Brotherhood in Death (16 page)

Then he wrapped his arms around her and rocked. “I swear, you stopped breathing for a moment. Just stopped. You'll have a soother.”

“I—”

“Don't argue about it, you're having one. I'm having a bloody soother myself.”

She said nothing when he got out of bed, but sat, shivering under the cashmere throw, stroking the cat. They'd have tried to wake her, she thought, her husband and her cat, but she'd been in too deep.

Roarke lit the fire first to add more light and warmth to the room, then moved to the AutoChef.

“You need the soother,” he said more calmly. “You haven't had a nightmare that . . . intense in some time.”

“Soothers all around.” She fought to make her voice sound normal. “Maybe the cat needs one.”

“He's his own soother.” Roarke brought two glasses back to the bed, handed her one, gave the loyal Galahad a rub. “He's fine now, though I'll say he was nearly as shaken as I. Drink that now.”

She gulped some down, sighed. “It's chocolate.”

“I know my cop.”

That brought the tears up, had her pressing her face to his shoulder. “I couldn't get out of it. I knew what it was, but I couldn't get out.”

“You're safe now.” He kissed the top of her head, dug in for tenderness. “Drink the rest, darling. Drink it up, and tell me.”

She did what he asked, and when she was finished, when he'd set the empty glasses aside, he gathered her close.

“I know it's not true, what he said—what my subconscious went into. But—”

“There's no but in this. You were an innocent child defending her life against a monster. These are grown women who killed with calculation.”

Yes, yes, that was the logic. That was reason. But . . . “The motives align. If I'm right, I will smear his reputation.”

“If you're right, his reputation is a lie. It's truth you're after, isn't it?”

“Yeah. If I'm right . . . you'd come down on their side of it.”

He kissed her cheek, then the other before drawing her down so she could curl into him, find the warmth.

“We have different views on some matters, but as you're fond of telling me, you're the one with the badge. You'll do your job, Lieutenant, as you must. And I'll help you as I can to find the truth. After that, it's not in my hands or yours, is it?”

“No.”

The cat curled against the small of her back, sandwiching her in the safe. Tears stung her eyes again, so she closed them. And as the soother did its work, she drifted back to sleep.

Holding her close, Roarke lay awake, listening to her breathe.

Eve's communicator buzzed, a rude, insistent sound that woke her in the dark.

Roarke said, “Bloody, buggering hell,” and called for lights on at ten percent as she crawled out of bed.

“Baxter.” She hissed it as she scanned the readout. “Block video,” she ordered. “Dallas, and this better be damned good.”

“Sorry, LT. Trueheart and I were on deck, and we caught one.”

“I didn't figure you were tagging me at four-fricking-thirty in the damn morning to chat about Arena Ball.”

“Nope, but how about those Metros?”

“Baxter, want to do everybody's fives for the next six months?”

“Can't say I do. We caught one,” he repeated, “but I'm pretty damn sure he's yours.”

“Why? Who's the DB?”

“Jonas Bartell Wymann.”

“And what makes him mine when I don't know who that is?”

“DB's sixty-eight, and was the chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers about a decade ago, also was once chief economist of the Department of Labor. Big money guy with his own big money. He went to Yale, LT. Same class as Senator Mira.”

“Fuck. Do you have COD?”

“Flagging him for Morris, but he's been beaten—face and genitals. Sodomized. Hanged—naked—same as the first DB. And there's a comp-generated message around his neck.”

“‘Justice is served'?”

“Yeah.”

“Give me the address.”

“He was practically your neighbor,” Baxter told her, and gave an address only two blocks from her house.

“I'm on the way. Save me time, tag Peabody. Scene secured?”

“You bet. We'll hold here for you.”

She clicked off, and Roarke—already up—handed her coffee. “Thanks. Shit. I'm going to grab a shower and get there.”

“We'll grab one. I'm going with you. I'm hardly going back to bed,” he said before she could argue. “And I knew him.”

She gulped down coffee as she headed for the shower. “How?”

“Slightly. We weren't friendly, but I can say he was brilliant—when it came to economy issues.” Roarke didn't bother to sigh and barely winced when she ordered jets on full at 102 degrees.

He'd asked for it, after all.

“He sure as hell knew Senator Mira. Now we have two. And if my angle is right, that's two BFDs from Yale, probable rapists. But—” She shoved her wet hair out of her eyes. “That angle may be a dead end now, and we might just have a couple of psychopaths torturing and murdering BFDs.”

She jumped out of the shower, let her thoughts swirl as hot and fast as the air in the drying tube.

Then she put them aside. Better to go in cold, stop trying to bend new angles. See, observe, gather data and evidence.

They dressed, and as she sat to put on her boots, Roarke handed her an egg pocket on a small plate. “Eat. He isn't going anywhere, and we'll be there in minutes.”

