Survivor in Death Read online

  “They—they loved each other. Keelie would never.” Jenny touched a hand to her face—temple, cheek, jaw—as if assuring herself she was still there. “No, Keelie wasn’t interested in anyone else, and she trusted Grant. They were very steady, family-oriented people. Like us. We were friends because we had a lot in common.”

  “They both had clients. Any trouble there?”

  “There were irritations, of course. Some difficulties. Some people would come to Keelie looking for miracles, or instant gratification. Or they’d sign up with her when they’d have been better off just going to a body sculptor, because they weren’t willing to alter their lifestyle. And Keelie’s philosophy was about health and lifestyle. Grant handled a number of custody cases that weren’t always pleasant.”

  “Any threats?”

  “No, nothing serious.” She stared beyond Eve to the red wall of curtains. “A client demanding their money back from Keelie, or filing suit because they didn’t get the results they wanted when they were stuffing their faces with soy chips. And Grant would get the sort of outrage or anger lawyers deal with because they’re lawyers. But for the most part, their clients were satisfied. Both of them built a solid base because of referrals and word of mouth. People liked them.”

  “Were they ever involved in anything or with anyone illegal? This isn’t about protecting them,” Eve added.

  “They believed in doing the right thing, in setting an example for their children. Grant used to joke about his wild college days, and how he’d once been arrested for possession of some Zoner. How it scared him enough to straighten him out.”

  She curled her legs up in a way that told Eve the gesture was habitual, thoughtless. “They didn’t have a strong family base, either of them. It was important to them to make one, and to raise their own children on that base. The closest either of them would have come to doing something against the law was jaywalking or cheering too loudly at one of Coyle’s games.”

  “How did you arrange to have Linnie stay the night in their house?”

  Jenny shuddered once. She uncurled her legs, sat very straight with her busy fingers twisted tight in her lap. “I . . . I asked Keelie if she’d be able to have Linnie over after school, keep her for the night. A school night. Normally, she didn’t allow sleepovers on school nights. But she was happy to do it, pleased that Matt and I were able to get the suite, have the anniversary celebration.”

  “How long ago did you arrange it?”

  “Oh, six, seven weeks. We’re not spur-of-the-moment people. But we didn’t tell the girls until the night before, in case something came up. They were so excited. Oh God.” She clutched her belly and began to rock. “Linnie said, she said, it was like a present for her, too.”

  “Nixie came here a lot, too.”

  “Yes, yes.” She kept rocking. “Play dates, study dates, sleepovers.”

  “How would she get here?”

  “How?” She blinked. “One of them would bring her, or one of us would pick her up.”

  “She and Linnie ever go out by themselves?”

  “No.” Her eyes were wet now, and Jenny wiped at them in the same absent way she’d curled her legs up on the cushion. “Linnie would complain sometimes because a lot of her schoolmates were allowed to go to the park by themselves, or to the vids or arcades. But Matt and I felt she was too young to be on her own.”

  “The Swishers, with Nixie?”

  “The same. We had a lot in common.”

  “With Coyle?”

  “He was older, and a boy. I know that’s sexist, but it’s the way it is. They kept a tight rein on him, but he could go out with his friends, on his own, as long as they knew where. And he had to carry a pocket ’link so they could check on him.”

  “Did he ever get in any trouble?”

  “He was a good kid.” Her lips trembled. “A very good kid. His biggest rebellion, that I know of, was sneaking junk food, and Keelie knew about it anyway. He was sports mad, and if he screwed up, they’d limit his activities. Coyle wouldn’t risk not being able to play ball.”

  When Eve sat back, Peabody touched Jenny on the arm. “Is there someone we can call for you? Someone you want to be here with you?”

  “My mother’s coming. I told her not to, but then I called her back. My mother’s coming.”

  “Mrs. Dyson, we’re going to need to talk about arrangements for Nixie.”

  “Nixie?”

  “You and your husband are her legal guardians.”

