Visions in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “These are really beautiful. Unique. They look handcrafted.”

  “Marjie made them. She was always making something.” He ran his hand over one of the pillows. “Used to call herself a craft addict.”

  Pop, Eve thought. “Would you know where she bought her supplies?”

  “Her supplies? I don’t get it.”

  “It’s details, Mr. Cabel,” Peabody told him. “Details help.”

  “It was one of the things we didn’t do together.” He mustered up a smile. “She’d dragged me along a few times, on her hunts, but I made her feel rushed, she said, because I was so obviously bored. She’s got a little studio set up in the second bedroom. There’s probably some record of where some of the stuff came from.”

  Eve rose. “Can we take a look?”

  “Sure.” He got up quickly, the enthusiasm for the new angle clear on his face. “It’s right in here.”

  He led them into a small room, full of material and threads and ribbons. Fringes and framing and objects Eve couldn’t begin to identify. It all appeared to be meticulously organized into groups. There were a couple of small machines, and a mini data and communication center.

  “Can we turn this on?”

  “Sure. Let me get it for you.” He walked over to the d and c, booted it up.

  “Peabody.” Eve tipped her head toward the unit.

  “She could make anything,” Cabel continued, and wandered the room, touching fabrics. “The quilt on the bed, the folk art scattered around the apartment. The sofa out in the living area? She picked it up off the street, hauled it home, fixed it up, re-covered it. One day, she’s going to start her own business, do home decorating, or maybe run her own craft school. Something.”

  “Lieutenant? There’s a transaction here for supplies, February 27, another March 14. Total Crafts.”

  Eve nodded, continued to riffle through wide baskets, painted boxes. And lifted out three rolls of corded ribbon. One in navy, one in gold. And one in red.

  “He trolls the craft shops.” Again, Eve crossed the park, her focus on the castle. “Why does a guy like that troll the craft shops?”

  “He could have spotted them somewhere else, followed them there.”

  “No. Two women, their only known connection a hobby. One dead, one missing and presumed. I guarantee you when we finish with Nadine and go talk to Breen Merriweather’s baby-sitter, we’re going to find she did crafts. We’re going to find she bought supplies, at one time or another, from Total Crafts, or one of the other locations either Maplewood or Kates used. He sees them there, they fit his requirements. He stalks them, studies them.”

  She tucked her thumbs in her pockets. “Then he lays in wait and takes them. If he did Kates, he almost certainly had to have his own transpo. There’s nowhere between the restaurant and the apartment where he could have raped, murdered, mutilated her, then hid the body. He had to do a snatch and grab, then take her somewhere.”

  “If we’re right about Kates, then he changed his method for Maplewood.”

  Eve shook her head. “Not changed. Perfected. Kates was one of his trial runs. Might have been more before her. Sidewalk sleepers, runaways, junkies, whatever. Someone who wouldn’t get reported missing, or was reported months before the grab. He had it down to a science when he killed Elisa Maplewood. He might have been working up to that for years.”

  “Happy thought.”

  “They represent somebody: mother, sister, lover, a woman who rejected him, refused him, abused him. Dominant female figure.”

  Why, she wondered, did the twisted tree of a murderer so often go back to the mother root? Did the gestation and birthing process come with the power to nurture or destroy?

  “When we get him,” Eve continued, “it’s going to come out that she—this symbol—knocked him around or boo-hoo broke his heart or made him feel weak and helpless. So his defense lawyers will come along saying: Oh, he was damaged, poor sick son of a bitch. He’s not responsible. And that’s a pile of shit, that’s a big, smelly pile of bullshit. Because nobody’s responsible for choking the life out of Elisa Maplewood but him. Nobody.”

  Peabody let the rant run, waited until she was sure it was over. “Preaching to the choir.”

  Eve drew it back in. “Yeah. Where the hell is Nadine? She doesn’t show in five, we cancel. We need to follow up on Merriweather.”

  “We’re a couple minutes early.”

