Brotherhood in Death (28 page)

Old keys in a hidden drawer. A rich old house symbolically—or literally—burning.

And six old men on their way to hell.

She shifted to glance at her comp when it signaled an incoming. And dropped her boots to the floor when she noted it was from Morse.

Analyzed tattoos on both victims. Fully scientific report to follow. Simplifying same, the tattoos are between forty and fifty years old—and I lean toward closer to fifty. Have sent samples to lab for further analysis and verification, but evidence indicates your victims were young men when inked.

Six young men, she thought again, forging a brotherhood.

And five women, bound together.

She took the next incoming—Yancy's work.

“Computer, run a search for properties within twenty-five miles of Yale University that carry no less than an eighty percent match with the
house in sketch two, and are no less than fifty years old. Identify same whether or not the house still exists. Copy to my home unit, all search results.”

Search parameters acknowledged. Working . . .

“You do that, and so will I.”

And rubbed the tension in her neck at yet another incoming.

“Eve,” Mira began. “I wish I could give you more.”

“Inner Peace?”

“In more ways than one. Privacy laws, even from medical to medical, are very strict, and very clear. But, as I could already verify Su and MacKensie were guests, that eased the way a bit. While their individual therapists and group leaders couldn't give details, professional courtesy counts for some. We'll say they alluded to certain information, and/or didn't contradict my conclusions. Both women sought help for recurring nightmares. Violent ones. And both engaged in therapy to release repressed memories. These details are corroborated by the insomnia studies Su and Downing participated in.”

“Okay. Every details helps the whole.”

“I can tell you this. Both of them registered for women-only areas, and sessions. My research there indicates those areas are primarily focused on physical and sexual abuse victims. Some confidence building, yes, some spiritual searching. But the main focus of that area of the center is for abuse victims. Rape victims.”

“They've gone to ground.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“The three of them, and at least one more. Gone to ground.”

“One more.”

“There are five. Su, MacKensie, and Downing packed some things
and left their apartments this morning. I have one unidentified woman—as yet—on the security feed of Su's building. And I have five sketches from a painting seen in Downing's apartment. Ages range from mid-forties to early twenties.”

For a moment, Mira said nothing. “I would conclude, on the basis of known evidence, the killings are revenge for sexual abuse, rape, assaults, that have gone on for many years, involving many victims.”

“We agree. I have to keep on this. Anything else you can dig out, I want it.”

“Five, Eve. With that much of an age span. You have only to fill in the blanks to see the probability.”

“Yeah. There are a lot more than five. I'll be in touch,” Eve said, and clicked off.

She rose, grabbed her coat, headed out.

“Baxter, Trueheart, everything you get copy to my office and my home comp. I may not make it back. Peabody, the same.”

“But—”

“I'm heading to the Bronx—Betz's bank box—and unless I need to, I'm not coming back into Central. Yancy's doing the face recognition on the two unknown women in Downing's painting, and I've got one going on the house in the second painting. We get hits, I'll pull you in, if necessary. Otherwise, I want you digging every byte of data there is to dig. These five women's paths crossed somewhere—and we only have three of the five for certain. I want to know where and when on all of them.”

She headed for the glide—just couldn't face the elevator all the way to the garage this time. And pulled out her signaling 'link.

“Dallas. Tell me you got the warrant.”

“I will have by the time you pick me up,” Reo told her.

“What? Why?”

“Because banks are notoriously fussy. You can use a lawyer. Plus when you have me wrangling this many warrants in one day, I deserve a field trip.”

“It's the freaking Bronx.” Impatient, Eve wound through people content to just stand and ride down.

“Pick me up, courthouse. I'll be outside Justice Hall.”

Before Eve could argue, Reo cut off.

Still weaving, Eve muttered. She'd intended to use the drive time as thinking time with some nagging mixed in. The lab, EDD, Yancy. Then there was the likelihood of tapping Roarke for some assistance.

