Authors: J. D. Robb
“Softball primarily. Fresh deal sounds like he got it sliding into base.”
“Yes, that fits.”
He looked down at the little girl, at the long slice in her throat. “Both minor vies were healthy. All vies had a meal at approximately seven p.m., of white fish, brown rice, green beans, and mixed-grain bread. There was an apple dish with wheat and brown sugar topping for dessert. The adults had a glass of white wine, the children soy milk.”
“The mother, the second adult female, was a nutritionist.”
“Practiced what she preached. The boy had a cache somewhere,” Morris added with a faint smile. “He'd consumed two ounces of red licorice at about ten p.m.”
Somehow it cheered her to know it. At least the kid got a last taste of sweet. “Murder weapons?”
“Identical. Most likely a ten-inch blade. See here.”
He gestured to the screen, magnified the wound on the child's throat. “See the jags? There, on the edge of the diagonal. Swipe down, from his left to his right. Not a full smooth blade, or a full jagged. Three teeth serrating from the handle, the rest smooth-bladed.”
“Sounds like a combat knife.”
“That would be my take. It was employed by a right-handed individual.”
“There were two.”
“So I'm told. Eyeballing it, I'd have said the same hand delivered the killing blows, but as you can see . . .” He turned to another screen, called for pictures, split screen on Grant and Keelie Swisher. Magnified the wounds.
“There're slight deviations. Male vic's wound is deeper, more of a slicing motion, more jagged, while the female's is more of a draw across. When all five are put up ...” He nodded as the screen shifted to show five throat wounds. “You can see that the housekeeper, the father, and the boy have the same slicing wound, while the mother and the girl have the more horizontal drawing across. You'll want the lab to run some reconstructs, but it's going to be a ten-inch blade, twelve at the max, with those three teeth near the handle.”
“Military style,” she stated. “Not that you have to be military to obtain one. But it's just one more piece of the operation. Military tactics, equipment, and weapons. None of the adults did military time, or appear to have any connection to the military. Can't link any of them, at this point, to paramilitary or game playing.”
Then again, she thought, sometimes a cozy family was the perfect cover for covert or dark deeds.
“I've cleared the Dysons.” Eve glanced back at Linnie. “Have they seen her yet?”
“Yes. An hour ago. It was . . . hideous. Look at her,” he urged. “So small. We get smaller, of course. Infants barely out of the womb. It's amazing what we enlightened adults can do to those who need us most.”
“You don't have any kids, right?” Eve asked.
“No, no chick nor child. There was a woman once, and we were together long enough to consider it. But that was . . . ago.”
She studied his face, slickly framed by black hair pulled cleanly back in one sleek tail that was bound in crisscrossing silver twine. Under the clear, protective suit, stained now with body fluids, his shirt was silver as well.
“I've got the kid, the one they didn't get. I don't know what to do with her.”
“Keep her alive. I would think that would be priority.”
“Got that part handled. I'll need those tox reports, and anything that pops, as soon as.”
“You'll have them. They wore wedding rings.”
“Sorry?”
“The parents. Not everyone does these days.” Morris nodded toward the scribed band Eve wore on the ring finger of her left hand. “It's not very fashionable. Wearing them is a statement. I belong. They'd made love, about three hours prior to death. They used a spermicide rather than long-term or permanent birth control, which tells me they hadn't ruled out the possibility of more children in the future. That, and the rings, Dallas? I find that both comforts and angers me.”
“Anger's better. Keeps you sharper.”
When she walked toward Homicide in the massive beehive of Cop Central, she spotted Detective Baxter at a vending unit, getting what passed for coffee. She dug out credits, flipped them to him. “Tube of Pepsi.”
“Still avoiding contact with vending machines?”
“It's working. They don't piss me off, I don't kick them into rubble.”
“Heard about your case,” he said as he plugged in her credits. “And so did every reporter in the city. You got most of them hassling the media liaison and hammering for an interview with the primary.”
“Reporters aren't on my to-do list right at the moment.” She took the tube of Pepsi he offered, frowned. “You said most. Why is Nadine Furst of Channel 75 even now sitting on her well-toned ass in my office?”
