Secrets in Death Page 18

  Wylee closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he stared blindly at the wall of lockers.

  “I felt grown-up when he said I could have some of his beer—and we wouldn’t tell anybody. He gave me half a beer before the first time. I was dizzy and I didn’t understand, and it was Big Rod. He said it was a rite of passage. And after, when I was sick, he said I was his number one. His number one, and if I said anything, I’d be nothing. If I said anything, nobody would believe me. If I said anything, something bad might happen to one of my sisters. And…”

  He sat again, let his hands dangle between his knees. “I don’t want to talk about what he did, and what I let him do for almost a year until he found another number one.”

  “You didn’t tell your parents.”

  “No. I was ashamed and afraid. I’ve never told them. I don’t want to tell them now.” He lifted his head to look at Eve and his hands balled to fists.

  “It’s over. He’s dead. I didn’t kill him, but somebody did. They found him beaten to death in an alley a couple blocks from the youth center. He got a hero’s funeral, the son of a bitch. I was in therapy by then. I put my family through hell first. Stealing beer, buying street illegals. Sneaking out of the house at night whenever I could, but I couldn’t get away from feeling his hands on me, so I broke into Mr. Aaron’s house.”

  When his voice cracked, Eve gave him a moment. “Your neighbor,” she prompted.

  “Yeah. He had whiskey. I got his whiskey and the pills I bought, and I took them all with all the whiskey I could drink. Just end it, that’s what I wanted to do. Just make it stop.”

  He closed his eyes, breathed out.

  “Thirteen years old, and I just wanted to make it all stop. But I wasn’t very smart about it, and took too much at once, sicked it all up again.”

  Pausing, he pressed his fingers to his eyes, dropped them. “My parents heard me, realized what I’d tried to do. They got me to the clinic. I can still see my mother’s face, still hear her praying. They made me go to therapy. I didn’t want to at first, and I fought it, but they made me.”

  “They had your back, Wyl,” O’Keefe soothed. “They always had your back.”

  “Yeah, they did, and it pissed me off back then. But … Dr. Preston. I guess he saved my life, and making me go to him saved my life. He never told them about Big Rod because when I finally got close to breaking down enough to tell him, I made him promise. He said he couldn’t and wouldn’t break my confidence.”

  Wylee cleared his throat. “I started to get better. After I said it all, after Dr. Preston listened, after we talked, week after week, I started to get better.

  “I don’t know how she—how Mars found out because Dr. Preston wouldn’t have told her. I went to him after she hit on me, and he told me to go to the police.”

  “Good advice,” Eve commented.

  “Yeah, I knew it, in my head I knew he was right, but I couldn’t do it, just couldn’t. I don’t know how she knew, but she knew enough. She put enough together, even insinuated she could make people think I’d killed Big Rod. End my career, shame my family, destroy the work we’re doing with the foundation. Unless I paid her to keep my secret.”

  “How much?”

  “It wasn’t consistent, and not that much really. Six or eight thousand a month. Like a business expense. I put it out of my mind.”

  “In cash.”

  “Always,” he concurred. “She wanted me to deliver it whenever I was in town, but I wouldn’t. Take the money, or don’t—at least I had the balls for that. I’d have it messengered, or Brian would.”

  Eve’s attention shifted to O’Keefe. “You knew about the arrangement, and the reason for it?”

  “Yeah. Wylee told me about Big Rod when we were teenagers. After Big Rod was dead, after Wylee got better. He finally told me.”

  “He never abused you?”

  “I wasn’t his type. Not an athletic bone in my body. Skinny, scrawny, brainy. I used to envy all the kids he’d take under his wing. Until I realized I was lucky he barely noticed me. I hated that she used what happened to Wylee for money, but it wasn’t worth killing her. Because you’re wrong,” he said to Wylee. “You’ve always been wrong—and it’s something Dr. Preston couldn’t get you to believe. If it had come out then, since, now? Nobody would be ashamed of you. Nobody would blame you. And a lot of people would do what I do.”

