“Because she didn’t,” Eve said flatly. “She got up-and I’ll guarantee she had an alarm set for it because she’s a planner-fitting your profile-she likes her schedules. She got up, went into her brother’s room. She got him up, told him to be very quiet. When they got to the top of the stairs-which, according to the investigators’ reports, was at the opposite end of the second floor from the master bedroom-she pushed him.”
That little body flying out, tumbling, tumbling. Breaking.
“Then she walked down, checked to make sure she’d done a good job of it, before she went in to see what goodies she was getting from Santa. And what sort of things she would enjoy that would have been for her brother.”
She saw the horror of the picture she was painting play across Mira’s face. “She put the slippers on. She likes things with her name on them. That was a little mistake,” Eve added. “Like mentioning the diary to me. But she couldn’t resist. She probably played awhile. Her parents weren’t going to notice if she’d moved something a little, and she wouldn’t have resisted. It was all hers now.
“Then she went back up. I wonder if she even noticed her brother’s body at that point. He was no longer an issue.”
She shifted her gaze to Whitney, noted that his hands had gone still again, and that his face showed nothing. Nothing at all. “She might have tried to go back to sleep for a little while, but it was too hard. All those toys downstairs, and nobody to share them with anymore. So she woke up her parents so she could get back to what she wanted to do.”
“What you’re describing…” Mira began.
“Is a sociopath. And that’s exactly what she is. A sociopath with homicidal tendencies, a very keen intellect, and a big-ass chunk of narcissism. That’s why she kept the diary. It’s her only way of bragging about what she can do, and get away with doing.”
“We need the diary.”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded at Whitney.
“Why Foster and Williams?”
“Foster, I don’t know, unless it was for the hell of it. I don’t know,” she said again, “because she doesn’t strike me as a for-the-hell-of-it type. Williams was a very handy and unexpected goat. That’s on me, too. I pushed at him, and she saw the opportunity not only to kill again-because I think this time she got a taste for it-but to hand me a suspect. Either in him or in Mosebly. I wouldn’t doubt she knew something had gone on between them.”
“Even with the diary, even if it gives chapter and verse, it may be difficult to prove she did this on her own, or at all. Her father will, no doubt, block every step you take from here.”
“I’ll handle Straffo, sir, and I’ll get Rayleen to confess.”
“How?” Mira wondered.
“I’ll make her want to tell me.” Her communicator signaled. “With permission, Commander?” At his nod, she pulled it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”
“Sir, she left the museum minutes before I got here. I’ve been going over the place with the security cameras, and just now asked them to do a playback of the hour before I arrived. I tagged her. The nanny got a ’link call, then they exited the building on the Eighty-first Street side almost as I was coming in on Fifth.”
“Her mother. Damn it. Head back to the Straffo apartment. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll come with you. I may be useful,” Mira insisted.
“Yes, you may.” Whitney got to his feet. “Lieutenant, I want to know the minute you locate…the suspect. I want to know if and when you find this diary.”
“Yes, sir. You’re going to have to keep up,” she said to Mira, then moved fast.
Cora’s conscience pricked her until she got off the subway heading downtown, crossed over, and took the uptown train. It was too early to meet her friends for the vid matinee they’d planned on. And she didn’t really need to browse the shops where she’d just spend money she’d be better off keeping.
Most of all, she couldn’t get Mrs. Straffo’s poor, pale face out of her head. Maybe it was just a headache, maybe it was. But she knew very well the woman went into the blue place every now and then. It wasn’t right to leave her there, to leave Rayleen alone with her if the mum was feeling sad and sick.
She’d just check another time, she told herself. Fix that nice cuppa for the missus, and a bite to eat. If the missus needed to rest, why, she’d just cancel her date with her friends and take the girl out herself. No point in having the mite’s day spoiled because her mum was doing poorly.
Fact was, she’d never be easy, she wouldn’t have a good time at all worrying about the missus and the mite.
Such a rough patch they were all going through, with those horrible murders right at the school, and the police swarming all over the house like ants.
Hardly a wonder poor Mrs. Straffo was feeling blue.
Some tea, maybe a little soup, a nice nap. Those were the tickets.
Cora got off the subway, climbed up the steps to street level and began to walk through the blustery air. She was so lucky to have a position like this, with such a lovely family in such a beautiful home in such an exciting city.
The girl was fun and bright-a bit testy now and then, sure, but neat as a pin. And so interested in every little thing. And never did you hear a raised voice or dodge a thrown dish, as you would as a matter of course in her own house back in Ireland.
Truth be told, she missed the yelling and carryings-on from time to time. But she couldn’t ask for a better position with a nicer family.
She smiled at the doorman, gave him a bit of a flirt. Now if that one had asked her to a vid matinee, she might have ignored those pricks in her conscience.
She took out her key as she rode up to the top. When she let herself in, it was so quiet, she wondered if she’d overreacted and Mrs. Straffo and Rayleen had gone out to lunch and the salon after all.
Wouldn’t she justkick herself if she’d wasted the subway fare!
She called out, got no answer. Rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you an arse, Cora?”
She nearly turned right around and went back out, but decided to glance in the coat closet first. Surely if the missus had gone out, she’d have worn a coat, and there were none missing that she could see.
She called out again as she started upstairs.
And there was Rayleen, sitting at her desk in her room with her headset on while she worked on her art. No point in bothering her, Cora thought, though she did raise her eyebrows at the snack of chocolate cake and a fizzy on the desk.
They’d have a bit of a word about that one later.
For now, she was worried about the missus. Probably gone to bed with that headache, she thought. And without a bite to eat.
Since the bedroom door was closed, she knocked softly, then opened it to peek in.
There was Mrs. Straffo in bed, a tray across her lap, and a cup overturned on it. Fell asleep sitting up, poor lamb, spilled the tea, Cora thought, and moved forward quietly to take it away.
She saw the pill bottle then, the empty bottle lying on the duvet.
“Oh, Mother of God. Sweet Jesus. Missus!” She grabbed Allika’s shoulders, shook. When there was no response, she slapped her once, twice.
Terrified, she grabbed for the bedside ’link.
Are you troubled by this situation on a personal level?” Mira asked.
“I haven’t decided.” Eve was running hot, sirens screaming. “I don’t know if I didn’t look at her hard enough, straight enough, right from the get because I didn’t want to, because I was fucked up about Roarke, or because it just didn’t click. Probably won’t ever know.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Yeah, sure. You stupid son of a bitch, don’t youhear the sirens?”
“I think…” And Mira decided she’d just close her eyes so the image of oncoming death by traffic wouldn’t distract her. “No one would have looked at her hard enough or straight enough initially. We’re wired to protect the young, not to believe them capable of premeditated murder. You may be right about her, about all of it. I believe you’re right about what happened to her brother. However, my opinion on this veers more heavily toward Arnette Mosebly.”