  “Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “We—they wanted to make sure Nixie and Coyle had . . . I can’t, I can’t think—” She shot off the sofa when her husband came down the curve of the stairs like a ghost.

  His body swayed; his face was slack with drugs. He wore only a pair of white boxers. “Jenny?”

  “Yes, baby, right here.” She dashed toward the stairs to enfold him.

  “I had a dream, a terrible dream. Linnie.”

  “Shh. Shh.” She stroked his hair, his back, staring over his shoulder at Eve as he bowed his body to hers. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, can’t you go now? Can you go?”

  7

  MARRIAGE, TO EVE’S MIND, WAS A KIND OF OBSTACLE course. You had to learn when to jump over, when to belly under, and when to stop your forward motion and change direction.

  She had work, and at the moment would have preferred that forward motion. But figured when you dumped a strange kid on a spouse, you should at least give him a heads-up when it looked like the stay might be extended.

  She took five minutes personal—as personal as she could manage on a pocket ’link while standing on the sidewalk.

  She was surprised he answered himself, and guilty when she caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes at the interruption.

  “Sorry, I can get back to you later.”

  “No, I’m between—but just. Is there a problem?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Just a gut thing, and I thought I should let you know the kid might be around a little longer than I expected.”

  “I told you she’s welcome as long as . . .” He glanced away from the screen, and she saw him raise a hand. “Give me a minute here, Caro.”

  “Look, this can wait.”

  “Finish it out. Why do you think she won’t be with the Dysons in the next day or so?”

  “They’re in bad shape, and my timing didn’t help. Mostly, it’s a gut feeling. I’m thinking about contacting the—what is she—the grandmother?—when I find a minute. And there’s a stepsister, his side, somewhere. Just a backup. Maybe a temporary deal until the Dysons are . . . better equipped or whatever.”

  “That’s fine, but meanwhile she’s all right where she is.” He frowned. “You’re thinking it might be considerable time before they’re able to take her. Weeks?”

  “Maybe. Family member should take the interim. I could bring CPS in, but I don’t want to. Not if I can avoid it. Maybe I didn’t read the Dysons right, but I figured you should know the kid might be around longer than we thought.”

  “We’ll deal with it.”

  “Okay. Sorry to hold you up.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you at home.”

  But when he clicked off, he continued to frown. He thought of the child in his home, and the dead ones. He had half a dozen people waiting for a meeting, and decided they could wait a few moments. What good was power if you didn’t flex its muscles now and again?

  He called up Eve’s file on the Swishers from her home unit, and scanned the names of the family connections.

  They started knocking on doors, working their way east then west from the Swisher home. A lot of doors remained unopened, people in the workforce. But those that did open shed no light.

  Saw nothing. Terrible thing. Tragedy. Heard nothing. That poor family. Know nothing.

  “What are you seeing, Peabody?”

  “A lot of shock, dismay—the underlying relief it wasn’t them. And a good dose of fear.”

  “All that. An
d what are these people telling us about the victims?”

  “Nice family, friendly. Well-behaved children.”

  “Not our usual run, is it? It’s like stepping into another dimension where people bake cookies and pass them out to strangers on the street.”

  “I could use a cookie.”

  Eve walked up to the next building, listed in her notes as a multi-family. “Then there’s the neighborhood. Families, double incomes primarily. People like that are going to be beddy-bye at two in the morning, weekday.”

  She took another moment to look up and down the street. Even in the middle of the day, the traffic was pretty light. At two in the morning, she imagined the street was quiet as a grave.

  “Maybe you catch a break and somebody’s got insomnia and looks out the window at just the right time. Or decided to take a little stroll. But they’re going to tell the cops, if they spotted anything. A family gets wiped out on your block, you’re scared. You want to feel safe, you tell the cops if you saw anything off.”

  She rang the bell. There was a scratching sound from the intercom as someone inside cleared their throat.

  “Who are you?”

  “NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the security peep. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

  “How do I know that for sure?”

  “Ma’am, you’re looking at my badge.”

  “I could have a badge, too, and I’m not the police.”

  “Got me there. Can you see the badge number?”

  “I’m not blind, am I?”

  “As I’m standing out here, that’s impossible to verify. But you can verify my ID if you contact Cop Central and give them my badge number.”

  “Maybe you stole the badge from the real police. People get murdered in their own beds.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to speak with you about the Swishers.”

  “How do I know you’re not the ones who killed them?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Eve, her face a study in frustration, turned to look at the woman on the sidewalk. She was carrying a market sack and wearing a great deal of gold-streaked red hair, a green skin-suit, and a baggy jacket.

  “You’re trying to talk to Mrs. Grentz?”

  “Trying being the operative. Police.”

  “Yeah, got that.” She bounced up the stairs. “Hey, Mrs. Grentz, it’s Hildy. I got your bagels.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  There was a lot of clicking and snicking, then the door opened. Eve looked down, considerably. The woman was barely five feet, skinny as a stick, and old as time. On her head was perched an ill-fitting black wig only shades darker than her wrinkled skin.

  “I brought the cops, too,” Hildy told her, cheerfully.

  “Are you arrested?”

  “No, they just want to talk. About what happened with the Swishers.”

  “All right then.” She waved a hand like she was batting at flies and began to walk away.

  “My landlady,” Hildy told them. “I live below. She’s okay, except for being—as my old man would say—crazy as a shithouse rat. You ought to go on in and sit down while she’s in the mood. I’m going to stick her bagels away.”

  “Thanks.”

  The place was jammed with things. Pricey things, Eve noted as she made her way between tables, chairs, lamps, paintings that were tilted and stacked against the walls.

  The air had that old-lady smell, what seemed to be a combination of powder, age, and flowers going to dust.

  Mrs. Grentz was now perched in a chair, her tiny feet on a tiny hassock and her arms crossed over her nonexistent breasts. “Whole family, murdered in their sleep.”

  “You knew the Swishers?”

  “Of course I knew the Swishers. Lived here the past eighty-eight years, haven’t I? Seen it all, heard it all.”

  “What did you see?”

  “World going to hell in a handbasket.” She dipped her chin, unfolded one of her bony arms to slap a gnarled hand on the arm of the chair. “Sex and violence, sex and violence. Won’t be any pillar of salt this time out. Whole place, and everything in it, is going to burn. Get what you ask for. Reap what you sow.”

  “Okay. Can you tell me if you heard or saw anything unusual on the night the Swishers were killed?”

  “Got my ears fixed, got my eyes tuned. I see and hear fine.” She leaned forward, the tuned-up eyes avid. “I know who killed those people.”

  “Who killed them?”

  “The French.”

  “How do you know that, Mrs. Grentz?”

  “Because they’re French.” To emphasize her point, she slapped a hand on her leg. “Got their der-re-airs kicked the last time they made trouble, didn’t they? And believe me, they’ve been planning a payback ever since. If somebody’s murdered in their own bed, it was the French who did it. You can take that to the bank.”

  Eve wasn’t sure the little sound Peabody made was a snicker or a sigh, but she ignored it. “I appreciate the information,” Eve began, and started to rise.

  “Did you hear someone speaking French on the night of the murders?”

  At Peabody’s question, Eve sent her a pitying look.

  “You don’t hear them, girl. Quiet as snakes, that’s the French for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Grentz, you’ve been very helpful.” Eve got to her feet.

  “Can’t trust people who eat snails.”

  “No, ma’am. We’ll let ourselves out.”

  Hildy stood just outside the doorway, grinning. “Buggy, but somehow fascinating, right? Mrs. Grentz?” She lifted her voice, moved into the doorway. “I’m going on down.”

  “You get my bagels?”

  “All put away. See you. Keep walking,” she instructed Eve, “and don’t look back. You never know what else is going to pop into her head.”

  “You got a few minutes to talk with us, Hildy?”

