The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [50]
She studied his face. “Maybe it’s too late to make any difference to you, or to me. But I needed to say it to your face. I’ll take a truth test if you want it. Or I’ll resign as I said I would, and you can write me off.”
He told himself he didn’t believe her, not a single word. But there was pain under his heart, like a knife between the ribs. He was afraid it was truth stabbing at him. “You should understand that at least some of what you’re claiming I’ll be able to verify or debunk.”
“I hope you’ll do just that. There’s one other thing. She wore a claddaugh, a silver claddaugh on her left hand—like a wedding ring, she told me, that he’d bought her when you were born. His promise that you’d be a family, in the eyes of God and man. When she came out of the bedroom, Meg Roarke was wearing Siobhan’s ring. The ring that girl wouldn’t take off her finger, even after he’d beaten her. The bitch was wearing it on her pinky, as her hands were too fat for it. And when she saw my eyes land on it, when she saw that I knew . . . she smiled.”
Tears began to run down her cheeks now. “He killed her—because she left, because she came back. Because he could. And kept you, I suppose, because you were the image of him. If I hadn’t pushed her so hard, had given her more time to heal. To think . . .”
She wiped her face, and rose to go to her desk. From a drawer she took a small photograph. “This is all I have. I took this myself of the two of you the day before she left the shelter. You should have it,” she said, and handed it to him.
He looked down, saw a young girl with red hair and green eyes still bruised from a beating. She wore a simple blue shirt with that red hair falling over its shoulders. She was smiling, though her eyes were sad and tired, she was smiling, with her cheek pressed against that of her baby. A face that was still rounded and soft with innocence, but unmistakably his own.
So he was smiling as well. A bright, happy smile. And the hand that cuddled him close had a silver claddaugh on its long, delicate finger.
Chapter 8
Portography was within easy walking distance from the college, Eve noted with some interest, and had a two-tiered parking port—shared by residents and patrons—jammed between the building and its neighbor.
“Check and see if there are any security cams for the parking facility,” she told Peabody. “If there are, I want the discs for the night of Howard’s murder.”
The sign on the lot flashed FULL, but Eve pulled in anyway to study the setup. And flipping on her On Duty light, parked behind an aged minitruck.
“We’ll run the vehicles registered to residents and staff. See if we get anything that carries the carpet fibers.” She scanned the lot, counting two vans and another truck. “Could he be this careless or this arrogant?” she wondered. “Plan it all out, then get busted because of his ride?”
“They always make mistakes, right?”
“Yeah.” Eve headed to the iron steps leading down to street level. “There’s always something. It’s doable. Get her into the vehicle over by the college, tranq her enough to keep her quiet, drive to another parking deck. Get her inside, do it, then cart her back to the vehicle, drive downtown, dump her. And your work is done.
“Risks, lots of risks,” she said more to herself now. “But if you’re careful, if you’re driven, you factor in the risks. That’s what he does. Plans it out, plots it out. Times it. Runs computer programs, maybe, on probabilities, on routes. All the details.”
“It wasn’t that late when he took her,” Peabody pointed out. “Between nine and nine-thirty, right? Maybe somebody noticed him coming or going.”
Eve studied the street, the building, the steps and glides that serviced it, and the parking tiers. “How does he get a dead girl out of the building and into his ride? Takes his time, waits until it’s late, late enough that there’s not much activity on the street. Not so busy in the summer, so not too late. Not so many students hitting the clubs and cafés, and