's not there. I don't understand. She's not in her room, or anywhere in her suite. Vonnie's sleeping. Her daughter, her little girl. I don't understand."

"Does she often go out at night?"

"No, of course she—
Mignon!
" With this, she dashed back into Elisa's suite.

"Who the hell is Mignon?" Eve muttered.

"Maybe Maplewood switched to girls. Might have a lover."

"Mignon's not here." Deann was sheet-white now, and her fingers trembled as she held them to her throat.

"Who is—"

"Our dog." She spoke quickly, the words jumping out of her mouth. "Really Elisa's dog, emotionally. A little teacup poodle I bought a few months ago—for company, for the girls, but Mignon bonded with Elisa. She—she probably took her for a walk. She often does that the last thing at night. She took the dog for a walk. Oh, God. Oh, my God."

"Mrs. Vanderlea, why don't you sit down? Peabody, some water."

"Was there an accident? Oh God, was there an accident?" There weren't tears, not yet, but Eve knew there would be.

"No, I'm sorry, it wasn't an accident. Mrs. Maplewood was attacked, in the park."

"Attacked?" She said it slowly, as if the word were foreign. "Attacked?"

"She was murdered."

"No. No."

"Drink a little water, ma'am." Peabody pressed the glass she'd poured into Deann's hands. "Sip a little water."

"I can't. I can't. How can this be? We were just talking, a few hours ago. We were sitting right here. She told me to take a blocker and go to bed. And I did. We... the girls were tucked in for the night, and she made me tea and told me to go to bed. How did this happen? What happened?"

No, Eve thought. It wasn't the time to make it worse with details. "Drink some water." She noticed Peabody going over to close the pocket doors.

The kid, Eve remembered. This wasn't a conversation a child should hear, if she should wake.

When she did wake, Eve thought, her world would be changed, irrevocably.

Chapter Two

"How long has she worked for you?" Eve knew the answer, but it would be easier to guide Deann over smooth ground before they moved to the rocks.

"Two years. Two years. I—we—my husband travels a great deal, and I decided I wanted live-in help rather than just the day staff and droids. More for company, I suppose. I hired Elisa because I liked her."

She ran a hand over her face and made an obvious effort to settle. "She was qualified, of course, but we just hit it off right away. If I were to hire someone who'd live in my house, be a part of my household, I wanted it to be someone I was comfortable with, on a personal level. The other deciding factor was Vonnie. Yvonne, her daughter. I have a little girl, I have Zanna. They're the same age, and I thought they'd be playmates. They are. They're like family. They
are
family. Oh God, Vonnie."

She pressed her hands to her mouth, and now the tears came. "She's only four. She's just a baby. How will I tell her that her mother's... How will I tell her?"

"We can do that, Mrs. Vanderlea." Peabody sat. "We'll talk to her, and have a counselor from Child Protection available for her."

"She doesn't know you." Deann pushed to her feet, walked across the room to a drawer, took out tissues. "She'd only be more frightened and confused if she heard... from a stranger. I have to tell her. I have to find the way to tell her."

She dabbed her cheeks with a tissue. "I need a second."

"Take your time," Eve told her.

"We're friends. Like Zanna and Vonnie. It wasn't... our relationship wasn't like employer and employee. Her parents..."

Deann drew in a breath, long, deep. Eve gave her top points for control when she came back to the table. "Her mother lives downtown, with Elisa's stepfather. Her father, ah, he's in Philadelphia. I can... I can get in touch with them. I think, they need to hear this from me first. They need... I have to call Luther. I have to tell him."

"Are you sure you want to handle this yourself?" Eve asked her.

"She would have done it for me." When her voice broke, she pressed her lips together, bore down. "She would have taken care of my baby, and I'll take care of hers. She would have... Oh, God, how could this happen?"

"Did she mention any problems to you? Speak of being concerned about someone who bothered her, or made threats?"

"No. No. She would have. People liked Elisa."

"Was she involved with anyone—romantically, socially?"

"No. She really wasn't dating at this point. She'd had a difficult divorce, and was interested in creating a stable home for her daughter, and just—as she put it—giving men a rest."

"Was there someone she rebuffed or discouraged?"

"Not that I... was she raped?" Deann's hands fisted on the table.

"The medical examiner has yet to determine—" Eve broke off when Deann's hand shot out, gripped hers.

"You know, and I won't have you holding back. She was my friend."

"The indications are she was raped, yes."

The hand tightened on Eve's, trembled once, violently, then released. "You'll find him. You'll find him and you'll make him pay."

"That's my intention. If you want to help me do that, I need you to think. If there's anything, however insignificant it seems to you. If she said anything, however casually."