“How do you know? Not about the ass, anybody could see Furst's got an excellent ass.”
“You've got cookie crumbs on your shirt, you putz. You let her into my office.”
With some dignity, he brushed off his shirt. “I'd like to see you turn down a bribe of Hunka-Chunka Chips. Every man has his weakness, Dallas.”
“Yeah, yeah. I'll kick your well-toned ass later.”
“Sweetheart, you noticed.”
“Bite me.” But she studied him as she broke the tube's seal. “Listen, how's your caseload?”
“Well, as you're my lieutenant I should say I'm ridiculously overworked. I was just coming in from court when I was distracted by Furst's ass and cookies.”
Keying in his code, he ordered a tube of ginger ale from the machine. “My boy's writing up the three's on one we caught last night. Double D that went nasty. Guy'd been out drinking and whoring, according to the spouse. They got into it when he crawled home, smacked each other around--as per usual according to the neighbors and previous reports. But this time she waited until he'd passed out, then cut off his dick with a pair of sheers.”
“Ow.”
“Fucking A,” Baxter agreed, and took a long gulp. “Guy bled out before the MTs got there. Damn ugly mess, let me tell you. And the guy's dick? She'd stuffed it in the recycler, just to make sure it didn't get in any more trouble.”
“Pays to be thorough.”
“You women are cold and terrifying creatures. This one? She's damn proud of it. Says she's going to be a hero to neofems throughout our fair land. Maybe so.”
“You got that closed. Anything else hot?”
“We don't have any more actives than we can handle right now.”
“Anything you don't feel comfortable passing on?”
“You want me to dump my caseloads on somebody else. I'm your boy.”
“I want you and Trueheart on witness duty. My residence.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I'll get my boy. They did two kids?” His face sobered as they walked toward the bull pen. “Did them while they slept?”
“It'd have been worse if they'd been awake. You and Trueheart are baby-sitting the eyewitness. Nine-year-old female. Keep it off the log for now. I still have to report to Whitney.”
She moved through the bull pen, then into the glorified closet that was her office.
As predicted, Nadine Furst, Channel 75's on-air ace, sat in Eve's ratty desk chair. She was perfectly groomed, her streaky blonde hair swept back from her foxy face. Her jacket and pants were the color of ripe pumpkin, with a stark white shirt beneath that somehow made the whole getup more female.
She stopped recording notes into her memo book when Eve walked in. “Don't hurt me. I saved you a cookie.”
Saying nothing, Eve jerked a thumb, then took the chair Nadine vacated. When the silence went on, Nadine cocked her head. “Don't I get a lecture? Aren't you going to yell at me? Don't you want your cookie?”
“I just came from the morgue. There's a little girl on a slab. Her throat's cut from here, to about here.” Eve tapped a finger on both sides of her own throat.
“I know.” Nadine sat in the single visitor's chair. “Or I know some of it. A whole family, Dallas. However hard-shelled you and I might be, that gets through. And with a home invasion like this, the public needs some of the details, so they can protect themselves.”
Eve said nothing, just lifted her eyebrows.
“That's part of it,” Nadine insisted. “I'm not saying ratings aren't involved, or I don't want my journalistic teeth in something this juicy. But the sanctity of the home should mean something. Keeping your kids safe matters.”
“See the media liaison.”
“The ML doesn't have squat.”
“Should tell you something, Nadine.” Eve lifted a hand before Nadine could sound off. “What I've got at this point isn't going to help the public, and I'm not inclined to give you the inside edge. Unless . . .”
Nadine settled back, crossed her exceptional legs. “Name the terms.”
Eve stretched out, flipping the door shut, then turned around in her chair so that she and Nadine were face-to-face. “You know how to slant reports, how to spin stories to influence the public who you love to claim has a right to know.”
“Excuse me, objective reporter.”
“Bullshit. The media's no more objective than the last ratings term. You want details, you want the inside track, one-on-ones, and your other items on your reporter's checklist? I'll feed you. And when this goes down and I get them--and I will get them--I want you to bloody them in the media. I want you to skew the stories so these fuckers are the monsters the villagers go after with axes and torches.”
