Rapture in Death (10 page)

“I see. Thank you for your time.” She ushered them out, glanced down the corridor to the adjoining interview room. Leanore should certainly be inside by now, waiting.

Taking her time, Eve strolled down the corridor to a vending unit, contemplated her choices, jingled loose credits in her pocket. She settled on a Chewy Bar and a half tube of Pepsi. The unit delivered the goods, droned out the standard request to recycle, and offered the consumer a mild warning on sugar intake.

“Mind your own business,” Eve suggested. Leaning back against the wall, she lingered over her snack, dumped the trash into the recycle chute, then walked leisurely down the hall.

She’d estimated the twenty-minute wait would steam Leanore. She was right on target.

The woman was pacing like a cat, elegant legs eating up the worn flooring with quick steps. The minute Eve opened the door, she whirled.

“Lieutenant Dallas, my time is extremely valuable, even if yours is not.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Eve said easily. “I don’t get to log in billable hours at two K a pop.”

Peabody cleared her throat. “For the record, Lieutenant Eve Dallas has entered Interview Room C to conduct the remainder of the proceedings. The subject has been informed of all rights and has chosen self-representation during this interview. All data has been logged in record.”

“Fine.” Eve sat, indicated the chair across from her. “Whenever you’ve finished prowling, Ms. Bastwick, we can get started.”

“I was ready to begin this procedure at the appropriate time.” Leanore sat, crossed her satiny legs. “With you, Lieutenant, not your subordinate.”

“Hear that, Peabody, you’re my subordinate.”

“Duly recorded, sir,” Peabody said dryly.

“Though I consider it insulting and unnecessary.” Leanore brushed at the cuffs of her trim black suit. “I’m attending Fitz’s memorial in a few hours.”

“You wouldn’t be here, being unnecessarily insulted, if you hadn’t lied in your previous statement.”

Leanore’s eyes went glacial. “I assume you can substantiate that accusation, Lieutenant.”

“You stated for the record that you had gone to the deceased’s residence last evening on a professional matter. That you remained, discussing a case, for twenty to thirty minutes.”

“More or less,” Leanore said, her voice frosty around the edges.

“Tell me, Ms. Bastwick, do you always take a bottle of vintage wine to a business meeting and groom yourself for said meeting in the elevator like a prom queen?”

“There’s no law against good grooming, Lieutenant Dallas.” Her gaze flicked dismissively over Eve’s untidy hair down to her battered boots. “You might try it yourself.”

“Aw, now you’ve hurt my feelings. You polished yourself up, flicked open the top three buttons of your blouse, and brought along a bottle of wine. Sounds like seduction time to me, Leanore.” Eve shifted closer, nearly winked. “Come on, we’re all girls. We know the drill.”

Leanore took her time, studied a minute chip in her manicure. She remained icy. Unlike Foxx, the woman didn’t break a sweat. “I dropped by that evening to consult with Fitz on a professional matter. We had a brief meeting, and I left.”

“You were alone with him during that time.”

“That’s right. Arthur got into one of his snits and went out.”

“One of his snits?”

“It was typical of him.” There was a sneer in her voice now, light and disdainful. “He was outrageously jealous of me, certain I was trying to lure Fitz away from him.”

“And were you?”

A slow, feline smile curved Leanore’s lips. “Really, Lieutenant, if I’d put any effort into it, don’t you think I would have succeeded?”

“I’d say you put effort into it. And not succeeding would have really burned you.”

Leanore lifted a shoulder. “I’ll admit I was giving it some consideration. Fitz was wasting himself on Arthur. Fitz and I had a great deal in common, and I found him very attractive. I was very fond of him.”

“Did you act on your attraction and your fondness that evening?”

“You could say I made it clear that I was open to a more intimate relationship with him. He wasn’t immediately receptive, but it was only a matter of time.” She moved her shoulders, a quick, confident movement. “Arthur would have known that.” Her eyes went cold again. “And that’s why I believe he killed Fitz.”

“Quite a piece of work, isn’t she?” Eve muttered when the interview was completed. “Doesn’t see anything wrong with trying to lure a man into adultery, break apart a longstanding relationship. More, she’s convinced there isn’t a man in the world who could resist her.” She sighed heavily. “Bitch.”

“Are you going to charge her?” Peabody wondered.

“For being a bitch?” With a small smile, Eve shook her head. “I could try to nail her on the false statement, and she and her legal pals would brush it off like lint. Not worth the time. We can’t place her at the scene at time of death or hang any kind of motive on her. And I can’t see that self-absorbed bimbo sneaking up on a two hundred fifty pound man and slashing his wrists. She wouldn’t have wanted to get all that blood on her nifty suit.”