  “Sure.” Still carrying the market bag, Hildy led the way out, down the stairs, and around to her own entrance. “She’s actually my great-great-aunt—through marriage—but she likes to be called Mrs. Grentz. The mister’s been dead thirty years. Never made the acquaintance myself.”

  Though below street level, the apartment was bright and cheerful with a lot of unframed posters tacked to the walls and a rainbow scatter of rugs on the floor. “I rent from her—well, her son pays the rent. I’m a kind of unofficial caretaker—her and the place. You saw upstairs? That’s nothing. She’s loaded. Wanna sit?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seriously loaded, like millions, so I’m here to make sure the security’s always on, and that she doesn’t lie around helpless if she trips over some of that furniture and breaks her leg. She’s got this alarm deal on.” Hildy pulled a small receiver out of her pocket. “She falls, or if her vitals get wonky, this beeps. I do some of the marketing for her, listen to her crab sometimes. It’s a pretty good deal for the digs. And she’s okay, mostly, sort of funny.”

  “How long have you had the place?”

  “Six months, almost seven now. I’m a writer—well, working on that—so this is a good setup for me. You guys want something to drink or anything?”

  “No, but thanks. You knew the Swishers?”

  “Sort of, the way you do when you see the same people all the time. I knew the parents to nod to, like that. We weren’t really on the same wave.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They were totally linear, you know. Put the con in conservative. Nice. Really nice. If they’d see me out, they’d always ask about Mrs. Grentz, and if I was doing okay. Not everybody bothers with that. I knew the kids a little more.”

  She held up a hand, shut her eyes a minute. “I’m trying to put it in its place, to get to ‘they’re where their destiny took them to,’ that place. But Jesus!” Her eyes opened again, swam a moment. “They were just kids. And Coyle? I think he had a little crush on me. It was really sweet.”

  “So you saw them around the
neighborhood.”

  “Sure. Coyle mostly. They didn’t let the little girl run around as much. He’d volunteer to run to the market, or walk with me there. Or I’d see him out boarding with some friends, and wave, or go out to talk.”

  “Did you ever see him with somebody you didn’t recognize from around the neighborhood?”

  “Not really. He was a good kid. Old-fashioned, at least from the way I was raised. Really polite, a little shy, at least with me. Way into sports.”

  “How about the comings and goings? Writers notice things, don’t they?”

  “It’s important to observe stuff, file it away. You never know.” Hildy twirled a hunk of her colorful hair around her finger. “And I did think of something I didn’t remember before, when the other cops came by to ask stuff. It’s just—I couldn’t keep anything in my head when I heard about it. You know?”

  “Sure. What do you remember now?”

  “I don’t know if it’s anything, but I started thinking about it this morning. That night . . .” She shifted, gave Eve a weak smile. “Listen, if I tell you something I did that’s not a hundred percent legal, am I going to get in trouble?”

  “We’re not here to hassle you, Hildy. We’re here about five people who were murdered in their beds.”

  “Okay.” She drew a long breath. “Okay. Sometimes, if I’m up writing late, or if Mrs. Grentz has been a particular pain—I mean, you got a load right? She’s funny, but sometimes she wears.”

  “All right.”

  “Sometimes, I go up on the roof.” She pointed a finger at the ceiling. “There’s a nice little spot up there, and it’s a place to hang out, look around, sit and think. Sometimes I go up there to, you know, smoke a little Zoner. I can’t do that in here. If Mrs. Grentz was to come down—and she does sometimes—and smell it—she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—she’d wig. So if I’m in the mood for a toke, not like every night or anything . . .”

  “We’re not Illegals, and we’re not concerned if you had a little recreational Zoner.”

  “Right. So I was up there. It was late because the book had been chugging. I was just hanging up there, about ready to go down, because the long night plus the Zoner made me sleepy. I just sort of looked around, like you do, and I see these two guys. Nice builds—that’s what I thought, you know. Prime meat. I didn’t think anything much of it, even when the cops came by and I heard about the Swishers, but I was thinking back, and I remembered.”