"She would have fought," Deann stated. "Her husband was abusive, and she got counseling, she got help, and she left him. She learned to stand up for herself. She would have fought."

"She did. Where's the ex-husband?"

"I'd like to say he's sweating in hell, but he's in the Caribbean with his current bimbo. He lives there, runs some sort of dive shop. He hasn't seen his own child, not once, not ever. Elisa was eight months pregnant when she filed for divorce. I won't let him have that child."

A combative light glowed on her face now, and the heat of it toughened her voice. "I'll fight him if he tries to take custody. I can do that for her."

"When's the last time she heard from him?"

"A few months ago, I think, when his child support payment was late again. Bitching and complaining about having to give her his money when she had this cozy setup here." She drew that long breath again. "The money went directly into an account for Vonnie, for her education. Not that he'd think of that."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No, I was denied that dubious pleasure. To my knowledge he hasn't been back to New York in four years. I'm not thinking very clearly yet," she admitted. "But I will. I can promise you, I'll think very clearly, very carefully, and do anything I can to help you. But I need to call my husband now. I need to talk to Luther—and to be alone, please. To be alone so I can find the right way to tell Vonnie when she wakes up. To tell Vonnie and my own little girl."

"We'll need to see her rooms, look through her things. Sometime tomorrow. Is that a problem?"

"No. I'd let you do it now, but..." She looked back toward the door. "I want Vonnie to sleep, as long as she can."

Eve rose. "If you'd get in touch with me in the morning then."

"I will. I'm sorry, I've completely forgotten who you are."

"Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Detective Peabody."

"Right. Right. I admired your dress when you came to the door. It seems like years ago already." She got up, rubbing at her face as she studied Eve. "You seem familiar to me. I can't figure out if it's because it seems you've been here for years, or if you are."

"I think we met before, at some charity dinner or something."

"At a charity dinner? Oh, well, of course. Roarke. You're Roarke's wife. Roarke's cop, people call you. I don't have all my wits."

"No problem. I'm sorry to meet you again under these circumstances."

Her gaze sharpened now, and the warrior gleam still lit her face. "When people talk about Roarke's cop over their cocktails and canapés, they say she's a little scary, a little mean, and very relentless. Would that be a fair description?"

"Close enough."

"Good. Good." Deann held out her hand, took Eve's firmly. "Because you're my cop now, too."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

"She's got a tough road over the next few days," Peabody commented as they rode down to the lobby. "She strikes me as the kind who'll handle it when she gets her balance."

"She's got spine," Eve agreed. "We'll look at the ex-husband. Could be he decided to come up to New York. Talk to the vic's parents, other friends. Get a clearer picture of her routine from the Vanderleas."

"It wasn't a chance kill. The mutilation takes it out of the box for me. The setup, the pose. If it wasn't personal, a one-on-one sort of thing, it was planned, at least."

"Agreed." They crossed the lobby, and headed out to the waiting black-and-white. "Maplewood walked the dog at night. A routine, a pattern. Killer notices her, notices the pattern, and lies in wait. Tells me he knew the dog wouldn't go for him, or had a way to incapacitate the dog."

"Have you ever seen one of those little poodles?" Peabody held her hands together to form a little cup.

"Still got teeth, right?"

She stood just outside the car, scanning the neighborhood. Well-lit. Security droids would patrol regularly. Doormen on duty 24/7. There would have been some vehicular traffic that time of night, during the attack.

"She walked the dog into the park. Just the verges, probably, but she went inside. Felt safe. She lives here, knows the area. Probably stayed close to the street, but not close enough. He'd have to be fast. Have to be waiting, almost certainly."

She left the sidewalk herself, picturing it. "Let the dog sniff around the trees, do the dog thing. It's a nice night. She'd relax, enjoy it. She and Vanderlea might've been pals, but she still worked in there, and hard. You could see by her hands. She'd enjoy a little time out here with the dog, just walking, just hanging."

She played her light over the grass, toward the grab spot that was surrounded by barricades. "He waited until she was out of sight of the street. Just far enough. Killed the dog or the dog ran off."

"Killed the dog?" Peabody's immediate distress had Eve shaking her head.

"A guy beats, rapes, strangles, and mutilates a woman, I don't think he's going to see offing a dog as crossing any lines."
Jeez.

Eve headed back toward the car. She could go home, change. Home was closer than Central. It would save her the indignity of walking through Central in her current attire. A point that couldn't be overvalued.

"The black-and-white can take us to my place. We can put together what we've got, catch a couple hours' sleep and start fresh in the morning."

"I hear that. I also hear the unspoken. You don't want to go to Central in your party dress."

"Shut up, Peabody."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

It was after five A.M. when Eve crept into the bedroom. She stripped off as she crossed to the bed, letting clothes lay where they fell, then crawled naked into bed.

