J. Robb - Survivor in Death

“Yes, I know partners. If you think of anything, get in touch.”

“I will. I wondered, before I go… I wondered if you could give me an idea when I could hold the memorial? I thought as Grant's partner, as their friend, I'd make the arrangements. I'd want to talk to Nixie, make sure we do this in a way that makes it as easy for her as possible.”

“You need to hold off awhile. I can't allow her to attend a memorial until we're satisfied she's no longer in any jeopardy.”

“All right, but could you just…” He lifted his briefcase, opened it. “This is the picture Grant kept on his desk. I think she'd want it.”

Eve looked down at the four smiling faces, the family grouped together in what seemed to be a casual photograph at the beach. The father's arm slung around the son's shoulder-the hand reaching to lay on the wife's, his other drawing his daughter back to him. The mother with her arm around the son's waist-fingers hooked in the belt loops of her husband's jeans. Her other hand holding her daughter's.

Happy, she thought, carefree summer day.

“I took it, actually. It was one of those weekends at their beach place. I remember I said, 'Hey, let me try out my new camera. You guys get together.' They moved together just like that. Big smiles.” He cleared his throat. “It was a good weekend, and Grant really loved that picture. Christ, I miss him.”

He broke off, shook his head. “Nixie, I think Nixie would like to have it.”

“I'll make sure she gets it.”

When he left she sat there, looking at the summer moment, that frozen slice of careless family fun. They hadn't known there wouldn't be another summer.

What was it like to have that sort of bond? That sort of sunshine ease, as a family? To grow up knowing there were people there to lay an arm over your shoulder, reach for your hand. Keep you safe?

She'd never known that. Instead she'd grown up knowing there were people who would hurt you, just for the sport of it. Beat you, rape you, break you because you were weaker.

Until you got stronger, until there was that one mad moment when the knife was in your hand. And you used it until your skin, your face, your hands were slick with blood.

“Eve.”

She jolted, dropped the photograph, and stared up at Mira. Mira sat, turned the photograph around on the table to study it. “A lovely family. Look at the body language. A loving and lovely family.”

“Not anymore.”

“No, you're wrong. They'll always be a family, and moments like this one are what make that last. This will comfort Nixie.”

“Father's partner brought it in, along with Jenny Dyson. She and her husband are dissolving the guardianship. They won't take her.”

“Ah.” The sound came out as a sigh as Mira sat back. “I was afraid of that.”

“You figured something like this?”

“Was afraid,” she repeated, “that they might feel unable, unwilling to take Nixie into their home. She's too strong a reminder of their loss.”

“What the hell is she supposed to do now? End up in the system because some son of a bitch decided to massacre her family?”

Mira closed a hand over the fist Eve bunched on the table. “It may very well be in Nixie's best interest to go into foster care, or with a relative, if possible. While she's a reminder of loss for the Dysons, they'd also be a reminder to her. She's still dealing with survivor's guilt, along with her shock, her grief, her fears.”

“Plunk her down with strangers, then spin the wheel,” Eve said bitterly. “See if she gets lucky and gets somebody who actually gives a flying fuck, or isn't so lucky and gets one who's just in it for the fee.”

“She isn't you, Eve.”

“No, she by God isn't. Isn't even close. Maybe she's got it worse than I did.”

“How?”

“Because she had this.” Eve laid her hand on the photograph. “And now she doesn't. You come from the bottom of the pit, there's no place but up. She's got a long way she can go down.”

“I'll help. As far as the process of placing her, finding the right family situation for her, I'll put my weight in. Yours wouldn't hurt either.”

“Yeah.” She leaned her head back, and for a moment, just a moment, closed her eyes. “I can't think about this now. We've got some leads that may pan out.”

“Was there something else you needed to speak with me about?”

“Need to walk and talk.” She rose, and told Mira about the incident with Nixie and the murder board.

“We'll talk about it in our next session.”

“Fine, good. I need to go harass Yancy about the composite.”

“Good luck.”

She could use some, Eve thought as she caught a glide. It was about time a little luck headed her way.

SHE FOUND YANCY IN A LITTLE GLASS BOX CONFERENCE room in his sector, drinking station-house coffee with Ophelia. The LC wore the same feathers and paint as the night before. In the harsh lights she looked the way Eve had always thought carnies looked in daylight-a little worn, a little tawdry, and not particularly inviting.

But Yancy was chatting her up, flirting.

“So, asshole tells me he wants me to sing. Says it's the only way he can get the wood on. Wants me to sing 'God BlessAmerica.' Can you digit?”

“What did you do?”

“What you think? I sing. I got the tune okay, but I gotta make up the words mostly. Giving him a hand job, and he's singing with me, fixing the words. There we are, squeezed in a doorway, having ourselves a duet.”

“What happened?”

“He got up, got in, and round about the third time around the tune, got off. Got to be a regular after that. Every Tuesday night, we had ourselves a performance. I got me a red, white, and blue outfit, too. Give him a little more bang for his buck.”

“You see a lot of characters in your line of work.”

“Honey, you been on the stroll long as me, there's nothing you haven't seen. Why just last week-”

“Excuse me.” Eve's voice was hard as baked earth. “Sorry to interrupt your chat, but I need to see Detective Yancy for a moment. Detective?”

“Be right back, Ophelia.”

“Oooh, she looks mean enough to chew rock and spit pebbles in your eye.” Voice low, Ophelia winked at Yancy. “You watch that fine ass of yours.”

The minute they were outside, the door closed behind them, Eve tore in. “What the hell are you doing? Drinking coffee, chatting about her exploits on the stroll.”

“I'm warming her up.”

“She had a bed, her meals, her entertainment, courtesy of the NYPSD. If you ask me, she's warm enough now to sweat. I need results, Detective, not amusing anecdotes for your case file.”

“I know what I'm doing, you don't. And if you're going to rip me a new one, wait until I'm finished.”

“I'll schedule that-as soon as you tell me when the hell you're going to be finished.”

“If I don't have something you can use in an hour, I'm not going to have it at all.”

“Do it. Get it. Bring it to Conference Room C.”

They turned their backs on each other. Eve walked away, ignoring the interested parties at desks and cubes.

When she arrived at the conference room herself, Peabody was already there, setting up. At least she hadn't forgotten the duties of an aide.

“Got three names for you, Dallas, that fit the parameters of our profile.”

“At least somebody's doing what they're supposed to do today.”

Peabody preened a little as she arranged labeled discs. “One still lives in the city, one is still on active and based atFortDrum inBrooklyn. The last, is co-owner of a martial arts studio inQueens and has it listed as business and personal.”

“All still inNew York. Handy. What was their deal with Swisher?”