Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(48)

She must have come on the run, as the door swung open before Eve finished, and the woman who answered breathed fast. “Kendra.”

“Is fine as far as we know. We’re here about another matter.”

“Oh God.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “My daughter, Kendra, stayed over with a friend last night. I was afraid— Sorry. Can I see your identification?”

Eve pulled out her badge, studied the woman as the woman studied the badge.

Tall, well built, but that ebony skin would be hard to disguise, and the unsub wasn’t—according to the wits—black. She had diamond-edged cheekbones, huge dark eyes, and black hair that spilled to her shoulders in dozens of thin braids.

She wore a simple, well-cut navy suit, sensible shoes, and a crisp white shirt.

“Thank you. Please come in. Perhaps we should go into my office.”

“Fine.”

She had the faintest accent, musical, precise, and led the way down the hallway into a room with a small desk, a couple of good-size chairs in soft gray, a sofa in navy. The art on the walls depicted flowers in meadows, quiet forests, winding rivers.

“Please sit. May I offer you tea?”

“We’re good, thanks.”

Natalia sat behind the desk, folded her hands on its surface. “How may I help?”

“You run a support group, Women For Women.”

“I do, but this is a confidential matter. Any who attend are promised that confidence.”

“Two men have been murdered, Ms. Zula. Your group connects them.”

She sat back abruptly, as if punched. “But no. We have no men in the group. It’s only for women.”

“A woman killed them.”

“Ah.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I can assure you, our group promotes support, understanding, steps toward peace, recovery, stability. We do not promote or sanction violence.”

“That may be, but there’s a connection. Both men were involved with women who attended your group. The women attended your group because of experiences with these men.”

Worry clouded those dark eyes now. “I see. But surely these men were connected in other ways to have been killed together.”

“Not together. Nigel McEnroy was murdered night before last.”

“I heard this. I don’t know the name, but I heard of his murder.”

“You’ll also hear Thaddeus Pettigrew was murdered, the same method, last night.”

“I— This is terrible, but I don’t understand. You’re saying these men didn’t know each other?”

“Not that we can ascertain. Two women who worked in McEnroy’s office have given either me or my partner statements attesting to the fact that he drugged and raped them. They both attended your group. Pettigrew’s ex-wife, whom he left for another woman and, according to her statement, cheated her financially as well, attended your group.”

“But …” She lifted a hand, pressed it to the base of her throat. “You cannot believe these women somehow worked together to kill.”

She holds calm, steady, Eve thought, despite the growing concern on her face.

“Evidence indicates more than one person may be involved. And I believe there will be other men, other murders unless we identify and stop this person or these persons.”

“I don’t know how to help you.”

“We need the names of women who’ve attended your group sessions over the last three years.”

“But I cannot.”

“We can and will get a warrant.”

“No, no, I mean to say I literally cannot. Above even the need to keep confidential, I have only first names—and many may not use their real name even then. I keep no records from the group. It is simply a place, a safe place, where these women can come when they feel the need, where they can say what they need to say and not be judged.”

“You have notes. How could you remember who comes, what they need, what’s happened to them if you didn’t keep notes?”

“I have notes, yes, with first names.” With those deep, liquid eyes trained on Eve, Natalia turned her hands palms up. “Please understand I want to help, but if I gave them to you, how could any of the women trust me? If you get a warrant, I will have no choice but to obey the law.”

“All right. Peabody, see if Yancy’s got the sketch from the McEnroy witness.”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want without this,” Natalia continued. “I feel if another dies, I’m responsible, too. And yet, the ones who come to us are hurt or frightened, broken or despairing. A woman beaten who blames herself for the blows. A woman discarded who wonders why she wasn’t enough. I was one of them once.”

“It would help if you give us your whereabouts between nine last night and five this morning.”

“I understand. I also connect.” And still calm, still steady, Natalia took a breath. “Last night I was with a man. His name is Geo Fong. He’s a good man, I think, but I’ve been wrong before. We’ve been seeing each other for several months, and I don’t think I’m wrong. Last night, I made him dinner. He came at seven, and after dinner, we went upstairs and were together. My daughter, as I said, was at a friend’s. He left only shortly before you arrived.”