No sexual assaults on record, but there was always a first time. Fathers raped their daughters. She knew that only too well. They held them down, beat them, broke their bones, and pushed themselves into their own flesh and blood.
She eased slowly away from the desk when she felt her heart begin to race. When she felt the memories, the nightmare of memories, begin to descend over her mind.
She went for water rather than coffee, drank it, slowly as well, standing at her single, narrow window.
She knew what Elisa had suffered during the rape—the pain, the terror that was more than pain—the degradation and shock. She knew, the way only another victim knew.
But she had to use that knowledge to
find the killer, to find justice, or she was no good. If she let those memories come down too hard, blur her focus, she was no good.
Time to get back into the field, she told herself. Back in the field and do the job.
“Dallas?”
She didn’t turn, and didn’t ask herself how long Peabody had been there, watching her find her control. “You confirm Vanderlea?”
“Yes, sir. He was in Madrid, as advertised. He’s on his way home now. Canceled his last day of business after his wife contacted him. He was at a breakfast meeting this morning—time difference, here and Europe—at seven Madrid time. Next to impossible for him to have zipped home, killed Maplewood, zipped back and made that meeting.”
“The ex?”
“Brent Hoyt. He’s clear. Seeing as he spent the night at the drunk tank on St. Thomas last night, he wasn’t in New York.”
“All right. Maplewood’s father—Abel—has a sheet. We’ll need to look at him. We’re heading back to the Vanderleas first.”
“Ah, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”
“Pertinent?”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t have time to chat.” Eve turned around. “We’ll check in with Morris at the morgue, then head uptown. I have to be back here to meet with Mira.”
“Yeah, well, she’s very insistent. Claims to have information. She looks normal.”
“As opposed to? If someone’s come in with information regarding the current investigation, why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because—” Peabody debated letting Eve find out for herself, or protecting her own skin. It was a short debate. “She says she’s a psychic.”
Eve stopped dead. “Oh, come on. Feed her to the liaison. You know better than to let the loonies in.”
“She’s registered and licensed. And she pulled the pal card.”
“I don’t have psychic pals. It’s a firm policy.”
“No, it’s the mutual friend deal.”
“Mavis has all kinds of looney friends. I don’t let them into my office.”
“Not Mavis. She claims to be a friend of Louise’s. Dr. Dimatto. The really normal, upstanding Dr. D. And she’s shook, Dallas. Her hands are trembling.”
“Hell. We give her ten minutes.” She checked her wrist unit, and as a buffer set it to signal in ten. “Bring her in.”
Eve sat, brooded. This is what happened when you went and made friends. They had to go out and make friends, and then those friends somehow insinuated themselves into your life, or your work. Before you knew it you were hip-deep in people.
And half of them were crazy.
All right, she amended. Not all psychics were crazy or scamming. Some of them—a very few some of them—were legit. She was well aware that law enforcement sometimes used sensitives to good effect.