by J. D. Robb
“And come for you,” Peabody put in.
“Everything the others did happened because I busted him. Under the whack is a very logical mind. Everything he does has a reason. It’s his reason, so it’s bent—but it’s there.”
She glanced at her wrist unit. “I’ve got a meeting with Mira at her residence in twenty minutes. I’m going to leave it to Feeney to fill you in on any holes in this briefing, Peabody. Once you have the lists from the runs I ordered, do a probability scan. See if we can narrow the field a bit. Feeney, when you review the disc he sent through Nadine, you might be able to tag some of the equipment. You get a line on it, we can trace the source. We do it in steps, but we do it fast. If he misses on the list, he might settle for someone else, anyone else. He’s been out a week and already killed twice.”
She broke off as her communicator signaled. She walked to retrieve her jacket as she answered. Two minutes later she jammed it back in her pocket. And her eyes were flat and cold.
“Make that three times. He got to Carl Neissan.”
Eve was still steaming when she rang the bell of Mira’s dignified brownstone. The fact that the guard on door duty demanded that she show her ID and had it verified before entry mollified her slightly. If the man posted at Neissan’s had done the same, Palmer wouldn’t have gotten inside.
Mira came down the hall toward her. She was dressed casually in slacks and sweater, with soft matching shoes. But there was nothing casual about her eyes. Before Eve could speak, she lifted a hand.
“I appreciate your coming here. We can talk upstairs in my office.” She glanced to the right as a child’s laughter bounced through an open doorway. “Under different circumstances I’d introduce you to my family. But I’d rather not put them under any more stress.”
“We’ll leave them out of it.”
“I wish that were possible.” Saying nothing more, Mira started upstairs.
The house reflected her, Eve decided. Calming colors, soft edges, perfect style. Her home office was half the size of her official one and must at one time have been a small bedroom. Eve noted that she’d furnished it with deep chairs and what she thought of as a lady’s desk, with curved legs and fancy carving.
Mira adjusted the sunscreen on a window and turned to the mini AutoChef recessed into the wall.
“You’ll have reviewed my original profile on David Palmer,” she began, satisfied that her hands were steady as she programmed for tea. “I would stand by it, with a few additions due to his time in prison.”
“I didn’t come for a profile. I’ve got him figured.”
“Do you?”
“I walked around inside his head before. We both did.”
“Yes.” Mira offered Eve a delicate cup filled with the fragrant tea they both knew she didn’t want. “In some ways he remains the exception to a great many rules. He had a loving and advantaged childhood. Neither of his parents exhibits any signs of emotional or psychological defects. He did well in school, more of an overachiever than under-, but nothing off the scale. Testing showed no brain deformities, no physical abnormalities. There is no psychological or physiological root for his condition.”
“He likes it,” Eve said briefly. “Sometimes evil’s its own root.”
“I want to disagree,” Mira murmured. “The reasons, the whys of abnormal behavior are important to me. But I have no reasons, no whys, for David Palmer.”
“That’s not your problem, Doctor. Mine is to stop him, and to protect the people he’s chosen. The first two on his list are dead.”
“Stephanie Ring? You’re sure.”
“Her body was found this morning. Carl Neissan’s been taken.”
This time Mira’s hand shook, rattling her cup in its saucer before she set it aside. “He was under guard.”
“Palmer got himself into a cop suit, knocked on the damn door, and posed as the relief. The on-duty didn’t question it. He went home to a late Christmas dinner. When the morning duty came on, he found the house empty.”
“And the night relief? The real one?”
“Inside the trunk of his unit. Tranq’d and bound but otherwise unharmed. He hasn’t come around enough to be questioned yet. Hardly matters. We know it was Palmer. I’m arranging for Justine Polinsky to be moved to a safe house. You’ll want to pack some things, Doctor. You’re going under.”
“You know I can’t do that, Eve. This is as much my case as yours.”
