“Damn him. Damn him! Can’t he stay out of anything?” The fat cat, Galahad, padded in, plopped down in the doorway of the kitchen as if prepared to enjoy the show. “Do you see this?” she demanded of the cat, and slapped a hand on her sidearm. “You know why they gave me this? Because I can handle myself. I don’t need some—some man charging in to tidy up my mess.” The cat angled his head, blinked his dual-colored eyes, then shot a leg in the air to wash it. “Yeah, you’re probably on his side.”
SHE TOOK HER HOUR AND WENT BACK TO THE beginning. She walked back through it, step by step, using the crime scene record, her own notes, the reports from the sweepers, the ME, the lab. She listened to statements, judging inflection, expression, as much as the words themselves. She stood in front of her board and studied each photograph, every angle. When Roarke came in from his office, she turned to him. He acknowledged the light in her eyes with a grin and cocked brow. “Lieutenant.” “Goddamn right. I was acting like a cop, doing the cop walk, but I wasn’t feeling like a cop. I’m back now.” “Welcome.” “Let’s eat. What do you want?” “Since you’re feeling like a cop, I suppose it best be pizza.” “Hot damn. If I hadn’t already rolled you, I’d probably jump you just for that.” “Put it on my account.” They sat at her desk, one on either side, with pizza and wine between them. He’d even put a tree in here, she thought. A small one, by his standards, but, by God, she liked looking at it over by the window, sprinkling light out into the dark.
“See, here’s the thing,” she began, “it doesn’t make any sense.” “Ah.” He gestured with his glass, sipped. “Glad that’s cleared up.” “Seriously. Here’s what you’ve got on the surface, when you walk cold into the scene: Dead woman, killed by multiple blows of a blunt instrument, head shots from behind. Previous bodily injuries indicating she’d been attacked and/or beaten the day before. Door locked from the inside, window not.” With a slice of pizza in one hand, she waved toward her board with the other. “Appearance, basic evidence points to intruder entering through the window, bashing her, exiting the same way. As there are no defensive wounds whatsoever, investigator would assume she probably knew her killer, or didn’t believe she was in jeopardy. Now, somebody pounds on you one day, you’re going to be a little concerned next time he pops around.” “Yeah, but you don’t know that—why would you think that—when you find the body? The killer had to be aware of at least the facial injury. It’s right there. And the same weapon was used. So we go back over it, with that data, and we have the murder being set to look like she was killed by whoever tuned her up.” She took a huge bite of pizza, savored the spice. “We got the killer using the previous injuries as smoke. That’s not bad. Not bad at all. It’s good thinking, just like taking her ’link was good thinking.” “Exploiting the victim’s greed and violent impulses.” “Yeah. But there’s little things that blow that. Again, no defensive wounds. No indication she was bound when she was beaten, and no sign that she attempted, in any way, to fight back or shield herself. Doesn’t wash. Then you add the angles of the bruising. “Which moves you to a different arena.” “Exactly. Then there’s the crime scene itself, the position of the body, and TOD.” “Time of death.” “Yeah, somebody strange comes in the window middle of the night and you can get out of bed, you run and you scream. She didn’t do either. So the killer came through the door. She let the killer in.” “The window’s still viable. If indeed she and her partner were having differences, he may have chosen to come in that way rather than risk her not letting him in.” “The window was locked. That’s the thing about memory. It’s tricky.” She took another bite of pizza, washed it down. “It’s the thing about having a cop on an investigation who knew the victim—who, once that memory gets poked, clearly recalls how the victim always locked every door, every window. The world was full of thieves and rapists and bad business, according to the Bible of Trudy. Even during the day, when we were in the house, it was locked like a vault. I’d forgotten that. She’s not going to leave a window unlocked in big, bad New York. It’s out of character.” “She lets the killer in,” he prompted. “Late-night visit.” “Yeah. Late. And she doesn’t bother to put on a robe. She had one in the closet, but she doesn’t bother with it and entertains her killer while wearing her nightgown.” “Indicating a certain level of intimacy. A lover?” “Maybe. Can’t dismiss it. She kept herself in tune. Face and body work. I can’t remember any guys,” Eve murmured, trying to look back into the past again. “It was only about six months I was there, but I don’t remember any guys coming around, or her going out with any.” “From then to now would indicate a very long dry spell.” “Can’t rule out a booty call,” Eve continued, “but I went over the list of her possessions, everything she had in that room: no sex toys, no sexy underwear, no condoms or any shields against STDs. Still, could be a long-term relationship—I’m not finding indications, but could be. Not a partner, though. Not on equal terms.” “No?” “She had to be in charge. She had to give the orders. She liked telling people what to do and liked watching them