To save time, she bit in, then scowled at him. “There's more than eggs in here.”

“Is there?” With an innocent smile, Roarke sampled his own. “I believe you're right.”

She ate it anyway, gulped more coffee. “I need things from my office.”

To save time, they took the elevator, then the steps from there. He'd already ordered her car remotely, so it sat out in the cold, dark night, heat already running.

She let him drive and did a quick run on the newest victim.

“Two marriages, two divorces, currently single. Three offspring, and five offspring from them. Lots of letters after his name. Graduated magna cum laude from Yale, did some postgrad work there, some at Columbia, did some more at Oxford. Guest lecturer at Yale, at Columbia. Wrote a couple of books on economics, lots of papers. Served as adviser for two administrations—and did that while Senator Mira was in Congress. They damn well knew each other.”

Before she'd finished the run, Roarke pulled up at a three-story townhouse. A couple of black-and-whites sat outside, along with Baxter's snazzy vehicle.

Two uniforms stood out on the sidewalk in their heavy winter coats, gloved hands around go-cups. Eve held up her badge.

“Lieutenant,” one of them said. “Detectives are inside. Said wait on the canvass until you said different.”

“Hold on that until I take a look at things. Who's first on scene?”

“That's us. We were on patrol, and Dispatch sent us over, oh-three-forty-two. We arrived on scene within two. Vic's grandson called it in.”

“Does the grandson live here?”

“No, sir, but he's got the passcodes, swipes. Said he stayed here now and then.”

“Okay. Hang tight.”

The cop on the door must've been watching for them as he opened it before they started up the short flight of steps. “Lieutenant,” he said, and stepped aside.

They'd left Wymann hanging. His eyes bulged out of his swollen, bruised face as he swayed gently from the rope attached to a complex series of boldly colored swirls that served as the foyer light. Dried blood left thin ribbons down his throat, his torso, his legs.

Like Eve, Baxter stood, looking up. “He's yours.”

“Yeah.”

“My boon companion and fresh-faced young detective and I want in.”

“Yeah. Where's the grandson?”

“Baker, Jonas Wymann. Put him back in the kitchen with a uniform. He's pretty wrecked.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Nope. First on scene got the basics. It only took one look to figure this was yours, so we just secured the scene, stowed the wit, and tagged you.”

“Peabody's on her way, Lieutenant,” Trueheart told her.

“Okay, seal up,” she told Roarke, “and let's get him down. Where's the thing to lower the thing?” she wondered.

Roarke found it, and at her nod, brought the swirling light and its burden down.

“Detective Trueheart, verify vic's ID.”

She knelt with him, took out gauges to establish time of death while Baxter and Roarke exchanged small talk.

“TOD's reading oh-three-eleven. Nine-one-one came in about thirty minutes later. Didn't miss them by much. Facial bruising, looks like a broken jaw, ligature marks on wrists, more bruising on the genitals, signs of anal rape. All injuries consistent with those on Edward Mira. Bag his hands,” she ordered. “Bag the placard and the rope for the lab.”

“ID's verified, sir, a Jonas Bartell Wymann, this address.”

She put on microgoggles, got closer. “Busted his nose, too. It's going to be a weighted sap. Security?”

“The hard drive and discs are missing,” Baxter told her. “No signs I can see of forced entry. The little bit the uniforms got out of the wit was he wasn't able to reach his grandfather all evening.”

“Let's talk to him.” After a glance at Baxter, she rose. “You and me, Trueheart. Baxter, go ahead, bring in the sweepers and the morgue. Let's see what Morris can tell us. Have EDD come in, go over the electronics.”

“Um,” Trueheart said as he started back with Eve.

“Spit it out, Detective.”

“Baxter and I cleared the house. There wasn't any sign of struggle, any sign any of the beds had been slept in. There are two house droids, sir, but since we could see this would be your case, we didn't take them out of sleep mode.”

“We'll get to them. Big fricking house,” she commented.

“Yes, sir. Ah . . .” He cleared his throat. “There's also what appears to be a sex droid in the closet of the master bedroom.”

“Is that so? How do you know it's a sex droid?”

He flushed, pink and pretty. “Well, ah, Baxter mentioned he'd seen that model before, and it was built for that particular purpose.”

“Uh-huh,” she said and walked through to a kitchen so shiny silver and glossy black her eyes wanted to twitch.

A man sat at a square table of glass on a silver pedestal, his head in his hands, a cup of something in front of him.

He looked up as she entered, showed her a ridiculously handsome face poet pale with shock and grief. And young, she noted as she gauged him as barely old enough to drink legally.

“Are you in charge?” He had a voice like a bell—deep, clear, resonant.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Yes, I'm in charge. This is Detective Trueheart. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Baker.”