  Emotion shook O’Keefe’s voice as he gripped Wylee’s shoulder. “They’d spit on that goddamn plaque with his name on it in the youth center. And that bitch would go into a cell where she belongs. Or belonged. I’m not sorry she’s dead, either, but I’d rather think of her living in a cage. That’s just me.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Peabody added.

  “I’m going to verify your alibies.” Eve rose. “Do either of you have a vehicle, one you keep here?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a truck I keep garaged. Brian’s got an all-terrain.”

  “Let’s go with the truck. Give Detective Peabody the description—make, color, year. We’ll verify the alibis, checking if a vehicle with that general description was involved in an incident in Manhattan during that time frame.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for that.” He gave Peabody the information on the truck, held out his hand to Eve. “I guess I should say I hope you find who killed her, but I don’t think I’m going to be sorry if you don’t.”

  “You should listen to your friend. She didn’t deserve to die. She deserved to sit in a cell. Humiliated and locked up. You’re entitled to your privacy,” she told Wylee. “A twelve- and thirteen-year-old’s bound to be scared and ashamed and not know what the fuck to do when a trusted adult twists a relationship into the sick and selfish. A grown man who’s a goddamn miracle on the ball field, one with a strong family and solid friends behind him, ought to have the sense to know when to go to the cops.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I guess there’s still some of that kid in there.”

  “I hear you.”

  As they walked back to the car, Eve glanced at Peabody. “Your take?”

  “I could maybe see him losing his temper and punching Mars in the face. I can’t see him plotting, executing, or conspiring to execute cold-blooded murder.”

  “Agreed. He caved to her, and he’d have kept on caving because there’s a part of him that’s still ashamed and guilty over what happened to him. So far as we know, at this point, Mars was cagey enough not to demand more than her marks could afford. For Wylee, at least, it was better to pay than risk or fight back.”

  “Would you? Sorry,” Peabody said immediately. “I shouldn’t ask, or even bring it up.”

  Eve waited until they’d reached the car, then stood at the driver’s door, looking over the roof at Peabody. “It applies. Not the same situation, but close enough it applies. It took me a long time to remember what happened to me, to be strong enough to get through the protective blocks. And longer to get past the guilt and shame of what happened to me, and what I did to stop it from happening.”

  She got in the car, settled behind the wheel, considered another moment. “I couldn’t, wouldn’t have allowed her to victimize me. And whatever Roarke’s instincts might have been to protect me, he’d have stood by that. For me. It’s the badge that gave me the will to survive—the goal of getting it, the work of upholding it. To survive and to be open enough to let Roarke push his way into my life. Betraying the badge, him, you—everyone I know would stand by me? Betraying myself?”

  Not a question, Eve thought. Not an option.

  “Couldn’t do it. I’d make sure she’d have done her time in a cage even if it was the last thing I could do with that badge.”

  “Nobody would take your badge for what happened to you, or for what you did to make it stop.”

  With a shake of her head, Eve began to drive out of the lot. “I killed Richard Troy. Patricide’s got an ugly ring.”

  “Patricide, my ass. An eight-year-old girl defending herself against an incestuous pedophi
le monster after years of abuse,” Peabody corrected, with a bite. “You should get past thinking anybody—anybody—would call for your badge over it. You should get past thinking they’d have a right to.”

  As she waited for the lot scanner to read her tag for billing, Eve flicked a glance at her partner’s rigid profile.

  “I guess you’ve got a point. It may take a little more work to get there.”

  Eve drove out of the lot. “But it applies. Someone killed Wylee Stamford’s monster, and maybe whoever did killed his blackmailer. Let’s get the case file on Big Rod.”

  Still simmering, Peabody started to snap something back, then frowned. “Somebody’s still protecting him. I didn’t think of that.”

  “That’s why my badge says Lieutenant, and yours doesn’t.”

  The frown eased into a smile. “For now,” she said, getting an easy laugh out of Eve. “How about some coffee for the drive?”

  “Yeah.” Eve’s shoulders relaxed. “How about some coffee? And we’re going to look at O’Keefe and his alibi. Loyalty runs deep in both of them. I heard him saying she should squat in a cage, and it rang like truth. But we take a good look. After you program which of Mars’s marks we’re cornering next.”

