Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(57)

“Which was?”

She knew she was going to hate this part. “Just over fifteen million.”

“And the ex-wife’s take?”

“Just over seven.”

“So, an acquisition costing more than twenty-two million is … small?”

It mortified, but Eve continued to speak briskly. “Apparently it is in Roarke’s world, yes, sir. I feel it was major in Darla Pettigrew’s. Her company, and he not only cheated on her, left the marriage, he forced her to sell, and took the bulk.”

“A fine motive,” Whitney concluded. “Opportunity?”

“She lives with her grandmother, who’s recovering from an illness. Both claim she was there, though they both admit the grandmother fell asleep. However, Ms. Callahan claims to remember Ms. Pettigrew coming in to check on her during the night.”

“Eloise Callahan.” Peabody couldn’t help herself.

Tibble actually blinked. “Eloise Callahan? The actor? She’s a legend.”

“I know, right? Sorry. Sorry, Chief, I know it isn’t relevant.”

“It may be,” Eve corrected, “as she’s a legend for her acting. She came off very genuine, as did her granddaughter, but it’s possible the granddaughter inherited some of that acting skill.”

Again, a flicker of interest as Tibble angled his head. “You’re looking at her.”

“Betrayed ex, big house—very private, and the killer needs private space—sick grandmother, or accomplice grandmother. A vehicle, a driver. We’re looking at her.”

“All right.” Tibble nodded. “Write it up. If you’re going to look hard at Eloise Callahan’s granddaughter, you better have damn good vision. She’s beloved, and through her activism she has political connections that make Geena McEnroy’s threats to bring in the governor look like a toddler’s tantrum.”

“Yes, sir. About those threats.”

“Consider them handled, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, and that’s appreciated. I want to say I don’t have Roarke’s or Peabody’s ease with sympathy and comfort.”

“Not true,” Peabody murmured.

“Quiet. While I don’t have that ease, I would never belittle the obviously shocked and grieving widow of a murder victim.”

“To use your own words, Dallas, there’s no question of that. Get to work.”

Once they stepped out, Peabody breathed out. “He was never going to ream us.”

“You weren’t even there, for Christ’s sake. Why would he ream you?”

“Partners. Your ass—”

“Enough with the asses in the ass pan. No, he was never going to ream us or me or anybody over this. He called us in so he could tell the mayor and whoever else takes a poke he did. He spoke with us, has the facts, and while the department regrets Ms. McEnroy’s loss, while those involved in the investigation sympathize with her state of mind, we have to pursue the facts in order to find McEnroy’s killer and bring that individual to justice.”

“That’s good,” Peabody said as they got on the elevator.

“He knows how to work it, but he had to hear it from us, with Whitney in the room. It’s how he covers—goddamn, I have to say it—everybody’s ass.”

Even so, since she still held some tension in her shoulders, she rolled it out. “Now let’s go do the job.”





12


While Peabody wrote up the report, Eve updated her board and book. After checking the time, noting she had a decent gap before her consult with Mira, she propped her boots on the desk, studied the board.

There would be other women, she thought, women with stories to tell, ugliness and hurts to air. And maybe vendettas to wage.

If the killer fished in the pool of Women For Women for its justice-seeking, had that pool generated multiple killers or accessories? A kind of deadly pact?

Possible, possible, she decided, but …

Natalia Zula. She studied the therapist’s ID shot, that of her pretty college-age daughter. They made it harder to buy the deadly pact theory. Zula knew the women, listened to their stories, gave them the time, space, place to air that ugliness, those hurts.

She’d been through them herself, had demanded and received justice the right way. Could a group of women form into a killing mob right under her nose?

Not nearly as plausible, but for now, she wouldn’t discount it.

She wanted those names.

She swung her feet down, started to reach for her ’link to harass ADA Cher Reo about the warrant. Her unit signaled an incoming.

Another sketch came through with a short memo from Detective Yancy.

Can’t give you much, as the wit didn’t see much. A glimpse in the dark. Wit was willing and cooperative, but unable to give details.



“I’ll say,” Eve agreed as she studied the sketch of a woman who ranged anywhere from twenty-five to fifty, may have been Caucasian or mixed race. No eye color, no defined features. The hair held the most details, the short, spiky style, the colors.

She split-screened Yancy’s sketch from the wit at the club with the second sketch.

Resemblance? Maybe, maybe not. She pegged the first redhead as middle to late thirties, Caucasian, very attractive. The hair might have been a wig or dyed for the occasion, as the killer had known of McEnroy’s penchant for redheads.