Golden in Death Read online

  “Cold-bloodedly,” Eve added.

  “Yeah. Like a mad scientist, and Abner’s just a lab rat to him, right? He has to continue his research, note down the subject’s habits, schedule, familiarize himself with the neighborhood rhythm. It’s all part of the experiment. He ships the package, waits for the results.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to see the results? Note how long it took the subject to die? How his system reacted?”

  “Yeah, there’s a flaw,” Peabody admitted. “But mad scientist, and being a mad scientist doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have some basic sense of self-preservation. Plus … how do we know he didn’t? The body wasn’t discovered for hours. Lots of windows in the house. Position yourself somewhere, stroll that way after the delivery. Mini pair of binocs. Or scientist—maybe you rig up a heat sensor. You can’t actually see the subject, but you can watch his heat mirror on your screen, time it. Like that.”

  Eve sat back, rolled it over, scanned the board. “It could play. It’s a solid theory, Peabody.”

  “It feels like if the motive is actually the result, that equals random specific. There’s a problem with it.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, remember when you did science stuff, lab stuff in school?”

  “I try not to.”

  On a laugh, Peabody drank more fizzy. “I liked the lab stuff a little. Cooking and baking are like kitchen science. Or magic, depending. Anyway, some lab experiments need to be repeated with the exact same factors to prove the hypothesis or whatever.”

  “If we go with your mad scientist theory, Peabody, he was always going to do it again. It worked. You don’t quit while you’re ahead.”

  “You’re supposed to quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Why?” Eve demanded. “If you quit, you can’t run a streak, and a streak rules.” Pushing up, chugging Pepsi, Eve scanned the board, then paced to her skinny window to look out at the city. “Set factors—if we go with the mad scientist—a male of Abner’s race, age, height, weight, health, and fitness level. It’s the physical elements that would be important.”

  She watched the people below, going busily on their way.

  “Troll gyms,” she speculated, “running parks and paths. It would take some time, but what’s the hurry?”

  She turned back. “Combine them. Mad scientist experiment, target-specific assassination. Abner’s the target—the subject—because he fits the requirements for the experiment, for whatever reason. And because the killer knows him. Doesn’t have anything against him, at least not particularly. But he can get to Abner, knows his habits—maybe he has to dig into them a little deeper, maybe not. He needs someone, and Abner fits the bill. If it’s really random, why not pick someone who wouldn’t be missed, someone you could bring into a lab—a controlled area—record the results?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a place private or controlled enough.”

  “Right, no kill zone available.” Possible, Eve thought. Possible. “But unless we have deaths that match—and we’re going to check into that asap—Abner was the first target. Cold blood, scientific, why not select someone you know? Add the possibility of some resentment playing in. Good-looking, successful, respected—even revered—doctor. Long marriage, kids, nice home. Everybody likes Kent. Could piss you off a little. Why not use him?”

  “Add really healthy and fit. Wouldn’t you want a healthy subject? Yeah, yeah, if you select someone you don’t really know, you can’t be sure he doesn’t have a secret drinking problem or illegals addiction, some congenital condition.”

  Eve could see it, pulled it along. “You’d want prime. But let’s check poisonings, unexplained deaths, misadventures. Sidewalk sleepers, street LCs, runaways, Jane and John Does. We’ll go back a year.”

  “Gonna be a bunch.”

  “Yeah. Round them up, shoot me half. It’s an angle,” Eve decided. “Let’s work it.”

  “Here or home?”

  “Why would…” The question had Eve checking the time. “Shit, how does that happen? Round them up here, work them at home. I’ve got paperwork crap I haven’t dealt with in two days. Head out once you do the run.”

  “On it.” Peabody started out, glanced back. “I feel like maybe this isn’t just an angle. Maybe it’s the angle.”

  Maybe, Eve thought. And maybe if they worked it right, no one else had to die.

  * * *

  By the time she got home, her mind stunned by forty minutes of brutal paperwork and two quick roundups with her detectives on active cases, an ugly drive home, as April decided to rain again, Eve decided she wanted ten solid minutes of quiet.

  And she wanted them in water that wasn’t rain.

  A few laps in the pool would do the trick before she tackled her share of the list of dead.

  She walked inside, where Summerset loomed, bony in black, and Galahad padded his tubby self over to greet her.

  “Barely late,” Summerset commented. “No visible blood or bruises. Has death taken a holiday?”

  “I wouldn’t risk it, so you don’t want to go out there,” Eve said as she shed her jacket. “There’s some lightning with the rain, and with that steel rod up your ass, you’re a prime target.”

  Satisfied, she tossed her jacket over the newel post, and headed up. The cat jogged up with her, then settled on the bed to watch while she took off her weapon harness, emptied her pockets.

  Moving to the intercom, she checked to see if Roarke had beaten her home.

  Roarke is in the dojo.

  She decided on some martial arts instead of the swim, and changed into yoga pants, a sports bra.

  She took the elevator down, slipped into the dojo to see Roarke in a classic black gi, working with the hologram of the master. His movements managed to be both flowing and powerful as he executed the complex kata.

