Payback in Death, page 25
“I need to—” She broke off, turned as she heard someone coming. Baxter stepped in.
“Roarke, looking sharp.”
“As you do, Detective.”
“Do my best. Serious thanks for this.” He opened the jacket of his sharp suit to show the Thin Shield. “Saved me a solid jolt.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“So, LT, nothing on the two we talked to. One was front row center at her kid’s school play—and that checks. The other was on a big date at Calypso. He used the fancy restaurant to propose right about Greenleaf’s TOD in front of wits. Also checks out. And he said yes.”
“New angle, new filter.” She ran it through, as clear and precise as she had for Feeney.
“That’s a good one.”
“Tell Peabody and, if you stay clear, work it with her.”
“You got it.”
“I’ve got to write up the last interviews, then start digging on this again.”
“I’ll get out of your way,” Roarke added.
“Getting in my way pushed out this new angle, so thanks.”
“Happy to be of service. I could be of more if you want to do your write-up, then leave near to end of shift and do the digging at home. I could amuse myself, then go home with you, help with that.”
“What about Zimbabwe?”
“It’ll still be there.”
“Actually, there’s a set of financials. Peabody ran them, but—”
“And there you’ve provided my amusement. Send them to me and I’ll find a spot, entertain myself until you’re done.”
“Sounds like a deal. Seriously, thanks. Bitching to you stopped the wheels from spinning.”
“Wouldn’t you want them to?”
“Not when they’re stuck in the mud.” She revolved her index fingers to demonstrate.
“Ah. Well then.” He took her shoulders. And though she eyed the open door, she didn’t hear anyone coming. She kissed him.
“Give me about an hour to clear things up here. I’ll send you the data, then I’ll tag you when I’m done.”
She got fresh coffee when he left, then sat. She took one last long look at her board.
“I think you’re on there. In my gut I think you’re on there. But if you’re not, you will be.”
Because she needed to focus on the report, the details of the interviews, she set the new angle aside. Its time would come, and soon.
Halfway through the first interview, her communicator signaled.
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 210 Beach Street.
“That’s Carlie Greenleaf’s address.”
Affirmative. Male victim, Greenleaf, Benjamin, found hanging by the neck on premises, currently unconscious, transported to Saint Anne’s Hospital. Called in by Webster, Detective Donald, with request for your immediate dispatch.
“Acknowledged. On the way. Son of a bitch!” She leaped up, rushed out. “Son of a fucking bitch. Peabody, with me, now!”
She spotted Roarke at Santiago’s desk. Since Carmichael’s was empty, she decided murder hadn’t taken much of a break after all.
Roarke reached her as she strode to the elevators.
“We got another goddamn filter,” she told them both. “Unless we buy Ben Greenleaf just tried to hang himself at his sister’s house right after his father’s memorial, somebody did it for him.”
“Is he dead?” Peabody asked as they pushed on the elevator.
“Not yet. At the hospital, unconscious. Noy, this fits Noy. Son hanged himself. It fits. Work it, Peabody, add this in. We’ll see how many others, if any, it fits. Because it sure as hell fits that.
“Damn it.” As the elevator stopped again, more cops got on, she shoved off for the glides.
“Somebody like Noy, and with his rank? He could’ve made off with his decommissioned service weapon. He’d have found a way, and easy enough. At his desk, weapon on the floor. Son hangs himself a few months later. They didn’t wait that long, but they’re mirroring.”
“If he makes it,” Peabody said as she worked her PPC, “he could ID the killer.”
“If,” Eve repeated, and jumped on the next glide.
Chapter Eighteen
Peabody got into the back of the car before Roarke could.
“I can use the room,” she told him. “I’m getting a couple offspring suicides.”
“Hanging only. Mirror details.”
“Okay, that changes that.”
