Innocent in Death (27 page)

18

AFTER DINNER, EVE BEGAN TO SEARCH AND CROSSREFERENCE every name in the address books she’d taken during the search of the Straffo penthouse. While it ran, she started a chart of schedules.

Intersections, she thought again. Parallel lines. But a triangle here, not a circle.

Idly, she doodled a triangle on a pad, drew a horizontal line through its center. “What would you call this?”

Roarke glanced over her shoulder. “What you have there is a midpoint proportionality, a segment whose endpoints are the midpoints of two sides of a triangle. A segment that is parallel to the third side—its length half the length of that third side.”

“Jeez, über-geek. I see a kind of box inside a triangle. A connect from another source.”

“That as well.”

“Huh.” While he wandered off to the kitchen, she rose and updated her murder board. Her computer signaled the assigned task was completed before she was finished.

“Display results.” She started to turn just as Roarke came out of the kitchen with a tray. “We already ate.”

“We did indeed.” He crossed, set the tray on the table, then took off a small plate. And turning, offered it. “And this is a homemade fudge brownie.”

Her heart, she was embarrassed to realize, just melted. “Man, you never miss a trick.”

“You can thank Summerset later.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I asked if he’d bake a batch. So you can thank me as well.” Roarke held the plate just out of reach, tapped his lips with the index finger of his free hand.

She rolled her eyes, but it was only for form. Then leaned in, pecked a kiss on his lips, and snatched the brownie. “Damn me if I’m kissing those bird lips of Summerset.” She bit in, then just groaned. “Oh, God, this is really…Are there more?”

“Maybe.”

“I’d better space it out. I think this is the chocolate equivalent of Zeus.” On another bite she turned to read the data. “Son of a bitch! I fucking knew I was right.”

“About…” He scanned the data. “One Harmon, Quella, female, age fifty-eight of Taos, New Mexico. Two marriages, two divorces, no offspring. Occupation, artist.”

“What kind of artist?”

Cocking his head, he continued to read the data. “Specializes in fashion and jewelry, stone and leatherwork. Leatherwork. Ah.”

“Ah, my ass. Bull’s-fucking-eye. If that’s not the ricin source, Iwill kiss the hideous lips of Summerset. The castor beans, they still grow wild in arid areas. I bet New Mexico has some arid areas. And I bet a leather artist living out there uses the oil in leather preparation.”

“Certainly that may be, and how does Quella Harmon connect—or are we still using ‘intersect’—with your victims?”

“By being the maternal aunt of Allika Straffo. Means,” Eve stated. “Closing right in on means. Computer, search date books on each Straffo individual in evidence for any travel to New Mexico over the past six months. No, amend. A full year. And/or any mention during that time period in same of Harmon, Quella, to New York.”

Acknowledged. Working…

“You think Straffo took a sample of ricin from this woman, with or without her knowledge, carried it back to New York, then used it to poison Foster.”

“I damn well do.”

“All right, means I’ll give you, Eve, but you’ve lost motive again, haven’t you? Unless the computer reports that there was contact with this Harmon in the last couple of months, it would have been prior to Allika’s affair with Williams, prior to Foster having knowledge of it.”

“Uh-huh. Parallel lines.”

Task complete. Straffo, Oliver, Allika, and Rayleen traveled by commercial shuttle from New York to Taos, New Mexico, on November twenty-six. Returned to New York by commercial shuttle on November thirty…

“That’s before Allika took up with Williams, according to their statements. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” But Eve was smiling grimly.

“Then unless Straffo is a sensitive with psychic tendencies, why would he transport a poisonous substance on a commercial carrierbefore his wife strayed?”

“Maybe it wasn’t a poisonous substance at that time, maybe it was just a bag of beans. But it’s all about planning and possibilities. Opportunities. Curiosity.”

As she spoke, she walked back, circling the board again. Then she continued to pin photos, lists, notes, data. “Computer, print out displayed data. Hard copy.”

Acknowledged…

And now Roarke circled, studied, scanned while she went to retrieve the printout.

He could see she was building something. It was the way she’d arranged the pieces on the board, how she continued to arrange them. Into some sort of pattern she, obviously, saw in her head. Or felt in her gut.