  “On that.”

  13

  City Girl was shooting some exterior scenes in the West Village. Fans, Eve assumed, and those who just liked watching, gathered behind barricades with their cameras. Civilian paparazzi, braving the bitter cold for the prize of a photo or short vid.

  Extras plucked from who knew where hustled over the sidewalk as Missy Lee Durante, a pink-and-white polka-dotted backpack over her fashionable purple coat, raced tearfully by on pink airboots.

  Her colorful scarf flew out like ribbons; the pom-poms on her hat bounced madly. She fumbled with the latch of a little courtyard gate, burst through it, then ran toward the door of a tidy brick townhouse.

  “I bet that jerk Tad dumped her,” Peabody muttered.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking why she’s crying. See, Tad’s the high school football quarterback she’s been crushing on even though he’s a shitbag under it. And he’s been playing her so she’d do his assignments, but…”

  Peabody trailed off when Eve simply held her under a cool, cool stare.

  “Anyway.”

  Somebody yelled, “Cut.” Then swarms of people began moving around. A couple of them dashed to Missy Lee, began fussing with her face, the flowing blond hair under her winter cap, the line of the coat.

  NYPSD barricades blocked off the sidewalk for a full block. Eve had to badge her way through. Crew, equipment, security for crew and equipment formed more barricades. While people repaired Missy Lee’s makeup so she could cry on cue, Eve flashed her badge again.

  “NYPSD. We need to speak to Missy Lee Durante.”

  “She’s a little busy right now.” The man in the earflap cap gave Eve a big, toothy smile. “I can see about arranging a quick hello after we get this scene. City Girl’s grateful to the NYPSD.”

  “I’m not after a quick hello. This is official police business.”

  Now he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we get that a lot. Look, we’re setting up for another take, so I really need you to just step back for a minute until—”

  “Would you like to be arrested for obstruction?”

  “Hey, trying to be cooperative. Just—”

  Now somebody yelled, “And action!” Toothy Grin held up a hand, turned his back on Eve. Peabody grabbed Eve’s arm, shook her head fiercely.

  “It can wait just a minute,” she whispered as the same pedestrians began the same hustle.

  Missy Lee flew down the sidewalk, tears streaming. Fumbled with the latch, and this time let out a choked sob as she fought it open. Cameras followed her, angled to catch her run, her rush through the gate.

  Eve struggled to find patience as people swarmed again, as cameras reangled to record the same scene from the front, the side.

  Someone brought the star a cup of something that steamed as she consulted with a plump woman in combat boots.

  “Now,” Eve told Toothy Grin, “or I’m having the barricades removed.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  She shoved the badge in his face. “Can you read that?”

  His face reflected a lot more annoyance than fear, and so did the finger he jabbed at her. “You just wait here!”

  Eve thought, Bullshit, and followed him as he strode indignantly through the crew and equipment.

  “Clarice, there’s a cop back there who—”

  “I’m right here. Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. My partner and I need to speak with Miss Durante. Now.”

  “Clarice Jenner, director, and we’re in the middle of shooting a key and very emotional scene. Miss Durante can’t be disturbed.”

  “It’s all right, Clarice. Can I have five?” With tears still drying on her face, Missy Lee smiled, rubbed a hand over Clarice’s arm. “Just five.”

  Clarice shot Eve one hard, angry look. “Clear back. Take five.”

  Missy Lee kept the smile on her pert, pretty face, sipping from the go-cup until everyone was out of earshot. “I’ve sort of been expecting you—or somebody with a badge. I can’t talk about this here, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d make this look like a fan moment. A lot of people depend on me and this show.”

  “Then why don’t we clear this up?”

  “Have you got something to write on?”

  At Eve’s glance, Peabody pulled out one of her cards. Missy Lee took it and dug a small pen out of her coat pocket. “I’m writing down an address, and a time. I’ll meet you there,” she continued with her smile still beaming. “I’m going to bring my lawyer. I’m entitled to that.”

