Vendetta in Death (In Death #49) - J. D. Robb Page 0,97

if we could just get to whatever this is, I have someplace to be by noon.”

She had a voice like velvet, which, Eve thought, explained why she made part of her living singing in joints—the other half waitressing in them.

“Sure. We appreciate you coming in. You belong to a support group called Women For Women.”

Jacie’s mildly curious expression went to stone. “That’s a private, anonymous group. You have no right to poke in.”

“Maybe you noticed you’re in Homicide,” Eve said easily. “We’re conducting an investigation into three connected murders. Those murders also connect with the support group.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Do you pay any attention to the media?”

“I work. When I’m not working, I’m going to auditions. When I’m not working or going to auditions, I sleep.”

“Nigel McEnroy, the first victim, drugged and raped multiple women, including two who belonged to your group.”

“You want me to feel sorry a rapist is dead? Why didn’t you arrest the bastard?”

“Maybe if one of his victims had reported him, we would have. The second victim, Thaddeus Pettigrew, was the ex-husband of one of your members. He left his wife for the woman—younger woman—he cheated on her with, and through some legal manipulation, forced her to sell the business she’d founded—with himself reaping most of the profits.”

Eve paused, watching Jacie’s face. “You know that story. You know that woman.”

In a gesture combining self-protection with defiance, Jacie sat back, crossed her arms. “I’m not discussing anything, and I mean anything, said in our group.”

“The third victim,” Eve continued, “Arlo Kagen, also the ex-husband of one of your members, physically and sexually assaulted his wife, threatened to harm their young son. Another story you know.”

“Same answer.”

“Okay. What’s your story?”

“I don’t know you. I don’t have to tell you my personal, private business. If that’s all—”

“Sit,” Eve snapped when Jacie rose. “We’ll start with your whereabouts on the three nights in question. Monday, Tuesday, and last night. Say, between the hours of nine P.M. and four A.M.”

“Monday night, singing in front of a crap crowd—but a crowd at Last Call—from nine to one. I’d have gotten there by eight-thirty, left by one-thirty. I went home—alone—went to bed. That’s the same last night. Tuesday, I served fancy drinks and fancy snacks to the fancy customers of Bistro East. Eight to two—that’s closing. Today, I’ve got an audition to sing in another craphole, but it’s closer to my apartment. You want the rest of my schedule? It runs pretty much the same, seven fricking nights a week.”

“That’s a hard workload,” Peabody commented. “Do you still go to the group?”

“Twice a month. I leave there and go to work. Not a lot of time in there to kill rapists, cheaters, and wife beaters. More, I don’t care about rapists, cheaters, and wife beaters.”

“Somebody did.” Eve opened the file, went hard. “Somebody cared enough to do this.”

Under that gorgeous skin, Jacie paled as Eve laid out the crime scene photos. “Cared enough to torture three human beings, whatever their crimes and sins, for hours. To mutilate them, to kill them. What was the crime against you, Jacie, what was the sin? Is this how you want the man who hurt you to end? Do you want to share responsibility for that?”

“Please put those away. Please, can I have some water?” She nudged aside her fizzy. “Just some water.”

“Sure. I’ll get it.”

“Get me a Pepsi, will you?” Eve asked as Peabody rose. She put the photos back into the file. “Give me his name. Start there. The name of the man.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. I started going to WFW last fall, months after it happened. I didn’t think I could talk about it, but … Natalia—I guess you’ve talked to Natalia—she’s so calming, so … it’s a fancy word but it fits, so empathetic. And the other women, it’s like having sisters there for you, mothers, friends. It’s helped me so much. I can’t believe anyone in the group did what you’re saying. Did what’s in that file. I can’t.”

“Give me his name. Start there, Jacie, because it’s not going to help you if he ends up in this file. It’s not going to help you if he’s dead.”

“Cooke, Ryder Cooke. At about ten o’clock on August eighth of last year, he raped me, and he ruined my life.”

17

As Peabody came back in, Eve considered the best approach.

“Jacie, we can ask you questions, or if it’s easier, you can just tell us what happened.”

“Nothing’s easier.” Jacie took slow, small sips of water.