Innocent in Death (30 page)

It was all simple, really, and she’d thought about doing this before. Considered it. They would think her mother had self-terminated, out of guilt and despair. They’d think her mother had killed Mr. Foster, Mr. Williams, then hadn’t been able to live with it.

She knew her mother had had sex with Mr. Williams. She’d confessed it the night before the police had come to search. Rayleen was good at hearing things adults didn’t want her to hear. Her mother and father had talked and talked, and her mother had cried like a baby. Disgusting.

And her father had forgiven her mother. It had been a mistake, he said. They’d start fresh.

That had been disgusting, too—just like the sounds they’d made when they had sex after. If anyone lied to her the way her mother had to her father, she’d have made them pay. And pay and pay.

Actually, that’s what she was doing now, she decided as she set the oversized teacup on a tray. Mommy had to be punished for being bad. And by punishing her, it would all be tidied up again.

Then it would just be her and Daddy. She’d really be his one and only with Mommy gone.

She’d have to put her diary in the recycler now, and that made her mad. All because of that mean, nosy Lieutenant Dallas. One day she’d find a way to make
her
pay for that.

But for now, it was better to get rid of it.

Daddy would buy her a brand-new one.

“Rayleen.” Allika came to the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“I think you should rest, Mommy. Look, I made you tea. Ginseng because you like it best. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Allika looked at the cup on the tray, on the bed. Everything inside her went weak. “Rayleen.”

“You’re tired and you have a headache.” Rayleen folded down the duvet, the sheets, plumped the pillows. “I’m going to make it all better. I’m going to sit with you while you rest. We girls have to take care of each other, don’t we?”

Rayleen turned with a bright, bright smile.

And maybe it was best, Allika thought as she moved like a sleepwalker to the bed. Maybe it was the only way. She let Rayleen smooth out the sheets, let her place the tray, even lift the cup.

“I love you,” Allika said.

“I loveyou, Mommy. Now drink your tea, and everything will be better.”

With her eyes on her daughter’s, Allika drank.

20

WHITNEY LISTENED, AND HE ABSORBED. HIS HANDS, which had been very still throughout his questioning of his lieutenant, began to tap fingers on the edge of his desk. “The mother suspects her daughter caused the boy to fall.”

“The mother knows her daughter caused the boy to fall,” Eve insisted. “She may have convinced herself, or tried to convince herself, it was an accident. Tried to patch her life back together, suffering from periodic bouts of depression and anxiety. In her gut she knows exactly what I know. It was no accident.”

“No one witnessed the fall.” But Whitney’s face was stony, his eyes dark and deep.

“Dr. Mira, in your opinion, given the scenario, is it natural for a girl to step over or around her younger brother’s dead body, while her parents are hysterical, to play with a toy?”

“That’s a broad question. The child may have been in shock or denial.”

“She was wearing the slippers. Ones she had to go downstairs to get, before she woke her parents.”

“Yes.”

“According to the investigator’s report on the death of Straffo, he died just after four A.M. on the morning of December twenty-fifth,” Eve continued. “Statements given by both parents claim they were up, setting up the gifts, filling the stockings until about two-thirty. At which time, they had a glass of wine, then went upstairs, checking on both children before they retired, at around three. Rayleen woke them at five.”

For a moment Mira thought of the times she and Dennis had been up until the early hours of Christmas morning, putting everything together while their children slept. And how they’d snatched a few hours of exhausted sleep before the kids woke and rushed into the bedroom.

“It would be possible that the girl snuck down between the times her parents went to bed and her brother got up. But the slippers are an oddity,” Mira agreed. “I agree, it seems strange for a child of that age to sneak down, put on slippers, then go back to bed for nearly two hours.”

“Because she didn’t,” Eve said flatly. “She got up—and I’ll guarantee she had an alarm set for it because she’s a planner—fitting your profile—she likes her schedules. She got up, went into her brother’s room. She got him up, told him to be very quiet. When they got to the top of the stairs—which, according to the investigators’ reports, was at the opposite end of the second floor from the master bedroom—she pushed him.”

That little body flying out, tumbling, tumbling. Breaking.

“Then she walked down, checked to make sure she’d done a good job of it, before she went in to see what goodies she was getting from Santa. And what sort of things she would enjoy that would have been for her brother.”

She saw the horror of the picture she was painting play across Mira’s face. “She put the slippers on. She likes things with her name on them. That was a little mistake,” Eve added. “Like mentioning the diary to me. But she couldn’t resist. She probably played awhile. Her parents weren’t going to notice if she’d moved something a little, and she wouldn’t have resisted. It was all hers now.

“Then she went back up. I wonder if she even noticed her brother’s body at that point. He was no longer an issue.”