  “I guess we are.” Eve sat on the grass, drew her knees up, and studied the castle. “You ever skip around parks when you were a kid?”

  “Sure.” Glad the storm had passed, Peabody sat beside her. “Free-Agers, you know. I was a regular nature girl. You?”

  “No. Couple of stints in what you could call summer camp.” Run by state-hired Nazis, Eve thought, who regulated every breath. “This one’s not so bad. You know it’s still in the city, so it’s okay.”

  “Not looking to make nature girl?”

  “Nature’ll kill you, just for the hell of it.”

  Eve glanced over and watched Nadine and her camera operator crossing to them. “Why would she wear those skinny heels when she knew she’d be hiking over grass?”

  “Because they’re jazzed, and make her legs look mag.”

  Eve supposed everything about Nadine looked mag, from her sweep of streaky blonde hair to the toes of her jazzed shoes. She had a foxy, angular face, observant green eyes, and a slim body that curved appropriately in her on-camera suit of power red.

  She was smart, she was sneaky, she was cynical.

  And for reasons Eve imagined neither of them fully understood, they’d become friends.

  “Dallas. Peabody. Don’t you two look relaxed and pastoral. Why don’t you set up there?” She gestured to the camera. “I want the castle in the background. You got any real juice,” she said to Eve, “I can take this live.”

  “No. And we’re keeping it short. We could even say pithy.”

  “Pithy it is.” Nadine took out a small compact to check her face, lifted a paper-thin sponge and dabbed her nose. “Who’s leading off?”

  “She is.” Eve jerked a thumb at Peabody.

  “I am?”

  “Let’s get to it.” Nadine nodded to the camera, angled her body. Gave her shoulders a roll, her hair a little shake. And her easy smile turned into a cool, serious look.

  “This is Nadine Furst, in Central Park with Lieutenant Eve Dallas and Detective Delia Peabody of the New York City Police and Security Department, Homicide Division. Behind us is Belvedere Castle, one of the city’s most unique landmarks, and the site of a recent, violent murder. Elisa Maplewood, a woman who worked and lived only a short distance from here, a single mother of a four-year-old child, was assaulted near the very spot where we’re standing. She was brutally raped and murdered. Detective Peabody, as a key member of the investigative team handling Elisa Maplewood’s murder, can you tell us what progress you’ve made in finding her killer?”

  “We are actively pursuing all leads and utilizing all the resources at our disposal.”

  “Are you confident you’ll make an arrest?”

  Don’t screw up, Peabody ordered herself. Don’t screw up. “The case remains open and active. Lieutenant Dallas and I will continue to work toward identifying Ms. Maplewood’s assailant, gathering evidence that will result in an arrest in order to bring this individual to justice.”

  “Can you tell us what specific leads you are pursuing?”

  “I’m unable to discuss specific details of this investigation as such might taint the case we’re building or affect the progress of said investigation.”

  “As a woman, Detective, do you feel this particular crime more personally?”

  Peabody started to deny, then remembered part of the purpose of the interview. “As a cop, it’s imperative to remain objective in every investigation. It’s impossible not to feel, on a personal level, compassion and outrage for any victim of any crime, but that compassion and outrage can’t be allowed to overco
me objectivity and interfere. Because the victim must be our priority. As a woman, I feel that compassion and outrage on Elisa Maplewood’s behalf. Like Lieutenant Dallas, I want the individual responsible for her suffering and pain—for the suffering and pain of her family, her friends—identified and punished.”

  “Do you agree, Lieutenant Dallas?”

  “Yes, I do. A woman stepped out of her home, intending to walk her dog in the city’s greatest park. Her life was taken from her, and that’s enough for outrage. But it was taken viciously, violently, deliberately. As a cop, as a woman, I will pursue the man who took Elisa Maplewood’s life, however long it takes, until he’s brought to justice.”

  “How was she mutilated?”

  “At this point, that detail of the crime and investigation is not for public consumption.”

