Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“Thanks. Report after every meet,” she told Peabody, and strode out, swinging on the coat as she walked.

“You probably know more about this Alice in Wonderland stuff than I do.”

“I know the story,” Roarke said. “I’ve read the books, and seen a variety of vid interpretations.”

“Like I said, you know more than I do, so you’ll be handy. The person we’re after likely knows a lot about it, too. You might catch something I’d miss.”

“Such as a white rabbit or mad hatter?”

“If you say so. I’ll drive,” she said when they reached the garage.

“You don’t know the story?” he asked her.

Her childhood hadn’t been prone to bedtime stories. Then again, she thought, neither had Roarke’s.

“Some kid falls down a rabbit hole, which makes no sense because rabbits are a lot smaller than kids. Weird stuff happens.”

“It’s considerably more entertaining than that. Though it was written as a children’s story, it has fascinating symbolism, intrigue, social commentary.”

“Whatever it’s got, somebody who may have psychic abilities and certainly has access to and knowledge of hallucinogens is using that knowledge, and those possible abilities, to kill. And at least with Darlene Fitzwilliams, some of this Alice stuff played in. It’s unlikely she was the first,” Eve continued as she navigated traffic. “But I can’t run like crimes. I can’t know if it’s a murder/suicide trend, just murder, just suicide. Or maybe ruled accidental when somebody walked in front of a maxibus because they thought they were chasing that white rabbit thing.”

“People will ruin everything, won’t they? A beloved story becomes twisted to kill.”

“Something strikes you Alice-like, let me know.” Unwilling to take the time to hunt up street parking, she pulled into a lot. “There’s two within walking distance.”

They got nothing from either, then backtracked to the parking lot. Eve headed across town to the East Village.

“It strikes me how much of your day is routinely spent doing this. Talking to people who turn out to have no connection to your case or who may give you another line to tug.”

“That’s why they call it a job. This next one? Goes by the name of Madam Dupres. She even had her name changed legally. But she started out as Evelyn Basset, born in Yonkers, fifty-four years ago. Some twenty-five years back, she had a pretty thriving business.”

This time Eve hit on a street spot and zipped into it at an angle and speed that had Roarke’s eyebrows lifting.

“Had a rep, had a screen show, made a bunch of money, and lost it all when her husband-slash–business manager ran off with her assistant. He’d also gotten her to sign over the bulk of her earnings along the way, so he could—legally, if not ethically—walk away with the dough.”

“I imagine her reputation suffered.”

“You got that.” Eve stepped onto the sidewalk with him, gestured north. “Who wants to shell out for a psychic who doesn’t know her spouse is screwing around on the side and who’s going to end up leaving her broke? Part of her thing was connecting people with dead loved ones.”

Eve stopped in front of a Ukrainian restaurant, nodded at the sign on a skinny doorway. “Now she runs her shtick out of a second-floor apartment over this place.” Eve pressed the buzzer, mildly surprised when it buzzed back seconds later to unlock the narrow door. “The thing is,” she said as they went into a dim stairwell, “she’s clean. No criminal, no litigations I could find. In fact, she worked with cops numerous times in her heyday. Specialized in finding missing kids—the reports claim she was instrumental in locating a number of them. So I figure, if Darlene did her due diligence, this is one she would have come to.”

The entrance to apartment 200 boasted a bold red door and a brass knocker in the shape of a dragon. Eve took the dragon by the tail and knocked.

The door opened.

The name had given Eve an image of turbans and colorful scarves, but Madam Dupres stood about five-foot-five in a simple dress as boldly red as the door with her dark curling hair loose and unstyled. A number of large and glittery rings adorned her fingers, so that was something.

“Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke.”

“That’s right.”

She smiled as she stepped back. “No mind reading necessary. I recognize you. Please come in.”

The apartment—surprisingly spacious; Eve saw it ran the length and width of the restaurant below—reflected a quiet taste and elegance. A collection of crystal balls in a wall case caught the sunlight and seemed attractive rather than occult.

“I don’t read anyone without permission,” she said. “So discourteous. You’ll have to tell me what I can do for you, but first, please sit. It’s coffee you prefer, isn’t it? I’d be happy to serve you.”

“We’re fine.” Eve took a seat in a high-backed chair with curved legs while Roarke took its twin, and the madam settled on a long, low couch.

“I’ve read of your work—both of you—and very much enjoyed Nadine Furst’s book on your investigation of the Icoves. It’s my sense you don’t generally seek the services I provide.”

“We’re here on official business. Did you know Darlene Fitzwilliams?”

“Fitzwilliams?” Madam Dupres’s dark eyes narrowed. Her index finger went to her right temple, pressed. “Darlene. Why?”

“Last night she stabbed her brother to death, then jumped off his fifty-second-floor terrace to her own death.”

“Death? Two deaths?” Now all four fingers pressed, and her color drained. “What time? Could you tell me what time they died?”

“Between eight and eight thirty last night.”

“I . . . I’ve been in meditation. I was disturbed, felt something dark crowding me. Shortly after eight last night.”

“Is that so?”

“I dreamed of death—a waking dream—so much blood, such grief. There was no ignoring such grief, so I went into meditation, inside a circle of light.”

“Are you going to tell me you know why Darlene killed her brother and herself?”

“Fitzwilliams?” Pain clouded her eyes. “I don’t . . . Was she— I’m sorry, terrible headache.” She got to her feet. “It came on so quickly. I need to take a blocker. I want to help, but . . . She was young, wasn’t she? Very beautiful and young and in love and sad and— I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”

She walked away quickly, turned in to a doorway.

“Meditation, circle of light.” Eve pushed to her feet. “She knows something. Your bullshit meter’s as tuned as mine. What’s your take?”

“The pain was real.”

“Yeah.” Frustrated, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “Yeah, it was. We’ll give her a minute. There’s something . . . She avoided a yes or no. Did you know her or not? And she damn well did. People don’t go pale and sick over the death of a stranger.”

Impatient to get back to it, Eve looked around. “The place looks normal, quiet and normal. Where’s all her trappings?”

She circled the room, glancing at crystals, candles, then angled to look into a neat kitchen with white cabinets.

“She’s taking too long.”

Suspicion rose up to twine with impatience. Eve crossed to the doorway, saw the pretty bedroom beyond. Across from it another doorway opened to a kind of cozy sitting room, with dozens of white candles.

Circle of light, she thought, and started to step into the bedroom, to call again, when she heard the sound of breaking glass.

She charged in, tried the closed door, found it locked. As Roarke rushed in behind her, Eve kicked the door once, cursed, kicked it a second time.

Dupres lay on the white tiled floor of the bathroom, blood pooling around her from the deep gash in her thigh.