She shifted her gaze to Whitney, noted that his hands had gone still again, and that his face showed nothing. Nothing at all. “She might have tried to go back to sleep for a little while, but it was too hard. All those toys downstairs, and nobody to share them with anymore. So she woke up her parents so she could get back to what she wanted to do.”

“What you’re describing…” Mira began.

“Is a sociopath. And that’s exactly what she is. A sociopath with homicidal tendencies, a very keen intellect, and a big-ass chunk of narcissism. That’s why she kept the diary. It’s her only way of bragging about what she can do, and get away with doing.”

“We need the diary.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded at Whitney.

“Why Foster and Williams?”

“Foster, I don’t know, unless it was for the hell of it. I don’t know,” she said again, “because she doesn’t strike me as a for-the-hell-of-it type. Williams was a very handy and unexpected goat. That’s on me, too. I pushed at him, and she saw the opportunity not only to kill again—because I think this time she got a taste for it—but to hand me a suspect. Either in him or in Mosebly. I wouldn’t doubt she knew something had gone on between them.”

“Even with the diary, even if it gives chapter and verse, it may be difficult to prove she did this on her own, or at all. Her father will, no doubt, block every step you take from here.”

“I’ll handle Straffo, sir, and I’ll get Rayleen to confess.”

“How?” Mira wondered.

“I’ll make her want to tell me.” Her communicator signaled. “With permission, Commander?” At his nod, she pulled it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”

“Sir, she left the museum minutes before I got here. I’ve been going over the place with the security cameras, and just now asked them to do a playback of the hour before I arrived. I tagged her. The nanny got a ’link call, then they exited the building on the Eighty-first Street side almost as I was coming in on Fifth.”

“Her mother. Damn it. Head back to the Straffo apartment. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll come with you. I may be useful,” Mira insisted.

“Yes, you may.” Whitney got to his feet. “Lieutenant, I want to know the minute you locate…the suspect. I want to know if and when you find this diary.”

“Yes, sir. You’re going to have to keep up,” she said to Mira, then moved fast.

Cora’s conscience pricked her until she got off the subway heading downtown, crossed over, and took the uptown train. It was too early to meet her friends for the vid matinee they’d planned on. And she didn’t really need to browse the shops where she’d just spend money she’d be better off keeping.

Most of all, she couldn’t get Mrs. Straffo’s poor, pale face out of her head. Maybe it was just a headache, maybe it was. But she knew very well the woman went into the blue place every now and then. It wasn’t right to leave her there, to leave Rayleen alone with her if the mum was feeling sad and sick.

She’d just check another time, she told herself. Fix that nice cuppa for the missus, and a bite to eat. If the missus needed to rest, why, she’d just cancel her date with her friends and take the girl out herself. No point in having the mite’s day spoiled because her mum was doing poorly.

Fact was, she’d never be easy, she wouldn’t have a good time at all worrying about the missus and the mite.

Such a rough patch they were all going through, with those horrible murders right at the school, and the police swarming all over the house like ants.

Hardly a wonder poor Mrs. Straffo was feeling blue.

Some tea, maybe a little soup, a nice nap. Those were the tickets.

Cora got off the subway, climbed up the steps to street level and began to walk through the blustery air. She was so lucky to have a position like this, with such a lovely family in such a beautiful home in such an exciting city.

The girl was fun and bright—a bit testy now and then, sure, but neat as a pin. And so interested in every little thing. And never did you hear a raised voice or dodge a thrown dish, as you would as a matter of course in her own house back in Ireland.

Truth be told, she missed the yelling and carryings-on from time to time. But she couldn’t ask for a better position with a nicer family.

She smiled at the doorman, gave him a bit of a flirt. Now if that one had asked her to a vid matinee, she might have ignored those pricks in her conscience.

She took out her key as she rode up to the top. When she let herself in, it was so quiet, she wondered if she’d overreacted and Mrs. Straffo and Rayleen had gone out to lunch and the salon after all.

Wouldn’t she justkick herself if she’d wasted the subway fare!

She called out, got no answer. Rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you an arse, Cora?”

She nearly turned right around and went back out, but decided to glance in the coat closet first. Surely if the missus had gone out, she’d have worn a coat, and there were none missing that she could see.

She called out again as she started upstairs.

And there was Rayleen, sitting at her desk in her room with her headset on while she worked on her art. No point in bothering her, Cora thought, though she did raise her eyebrows at the snack of chocolate cake and a fizzy on the desk.

They’d have a bit of a word about that one later.

For now, she was worried about the missus. Probably gone to bed with that headache, she thought. And without a bite to eat.

Since the bedroom door was closed, she knocked softly, then opened it to peek in.

There was Mrs. Straffo in bed, a tray across her lap, and a cup overturned on it. Fell asleep sitting up, poor lamb, spilled the tea, Cora thought, and moved forward quietly to take it away.

She saw the pill bottle then, the empty bottle lying on the duvet.