“So you’re back to Foxx?”

“He was jealous, he was pissed, he inherits all the toys.” Eve rose, paced to the door and back. “And we’ve got nothing.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I’ve got to go with what he said when he lost it during interview. He’d have killed Leanore, not Fitzhugh. I’m going to review the data on the two previous suicides.”

“I haven’t got much yet,” Peabody began as she followed Eve out of the interview room. “There wasn’t time.”

“There’s time now. And Feeney’s probably come through. Get me what you’ve got, then get me more,” Eve demanded and swung into her office. “Engage,” she ordered the computer as she plopped down in front of it. “Play new communications.”

Roarke’s face swam onto the screen. “I assume you’re out fighting crime. I’m on my way to London, a little glitch that requires personal attention. I don’t imagine it will take long. I should be back by eight, which will give us plenty of time to fly out to New Los Angeles for the premiere.”

“Shit, I forgot.”

On screen, his image smiled. “I’m sure you’ve conveniently forgotten the engagement, so consider this a gentle reminder. Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”

Flying to California to spend the evening rubbing elbows with puffed-up video types, eating the glossy little vegetables people out there considered food, tolerating reporters sticking recorders in her face and asking lame questions was not her idea of an entertaining evening.

The second communication was from Commander Whitney, ordering her to prepare a statement for the media on several ongoing cases. Hot damn, she thought sourly. More headlines.

Then the data from Feeney flashed on screen. Eve rolled her shoulders, hunkered down, and got to work.

At two, she walked into the Village Bistro. Her shirt was sticking to her back as the temperature control on her unit had once again died an unnatural death. The air inside the tony restaurant was ocean breeze cool. Soft, loving zephyrs flitted through, teasing the feathery palms, which grew in huge, white china pots. Glass tables were arranged on two levels, cleverly situated near a small, black water lagoon or in front of a wide-view screen of a white sand beach. Servers wore short uniforms in tropical hues and threaded their way through the tables with offerings of colorful drinks and artistically arranged dishes.

The maitre d’ was a droid dressed in a flowing white jumpsuit and programmed with a snooty French accent. He took one look at Eve’s worn jeans and limp shirt and wrinkled his prominent nose.

“Madam, I am afraid we have no tables available. You would perhaps prefer the delicatessen on the next block north.”

“Yeah, I would.” Because his attitude annoyed her, she stuck her badge in his face. “But I’m eating here. I don’t give a shit if that puts your chips in a twist, pal. Where’s Dr. Mira’s table?”

“Put that away,” he hissed, looking everywhere at once and fluttering his hands. “Do you wish my customers to lose their appetites?”

“They’ll really lose them if I take my weapon out, which is what I’ll do if you don’t show me Dr. Mira’s table and see that I’ve got a glass of iced fizzy water in the next twenty seconds. Got that program?”

His lips clamped together and he nodded. Stiff-backed, he led the way up a swing of faux stone steps to the second level, and then onto an alcove fashioned to resemble an ocean terrace.

“Eve.” Mira rose immediately from her pretty table and took both of Eve’s hands. “You look wonderful.” To Eve’s faint surprise, Mira kissed her cheek. “Rested. Happy.”

“I guess I am.” After a brief hesitation, Eve leaned forward and touched her lips to Mira’s cheek in turn.

The droid had already snapped to a server. “Dr. Mira’s companion wishes a fizzy water.”

“Iced,” Eve added, curling her lip at the maitre d’.

“Thank you, Armand.” Mira’s soft blue eyes twinkled. “We’ll order shortly.”

Eve took another quick scan of the restaurant, the diners in their summer pastels and pricey cottons. She shifted on her padded chair. “We could have met in your office.”

“I wanted to take you to lunch. This is one of my favorite spots.”

“The droid’s an asshole.”

“Well, perhaps Armand is a bit overprogrammed, but the food is wonderful. You should try the Clams Maurice. You won’t regret it.” She settled back when Eve’s water was served. “Tell me, how was your honeymoon?”

Eve gulped down half the water and felt human again. “Tell me how long I can expect people to ask me that question?”

Mira laughed. She was a pretty woman with soft sable hair swept back from a quietly attractive face. She wore one of her habitually elegant suits, this one in pale yellow. She appeared polished and tidy. She was one of the leading behavioral psychiatrists in the country, and was often consulted by the police about the most vicious crimes.

Though Eve was unaware of it, Mira’s feelings toward her were strong and deeply maternal.

“It embarrasses you.”