  “You are. I’ll give you this, Miss Durante. But if you’re not where you say when you say, that’ll change. It won’t look like a fan moment.”

  “I’ll be there. I want to clear this up. I just want to clear it up quietly.” Her eyes, summer blue in winter’s bite, met Eve’s straight on. “I know who you are, both of you. If the book and vid weren’t bullshit, I figure I can trust you. But if I don’t get back to work, we’re going to run into overtime, and the producers are going to scream.”

  She held out a hand, shook Eve’s, shook Peabody’s.

  “Ah, it’s Tad, right?”

  Missy Lee laughed, a quick, infectious gurgle. “Yeah. He dumped me, with mega humiliation.”

  “He’s a prick.”

  “He really is. I gotta go.”

  Eve let her walk back to the hair and face fussers, and moved with Peabody through the crew under the twin glares of Clarice and Toothy Grin.

  “Check the address on the card,” Eve told Peabody. “What it is, where it is, who lives or works there.”

  They’d reached the end of the barricade when Peabody stopped dead. “It’s Tad!” Absolute shock covered her face.

  “The fictional prick?”

  “It’s Tad,” Peabody repeated. “Marshall Poster, who plays Tad. It’s his place—Upper West.”

  Eve took the card, stuck it in her pocket. “I’ll take that going home. We’ll hit Knight next. You can run Tad—crap—Poster in the car.”

  “Why would she want to meet us at his place? He’s a total dick.”

  “Fictional, Peabody. He may be a dick in reality, which is why you’re going to run him.”

  “She’s staying up late doing his assignments while he’s laughing behind her back and cruising with that little bitch Jade Potts.”

  “Peabody.” Eve climbed into the car. “You’re going to have to get over it.”

  “I had a crush on a guy like that when I was fifteen.” Peabody yanked out her PPC. “You never get over it.”

  Eve let Peabody stew while she drove to Knight’s Midtown studio.

  After a small parking nightmare, they joined the hordes crowded into the pedestrian walkway. Tourists bagging souvenirs or taking pictures, hanging over the rail to watch the skaters.<
br />
  And presenting prime targets for street thieves.

  Though she resented the time, Eve tripped one, sent him sprawling seconds after he’d lifted a purse stupidly left hanging from one of those baby-pushers while his partner neatly picked the wallet out of the probable father’s rear pocket because he was so busy taking a home vid.

  “Hold him,” Eve ordered. “Call for a couple of beat droids.”

  Then, as Peabody quickly put a boot on the fallen thief’s back, Eve fast walked after the partner, who strolled along projecting innocence.

  Two arm spans away, Eve saw the body language change, go on alert. Communication, she thought, cursed as the thief broke into a sprint.

  Fast, she’s fast, Eve concluded as the thief poured it on, bowling down pedestrians. Fast, Eve thought again as she leaped over a man who’d gone down flat on his back.

  But Eve was faster.

  She considered a tackle, opted to snag the thief by the collar of her coat. The thief was nearly quick and agile enough to spin right out of it, but Eve whipped her around, tangling her in her own coat.

  The girl—she couldn’t have been much more than sixteen—gave Eve one fierce look. Then her eyes filled with tears and fears.

  “Help! Help! She’s hurting me.”

  “Hey, lady—” The first Good Samaritan pushed forward.

  “NYPSD.”

  “She’s lying! She’s trying to kidnap me!”

  The Samaritan firmed an iron jaw. “You’re going to want to let her go.”

  And with a crowd moving in, he grabbed Eve’s arm.

  “Sorry,” Eve said, before she kneed him hard in the groin, sending him down. “NYPSD! I’m the police.”

  “Help! Oh, please, somebody help me!”

  “You’re good,” Eve told her as the young thief screamed and wriggled. “I’m better.”

  She managed to get out her badge and hold it up. She didn’t think it made her any friends while she manhandled a pretty, petite teenager, but most backed off.

  Once she muscled the kid to her knees, worked on the restraints, she opened the girl’s coat to reveal the loot pockets inside.

  And the wrist units and wallets in them.