“I don't understand. I don't understand any of this. Granddad—someone killed him. I don't understand.”

Eve flicked a glance at the uniform, dismissing her, then sat across from Baker. Another glance, this one at Trueheart, had the new detective taking a seat.

“This is hard. Why don't you start by telling me why you're here. This isn't your residence.”

“No, I don't live here anymore. I did for a while, when I was just starting out. I stay sometimes. He's mostly alone here, so I stay sometimes.”

“When did you get here tonight?”

“It was late—early, I mean. Three-thirty or something.”

“Do you usually come over so early in the morning?”

“No. No. He didn't come to opening night, and he always . . . I thought maybe he forgot or just got busy, and I was even a little upset because it was my first . . .” He paused, pressed his fingers to his eyes, tawny gold, rimmed with red.

“
Whatever Works
.”

Baker dropped his hands at Trueheart's words. “It's been getting a lot of buzz,” Trueheart continued. “I just put it together. Jonas W. Baker, you're the lead. I was going to try to take my girl to see it sometime. You opened last night?”

“Yeah. Opening night. Musical comedy,” he said to Eve. “I'm the
male lead. It's my first time headlining. My mother's in Australia, and my father—well, even if he was in the country, he probably wouldn't have come. But my grandparents never missed.”

“Your grandparents?” Eve repeated.

“Yeah, they're not married anymore—not for years—but they do the united front for my plays. But she's stuck in Chicago. Her flight got canceled—they're snowed under good. What I mean is whenever I got a part, they'd be there opening night. Front row center, every time. And my grandfather was the one who backed me when I wanted to go into theater instead of law or medicine or politics—whatever would've been suitable for my parents. He backed me, and he helped me, and let me live here while I was getting my start.”

He picked up the cup in front of him, set it down again, pushed it away.

“He never missed, so when he didn't show, I thought he was running late or something. I had to put it away, you know, and do the job, do the show. We rocked the house, too, yeah, we did.”

“You must've been upset not to have him there. Big night for you,” Trueheart added.

“The biggest.”

“I guess you didn't have time to try to reach him. Try his 'link.”

“I did, actually. I left a couple v-mails. The last one, during intermission, was pretty pissy. God. And when the show was over—six curtain calls, and a standing O—what did I do? I sulked about it.”

“You wanted to share it with him,” Trueheart prompted.

“I've got a girl, too, and she was there. But . . . he's the one I wanted most. I just wanted him to see all that faith and support, they weren't wasted.”

“You wanted to make him proud.”

“More than anything. So when he didn't come, didn't contact me, didn't even send a message, I thought, Okay, fine, and went to the
after-party. I drank a shitload of champagne, basked in the glory, basked some more when the reviews started coming in. Megastar—that's me—in a megahit. I'm a freaking triple threat who owned the stage. Yeah, I basked. We're all flying, nobody wants to let go of the night, you know. We're going to go have some food somewhere, but I can't let it go, I can't let go he didn't come. So I tell everybody I'll catch up, but I have to take care of something.”

He took a breath. “I know it was getting on to three o'clock by then. It just started nagging at me. My voice coach was there, my ex-girlfriend was there, my girlfriend, actors I'd worked with off Broadway, friends from Juilliard, all there. But the most important person hadn't come. And it nagged at me because why hadn't he come? I finally realized—got over myself and realized—something must've happened. Maybe he got sick or had an accident, something. So I came over, half expecting to find him sick in bed, or hurt on the floor—though he's healthy as they get and really fit. Then I opened the door, and . . . God. God, God, God.”

Eve gave him a minute while he wrapped his arms tight, rocked, as tears streamed down his face.

“Mr. Baker—”

“Jonas. You could call me Jonas. I was named for him.”

“Jonas, was the door secured?”

“Was the door secured? Ah, yes. Yes, I have the swipe, the codes. I came in, and saw him. I thought: That's not real. It can't be real. I called for him, I actually called for him as if he could make it stop.”

His breath tore; his voice broke.

“It's okay, Jonas.” Trueheart's voice was gentle as a mother's touch. “Take a minute. Take your time.”

“It's just—I didn't know what to do. I feel like I just stood there forever, doing
nothing
. Telling myself it wasn't happening. Just stood there. Then, I don't know, I looked down and my 'link was in my hand. I don't
remember getting it out of my pocket. Don't remember doing it. I called nine-one-one, and the guy on the other end, he kept telling me to stay calm, to breathe, help was coming. And the police came. Everything in slow motion but really fast. How can that be? I didn't know what to do for him. He always knew what to do for me.”

“You did the right thing,” Trueheart assured him. “You did what was best for him. You got help.”

“They—someone—took his life. And they took his dignity. Why?”

“It's my job to find that out.” As Trueheart played it easy, Eve played it brisk. “When was the last time you spoke with him?”