“It’s a connection.” Eve hit the lights, the siren and streaked out of the garage. “To Noy, or someone like him, and Greenleaf. Someone who came to the memorial, and went to the house after. Someone who’s inserted themselves into the Greenleaf family. Had to know them, had to have been in the apartment before, in the daughter’s house before. Had to know the layout to make this work.”
She sped through a red light, and swung hard around an all-terrain that didn’t take the siren seriously.
“Why don’t I let Feeney know this last development,” Roarke suggested. “He can add it to his search.”
“Do that. Cops right on scene,” she muttered. “Webster and Angelo for sure, and likely others. It’s fucking ballsy.”
“Add cruel with it, trying to kill, and perhaps succeeding, the son on the day his father’s memorialized.”
Eve spared Roarke a look. “The cruelty’s part of the point.”
She braked in front of the townhome, double-parked beside a cruiser. A beat droid stood at the door.
She engaged her recorder.
“Lieutenant. Sir, Detective Webster is inside, and the scene is secure. I have the door. My counterpart has the rear. Two uniform officers are assisting the detective.”
“Stay on the door.”
She’d expected to find more people inside. About a dozen sat or wandered the living area—including a couple of cops she’d seen at the memorial service.
The uniform on watch turned to her. “Sir.”
“Webster.”
“In the back, Lieutenant. My partner is upstairs, holding the crime scene secure.”
Roarke handed Eve a field kit.
“Peabody, start taking statements. I’ll start on the scene. Roarke, do me a solid and tell Webster we’re here.”
She went upstairs and found a uniform standing at a doorway.
“Report.”
“Sir. The nine-one-one came in at sixteen-forty-eight, for the MTs and a police response. My partner and I arrived along with the MTs at sixteen-forty-two. The beat droids responded. They were just down the block. Detective Webster ordered them to take the front and rear doors. The victim, ID’d as Benjamin Greenleaf, the brother of the owner of the residence, was unconscious on the floor inside this room. Detective Webster told the MTs he’d performed CPR, successfully, as the victim wasn’t breathing when he found him, and with the assistance of a Chief Angelo, cut him down. The MTs transported him to Saint Anne’s. He was still out, LT.”
He gestured behind him. “The noose is there, the overturned chair.”
She glanced back when Webster came up the stairs, Darcia and Roarke behind him.
“I’ve got this, Officer. We’ll keep the droids on the doors. You and your partner head to Saint Anne’s and keep the victim secure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shit. Roarke, I’ve got these officers blocked in.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He laid a hand on Webster’s shoulder before he started back down.
“Don’t say I have to stay out of it. I know it. I found him. Beth saw him go upstairs, said he looked upset. She asked me to go up, maybe talk to him. It took me a few minutes.”
He dragged his hands over his face. “Goddamn few minutes, just like with Martin.”
“Don.” Darcia took his hand. “You know better.”
“I came up. I didn’t know exactly where he’d gone. I called him. He didn’t answer. I almost went back downstairs. Jesus, I almost went back down. Let him have a few minutes to himself, I thought, some privacy. But all the doors were open up here, except this one. So I opened it, and saw him.”
“What did you see?”
“Okay.” He breathed in, breathed out. “I saw Ben hanging from a rope—that rope. I saw the overturned chair. I shouted, rushed in, grabbed his legs, shoved him up. Darcia came in.”
“I was at the base of the stairs,” she said. “I’d just come in from the small parlor where I’d gathered up some dishes. I heard Don shout, set them down, and ran up.”
“She cut the rope. I had a penknife in my pocket. She got it out. The rope was secured to the hook near the window—you can see the swing chair they took down from it. She got up on a chair, cut the rope.”
“The overturned chair?”
“No.” Darcia shook her head. “The one by the little desk. I didn’t want to disturb the scene more than necessary.”
“I got the rope from around his neck, started CPR because he wasn’t breathing. Darcia.”
“Some of the family started up, I held them off, then took over CPR so Don could call it in.”