do it. Look at her pathology—take her employment record. Scores of jobs over the years, none lasting long. She didn’t take orders, she gave them.” “So, in her mind, fostering was perfect.” Roarke nodded. “She’s the boss, she’s in charge. Total authority.” “She’d think,” Eve agreed. “She was cruising toward sixty, and no marriages on record. Only one official cohab. No, she wasn’t a team player. Partnership wouldn’t work for her. So maybe she tagged this individual on her ’link. Get over here, we need to talk. She’s had some wine, some meds. Probably just enough to be floaty and full of herself.” “Another reason she might not have taken as much care as she might have otherwise.” Eve nodded. “She’s relaxed, medicated. And she’s figuring on squeezing you for the two million. She’s cracked her own face for it. Yeah, she’s full of herself. But how’s she going to squeeze you when she’s holed up in a hotel room?” “I’ve considered that already. You were off your rhythm,” he reminded her when she frowned at him. “Documented the injuries, I imagine, with a shaky, perhaps teary, account of the attack. An attack which would implicate either or both of us as the assailant, or—if she were more clever—which had the unknown assailant warn her that either or both of us would see she got worse unless she did what she was told.” He topped off the wine in Eve’s glass. “There would be a statement that this record was made to protect herself, in the event of her untimely death. Or further injury. In which case the record would be sent to the media, and the authorities. This documentation would be sent to me, as she’d trust me to decipher the subtext: Pay, or this goes public.” “Yeah, well.” She took another slice of pizza. “Did all this considering tell you where that record might be?” “With her killer, no doubt.” “Yeah, no doubt. So why wasn’t it brought up along with the numbered account during Zana’s abduction? Why haven’t you received a copy of the documentation?” “The killer may have assumed the record would do the talking. And may have been foolish enough to trust it to regular mail.” “See.” She shook the slice at him, then bit in. “Smart, sloppy, smart, sloppy. And that doesn’t work for me. There’s no sloppy here. It’s all smart—smart enough to try to look sloppy. Crime of passion, covering it up, little mistakes. Bigger ones. But I think . . . I’m starting to wonder if some of those mistakes are purposeful.” She looked back at the board. “Maybe I’m just circling.” “No, keep going. I like it.” “She was a difficult woman. Even her son said so. And yeah,” she added, reading Roarke’s expression, “I haven’t eliminated him as a suspect. I’ll come back to why he’s not higher on my list. So you’re doing grunt work for a difficult woman. You’re going to get a cut, but no way you’re getting half. Maybe she tells you she’s going for a million, and you can have ten percent for your trouble. That’s not bad for grunt work. Maybe that’s the play, and she gives you the record to deliver or send.” “Sure of herself to do that,” he commented. “Yeah, and sure of her grunt. But it also takes her a step back if anything goes wrong. It all fits her profile.” “But her grunt isn’t as obedient as she assumed,” Roarke continued. “Instead of being a good doggy and delivering, you take a look at it first. And start thinking this is worth more.” Here was her rhythm, Eve realized. Batting it back and forth with him, seeing the steps, the pieces, the possibilities. “Yeah. Maybe you come back, tell her you want a bigger cut. Maybe you point out they could squeeze for more than a measly million.” “That would piss her off.” “Wouldn’t it.” Eve smiled at him. “And she’s loose. Been drinking, taking meds. Could be her tongue got away from her and it comes out she was going for two. Oops.” “Or she just flat out refuses to widen the slice of the pie.” “That’s a pisser either way. And any way it plays, you’re back in that room with her late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. She turns her back on you. You’ve got the record, you’ve got the weapon. You’ve got motive, you’ve got opportunity. You take her out. You bag up her ’link, her copy of the documentation, her disc files, anything else that might implicate you or help you out. You unlock the window, and you’re gone.” “Now you’ll get the whole pie.” Roarke glanced down at the pizza between them. They’d fairly well demolished it, he noted. Hungry work. “Then it angles back.” Eve licked a little sauce from her thumb. “Bright and early Monday morning, you’re right there, right on the spot to snatch Zana when she comes out. Happy coincidence for you that she’s out hunting bagels on her own.” “Maybe Trudy wasn’t the one with the lover.” “That’s a thought, isn’t it?” She inclined her head, and shoved the pizza away before she made herself sick. “Going to take a closer look at Bobby’s pretty little wife.” “Not Bobby?” “I’ll go down a few layers. But the thing with matricide is it’s usually uglier. More rage.” As was patricide, she thought. She’d all but swam in the blood when she’d killed her father. As that was one memory she didn’t need or want, she focused on the now. “Then the motive’s murky there. If it’s the money, why not wait until she scooped it up? Then you arrange for an accident back home, and you inherit. Could’ve been impulse, just of the moment, but . . .” “You’ve got a spot for him,” Roarke said. “A soft one.” “It’s not that.” Or maybe part of that, she admitted. “If he was putting on a show outside that hotel room, he’s wasting his talents with real estate. And I was with him when Zana had her adventure, so that means he’d have to have a partner. Or he and Zana are in this together. None of that’s impossible, so we’ll go down those layers. But it’s not what rings for me.” He studied her face. “And something does. I can see it.” “Back to the vic. She likes to be in charge, keep people under her thumb. Like you pointed out, she didn’t just take kids in for the fees. She took them in so she had sway over them, so they’d do her bidding, fear her. According to her, she kept files on them. So why would I be the first she’s hit on?” “Not a partner then. A minion.” “That’s a good word, isn’t it?” Eve sat back in her chair, swiveled back and forth. “Minion. Right up her alley. From the look back I already took, she always fostered females. Which plays into her being in her nightgown. Why bother with a robe when it’s another woman? No need to be concerned or afraid when it’s someone you bossed around when she was a kid and who, for whatever reason, is still under your control.” “Zana was abducted by a man, if we take her at her word.” “And if we do, going by this theory, there are two. Or Trudy had herself a man. I’m going to take a closer look at who she fostered.” “And I’ll play with my numbers.” “Getting anywhere?” “It’s a matter of time. Feeney got a start and a warrant. Which makes it possible for me to use my office equipment without dodging around CompuGuard.” “Only half the fun for you.” “Sometimes you settle.” He got to his feet. “I’ll get back to it.” “Roarke. Before, what I said about bringing work home, and cops into the house. I should’ve added pulling you into this mix.” “I put myself into the mix quite a few times, going around you to do so.” His lips curved, just a bit. “I’ve tried to learn to wait to be asked first.” “I ask a lot. And I haven’t forgotten you were hurt, took a couple of pretty serious hits on my last two major cases because I asked you first.” “As did you,” he reminded her. “I signed up for it.” He smiled fully now—it was enough to make a woman’s heart do a header—and walked around the desk to lift her hand, rub his finger over her wedding ring. “As did I. Go to work, Lieutenant.” “Okay. Okay,” she repeated quietly as he walked to his own office. She turned to her computer. “Let’s start earning our pay.” She brought up the list of the children Trudy had fostered, then began to pick at their lives. One was doing her third stretch for aggravated assault. Good candidate, Eve thought, if she wasn’t currently in a cage in Mobile, Alabama. She put a call through to the warden, just in case, and confirmed. One down. Another had been blown to bits while dancing at an underground club in Miami when a couple of lunatics stormed it. Suicide bombers, Eve recalled, protesting—with their lives, and more than a hundred others—what they considered the exploitation of women. The next had a residence listed as Des Moines, Iowa, one current marriage on record, with employment as an elementary educator. One offspring, male. The spouse was a data cruncher. Still, they pulled in a decent living between them, Eve mused. Trudy might have dipped into the well. Eve contacted Iowa. The woman who came on-screen looked exhausted. Banging and crashing sounded in the background. “Happy holidays. God help me. Wayne, please, will you keep it down for five minutes? Sorry.” “No problem. Carly Tween?” “That’s right.” “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with New York City Police and Security.” “New York. I’ve got to sit down.” There was a huge sigh, and the screen tipped just enough for Eve to get a glimpse of an enormously pregnant belly. Another down, she decided, but followed through. “What’s this about?” “Trudy Lombard. Ring a bell?” Her face changed, tightened. “Yes. She was my foster mother for several months when I was a child.” “Could you tell me the last time you had contact with her?” “Why? Wayne. I mean it. Why?” she repeated. “Ms. Lombard was murdered. I’m investigating.” “Murdered? Wait, just wait, I have to move to somewhere else. I can’t hear with all this noise.” There was a lot of huffing before the woman gained her feet, and the screen swayed as she waddled across what Eve saw was a family living area into a small office space. She shut the door. “She was murdered? How?” “Mrs. Tween, I’d like to know the last time you spoke with or had contact with Ms. Lombard.” “Am I a suspect?” “The fact that you’re not answering a routine question makes me wonder.” “I was twelve,” Carly snapped. “I was under her care for eight months. My aunt was able to get custody and I went to live with her. Matter closed.” “Then why are you angry?” “Because a New York cop is calling my home and asking me questions about a murder. I have a family. I’m eight months pregnant, for God’s sake. I’m a teacher.” “And you still haven’t answered my question.” “I have nothing to say about this or her. Nothing. Not without a lawyer, so leave me alone.” The screen went black. “That went well,” Eve commented. While she didn’t see Carly Tween waddling her way to New York to bash Trudy’s brains in, she kept her on the list...
~~~
Prior to becoming an ongoing book reviewer, I was routinely following this fantastic series. Then I happened to find this book on BookBub and took the chance to see how the series is going. I was pleasantly surprised when this book happened to contain several flashback scenes which will give "new" readers an understanding of the early lives of the married duo who rank first as major characters...
The first thing you should know is that both of these individuals were, first, street kids and lived a rough life. Both continue to reveal those pasts with their rough language and the ability to think like criminals might think, since they were often forced to steal, for instance, food, or respond to people in an aggressive manner that often matches that of the criminals now being hunted and charged...
You see, Dallas had become a cop, striving to prevent what she had gone through. Now she holds the rank of Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the Homicide unit.
Roarke, on the other hand, was not only streetsmart, but had used criminal activities to gain sufficient funds to turn legit and become one of, if not, the richest man on and off Planet Earth... Yes, the series is set in the future and readers will enjoy reading about the advancements made, while recognizing that people were just the same--choosing to live a regular life or to become someone who seeks both money as well as power as their main goal... I often wonder whether Roarke would have continued with his early activities, if he had not seen Eve "across a crowded room" and fallen deeply in love, so much so that he nows carries a button from her coat in his pocket wherever he goes...
Maybe he fell so hard because he quickly learnd that Dallas cared nothing about how much money he had, and rarely dressed to illustrate her husband's vast wealth... In fact, readers will find that the primary part of her life, after she had become secure in knowing her husband's love, is catching bad guys! And she has a fantastic, ongoing support team that has been with her for many years. This makes it easier for fans to come back to the series and feel like they are right at home in this future world where bad guys still roam freely...
And, in this book, we see a part of the past life of Eve, while at the same time, learn of how cruel people can actually be... But, nothing had prepared Eve when one of her Foster Mothers boldly walked into the police station, claimed she was Eve's mother and expected to be escorted right into her office...
It had been so bad a memory that Eve almost vomited her last meal. She went into PTSD remembering the nightly cold showers she was forced to take, remembering that she was hungry all of the time, but most of all, remembering what this woman said to her in private moments when nobody else could hear her cruel words and threats...
To have her waltz into Eve's office, acting as if nothing had happened in the past other than "Trudy's" care and support as if she was a real mother, turned Eve's stomach. Trudy was asking her to meet for dinner with her, her son and his new wife... Dallas the cop took over and spoke to her, then pushed her out of her office, after which she fell apart, found Peabody, her partner, and left the office, to go home and hide in bed...
Where Roarke found her...
Of course, readers hear exactly how Eve was treated by the foster mother. So much so that, when, the next day, Trudy barged into Roarke's office, he was ready for her... Let's just say that his street talk quickly came out where Roarke made it quite clear that if she continued to contact his wife, he would "take action..."
But, you know, I couldn't help but think that Trudy was very much like the president at this time... And after getting back to her hotel, she immediately began just how she would have her vengeance. And she started by buying a new pair of socks, and stopping at a bank for heavy coins, which she filled once back in her room... and started to use that, now weapon, to beat across her body... while she began to rehearse just how she would tell her story to the police...
Meanwhile Dallas and Roarke were hosting their annual Christmas party, so were busy in preparation and party events, during the time that...Trudy... was murdered... Wow, this twist was totally unexpected and turned the story into a murder mystery that Dallas would handle, after talking with her boss and verifying there was no way that either Eve or Roarke could have done it, especially since her boss was at the party!
During the investigation, Dallas learned that there were other girls who had left Trudy's home and were later blackmailed in some way... Eve's anger kept buildig, but somehow having seen her body had worked to ensure that Dallas, the cop, as now back and on the job. And, perhaps, it was finding out about the blackmail of a number of women who had made something of their lives, was the drive Eve used to ultimately put things together...
For me, having this book as a reminder of the early lives of both Dallas and Roarke brought back into their lives, made this, in my opinion, one of her finest books in the series...Remembering how Eve was found in her early life, was a wakeup check to consider, just how all of these problems in America are occurring--and why don't we have police, or at least a Roarke, to ensure the rich do not get away with continued cruelty, especially for no reason other than they can do it!
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This book and the series is highly recommended!
GABixlerReviews
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