  “Don’t you believe in the public’s right to know, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t believe the public has a right to know everything. And I believe the media has the responsibility to respect the department’s decision to hold certain details back. We don’t do so to deprive or deny the public of their rights, but to preserve the integrity of an investigation.

  “Nadine,” she said, and had Nadine blinking. Eve never referred to her by her first name on-air. “We’re women in what could be considered high-powered professions. However much a crime like this disturbs us, a crime in this case specifically targeted at women, we have to maintain that professionalism in order to do the job we’ve signed up to do. And in this case, the case of Elisa Maplewood, it will be women who stand for her, and who work toward seeing that her killer is punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

  Nadine started to speak again, but Eve shook her head. “That’s it. Camera off.”

  “I have more questions.”

  “That’s it,” Eve repeated. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “But—” Nadine only sighed as Eve was already hiking away. “Slow it down. Heels here.”

  “Your choice, pal.”

  “You wear a weapon, I wear heels. Tools of our respective trades.” She hooked her arm through Eve’s to slow her down. “So, what was that last bit about? Eve.”

  “A personal message to the killer. Off-record here, Nadine.”

  “Tell me how he mutilated her. Off-record, Dallas. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “He cut out her eyes.”

  “Jesus.” Nadine breathed in, stared off into the trees. “Oh, Jesus. Was she already dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank God for that. So you’ve got some psychotic out there who has a big hate on for women? Not Maplewood specifically.”

  “That’s my working theory.”

  “And the reason you suggested the interview. Us three girls. Clever of you.”

  “Tell me what you know about Breen Merriweather.”

  “Breen?” Nadine’s head snapped around. “Oh God, oh God, did you find her?” She gripped Eve’s arm now. “Is she dead? Did this bastard kill her, too?”

  “No, she hasn’t been found. I don’t know if she’s dead, but I suspect she is, and I believe it might be connected. What do you know about her?”

  “I know she was a nice, hardworking woman who adored her son . . . Jesus, is he targeting single mothers?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Let me take a second.” She walked a few feet away, hugged her arms. “We weren’t best pals or anything like that. More a working friendship. I liked her, and appreciated her efficiency. I saw her, evening shift, the night she disappeared. I left the station about seven. I know she was on till midnight, handling the eleven o’clock. Everything I’ve heard is second-hand, but it’s reliable.”

  She turned back. “She clocked out, left the station just after her shift ended. She would have taken the subway home, that’s what she always did. It’s just three blocks east. One of the guys saw her heading out, yelled good night. She waved to him. As far as I know he’s the last one in the station who saw her. He said she was walking east, toward the subway.”

  “Did she do crafts?”

  “Crafts?”

  “You know what crafts are, Nadine.”

  Interest, keen, replaced the sorrow. “As a matter of fact, she did. She did a lot of handwork, always had a bag of supplies with her, and some project going. She used to work on it during breaks or wait time. Is that the connection?”

  “It’s looking that way. You know any big, bodybuilder-type guys? Anybody like that at 75?”

  “We’re desk jockeys and faces.” She shook her head. “We on-air types work out, body-sculpt, whatever it takes to keep trim, but the public doesn’t want their news and entertainment from big bruisers. We got some burly techs, and some overweight drones, but none of them would qualify as bodybuilders. Is that your line on him?”

  “Another working theory.”

  “I need a full interview when this is wrapped, Dallas. If Breen was part of this thing, I need to do a full interview with you and Peabody for the station. She was one of ours.”

  “You’d want one anyway.”

  “I would.” Nadine smiled a little. “But if this hits home, I need it. Fuck objectivity. It’s personal.”

  “I hear that.”

  To save time, Eve requested Breen Merriweather’s childcare provider meet them at Breen’s apartment. Eve used her master to gain access, and stepped into a small, cheerful set of rooms with air stale from disuse.