“Well, you know. Honeymoon. Sex. Personal.” Eve rolled her eyes. “Stupid. I guess I’m just not used it. To being married. To Roarke. To the whole business.”

“You love each other and make each other happy. There’s no need to get used to it, only to enjoy it. You’re sleeping well?”

“Mostly.” And because Mira knew her deepest and darkest secrets, Eve dropped her guard. “I still have nightmares, but not as often. The memories come and go. None of it’s as bad now that I’ve dealt with it.”

“Have you dealt with it?”

“My father raped me, abused me, beat me,” Eve said flatly. “I killed him. I was eight years old. I survived. Whoever I was before I was found in that alley doesn’t matter now. I’m Eve Dallas. I’m a good cop. I’ve made myself.”

“Good.” There would be more, Mira thought. Traumas such as the one Eve had lived through cast echoes that never completely faded. “You still put the cop first.”

“I am a cop first.”

“Yes.” Mira smiled a little. “I suppose you always will be. Why don’t we order, then you can tell me why you called.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Eve chose Mira’s recommendation of clams, then treated herself to some of the real yeast bread set in a silver basket on the table. As she ate, she gave Mira a profile of Fitzhugh and the details of his death.

“You’d like me to tell you if he was capable of taking his own life. Disposed to it, emotionally, psychologically.”

Eve cocked a brow. “That’s the plan.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that. I can tell you that everyone is capable of it, given the right circumstances and emotional state.”

“I don’t believe that,” Eve said so firmly, so decisively, that Mira smiled.

“You’re a strong woman, Eve. Now. You’ve made yourself strong, rational, tough-minded. You’re a survivor. But you remember despair. Helplessness. Hopelessness.”

Eve did; too well, too clearly. She shifted in her chair. “Fitzhugh wasn’t a helpless man.”

“The surface can hide a great deal of turmoil.” Dr. Mira held up a hand before Eve could interrupt again. “But I agree with you. Given your profile of him, his background, his lifestyle, I wouldn’t tag him as a likely candidate for suicide — certainly not one of such an abrupt and impulsive nature.”

“It was abrupt,” Eve agreed. “I dealt with him in court right before this happened. He was as smug and arrogant and full of his own sense of importance as ever.”

“I’m sure that’s true. I can only say that some of us — many of us — confronted with some crisis, some personal upheaval of the heart or mind, choose to end it rather than live through it or change it. You and I can’t know what Fitzhugh might have found himself confronted with on the night of his death.”

“That isn’t a hell of a lot of help,” Eve muttered. “Okay, let me give you two more.” Briskly, with a cop’s dispassion, she related the other suicides. “Pattern?”

“What did they have in common?” Mira tossed back. “The lawyer, the politician, and the tech.”

“A blip in the brain. Maybe.” Tapping her fingers on the cloth, Eve frowned. “I’ve got some chains to pull to get all the data, but it could be the motive. The reason behind it all might be physiological rather than psychological. If there’s a connection, I’ve got to find it.”

“You’re veering out of my field, but if you find data linking the three cases, I’d be happy to do a workup.”

Eve smiled. “I was counting on it. I don’t have a lot of time. The Fitzhugh case can’t stay a priority for much longer. If I can’t nail something down soon and use it to convince the commander to keep the file open, I’ll have to move on. But for now — “

“Eve?” Reeanna slipped up to the table, looking stunning in an ankle-skimming robe of bleeding rainbow colors. “Well, how nice. I was lunching with an associate and thought I recognized you.”

“Reeanna.” Eve worked up a smile. She didn’t mind looking like a street hawker next to the glamorous redhead, but she did mind having her consult lunch interrupted. “Dr. Mira, Reeanna Ott.”

“Dr. Ott.” Gracious, Mira offered a hand. “I’ve heard of your work and admired it.”

“Thank you, and I’ll say the same. It’s an honor to meet one of the top psychiatrists in the country. I’ve scanned a number of your papers and found them fascinating.”

“You flatter me. Won’t you sit down, join us for some dessert?”

“I’d love to.” Reeanna flicked a questioning glance at Eve. “If I’m not interrupting official business.”

“We seem to be finished with that part of the program.” Eve looked up at the waiter summoned by a discreet flick of Mira’s finger. “Just coffee. House brand. Black.”

“I’ll have the same,” Mira said. “And a dish of the Blueberry Trifle. I’m weak.”

“So am I.” Reeanna beamed at the waiter as though he would personally prepare her selection. “A double latte, and a slice of Chocolate Sin. I’m so tired of processed food,” she confided to Mira. “I intend to gorge myself while I’m in New York.”