  A battle dance, Eve thought, precise, disciplined. She could hear the crack of the gi with the elbow jab, the side kick. And see, in the quiet light he’d chosen, the faint sheen of sweat on his face.

  The master might have stood quiet as the light, his hands folded, his face inscrutable, but he pushed you to work, and work hard.

  She still considered the gift of the dojo, the lessons both live and holographic, the best Christmas present ever.

  When the kata ended, and Roarke shot out his fists in salute, the master nodded.

  “Your form and focus are good, show improvement. There is room for more improvement. You require more time and practice to reach your true potential.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Roarke walked over, grabbed a towel to mop his face. “But I’m grateful, Master, for the time I have under your instruction. Program end.”

  He started to reach for his water bottle, spotted Eve.

  “Not bad,” she said as she moved into the dojo. “How long were you at it?”

  “I gave it thirty, as my cop wasn’t yet home.”

  “Now she is, and you should be pretty warmed up.” She planted her feet, fisted her hands, saluted.

  “Seriously?”

  With a smirk, she repeated the salute.

  “Bloody hell.” He gulped down some water, set the bottle aside. And, moving back to her, returned the salute.

  They both crouched into a fighting stance.

  She went straight at him, spinning into a chest-high kick, coupled with a backfist. He blocked, would have swept her legs out from under her if she hadn’t been quick and agile.

  Their forearms slammed together on the next block, but she whipped in a fist that stopped a breath from his face.

  “My point,” she said as they stepped back.

  They circled.

  He feinted; she blocked, and barely avoided his follow-up. He went under her fist, pivoted, slapped away the jump kick, shifted his weight. And his foot from a side kick stopped just short of her midsection.

  “And that would be my point.”

  Circling, striking, she crouched into a snake pose, lured him in. Flipped back, used the pum
p of her arms to shoot her legs up.

  “Must you always go for the face?”

  She smiled. “It’s so pretty I can’t resist. My point.”

  After five sweaty minutes, though she nearly took him down on the move, he scored with a backfist.

  She could hear his breath laboring a bit, as hers was, over the soothing tinkle of the waterfall.

  When he moved, she saw his guard drop slightly, sprang into a flying kick. Her point.

  But he was also agile and quick, reengaged. She blocked, pivoted. And she spun back to find his fist a breath from her face.

  “My point.”

  Before she could step back, he grabbed her.

  “And I’m calling a draw.”

  “Maybe I’m not done yet.”

  “I didn’t say anything about being done, did I now?”

  She knew that look, answered with one of her own. “Seriously?”

  And with a smirk, he took her mouth.

  Well, what the hell, she decided, and tugged at the knot of his black belt. Before she could finish, he hauled her up and over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  Carting her over, he dumped her on a mat. “Might as well have a soft landing,” he said as he dropped down to pin her.

  “I’m not looking for soft.”

  Still a little winded, he laughed, then yanked off her sports bra. “I am.”

  He took her breasts with his hands, his mouth, and let himself revel in the taste, the feel of her skin, damp from the fight.

  Evenly matched, he thought as she tugged his hair free of the leather strap he’d used to tie it out of the way. As she fisted her hands in it, arched up.

  The sparring had been foreplay; they both knew it. Quick and agile both, they stripped each other.

  He slipped inside her, into the wet and the heat.

  They moved together, watched each other as damp flesh met, as hard and soft joined. Slow and easy now, the fight done. Just pleasure, all pleasure with the sound of water gently striking water, the sound of breath mixing, of hearts beating.

  He felt her rise up, heard her sigh deep as she slid over. Pressing his lips to her throat where her pulse beat for him, he went with her.

  Loose, warm, and oh so very soft, she lay under him with her hand stroking his back.

  “That worked,” she murmured.

  “I should hope so.”

  “Well, yeah, that always works. I meant the whole deal. A good, sweaty fight, some good sex. I had paperwork brain, and now it’s all cleared up.”

  “Cleared my own of a similar thing with the session.” Lightly, he nipped at her jaw. “But I liked parts two and three much better.”

  “How about a few laps for part four?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a swim.” He eased back to study her face. “You didn’t close it.”

  “No, but we’re working an angle. It feels like it might be pretty solid.”

  “Well, we’ll have that swim, then we’ll go up, have a drink and some food. And you’ll tell me.”

  Yeah, she thought, she would. Because that always worked, too.

  When she sat with him over that meal, she gave him a rundown of her day.

  “Difficult, isn’t it,” he commented, “to sit with the newly grieving and ask them questions about the one they’ve lost.”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  He just looked at her.

  “A really hard part of the job,” she conceded. “The upside of it in this case is, unless I’m missing something, the spouse, the family, they’re clear.”

  “You don’t miss much.”

  “The same with his staff, with the staff and volunteers at Louise’s clinic. There’s just nothing there.”

  “Which takes you to your random-specific assassination by a mad scientist.”

  “Yeah.” She poked at the pork on her plate. “Which sounds really weird when you say it out loud, but it feels like a good angle.”

  “You make a good case for it,” he countered. “From all you’ve said, it’s more logical if the killer knew him, even casually. Your mad scientist theory—”

  “Peabody started that one rolling.”