She hadn't made a sound, had barely shifted the mattress, but Roarke's arm circled her waist, and drew her back against him.

"Didn't mean to wake you up. I'm going to catch a couple hours. Peabody's bunked in her favorite guest room."

"Turn it off, then." His lips brushed her hair. "Just sleep."

"Two hours," she murmured. And turned it off.

Her next, not quite coherent thought was: Coffee.

She could smell it. The seductive scent climbed into her sleeping brain like a lover up a flower-strewn trellis. Then she blinked her eyes open, and saw Roarke.

He was invariably up before her, and as usual was already dressed in one of his master-of-the-world suits. But instead of being in the sitting area of the bedroom, as was his habit, scanning the early stock reports and whatever over his breakfast, he was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at her.

"What's up? Something happen? Was there another—?"

"No. Relax." He pressed a hand to her shoulder to hold her down when she started to spring up. "I'm your wake-up call, complete with coffee." He moved the cup into her line of sight.

And watched her eyes glaze over with longing.

" Gimme."

He eased back, handed it over, waited while she took her first, desperate swallow. "You know, darling, if caffeine ever makes it to the illegals list, you're going to have to register as an addict."

"They try to make coffee an illegal, I'll kill them all, and it won't be an issue. How do I rate coffee in bed?"

"I love you."

"Yeah, you do." She took another gulp, grinned. "Sucker."

"That's no way to persuade me to get you a second cup."

"I love you back?"

"That would probably work." He rubbed a thumb along the shadows already dogging her eyes. "You need more than two hours, Lieutenant."

"It's all I can spare. I'll make it up. Eventually. Gonna grab a shower."

She was up, and took what was left of the coffee with her into the bathroom. He heard her call for jets on full, at one-oh-one. And only shook his head at her habit of boiling herself awake every morning.

He'd see that she got some fuel in her, and hopefully wouldn't have to tie her down and force-feed her. He'd just begun to program the AutoChef for breakfast, when he heard the quick padding steps behind him.

"I'd swear there was a chip in your head that signals any time anyone so much as thinks of food." Roarke glanced down at the pudgy cat rubbing hopefully against his leg. "I'll wager you've already been fed in the kitchen."

Galahad purred like an engine and rubbed harder. Ignoring him for the moment, Roarke selected French toast for Eve, something she had a hard time resisting. He added a couple rashers of bacon, knowing his own weakness where the cat was concerned.

Eve came out wearing a short white terry robe. "I'm just going to grab something at Central when..." She sniffed the air, spotted the plate of French toast. "That was low."

"Yes." He patted the seat beside him, then moved the cat when Galahad took him up on the invitation. "Not you. Sit down, Eve. You can spare fifteen minutes for some breakfast."

"Maybe. Besides, I should fill you in on a couple things. Two birds, time efficiency." She sat, poured syrup lavishly over bread.

She took a bite, nudged the cat back as he tried to belly toward her plate, then reached for the fresh coffee Roarke poured. "The victim worked for Luther and Deann Vanderlea."

"Of Vanderlea Antiquities?"

"That's what it said when I ran his data. How well do you know them?"

"I used Vanderlea extensively when furnishing this house, and others. Consulted with his father for most of it, but I know Luther and his wife. I wouldn't call them personal friends, but certainly friendly acquaintances. He's knowledgeable about his business, and very involved in the running of it at this stage. Pleasant enough people, and she's very bright and charming. Are they suspects?"

"Luther was in Madrid at the time of the murder. As far as I can confirm at this point. Wife's not on my list. In fact, unless she's an award-winning actress, she and the victim were as much friends as boss and domestic. More. She took it hard, but stood up to it. I liked her."

"I can tell you, from what I know of Luther, I can't see him raping a woman, much less murdering one and cutting out her eyes."

"He the type who might try to diddle with the maid under his wife's nose?"

"One never knows what a man might try to diddle with under his wife's nose, but it wouldn't be my call where he's concerned, no. They strike me as very happy together. I think they have a young child."

"Girl, age four. Same age as the victim's daughter. Deann Vanderlea's having a very hard morning."

"The victim have a spouse?"

"Ex. Lives in the Caribbean. Abusive history. We'll look at him close."

"Current lover?"

"Not according to Deann. Victim, Elisa Maplewood, purportedly went out, between ten and midnight, to walk the little foo-foo dog. We'll get the exact from building security. Strolled into the park where he grabbed her. Waited—had to be waiting—attacked, raped, strangled, then carted her over to the rocks to lay her out, finish his job. Are the eyes a symbol?" she wondered. "Windows to the soul, an eye for an eye? Or a twisted religious ritual? Maybe just a souvenir."