“You want them tried in the press.”
“No.” It wasn't a smile that moved over Eve's face. Nothing that feral could be called a smile. “I want them hanged by it. You're my secondary line, if the system gives them a loophole even an anorectic bloodworm has trouble wiggling through. Yes or no.”
“Yes. Was there sexual assault on any or all of the victims?”
“None.”
“Torture? Mutilation?”
“No. Straight kills. Clean.”
“Professional?”
“Possibly. Two killers.”
“Two?” The excitement of the hunt flushed onto Nadine's cheek. “How do you know?”
“I get paid to know. Two,” Eve repeated. “No vandalism, destruction of property, no burglary that can be determined at this time. And at this time, it is the opinion of the primary investigator that the family in question was target specific. I've got a report to write, and I have to speak to my commander. I'm cooking on three hours' sleep. Go away, Nadine.”
“Suspects, leads?”
“At this time we are pursuing any and all blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Disappear now.”
Nadine rose. “Watch my evening report. I'll start bloodying them now.”
“Good. And Nadine?” Eve said as Nadine opened the office door. “Thanks for the cookie.”
She set up her office case board, wrote her report, read those submitted by EDD and Crime Scene. She drank more coffee, then closed her eyes and went through the scene, yet again, in her mind.
“Computer. Probability run, multiple homicides, case file H-226989SD,” Eve ordered.
Acknowledged.
“Probability, given known data, that the killers were known by one or more of the victims.”
Working .. . Probability is 88.32 percent that one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers.
“Probability that the killers were professional assassins.”
Working . . . Probability is 96.93 percent that the killers were professional and/or trained.
“Yeah, I'm with you there. Probability that killers were hired or assigned to assassinate victims by another source.”
Working . . . Wholly speculative inquiry with insufficient data to project.
“Let's try this. Given current known data on all victims, what is the probability any or all would be marked for professional assassination?”
Working ... 100 percent probability as victims have been assassinated.
“Work with me here, you moron. Speculation. Victims have not yet been assassinated. Given current known data--deleting any data after midnight--what is the probability any or all members of the Swisher household would be marked for professional assassination?”
Working . . . Probability is less than five percent, and therefore these subjects would not be so marked.
“Yeah, my take, too. So what don't we know about this nice family?” She swiveled around to the board. “Because you're dead, aren't you?” She shoved another disc in the data slot. “Computer, do a sort and run on subsequent data pertaining to Swisher, Grant, client list. Follow with sort and run on Swisher, Keelie, client list. Highlight any and all subjects with criminal or psych evals, highlight all with military or paramilitary training. Copy results to my home unit when complete.”
Acknowledged. Working .. .
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” She rose, walked out.
“Peabody.” She gave a come-ahead that had Peabody pushing back from her desk in the bull pen.
“I've got a complaint. How come Baxter and most of the other guys always get the good bribes? How come being your partner means I get shafted on the goodies?”
“Price you pay. We're heading to Whitney. Do you have anything new I should know about before we report?”
“I talked with McNab. Purely professional,” Peabody added quickly. “We hardly made any kissy noises. Feeney put him on the household 'links and d and c's, and Grant Swisher's units from his office. He's running all transmissions from the last thirty days. So far, nothing pops. Did you see the sweepers' report?”
“Yeah. Nothing. Not a skin cell, not a follicle.”
“I'm doing runs on the school staff,” Peabody continued as they squeezed onto an elevator. “Pulling out anything winky.”
“Winky?”
“You know, not quite quite. Both schools are pretty tight. You gotta practically be pure enough for sainthood to work there, but a few little slips got in. Nothing major at this point.”
“Pull out military, paramilitary backgrounds. Even those--what are they?--combat camps. Those recreational places where you pay to run around playing war. Take a hard look at teachers in the e-departments.”
Eve rubbed her temple as they stepped off the elevator. “The housekeeper was divorced. Let's eyeball the ex. We'll get the names of the kids' pals. See if any of those family members should be checked out.”
“He's waiting for you.” Whitney's admin gestured even as Eve strode toward her desk. “Detective Peabody, it's good to have you back. How are you feeling?”