  “Her family’s paying the rent.” Annalou Harbor, the sixtyish provider, looked around the apartment with sad eyes. “I still come in once a week, water her plants. Aired it out a couple times, but . . . I live upstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Her husband took Jesse, her little boy. I miss that baby. Such a sweetie.” She gestured to a framed photo that showed a grinning little boy in a sideways ball cap. “Breen would never have left him. Not while there was breath in her body. So I know there isn’t. I know she’s dead. That’s why you’re here. You’re Homicide. I recognize you. I’ve seen you on-screen.”

  “We don’t know, Mrs. Harbor. But we’re pursuing—”

  “Don’t pad it for me, Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was firm, and just a little prim. “I’m not a gossip, and I’m not looking for some sort of twisted excitement. I loved that girl like she was my own, and I can help you more if you don’t try to dance around it.”

  “We believe it’s highly possible that she’s dead, Mrs. Harbor, and that her death may be connected with another case we’re investigating.”

  “The murder in Central Park, the rape-murder. I keep up.” She pressed her lips together until they turned white, but she didn’t crumble. “What can I do to help you?”

  “Where does Ms. Merriweather keep her craft supplies?”

  “In here.” She led the way into a tiny room equipped with two counters, several hand-painted cabinets, and the machines Eve was now accustomed to seeing in such places.

  “See, she set it up as an activity room, for her and Jesse. His toys and games over there, her supplies here. That way they could be together when they had leisure time. Breen liked making things. She knit me a beautiful throw last Christmas.”

  Eve opened cupboards while Peabody tackled communications and data. There were several samples of the corded ribbon.

  “I got hits on Total Crafts, and a couple of the others on the list,” Peabody announced.

  “Mrs. Harbor, we’re going to need to take her ’links and computer, and some other items into evidence. Can you give me the contact number for her next of kin?”

  “Take what you need. Her mother told me to cooperate with the police in any and every way. I’ll get in touch with her.”

  “My partner will give you a receipt.”

  “All right. It’ll be easier for them, for all of us, to know.” She looked around the room, and though her lips trembled once, she firmed them. “However bad it is, it’ll be easier to know for certain.”

  “Yes, ma�
�am, it will. I realize the other detectives interviewed you, but I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “That’s fine. Can we sit down? I’d like to sit down.”

  “It’s hard to think,” Peabody began when they were back in the car, “that if these three women are linked, that nobody connected to them saw this guy. If he’s the physical description we believe, you wouldn’t see him blending.”

  “He’s careful.”

  “Are we going to try another push with Celina?”

  “Not yet. I need think time.”

  She settled down to it in her office, her feet on her desk, her head back. She visualized the pattern. He wouldn’t have expected them to recognize the pattern so quickly, because he wouldn’t have expected the police to link the murder with the disappearances.

  But if—when—he killed again, he’d know they’d see the connections between victims. It didn’t worry him.

  Why?

  The murder weapon was available at the shops the murder victim, and the suspected victims, had frequented. It wouldn’t take much longer for the exact location to be identified. Did he think, because it was a fairly common item, the cops couldn’t nail the source through basic lab work? Possibly.

  But even so, he’d have to believe the investigation would include the point of purchase. Even if someone else had bought the ribbon, he’d been inside or within sight of the store or stores in order to select his victim.

  But he wasn’t worried about it any more than it seemed he’d worried about being seen or caught assaulting Elisa in a public park.

  Because, like many psychopaths, he believed he was invulnerable? That he wouldn’t be caught, or because a part of him was begging to be caught?

  Stop me. Find me, catch me.

  Either way, wasn’t he enjoying the risk factor? Wasn’t he aroused by the chances he took?

  Arousal: in the selection, in the trolling, in the stalking. All that anticipation building.

  Gratification: physical violence, sexual violence, murder committed with an item considered more traditionally female, then left on the victim like a decoration.

  Enjoyment: possessing the strength to overpower and control and kill. And more, the strength to bear the weight of the dead, more than the average man could manage.