“We got him breathing,” Webster continued. “The MTs, the uniforms and droids got here fast. The MTs stabilized Ben, got him transported. I ordered the beat droids to take the exterior doors and the uniforms to stand on the scene here, and on the wits downstairs. I let the family go, Dallas. Luke and Shawn took the younger kids to their place. And the rest are at the hospital.”
“All right.”
“Ben would never do this. Never. And here? Look around. This is the kids’ playroom, their game room. Their room. He’d never—”
“I know it, Webster. Not attempted suicide, attempted murder. Where are all the people who came to the wake?”
“Most everybody had left. Darcia and I were cleaning up the debris, hoping the rest would take the hint. Beth was exhausted. Carlie was in the kitchen, ah, Mina, too. I took dishes in before I went up to check on Ben.”
“Whose blood?” Eve gestured to drops on the floor, smears on the rug.”
“His. Blow to the back of the head.”
“I need you to put together a list of who you know was here.”
“Okay.”
“Go be with your family. There’s nothing else you can do here.”
“Someone hit him from behind. Blood on the back of his head. They hit him from behind, then lifted him up high enough to put that noose around his neck. There had to be two of them. He’s not a heavyweight, but it would take two. Haul him up, hold him up, secure the noose. That’s more than one person.”
He scrubbed at his face again. “And I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“Try this. Why would he come in here?”
“I don’t know.” Webster dropped his hands. “I just don’t know. Beth said he looked upset. She thought maybe he got a text or call that upset him because he was putting his ’link back in his pocket as he went upstairs.”
“I’ve got the scene, Webster. We’ll come in, take statements at the hospital when we’re done.”
“Come now.” Darcia took Webster’s hand. “The family needs you there. We go where we’re needed.”
As Darcia led him away, Eve pulled Seal-It from her field kit. When Roarke started back up the stairs, she tossed it to him. “Might as well seal up, too. He came upstairs, to this room. Kids’ playroom. Potentially got a call or text, and that’s what lured him here. Had to have it set up, because Webster was only a few minutes behind him.”
From where she stood, she scanned the scene again.
“Victim is identified as Greenleaf, Benjamin, older brother of the owner of this residence, and currently being treated at Saint Anne’s Hospital.”
She stepped into the room, gestured again to the blood trail. “The victim entered the room. Blood spatter indicates he was struck. Blow from behind. Hit him as soon as he came into the room.”
“That makes it hard to fake a suicide,” Roarke pointed out.
“They weren’t worried about that this time. The suicide didn’t stick with the captain, so that’s blown. The point here? Kill the son, murder by hanging, and that mirrors Noy. Maybe others, we’ll see, but Noy.”
She took samples of the blood for her kit, marked it before she crossed over to the window.
“According to Detective Webster’s statement, corroborated by Chief Angelo, he discovered the victim hanging no more than ten minutes after the victim came upstairs and entered.”
She crouched to examine the rope, and where Darcia had cut it.
Pulling over another chair, she examined the short length of rope still secured to the hook. “Strong knot. Two fresh cuts. One cut from Webster’s penknife to get the victim down. It looks like the other end was cut from a longer length of rope. The lab will confirm, if so. It’s a sloppy noose—effective, but sloppy. Strong cord, and the length used? You could easily hide this in one of those elephant-sized handbags, a good-sized briefcase, messenger bag. Hook’s handy,” she continued. “But you had to know it was here.”
“A room set up for kids to enjoy.” Roarke scanned it. “Gaming station, the chairs, sofa that would take a beating. Colorful walls, a crafts table and supplies, so on.”
He looked down at Eve. “Of all the rooms up here, they chose this. A destruction of innocence, another emotional blow to the family. How could the children ever play in here again?”
“Exactly. A deliberate choice. And one they’d cased before today. Webster’s right. It’s all but impossible for one person to do this. The rope, secured only to that hook—strong hook, designed to hold some solid weight. But the slack wasn’t long enough so someone could put the noose around his neck while he’s prone, then use the length to pull him up, secure the slack elsewhere.”