By the time she got to the garage, she'd resigned herself to hauling a passenger. And, yeah, sometimes a lawyer came in handy.

At least this one was as good as her word and stood outside with a sassy red beret tipped over her blond hair. Her coat matched it, and hit mid-calf over a pair of black boots with a high-curving heel.

“How do you walk on those?” Eve demanded when APA Cher Reo hopped in.

“With grace and sex appeal.” She settled her trim briefcase and enormous handbag on the floor and, like Peabody, ordered the seat warmer.

“New York winters, I wonder if I'll ever get used to them.”

“They come every year.”

“You're irritated because I'm coming along. How many warrants was that today?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Same team, Dallas. I'm assuming Franklin Betz is still missing.”

“Unless they decided to wrap it up and run—and I don't see it—he's still alive. But he'll be in a world of hurt, and he won't be breathing too much longer.”

“Such cloying optimism.” At its signal, Reo pulled out her 'link, scanned the readout, hit ignore.

“Don't you need to take that?”

“No. I'm all yours,” Reo said cheerfully. “I've got some details. What don't I know?”

Eve ran it through. It never hurt to run it through step-by-step again, for herself as much as Reo.

“You believe these men, your two victims and the three—no, four with the suicide—others, raped these women.”

“Yes. And since one of them is about two decades older than their usual taste, I think they've been raping women for at least that long. Maybe a lot longer.”

“Because of the tats.”

At least she didn't have to explain every damn point.

“If the woman running the crisis center recognized three of them—by your instincts,” Reo added, “maybe the five of them met there.”

“It's hard for me to buy five victims of the same group just happened to use the same crisis center. And none of them reported a rape. Nothing on record.”

“A support group then, a therapist, something else that united them.”

“Even then, all of them, independently? It's a stretch. But it's what I've got. Easterday's shaken up. If I don't find Betz, I'm pulling Easterday into Interview. I need to scare it out of him.

She shot a glance at Reo—petite, pretty. And under it, fierce.

“I could use some weight there.”

“He's a lawyer, so he's going to have plenty of representation telling him to exercise his right to remain silent.”

“If I make him believe his life's on the line, he'll break. It damn well is on the line. The other thing is getting into Edward Mira's place—his things—without his wife's consent. She's going to block me however she can.”

“So lawyers come in handy. When do you want to go?”

“Today's best, tomorrow latest.” She scrubbed her hand over her face. “With everything else on the plate, it'll probably be tomorrow. Morning.
Early. His son and daughter would cooperate. They may even help. I'd tap that if you get me the warrant. I want to confiscate his electronics. I want a search and seizure.”

Now Reo took out her PPC, made some notes. “Do you think she knew? If this is what you think, and he was part of it, do you think she knew?”

“I think she's the type who can know and tell herself she doesn't. I think she's the type, when it comes out, who'd say they all asked for it, they all were willing.”

“I know the type. We see it on our end as much as you do. What about Easterday's wife?”

“She doesn't know. She doesn't strike me as someone who wears blinders or doesn't give a rat's ass as long as it doesn't interfere with her social schedule. And that's a lever I'll use when I have him in the box. However I get him there.”

“Do you always drive this way?”

“What way?”

“As if we're trying to outrun an earthquake.”

“Time's running out. In fact.” She hit the sirens, hit vertical, and punched it. “FYI? This is how you outrun an earthquake.”

She made it from downtown Manhattan to the Bronx in record time, and gave Reo points for only squealing once.

But that damn Rapid Cab shouldn't have ignored the siren.

Eve squeezed into a No Parking area, flipped on her On Duty light.

Reo flipped down the vanity mirror, checked her face. “Just making sure my eyes aren't bugging out.” But she fished some hot-red lip dye out of her purse. “It's power,” she told Eve. “You've got the badge and the bad attitude, I've got the legal heft and Rock 'Em Red lip dye.”

Reo dropped the lip dye back in her bag, curved the Rock 'Em Red lips in a feral smile. “We've got this.”