“And how long will you be in town?”

“It depends a great deal on Roarke” — she smiled at Eve — “and how long he finds it useful to have me here. I have a feeling he’ll be shipping both William and me off to Olympus within a few weeks.”

“The Olympus Resort’s quite an undertaking,” Mira commented. “All the blips I’ve seen on the news and entertainment channels have been fascinating.”

“He’d like to have it up and fully operational by next spring.” Reeanna ran her hand up and down the trio of gold links she wore around her neck. “We’ll see. Roarke usually gets what he wants. Wouldn’t you agree, Eve?”

“He didn’t get where he is by taking no for an answer.”

“No, indeed. You were just on the resort. Did he give you a tour of the Autotronics Arcade?”

“Briefly.” Eve’s lips quirked a little. “We had… a lot of ground to cover in a short time.”

Reeanna’s smile was slow and sly. “I imagine you did. But I hope you tried a few of the programs that are in place. William’s so proud of those games. And you did mention you’d seen the hologram room in the Presidential Suite of the hotel.”

“I did. Made use of it several times. Very impressive.”

“Most of that’s William’s doing — the design — but I will take partial credit. We plan to utilize that new system to enhance the treatment of addicts and certain psychoses.” She shifted as their coffee and dessert was served. “That might be of interest to you, Dr. Mira.”

“It certainly would. It sounds fascinating.”

“It is. Wickedly expensive right now, but we hope to refine and bring the cost down. But for Olympus, Roarke wanted the best — and he’s getting it. Such as the Lisa droid.”

“Yeah.” Eve remembered the stunning female droid with the sultry voice. “I’ve seen her.”

“She’ll be in PR and customer service. A very superior model that took months to perfect. Her intelligence chips are unmatched by anything on the market. She’ll have decision making and personality capabilities well beyond the current available units. William and I — ” She broke off, chuckled at herself. “Listen to me. I just can’t get away from work.”

“It’s fascinating.” Mira dipped delicately into her trifle. “Your study of brain patterns and their genetic thrust on personality, and their application to electronics is compelling, even to a dug-in-at-the-roots psychiatrist such as myself.” She hesitated, glanced at Eve. “As a matter of fact, your expertise might lend a new angle on a particular case Eve and I were discussing.”

“Oh?” Reeanna forked up some chocolate and all but hummed over it.

“Hypothetical.” Mira spread her hands, well aware of the official ban of layman consults.

“Naturally.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the table again. She preferred Mira’s take, but weighing the options, decided to expand.

“Apparent self-termination. No known motive, no known predisposition, no chemical inducement, no family history. Behavioral patterns up to point of termination normal. No substantiated signs of depression or personality fluctuations. Subject is a sixty-two-year-old male, professional, high-end education, successful, financially solvent, bisexual, with long-term same-sex marriage.”

“Physical disabilities?”

“None. Clean health card.”

Reeanna’s eyes narrowed in concentration, either over the profile or the dessert she was slowly spooning into her mouth. “Any psychological defects, treatment?”

“No.”

“Interesting. I’d love to see the brain wave pattern. Available?”

“Currently classified.”

“Hmm.” Reeanna sipped her latte contemplatively. “Without any known physical or psychiatric abnormalities, no chemical addictions or usage, I’d lean toward a brain blip. Possible tumor. Yet I assume none showed up in autopsy?”

Eve thought of the pinprick, but shook her head. “Not a tumor, no.”

“There are cases of predisposition that slide through genetic scanning and evaluation. The brain is a complicated organ and still baffles even the most elaborate technology. If I could see his family history… Well, to take a wild guess, I’d say your man had a genetic time bomb that went undetected through normal analysis. He’d reached the point in his life where the fuse ran short.”

Eve cocked a brow. “So he just blew?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Reeanna leaned forward. “We’re all coded in, Eve, in the womb. What we are, who we are. Not just the color of our eyes, our build, our skin tones, but our personalities, our tastes, our intellect, and our emotional scale. The genetic code is stamped on us at the moment of conception. It can be altered to a certain extent, but the basis of what we are remains. Nothing can change it.”

“We are what we’re born?” Eve thought of a filthy room, a blinking red light, and a young girl curled into a corner with a bloody knife.

“Precisely.” Reeanna’s smile beamed out.

“You don’t take into account environment, free will, the basic human drive to better oneself?” Mira objected. “To consider us merely physical creatures without heart, soul, and a range of choices to be made over a lifetime lowers us to the level of animals.”

“And so we are,” Reeanna said with a sweep of her fork. “I understand your viewpoint as a therapist, Dr. Mira, but mine, as a physiologist, runs down a different lane, so to speak. The decisions we make throughout our life, what we do, how we live, and what we become were printed on our brains while we swam in the womb. Your subject, Eve, was fated to take his life at that time, in that place, and in the manner he chose. Circumstances might have altered it, but the results would have been the same, eventually. It was, in essence, his destiny.”

Destiny? Eve thought. Had it been hers to be raped and abused by her own father? To become less than human, to fight her way through that abyss?

Mira shook her head slowly. “I can’t agree. A child born in poverty on the edge of Budapest, taken from the mother at birth and raised in privilege, with love and care in Paris, would reflect that upbringing, that education. The emotional nest,” she insisted, “and the basic human drive to better oneself can’t be discounted.”

“I agree, to a point,” Reeanna qualified. “But the stamp of the genetic code — that which predisposes us to achievement, failure, good or evil, if you will — overrides all else. Even with the most loving and nurturing of backgrounds, monsters breed; and in the toilets of the universe, goodness, even greatness survives. We are what we are — the rest is window dressing.”

“If I subscribe to your theory,” Eve said slowly, “the subject in question was fated to take his life. No circumstances, no twists or turns of environment would have prevented it.”

“Precisely. The predisposition was there, lurking. Likely an event set it off, but it may have been a minor thing, something easily passed off in another brain pattern. Research still under way at the Bowers Institute has complied strong evidence of genetic brain patterns and their unassailable influence on behavior. I can get you discs on the subject, if you like.”

“I’ll leave the head studies to you and Dr. Mira.” Eve shoved her coffee aside. “I’ve got to get back to Cop Central. I appreciate the time, Dr. Mira,” she said as she rose. “And the theories, Reeanna.”

“I’d love to discuss them further. Any time.” Reeanna lifted a hand and shook Eve’s warmly. “Do give my best to Roarke.”

“I will.” Eve shifted slightly on her feet when Mira rose to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope you will, and not just when you’ve a case to discuss. Tell Mavis hello for me when you see her.”

“Sure.” Hitching her bag on her shoulder, Eve swung her way out, pausing briefly to sneer at the maitre d’.

“A fascinating woman.” Reeanna slid her tongue in one long, slow lick over the back of her spoon. “Controlled, a little angry underneath, straight focused, and unused and vaguely uncomfortable with casual displays of affection.” She laughed lightly at Mira’s lifted brow. “Sorry, professional pitfall. It drives William mad. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Mira’s lips curved, and her eyes warmed with understanding. “I often find myself doing the same. And you’re right, Eve is a very fascinating woman. Quite self-made, which, I’m afraid, might unbalance your genetic printing theory.”

“Really?” Obviously intrigued, Reeanna leaned forward. “You know her well?”

“As well as possible. Eve is a… contained individual.”

“You’re very fond of her,” Reeanna commented with a nod. “I hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I say she wasn’t at all what I expected when I learned Roarke was to marry. That he was to marry at all was a surprise, but I imagined his spouse as a woman of polish and sophistication. A homicide detective who wears her shoulder harness as another woman might an heirloom necklace wasn’t my conception of Roarke’s choice. Yet they look right together, suited. One might even say,” she added with a smile, “destined.”

“That I can agree with.”

“Now, tell me, Dr. Mira, what is your opinion of DNA harvesting?”

“Oh, well now…” Happily, Mira settled down for a lively busman’s holiday.

At her desk unit, Eve juggled the data she’d compiled on Fitzhugh, Mathias, and Pearly. She could find no link, no common ground. The only real correlation between the three was the fact that none of them had exhibited any suicidal tendencies before the fact.

“Probability the subject cases are related?” Eve demanded.

Working. Probability five point two percent.

“In other words, zip.” Eve blew out a breath, scowling automatically when an airbus rumbled by, rattling her stingy window. “Probability of homicide in the matter of Fitzhugh using currently known data.”

With currently known data, probability of homicide is eight point three percent.

“Give it up, Dallas,” she told herself in a mutter. “Let it go.”

Deliberately, she swiveled in her chair, watching the air traffic clog the sky outside her window. Predestination. Fate. Genetic imprint. If she were to believe in any of that, what was the point of her job — or her life, for that matter? If there was no choice, no changing, why struggle to save lives or stand for the dead when the struggle failed?

If it was all physiologically coded, had she simply followed the pattern by coming to New York, fighting her way out of the dark to make something decent out of herself? And had it been a smear on that code that had blocked out those early years of her life, that continued to shadow bits and pieces of it even now?