She rose. “Angelo kept her head, didn’t move that chair. I’m going to bet we find a mirror in the files—how it’s placed, even the type of rope used. Maybe down to the sloppy noose.”
She walked over to a pair of shelves, took down a Little League trophy. “Kid got MVP last season—good for her.”
“Christ Jesus, they’d use a child’s trophy for this?”
“And didn’t bother to wipe the blood off it.” She bagged it, sealed it, labeled it. “Didn’t have time, or didn’t care. Probably both. Had to move fast—so much risk. Do they get off on the risk? But you’ve got to get out and away before anyone wanders upstairs.”
She moved back to the door, studied it. “No inside lock. Couldn’t lock the door from in here. Gotta get back downstairs, or…”
She took out her communicator as she walked out, contacted the sweepers. And went room by room. Found it.
“Here’s the way.” She walked to the French doors in the main bedroom. “The smart way if you know the house. “Small terrace, steps going down to the not-much-bigger patio area. Go out, down.”
She did just that.
“There’s a gate—locks and security on it, but a way out.”
“The security feed might tell the tale if they were sloppy there as well.”
“I’m not counting on that, but we need to check. How about you find the security hub? I want another pass upstairs.”
She went up, timing how long it took at a fast walk to reach the door of the crime scene. Eighty-six seconds. Even at a cautious slink, under two minutes. At a jog or run, a lot less.
Say your goodbyes, she thought. If you’re close enough to the family to know the house, you’d have to say your goodbyes, make it look like you’re leaving.
You’d want people to notice you’re leaving.
Then slip upstairs.
Or …
You’ve already unlocked the gate, the French doors—if they were locked. Double back that way, go up, into the playroom and shut the door.
Pull out the rope, secure it to the hook.
Text the target. Text is smarter than a call—no conversation. Wait.
One of you behind the door with the trophy. He comes in, strike.
You need him unconscious—no struggle, no noise, no wasted time.
Shut the door, drag him over. One holds him up, the other gets on the chair, secures the noose. Turn the chair over—that mirror—slip out, down to the master bedroom.
Out, gone while the victim strangles to death.
Somebody’ll come up eventually, she thought, as she started downstairs. But how long does it take for a man to strangle?
Sloppy noose gave him half a chance, but even with that, ten minutes? A lot less for brain cells to start dying.
You have to feel pretty confident the job’s done.
But a grieving woman worries about her son, and a friend goes to check on him.
You lose.
“I just finished getting statements,” Peabody told her. “Most of the ones still here were Mrs. Greenleaf’s friends, the ones we’ve already talked to—except for Arnez—and the one who came down from Maine. Their spouses, a couple of the daughter’s friends and theirs who helped with the food, and a couple of IAB cops.”
“Upshot?”
“Some were in the kitchen area, dealing with dishes, putting food away, the rest were in the living area. I have all the names and locations. The two cops were on the point of leaving when they ran upstairs, heard the commotion and ran up. Ah, Darlie Tanaka noticed the victim go upstairs, but didn’t think anything about it. Just that he needed some quiet time.
“No one noticed anyone going up before he did,” Peabody continued. “Anja Abbott was sitting next to Mrs. Greenleaf, and heard her ask Webster to check on her son. She did see Webster go up, and thinks it was maybe five minutes later. She can’t be sure, but about five minutes. Everyone still here’s accounted for, Dallas. No one was alone during the time frame.”
Roarke walked in. “The security system, cameras, alarms, were shut down.”
“Shut down?”
“Manually, at fifteen-forty-five.”
“I want to see the feed, what we have before shutdown.”
“I thought you might. I sent a copy to your PPC. Or we can look on the monitor in the security room.”
“Let’s take the room.”
“The hub’s in the basement.”
“Peabody, the sweepers should be here any minute. Get them started. Where’s the basement?”
