Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“Like I said, she’s cooperative. It spooked her, having a murder basically across the street. What did you get?”

“I got the live-in was with her mother, sister, and a friend at a spa resort—and unless they’re all in on it, she’s going to be clear for this, because I’m not buying she plotted and planned this and McEnroy. But we’ll look at her.”

Eve glanced down as Peabody programmed the in-dash AC. “They’re coming back to New York. We found he likes to hire LCs, every few weeks, and he had one on the books for tonight.”

“Bang, big one. Low-cut skin suit could be an LC,” Peabody added. “Or somebody who wanted to look like one.”

“I’d say number two. Bigger bang, Roarke says it looks like Pettigrew’s system’s been hacked, and the LC was canceled a few hours before she was due.”

“Two bigs. It’s an omelet pocket.” She handed the crusty little snack to Eve. “Eggs, cheese, bacon.”

“Fine.” Grabbing it, Eve took a bite, thought: Okay, pretty good. “Possibly McEnroy’s widow and Pettigrew’s live-in made a deal, did the deeds, one doing the other. We’ve seen that, but it doesn’t feel like it.

“Who was driving the car?” Eve added and took another bite. “Somebody was driving the car because it would be crazy to risk putting it on full auto. Somebody helped with the body, somebody has a quiet, private place to do the work.”

“Plus, hacking,” Peabody said around her own bite. “Somebody knows how to hack. You hire that out, you’ve got one more person who knows. It adds more risks, right?”

“It’s very personal.” Weaving through traffic, Eve gulped some coffee. “It’s very specific. Men who cheat. In McEnroy’s case, add rape. With this one, hiring sex. Both bringing the sex into the home. Drugs and humiliation for women for McEnroy. Greed for Pettigrew. He got the lion’s share of the money from the sale of a company during the divorce. They had to both own it—I’m getting the details from Roarke. He bought the damn thing.”

Peabody nearly choked on her pocket. “What? He knew the vic?”

“No, but he’ll get the details.”

“You got all the bigs,” Peabody complained.

“McEnroy and Pettigrew are going to connect somewhere. We need to find where they cross. How does she pick her targets? How does she know going in they cheat? Because that’s the deal,” Eve muttered. “That’s the link. Maybe she was one of McEnroy’s vics, but with this? Not necessarily. I need that consult with Mira.”

“I’ll set it up. Two for two, Dallas. You’ve got to figure she’ll go for the hat trick.”

“She’ll have him selected already,” Eve agreed. “She’ll know his weak spot, use it. He’ll be married, divorced, or seriously involved.”

She could see it. She could see it, but it didn’t help.

“He has to have someone to cheat on. Both of these were heterosexual,” Eve speculated. “Does that matter to her? Would she look the same way at a same-sex relationship, or someone who cheats with the same sex? Question for Mira.”

“She has to be attractive,” Peabody put in, chowing down—yay!—as she tried to work it out. “Or able to make herself attractive. McEnroy targeted really attractive women. Redheads—maybe she is one, and wore a wig for Pettigrew. Or she wore a wig both times. Like you said, she needs to have or have access to a private place, and the transportation. She has to trust at least one person enough to help her. Drive, transport the body. At least one person.”

“One of them has hacking skills good enough to impress Roarke.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel as she braked at a light. “The poems. That’s a sense of drama, right? And a need to demonstrate she’s enforcing justice. They deserved it, and here’s why.”

She hit the gas, pushed through traffic. “It’s personal. She knew them, or one of them. Or she knows one on her list and hasn’t hit him yet. But there’s a man who set her off, started her on her crusade. She was tuned in enough to Pettigrew to move fast—when he switched his LC to last night because Horowitz got off a day early. She was ready to go, she had it all in place.”

“Well, Jesus, she’ll have the next in place unless she’s done.”

“Not done.” Grim, Eve swung around a lumbering maxibus, punched it in front of a Rapid Cab. “She’d have, I don’t know, signed off or whatever you’d call it if this was it. And she’s escalated. She’s into it.”

She fought her way to the Upper East Side through traffic thick and jagged as a pile of bricks. And did her best to ignore the blasting cheer of ad blimps announcing Spring Sales! Top New Fashion Trends! until she slid into the wealth and privilege of Carnegie Hill. In the world of dog walkers, au pairs, and chauffeurs, she pulled up to the security station at a set of iron gates.

Through them, only a stone’s throw from the sidewalk, the house rose and spread, white limestone, tall, narrow windows, frilly balconies, dignified columns.

“Wow. It’s no Dallas Palace,” Peabody decided, “but it’s pretty mag. She must’ve done all right with the sale of the company.”

“It’s her grandmother’s. The ex lives with her grandmother.”

The Callahan household, the security comp announced, is unavailable for visitors at this time.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We need to speak with Darla Pettigrew regarding a police investigation.”

She held up her badge for scanning.