Uniformed security stopped them at the door.

“Ma'am, you're under surveillance. Please surrender your weapon immediately.”

“Lieutenant. NYPSD. Badge,” she said, and two fingered it out.

He scanned it, gave her the hard eye. “Bank policy requires you to secure your weapon before entering to do business.”

“I'm here on police business, and my weapon's secure. On me. Reo?”

“Of course. Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Cher Reo.” Reo flashed a smile, opened her briefcase. “Warrant,” she said, offering it. “We're duly authorized to enter the premises—and as we're conducting police business, the lieutenant is under no obligation to remove her weapon—and access the safe-deposit box clearly listed on the warrant.”

“You need to wait here for the manager. Bank policy.”

“While this warrant trumps your bank policy, we're happy to wait for precisely one minute.” Reo checked her wrist unit. “Beginning now.”

He gave her the hard eye, but hurried off.

“Nice,” Eve said. “The one-minute deal. Will that hold up?”

“If we don't mind causing a scene.”

The bank was quiet as a church and ornate as a museum with fake marble columns pretending to hold up the sky-view ceiling. Tellers sat on stools behind blast shields and conducted business with patrons in hushed tones.

Eve decided she wouldn't mind causing a scene.

A woman, long strides in skinny black heels, crossed the wide lobby. She had dark hair in a precise wedge and a stern expression on her face.

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?”

“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped her badge. “I've got no problem as long as you recognize the warrant APA Reo is showing you, and lead the way to the deposit box listed on same.”

“The privacy of our patrons, both through bank policy and federal regulations—”

“Does not supersede this duly administered warrant,” Reo interrupted. “A fact you're fully aware of if you're the manager of this bank. If you choose to attempt to block the execution of this warrant, Lieutenant Dallas will arrest you for obstruction.”

“
As
the manager of this bank, I'm obliged to contact Mr. Betz and inform him of the situation.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” Eve rolled her shoulders. “You do that—after you take us to the box, and open it. We're going by the minute here, right, Reo? You've got one minute to decide how you want to play this. Starting now.”

“It will take me longer than one minute to contact and inform Mr. Betz.”

“At the end of one minute, you're going to be in restraints, and the only contact you'll want to make is to your lawyer. Make that forty-five seconds.”

“I will be reporting you to your superiors. Both of you.”

But she turned on her heel, used those long strides to recross the lobby with Eve and Reo following closely behind, swiped a card over a security pad, tapped in a code.

Two steel doors parted in the middle and slid open to a small warren of rooms lined with steel boxes.

“You're required to show your identification, and to sign the log. Again, both of you.”

While they did, the manager took the warrant and scowled over every word.

“You've left me no choice, but I do this under protest. Our patrons' privacy—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve moved past her, following the numbers until she came to Betz's box. “Go away.”

The woman gave a long sniff and departed, yanking a smaller steel door behind her.

Eve took out the evidence bag, took out the swipe. Before she used it, she turned on her recorder, read in the data.

The box popped out from the wall so she could lift it out, take it to a table. She slid back the lid.

“Oh my,” Reo murmured. “That's a whole bunch of paper money.”

“It's going to be a whole bunch of unreported-to-the-tax-guys paper money.”

“How much do you think?”

“About half a mil, ballpark.”

“That's a very green ballpark. We're going to need a bag.”

“Yeah, we'll get one.” Eve lifted out stacks of hundreds, and found the collection of small, sealed bags.

“Are those—they're locks of hair.”

“Yeah.” Eve's stomach knotted. “Souvenirs. They're going to be DNA matches for women he—most likely they—raped.”

“Christ have mercy, Dallas, there are dozens. They have names.”

Eve did a quick count. “Forty-nine. Forty-nine souvenirs. A lot of fuckers can't resist taking a souvenir. And here's one marked Charity, there are a couple of Lydias, but only one Charity, only one Carlee spelled the way MacKensie does. First names only, but it's going to help.”