Her mind, he knew, was labyrinthine and linear, fluid, flexible, and stubbornly rigid. He could and did admire it without ever fully understanding its workings. Her gut, he believed absolutely, was close to infallible.

He stepped back and let his own mind clear, refocus, in an attempt to see what she was moving toward.

When he did, his shock was instant. His denial automatic. “You can’t be serious.”

“You see it?”

“I see what you’re stitching together, what pattern you’ve made out of it. But I can’t put my head around why you’d aim in that direction.”

“What? You don’t think a ten-year-old girl can be a stone-cold killer?”

She said it casually as she pinned Harmon’s photo and data to the side of the triangle she’d made out of the Straffos. “I murdered at eight,” she reminded him.

“Not murder, not close to it. You saved your own life, and destroyed a monster. You’re talking about a child deliberately and coldly planning and carrying out the murder of two adults.”

“Maybe more than that.” Eve reached into her file, took out the ID photo of Trevor Straffo she’d already printed. And pinned it in the center of the triangle.

“Christ Jesus, Eve.”

“Maybe he fell down the steps. Maybe he did. Maybe he had help. Maybe it was a tragic accident, which involved his sister.”

Her gaze was pinned now, to Rayleen Straffo’s violet eyes. “Excited, running, a couple of kids, one trips over the other, over his own feet. Whatever. But you know what?”

She turned, and those flat cop’s eyes met Roarke’s now. “I don’t think so. I think she pushed him. I think she got him up when her parents were sleeping, lured him out of bed. Don’t make any noise. Santa’s downstairs! Let’s peek.”

“Well, my God,” Roarke muttered.

“Then, when he gets to the steps, a good hard shove. No more little brother edging in on your territory. Squeezing into the center of your circle.”

“How can you think this? She’d have been all but a baby herself when that happened.”

“Seven. She’d have been seven. She’d had all the spotlight for five of those years, and now she has to share it. Maybe it’s a novelty at first, let’s play with the baby. But it got old, and they’re not paying nearly enough attention to Rayleen. Princess Rayleen. Just have to fix that, won’t we?”

“What you’re saying, it’s obscene.”

“Murder always is. The mother knows,” Eve said quietly. “She knows. She’s terrified and she’s sick and she tries different ways to escape the horror of it. But she can’t.”

“You’re so sure of it.”

“I saw it in her. I know it. But knowing it and proving it, especially something like this, are way different.”

He had to struggle to overcome an innate and instinctive denial. “All right, even considering you may be right about the boy, why Foster? Why Williams? Because of her mother’s affair?”

“I don’t think she’d give a flat shit about her mother’s affair. Sex isn’t on her radar, not really. And it doesn’t really apply to her directly. I don’t know why, that’s the bitch of it. I’ve got Peabody searching through Foster’s student records to start. Maybe he caught her cheating, or stealing.”

Didn’t fit, she thought, annoyed with herself. Didn’t really jibe. “There were a few illegals in student lockers. Maybe she’s selling or using. If she was threatened by him in some way, or felt he could or would do something to screw up her perfect world, she could kill him to prevent it.”

She began to pace. “I need Mira’s take. For me, this kid fits the profile down the line. But I need Mira to back that up. I need that, and I need to catch Allika alone tomorrow. Wear her down, break through the protective shield. I need more than what I’ve got because unless I’m completely crazy, this kid’s killed three people in her first decade. And she hasn’t even come close to hitting her stride.”

“How would she know what ricin is, much less how to use it?”

“Kid’s smart. Smart enough to listen, observe, and check the web.”

“And the paralytic used on Williams. How’d she get her hands on it?”

“She volunteers, some organization called From the Kids. You know what they do?” She tapped the copy of Rayleen’s busy schedule. “They visit pediatric wards, geriatric wards, spend time with the sick and infirm to brighten their day. I bet she could get whatever the hell she wanted. Who’s going to look at some sweet, socially conscious little girl? I need to find her diary.”

“You’re sure she has one?”

“That was a little mistake she made right off, mentioning her diary to me when she was pulling the spotlight on herself. Cued in to that from the get,” Eve told him. “All those
I’s. I
saw,
I
found,
I
think,
I
know. But I didn’t see, not clearly enough.”

Her mouth firmed. “Well, neither did she. How could she know I’d go poking around in her personal space? It’ll be in her diary—all of it. Who can pat her on the back but herself? The only way to do that is to write it down. She got it out of the house before we searched it.”

She circled the board again, picking out details, separating them, mixing them together again. “Plenty of time to get it out of the house while her daddy flexed his lawyer muscles. Hell, maybe she destroyed it. She’s smart enough to have done that, cover herself. Maybe I just have to prove, for now, that she
had
a diary.”

“You’re cool about this,” Roarke commented.

“I have to be. I let it slip by, again and again. I didn’t want to look there. Jesus, who would? I didn’t want to look at that kid with her pretty curls and see a murderer. But I did. I do. If I’m going to get justice for the dead, I have to have every detail and tie them up with a bow. Nobody’s going to want to hang multiple premeditated murders on a sweet-faced school girl.”

“If you’re right…what if there are more?”

Letting out a breath, Eve switched displays on screen manually, brought up Rayleen’s ID photo. “Yeah, that’s gone through my head, and stuck in my gut. What if there are more? Sick kids, sick elderly. Did she put one down? She’s got activities scheduled all over hell and back. How many people does she
intersect
with every day, every week, month, and so on? Was there another accident, another death, another unsolved murder? Going to find out eventually.”

“She must be very, very sick.”

“I don’t know what she is, but I know I’m going to do everything I know how to do so she pays for what she’s done.” She saw his face, felt her muscles tighten. “You think I should feel sorry for her?”

“I can’t say, that’s God’s truth. I’m not sure what to think, but the fact is you believe, and you’ve crafted a very convincing argument that thischild has committed cold-blooded murder.”

He stepped up to her triangle again, her family gallery. “Let me argue back. Have you considered that one or both of her parents killed, that somehow
she
knows. That this is what you sense in her.”

“We’ll keep it on the table.”

“Eve.” He turned to her, his intense eyes in contrast to his gentle hand as he touched her hair. “I need to ask. Is there something in you that wants it to be her?”

“No. No. There’s something in me that doesn’t want it to be her. So I let it slip by, I didn’t look close enough. Then today, standing with her in that perfect little girl’s room, I couldn’t not look. I couldn’t not see. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, Roarke. But I can feel sick about it.”

“All right, then.” He rested his brow on hers. “All right. What can I do?”

“Can you think like a homicidal ten-year-old girl?”

“It’s not in my usual repertoire, but I can give it a try.”

“If you kept a diary, and didn’t destroy it,
and
were smart enough to know you had to get it out of the house, where would you put it?”

She turned away, paced around the board once more. “She’s got dance class, probably has a locker of some kind there, or she could have a hidey-hole at one of the wards she visits. The school’s too risky, she wouldn’t be that careless. Maybe—”

“Who’s her closest mate?”

“Her what? I figure her for a killer, but I don’t think she’s already having sex.”

“Friend, Eve. Her best friend.”

“Oh.” Eve narrowed her eyes. “I’d vote for Melodie Branch. That’s the kid who was with her when they found Foster. She has regularly scheduled socialization dates with her. That’s a strong maybe. I’m going to tag Peabody for some OT. We’ll pay a visit to Melodie tomorrow, and to Allika. I need to talk to Mira.”

“Eve, it’s nearly eleven at night.”

“So? Shit,” she muttered when he only sent her a mild stare. “Okay, I’ll save that for the morning. Better, probably. It’ll give me time to write this all up, set it up, lay it out. I’m going to need a lot of muscle—mine, hers, Whitney’s—to pull the kid in for a formal interview.”

She went back to her desk, sat, and prepared to get started. “So…I figure I should ask so it’s not hanging anywhere. Did Magdelana contact you after she tried your ’link before?”

“No.”

“Have you thought about how you’re going to handle it—her—whatever, when she does?”

“If and when, I’ll take care of it. She won’t cause us more trouble, Eve. My word on that.”

“Good. Well, this is going to take me a few hours.”

“I’ve some work I can catch up on.”

“Are we still on for that date tomorrow? Schmaltzy hearts and flowers followed by crazed sex?”

“I believe I have it as ‘inventive sex’ on my schedule. I’ll just amend that to ‘crazed.’”