Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(4)

"Is this a cop shop or a social club?"

"Come on, Dallas. We're all caught up with work." Peabody smiled hopefully. "I thought maybe I could give him one of the throws my mother makes. You know, she weaves, and she does really beautiful work. Would he like that?"

"Look, he won't expect a gift. It's not necessary."

"It was the best vacation I ever had, in my life. I want him to know how much I appreciated it. It meant a lot to me, Dallas, that he'd think of it."

"Yeah, he's always thinking." But she softened; she couldn't help it. "He'd get a real kick out of having something your mother made."

"Really? That's great then. I'll get in touch with her tonight."

"Now that we've had our little reunion here, Peabody, isn't there some work to be done?"

"Actually, we're clear."

"Then get me some cold files."

"Any ones in particular?"

"Dealer's choice. I've got to do something."

"I'm on it." She started out, paused. "You know one of the best things about going away? It's coming back."

...

Eve spent the morning picking through unsolved cases, looking for a thread that hadn't been snipped, an angle that hadn't been explored. The one that interested her the most was the matter of twenty-six-year-old Marsha Stibbs, who'd been found submerged in the bathtub by her husband, Boyd, when he'd returned from an out-of-town business trip.

On the surface, it had appeared to be one of those tragic and typical home accidents-until the ME's report had verified that Marsha hadn't drowned, but had been dead before that last bubble bath.

Since she'd gone into the tub with a fractured skull, she hadn't slid into the froth and fragrance under her own power.

The investigator had turned up evidence that indicated Marsha had been having an affair. A packet of love letters from someone who signed himself with the initial C had been hidden away in the victim's lingerie drawer. The letters were sexually explicit and full of pleas for her to divorce her husband and run away with her lover.

According to the report, the letters and their contents had shocked the husband and everyone interviewed who'd known the victim. The husband's alibi had been solid, as were all the background checks.

Boyd Stibbs, a regional rep for a sporting goods firm, was by all appearances Mr. All-American guy, making a slightly better than average income, married for six years to his college sweetie who'd gone on to become a buyer for a major department store. He liked to play flag football on Sundays, had no drinking, gambling, or illegals problem. There was no history of violence, and he had volunteered for Truth Testing, which he'd passed with flying colors.

They were childless, lived in a quiet West Side apartment building, socialized with a tight circle of friends, and up to the point of her death had shown all signs of having a happy, solid marriage.

The investigation had been thorough, careful, and complete. Yet the primary had never been able to find any trace of the alleged lover with the initial C.

Eve tagged Peabody on the interoffice 'link. "Saddle up, Peabody. Let's go knock on some doors." She tucked the file in her bag, snagged the jacket from the back of her chair, and headed out.

...

"I've never worked a cold case before."

"Don't think of it as cold," Eve told her. "Think of it as open."

"How long has this one been open?" Peabody asked.

"Going on six years."

"If the guy she was doing the extra-marital banging with hasn't shown in all this time, how do you rout him out now?"

"One step at a time, Peabody. Read the letters."

Peabody took them out of the field bag. Midway through the first note, she let out an Ouch! "These things are flammable," she said, blowing on her fingers.

"Keep going."

"Are you kidding?" Peabody wiggled her butt into the seat. "You couldn't stop me now. I'm getting an education." She continued to read, eyes widening now and then, throat working. "Jesus, I think I just had an orgasm."

"Thanks for sharing that piece of information. What else did you get from them?"

"A real admiration for Mr. C's imagination and stamina."

"Let me rephrase. What didn't you get from them?"

"Well, he never signs his name in full." Knowing she was missing something, Peabody stared down at the letters again. "No envelopes, so they could have been hand-delivered or mailed." She sighed. "I'm getting a D in this class. I don't know what you're seeing here that I'm not."

"What I'm not seeing is more to the point. No reference to how, when, or where they met. How they became lovers. No mention of where they boinked each other's brains out in various athletic positions. That makes me pause and reflect."

At sea, Peabody shook her head. "On?"

"On the possibility that there never was a Mr. C."

"But-"

"You have a woman," Eve interrupted, "married for several years, with a good, responsible job, a circle of friends she's kept for, again, several years. From all statements none of those friends had any inkling of an affair. Not in the way she behaved, spoke, lived. She had no time missing from work. So when did said athletic boinking take place?"