“Oh, Mother of God. Sweet Jesus. Missus!” She grabbed Allika’s shoulders, shook. When there was no response, she slapped her once, twice.

Terrified, she grabbed for the bedside ’link.

Are you troubled by this situation on a personal level?” Mira asked.

“I haven’t decided.” Eve was running hot, sirens screaming. “I don’t know if I didn’t look at her hard enough, straight enough, right from the get because I didn’t want to, because I was fucked up about Roarke, or because it just didn’t click. Probably won’t ever know.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“Yeah, sure. You stupid son of a bitch, don’t you
hear
the sirens?”

“I think…” And Mira decided she’d just close her eyes so the image of oncoming death by traffic wouldn’t distract her. “No one would have looked at her hard enough or straight enough initially. We’re wired to protect the young, not to believe them capable of premeditated murder. You may be right about her, about all of it. I believe you’re right about what happened to her brother. However, my opinion on this veers more heavily toward Arnette Mosebly.”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty what?”

“I got fifty that says I’m right, you’re wrong.”

“You want to bet on a murderer?”

“It’s just money.”

“All right,” Mira said after a moment. “Fifty it is.”

“Done. Now I’ll tell you why she didn’t do it. The school’s her core, her pride, her vanity. Maybe she could kill, but she’d do it off school grounds. She wouldn’t bring that kind of publicity, that kind of smear to her beloved Sarah Child. This is costing her students. And it’s probably going to cost her her job.”

“A good argument, but self-preservation supersedes even a treasured job. If Foster knew about her relationship with Williams, he was a direct threat—and may have told her he intended to report her. Williams, by her own statement, did just that, in an attempt to blackmail her into keeping him on.”

“Want to make it a hundred?”

Before Mira could answer, Eve’s communicator signaled again. “Okay, what now? Dallas.”

“Dallas, Allika Straffo’s on her way to the hospital. OD’d. Her condition is critical.”

“Where’s the kid?”

“The au pair took her. They left right after the ambulance, took a cab to Parkside, it’s the closest. I missed this by minutes, again. First on scene said the kid was hysterical.”

“I bet she was. You in the penthouse?”

“I came up to talk to the cops who responded to the nine-one-one. MTs were called in by the au pair. Reported overdose, which sent out the uniforms.”

“I want the diary. Find it. I’m headed to the hospital.”

“This isn’t your fault.” Mira shifted in her seat when Eve whipped the wheel. “If this woman couldn’t face the idea that her daughter killed and tried—or succeeded—in self-terminating, it isn’t on you.”

“The fact that I didn’t figure the kid would kill her own mother is on me. If Allika Straffo swallowed a fistful of pills, it’s because that little bitch gave them to her. Goddamn it.”

She punched the gas. “If she was going to do herself, she’d have left a note. Going to protect the kid, she’d have left a note confessing. If she was just going to give it up, can’t face it anymore, why did she call the kid home?”

“Rayleen realized her mother knew, and might be a threat.” Mira shook her head. “Induce her to take an overdose, and the threat’s removed. Her own mother.”

“She shoved her little brother, who was wearing footie pj’s, down the steps on Christmas morning. Pumping Mom full of pills isn’t much of a stretch.”

“If Allika Straffo dies, you’ll never prove it. Even if she lives, she may not implicate her own child.”

“She’ll be counting on that. She’s going to be wrong.”

Eve strode into the chaotic misery of the ER, scanned the bruised, the bleeding, the broken. She snagged a hustling nurse, then flipped out her badge to cut through any bull. “Straffo, Allika, OD. Where?”

“Trauma Room Three. Badge or no badge, you can’t go in. Dr. Dimatto’s a little busy trying to save her life.”

Louise Dimatto. Eve smiled. Sometimes it actually paid to have friends.

“You can get in there. So go in, tell Louise that Dallas needs a status report on her patient. Where’s the kid? The Straffo kid?”

“In the A chairs, with her nanny, father’s on the way. You know Doctor D?”

“Yeah, we go back. A chairs?”

“Follow me.”

Apparently claiming Louise had grease, and slid Eve and Mira straight through the general area to the trauma section. In an alcove across from a set of double swinging doors sat Rayleen, huddled against Cora.

The kid’s face was splotchy from weeping, eyes red and swollen. Eve thought:Good job. Drama Club paid off.

Cora spotted Eve first, and her eyes went weepy. “Lieutenant Dallas. It’s…it’s the missus.”

But Eve’s eyes were all for Rayleen. The girl’s body stiffened.
Didn’t
expect me to drop in, did you? Eve thought. Then Rayleen pressed closer to Cora.

“I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I just want my mommy.”

“There, there now, darling. Don’t you fret. The lieutenant’s only here to try to help. Everyone’s here to help.”

Eve glanced at Mira, jerked her head. Understanding, Mira stepped forward.