  “Well, it fits as well, doesn’t it? You can’t just pop into the corner chemist—pharmacy,” he corrected, “and pick up a handy nerve agent. There’s the black market, of course, or someone deep enough in the military who might be able to access something like. But you spoke of additives and sealants and so on. It sounds homegrown.”

  “It does. And it doesn’t feel military or professional. Too many complications and variables for either. It’s cold-blooded, but … it still feels personal. People are always finding ugly ways to kill each other, but if the kill was it, you’d just jab a sticker in him or beat him with a brick. The method matters.”

  “What’s the gain?”

  There she stuck. Just stuck.

  “That’s just it. The spouse gets the bulk, and there’s no evidence they had any marital issues. No side piece on either side, no ripples, and no financial problems. The other bequests just don’t work. Nothing to show Abner knew something he shouldn’t have. There’s no gain I can see. Add a person could die pretty satisfied knowing he leaves behind family, friends, employees, the lot who really loved him. Everything, absolutely everything, points to a man who led a really good life.”

  “But you still have the other doctor he dressed down, and the man he reported for child abuse on your list.”

  “Yeah, and they’ll stay there until I’m convinced otherwise.”

  He topped off his wine, but Eve shook her head before he could do the same with hers. “No, I’ve got a lot of DBs to get through.”

  “Which would have most reaching for the wine. What can I do?”

  “I need to handle the DBs. It may be I won’t know what I’m looking for until I see it.”

  “Why don’t I dig down a little in the snarly doctor’s and the child beater’s financials? Hiring a mad scientist or accumulating the proper chemicals would cost, wouldn’t it? Then there might be some sign of educational skills that play in that don’t show on a standard.”

  Frowning, Eve sat back. “Don’t you have a country or two to buy?”

  “I can do both. Oh, by the way, I bought Nowhere.”

  “What’s that? Some galaxy inside a black hole? Wait.” The light clicked on. “You mean that dive bar that played into the Pettigrew case?”

  “Yes, though now I covet a galaxy inside a black hole.”

  “It’s a dump. That bar’s a dump.”

  “A bit dodgy, yes, and quite a bargain due to just that. There’s potential there with some vision and a bit of wherewithal to turn it into a nice little neighborhood pub.”

  “The neighborhood is a bit—what is it?—dodgy, too.”

  “A bit. And a dodgy neighborhood needs a good pub.”

  She thought of the Penny Pig in Dublin, and the young street thief who’d enjoyed a pint in a pub.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do, yes. So I’ll look into the two on your list, which is its own entertainment, and play around here and there with a face-lift for Nowhere.”

  “Are you keeping the name?”

  “Absolutely. Who doesn’t want to go to Nowhere for a pint?”

  She had to shake her head, because, despite herself, she could see he was right. And would likely make a killing.

  “Did you sell that pit in wherever Nebraska you turned into a postcard?”

  Now he smiled, sipped some wine. “It’s in your name, remember? Since the work’s complete, we’re entertaining offers. I’m letting a little bidding war play out, then I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign.”

  “It was a bet, and I lost the bet. Why do I get the money?”

  “It’s your punishment.”

  She rolled her eyes, rose, started to clear the plates, since he’d put the meal together. “I have work.”

  “And I have entertainment.” He took his wine, went into h
is adjoining office.

  8

  Eve spent the next three hours picking through the deaths of the desperate and disenfranchised. They ranged in age from seventeen to ninety-four. Street LCs, unlicensed sex workers, addicts, runaways, the homeless, the nameless.

  And none of them offered any element of similarity with her victim.

  She read Peabody’s results as they came in, found the same.

  She started to reach for coffee, realized she’d had her fill. Instead she rose, walked to the glass doors of the little terrace.

  The rain had long since stopped, and she could see a few stars, a stingy slice of moon, the lights of the city that never stopped moving.

  Kent Abner had been the first. She’d run the probability and the results matched her own gut.

  She didn’t hear Roarke come in—the man moved like a damn cat (Galahad excepted)—but sensed him before his hands came to her shoulders to knead at the tension.

  “There’s nothing there,” she told him. “Peabody hasn’t quite finished her share, but there’s not going to be anything there, either. You’ve got your stabbings, bludgeonings, strangulations, your ODs, suicides and accidentals, but nothing remotely like Abner.”

  “Then you’ve tied off that thread.”

  “Yeah.” But she didn’t feel much better about it. “How about you?”

  “Ponti’s got some debt—it costs to get a medical degree. He and his wife make ends meet. I’d say they’re reasonably careful about what they spend. Nothing tucked away in a dark corner. No major income or outgo. As for knowledge and skill that applies here, he was a middling student. Not stellar, but good enough. She, on the other hand, excelled. Educationally her work in chemistry—organic, inorganic, pharmaceuticals, biology, her lab work—all exceptional. She did a well-received paper on chemical poisonings in her senior year of high school.”

  Intrigued, Eve turned to face him, said, “Huh.”

  “From what I can surmise, nursing was her long-term goal, and OR work became her focus in college. She appears to excel there as well.”

  “So she’s smart, goal-oriented, would have to be controlled to work in the OR. She has the knowledge. And Abner got her new husband written up.”