Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(109)

“You locked your own door,” Eve said, and walked out.

Eve went straight to her office. She wanted coffee. Actually, she wanted a really big, really stiff drink, but coffee would do.

Reo followed her in. “I’ve got to deal with the next steps of this, but I wanted to say, before I do, you played her perfectly in there.”

“Wasn’t hard. She wanted to brag, wanted to rub it all in my face—or authority’s face. I just gave her the platform. Lock her up tight, Reo, tight and long.”

“You can count on me.”

“I am.”

Alone, she turned to the board, to the dead.

“You’ve given them justice,” Mira said from the doorway.

“I brought her in. The rest is up to Reo and the courts.”

“You’ve given them justice,” Mira repeated. “And saved unknown others from ending up on your board. You convinced her to reveal herself—and believe me, Eve, that record will be studied by psychiatrists, by law enforcement, by legal minds for decades.”

“I barely had to bait her, she was so primed to show off how smart she is, how much better she is.”

“You never lost control, and never let her see you were in control throughout. Her narcissism, her utter disregard for any semblance of a moral code, her need to be first, and her enjoyment of the kill, it came through so clearly. Some will argue her adolescence and her father’s influence drove her to do the unspeakable.

“It won’t fly,” Mira added as Eve spun around. “She’s calculating, organized, intelligent. She’s a psychopath, and one who was given permission by a parent to embrace her desire to kill. I can promise you I’ll tear down any attempt by her lawyer to build her as a misguided teenager, coerced and manipulated by her father. Trust me on that.”

Count on Reo. Trust Mira. “I do. I do, and that’ll help me sleep tonight.”

“You should go home, get started on that.”

“Yeah, working toward that.”

But before she could get out of her office, Whitney walked in.

“Good job, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You locked her up with her own words, but that doesn’t negate the work that went into getting her in the box. Today, at least, the city’s a safer place. I need you in the media center in ten.”

She literally felt everything in her sag. “Yes, sir.”

“I’d take this off you if I could. But the fact is, the people of New York deserve to hear from the primary of the investigation that identified and apprehended the two people who terrorized them for nearly a week.

“Turn that around,” he added. “In under a week you and your team identified and apprehended two people who, if still at large, would surely be responsible for more deaths. Chief Tibble and I will both attend, but we agree the statement comes from you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get the hell out of here, Dallas, and get some ice on that eye.”

When she went out to the bullpen, she saw Roarke talking with Lowenbaum beside Peabody’s desk. Lowenbaum broke off, stepped to her, held out a hand.

“Thanks.”

“Back at you.”

“Buy you a drink?”

“Media conference, then I’m going to sleep for a couple years. After that.”

“Deal.”

She turned to Roarke, shoved a hand through her hair. “It’s going to be a little while longer. We’ve got a media conference, then I’ll deal with the paperwork, and we can go.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Peabody, let’s get this over with.”

“I’m skipping the media deal. I’m finishing the paperwork. I want to go home, too,” Peabody said before Eve could object. “They don’t need me in the media center, and I need to tie this up. I really need to tie it up and put it away.”

Eve looked at her partner’s tired face, hollow eyes. “Okay. Good work, Peabody.”

“Good work all around.”

With a nod, Eve headed out to give New York a face, such as it was.





21


The media circus could have been worse. She’d had worse. Since Kyung, the media liaison—who wasn’t an asshole—told her to use her own words and judgment, she gave what she felt was a straightforward statement.

“Through the efforts of the NYPSD, its officers and technicians, two individuals have been identified, apprehended, and charged with the twenty-five murders and numerous injuries incurred as a result of the attacks at Wollman Rink, Times Square, and Madison Square Garden. Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, have confessed to these crimes, and as the investigation also uncovered their plans to target others, confessed to same.”

Of course that wasn’t enough—it never seemed to be enough. She answered questions, some salient, some stupendously stupid. She answered those that targeted Willow’s age.

“Yes, Willow Mackie is fifteen. At fifteen she killed twenty-five people in cold blood. The investigation uncovered her plan to kill more, including her own mother and her seven-year-old half brother. Due to the nature of her crimes, she will be tried as an adult.”

When pressed, she gave a bare-bones summary of Willow’s arrest, then had to pull back a flash of temper when one of the reporters shouted out: