Reunion in Death

«So we start looking. Every-fucking-where. You remember the primary in Chicago?»

«Yeah. Yeah, ah … Spindler.»

«Right. And Block in East Washington. Can you contact them? See how far they'll reach out.»

«Yeah. I've got some personal notes on her, too. I'll dig them out, add them to the mix.»

«Profiler who did the work and the testing on Julianna's retired. I'm going to pass this onto Mira, ask her to consult with the profiler on record. McNab, right now you're a drone. I want you to take all data from all cases, index, cross-reference any and all similarities. Make me files. Family connections, known associates, financials. I want you to tag the prisoner liaison at Dockport and get the names of the inmates she worked with, the ones on her block. I want to know the people inside she spent any time with. I'm going to see what I can shake out of the first Mrs. Pettibone.

«Peabody, you're with me.»

Eve got behind the wheel, and as Shelly Pettibone lived in Westchester, hit the in-dash map for the best route and directions. It was a pleasant surprise when the route actually popped onto the screen.

«Look at that! It worked.»

«Technology is our friend, Lieutenant.»

«Sure, when it's not screwing with us for its own sick enjoyment. This is only a couple miles from Commander Whitney's place. With my luck Mrs. Pettibone's the commander's wife's best pal.»

Brooding over the possibility, she headed down the drive.

«Dad said he and Mom were going to head downtown today. Take in the Village and SoHo and stuff.»

«Hmm? Oh yeah. Good.»

«I'm going to take them out for dinner tonight, so they won't be in your hair.»

«Uh-huh.»

«Then I'm taking them to a sex joint, and me and McNab are going to perform various exotic sexual acts for them.»

«Sounds good.»

«I thought if you and Roarke wanted to come along, we could make it a nice little orgy. You know, a quartet.»

«You think I don't hear you, but you're wrong.» Eve squeezed into traffic.

«Oh. Oops.»

Eve nipped through a light on yellow, snarled at the maxibus that lumbered into her lane. With a wrench of the wheel, she punched through a narrow break, slapped the accelerator, wrenched back, and cut the bus off as neatly as it had her.

The irritable blast of its horn brought her a nice little glow.

«So I guess between your parents and the fresh case, you haven't had much time to work on Stibbs.»

«I did some. Maureen Stibbs, formerly Brighton, not only lived in the same building as the deceased, but on the same floor. As he does now, Boyd Stibbs often worked from home, while his first wife traveled to her place of employment during the work week. The former Ms. Brighton, while employed as a home design consultant, also worked out of her home office when not traveling to and from clients. This gives the currently married couple time and opportunity for hanky-panky.»

«Hanky-panky. Is that a legal term?»

«Boyd Stibbs married Maureen Brighton two and a half years after Marsha Stibbs's tragic death. I figure that's a pretty long time if they were canoodling-«

«Another legal term. Peabody, I'm so impressed.»

»-while Marsha was alive,» Peabody continued. «But it would also be pretty smart. Still, if they were doing the horizontal rumba, that's a medical term, and wanted to make it a permanent deal, divorce was the easiest option. It's not like Marsha had a bunch of money Boyd would lose out on if he ditched her. I can't figure any motive for premeditation.»

«And you're looking for premeditation because?»

«The letters. If we say that all the statements from friends, relatives, people she worked with, even her husband and her replacement are valid, we work the angle that there never was a lover. So somebody had to plant the letters. Somebody had to write them, and put them in her drawer. After the murder.»

«Why after?»

«Because a woman knows what's in her underwear drawer. She goes into it for a pair of panties, she's going to find the letters.» Peabody paused. «Is this like a test?»

«Just keep going. Play it out for me.»

«Okay, somebody with access to her apartment, somebody who was there the night she died, put the letters in her drawer. And it seems to me that the choice of drawer is female. A guy isn't as likely to pick the lingerie department to hide something. We don't know when the letters were written because there were no envelopes, no date stamps. They all could've been written the night she was killed. And if they were, that might rule out premeditation and move into covering up an impulse. Crime of passion.»

«So the theory is person or persons unknown killed Marsha Stibbs on impulse, then put her into the bathtub hoping to cover up murder as an accident. Concerned perhaps that wasn't enough, this person or persons then wrote letters from some nonexistent lover, planted them in the victim's underwear drawer so that it might then appear she was killed by said nonexistent lover during an argument.»

«Okay, it sounds a little out-there.»

«Then bring it in.»