J. Robb - Survivor in Death

“Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “We-they wanted to make sure Nixie and Coyle had… I can't, I can't think-” She shot off the sofa when her husband came down the curve of the stairs like a ghost.

His body swayed; his face was slack with drugs. He wore only a pair of white boxers. “Jenny?”

“Yes, baby, right here.” She dashed toward the stairs to enfold him.

“I had a dream, a terrible dream. Linnie.”

“Shh. Shh.” She stroked his hair, his back, staring over his shoulder at Eve as he bowed his body to hers. “I can't. I can't. Please, can't you go now? Can you go?”

MARRIAGE, TO EVE'S MIND, WAS A KIND OF obstacle course. You had to learn when to jump over, when to belly under, and when to stop your forward motion and change direction.

She had work, and at the moment would have preferred that forward motion. But figured when you dumped a strange kid on a spouse, you should at least give him a heads-up when it looked like the stay might be extended.

She took five minutes personal-as personal as she could manage on a pocket 'link while standing on the sidewalk.

She was surprised he answered himself, and guilty when she caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes at the interruption.

“Sorry, I can get back to you later.”

“No, I'm between-but just. Is there a problem?”

“Maybe. I don't know. Just a gut thing, and I thought I should let you know the kid might be around a little longer than I expected.”

“I told you she's welcome as long as…” He glanced away from the screen, and she saw him raise a hand. “Give me a minute here, Caro.”

“Look, this can wait.”

“Finish it out. Why do you think she won't be with the Dysons in the next day or so?”

“They're in bad shape, and my timing didn't help. Mostly, it's a gut feeling. I'm thinking about contacting the-what is she-the grandmother?-when I find a minute. And there's a stepsister, his side, somewhere. Just a backup. Maybe a temporary deal until the Dysons are… better equipped or whatever.”

“That's fine, but meanwhile she's all right where she is.” He frowned. “You're thinking it might be considerable time before they're able to take her. Weeks?”

“Maybe. Family member should take the interim. I could bring GPS in, but I don't want to. Not if I can avoid it. Maybe I didn't read the Dysons right, but I figured you should know the kid might be around longer than we thought.”

“We'll deal with it.”

“Okay. Sorry to hold you up.”

“No problem. I'll see you at home.”

But when he clicked off, he continued to frown. He thought of the child in his home, and the dead ones. He had half a dozen people waiting for a meeting, and decided they could wait a few moments. What good was power if you didn't flex its muscles now and again?

He called up Eve's file on the Swishers from her home unit, and scanned the names of the family connections.

They started knocking on doors, working their way east then west from the Swisher home. A lot of doors remained unopened, people in the workforce. But those that did open shed no light.

Saw nothing. Terrible thing. Tragedy. Heard nothing. That poor family. Know nothing.

“What are you seeing, Peabody?”

“A lot of shock, dismay-the underlying relief it wasn't them. And a good dose of fear.”

“All that. And what are these people telling us about the victims?”

“Nice family, friendly. Well-behaved children.”

“Not our usual run, is it? It's like stepping into another dimension where people bake cookies and pass them out to strangers on the street.”

“I could use a cookie.”

Eve walked up to the next building, listed in her notes as a multifamily. “Then there's the neighborhood. Families, double incomes primarily. People like that are going to be beddy-bye at two in the morning, weekday.”

She took another moment to look up and down the street. Even in the middle of the day, the traffic was pretty light. At two in the morning, she imagined the street was quiet as a grave.

“Maybe you catch a break and somebody's got insomnia and looks out the window at just the right time. Or decided to take a little stroll. But they're going to tell the cops, if they spotted anything. A family gets wiped out on your block, you're scared. You want to feel safe, you tell the cops if you saw anything off.”

She rang the bell. There was a scratching sound from the intercom as someone inside cleared their throat.

“Who are you?”

“NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the security peep. “Lieutenant Dallas and DetectivePeabody.”

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Ma'am, you're looking at my badge.”

“I could have a badge, too, and I'm not the police.”

“Got me there. Can you see the badge number?”

“I'm not blind, am I?”

“As I'm standing out here, that's impossible to verify. But you can verify my ID if you contact Cop Central and give them my badge number.”

“Maybe you stole the badge from the real police. People get murdered in their own beds.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's why we're here. We'd like to speak with you about the Swishers.”

“How do I know you're not the ones who killed them?”

“Excuse me?”

Eve, her face a study in frustration, turned to look at the woman on the sidewalk. She was carrying a market sack and wearing a great deal of gold-streaked red hair, a green skin-suit, and a baggy jacket.

“You're trying to talk to Mrs. Grentz?”

“Trying being the operative. Police.”

“Yeah, got that.” She bounced up the stairs. “Hey, Mrs. Grentz, it's Hildy. I got your bagels.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

There was a lot of clicking and snicking, then the door opened. Eve looked down, considerably. The woman was barely five feet, skinny as a stick, and old as time. On her head was perched an ill-fitting black wig only shades darker than her wrinkled skin.

“I brought the cops, too,” Hildy told her, cheerfully.

“Are you arrested?”

“No, they just want to talk. About what happened with the Swishers.”

“All right then.” She waved a hand like she was batting at flies and began to walk away.

“My landlady,” Hildy told them. “I live below. She's okay, except for being-as my old man would say-crazy as a shithouse rat. You ought to go on in and sit down while she's in the mood. I'm going to stick her bagels away.”

“Thanks.”

The place was jammed with things. Pricey things, Eve noted as she made her way between tables, chairs, lamps, paintings that were tilted and stacked against the walls.

The air had that old-lady smell, what seemed to be a combination of powder, age, and flowers going to dust.

Mrs. Grentz was now perched in a chair, her tiny feet on a tiny hassock and her arms crossed over her nonexistent breasts. “Whole family, murdered in their sleep.”

“You knew the Swishers?”

“Of course I knew the Swishers. Lived here the past eighty-eight years, haven't I? Seen it all, heard it all.”

“What did you see?”

“World going to hell in a handbasket.” She dipped her chin, unfolded one of her bony arms to slap a gnarled hand on the arm of the chair. “Sex and violence, sex and violence. Won't be any pillar of salt this time out. Whole place, and everything in it, is going to burn. Get what you ask for. Reap what you sow.”

“Okay. Can you tell me if you heard or saw anything unusual on the night the Swishers were killed?”

“Got my ears fixed, got my eyes tuned. I see and hear fine.” She leaned forward, the tuned-up eyes avid. “I know who killed those people.”

“Who killed them?”

“The French.”