“You’re wrong. You’re a consultant, and that’s it. I don’t need consultation. I’m no longer confident that you can be adequately protected in this location. I’m moving you.”
“Eve—”
“Don’t fuck with me.” It came out sharp, very close to mean, and Mira jerked back in surprise. “I’m taking you into police custody. You can gather up some personal things or you can go as you are. But you’re going.”
Calling on the control that ran within her like her own bloodstream, Mira folded her hands in her lap. “And you? Will you be going under?”
“I’m not your concern.”
“Of course you are, Eve,” Mira said quietly, watching the storm of emotions in Eve’s eyes. “Just as I’m yours. And my family downstairs is mine. They’re not safe.”
“I’ll see to it. I’ll see to them.”
Mira nodded, closed her eyes briefly. “It would be a great relief to me to know they were away from here, and protected. It’s difficult for me to cope when I’m worried about their welfare.”
“He won’t touch them. I promise you.”
“I’ll take your word. Now as to my status—”
“I didn’t give you multiple choices, Dr. Mira.”
“Just a moment.” Composed again, Mira picked up her tea. “I think you’ll agree…I have every bit as much influence with your superiors as you do. It would hardly serve either of us to play at tugging strings. I’m not being stubborn or courageous,” she added. “Those are your traits.”
A ghost of a smile curved her mouth when Eve frowned at her. “I admire them. You’re also a woman who can see past emotion to the goal. The goal is to stop David Palmer. I can be of use. We both know it. With my family away I’ll be less distracted. And I can’t be with them, Eve, because if I am I’ll worry that he’ll harm one of them to get to me.”
She paused for a moment, judged that Eve was considering. “I have no argument to having guards here or at my office. In fact, I want them. Very much. I have no intention of taking any unnecessary chances or risks. I’m just asking you to let me do my work.”
“You can do your work where I put you.”
“Eve.” Mira drew a breath. “If you put both me and Justine out of his reach, there’s the very real possibility he’ll take someone else.” She nodded. “You’ve considered that already. He won’t come for you until he’s ready. You’re the grand prize. If no one else is accessible, he’ll strike out. He’ll want to keep to his timetable, even if it requires a substitute.”
“I’ve got some lines on him.”
“And you’ll find him. But if he believes I’m accessible, if I’m at least visible, he’ll be satisfied to focus his energies on getting through. I expect you to prevent that.” She smiled again, easier now. “And I intend to do everything I can to help you.”
“I can make you go. All your influence won’t matter if I toss you in restraints and have you hauled out of here. You’ll be pissed off, but you’ll be safe.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Mira agreed. “But you know I’m right.”
“I’m doubling your guards. You’re wearing a bracelet. You work here. You’re not to leave the house for any reason.” Her eyes flashed when Mira started to protest. “You push me on this, you’re going to find out what it feels like to wear cuffs.” Eve rose. “Your guards will do hourly check-ins. Your ’link will be monitored.”
“That hardly makes me appear accessible.”
“He’ll know you’re here. That’s going to have to be enough. I’ve got work to d
o.” Eve started for the door, hesitated, then spoke without turning around. “Your family, they matter to you.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You matter to me.” She walked away quickly, before Mira could get shakily to her feet.
SIX
Eve headed to the lab from Mira’s. From there she planned a stop by the morgue and another at Carl Neissan’s before returning to her home office.
Remembering Mira’s concern about family, Eve called Roarke on her palm-link after she parked and started into the building.
“Why are you alone?” was the first thing he said to her.
“Cut it out.” She flashed her badge at security, then headed across the lobby and down toward the labs. “I’m in a secured facility, surrounded by rent-a-cops, monitors, and lab dorks. I’ve got a job to do. Let me do it.”
“He’s gotten three out of six.”
She stopped, rolled her eyes. “Oh, I get it. Shows what kind of faith you have in me. I guess being a cop for ten years makes me as easy a fish as a seventy-year-old judge and a couple of soft lawyers.”
“You annoy me, Eve.”
“Why? Because I’m right?”
“Yes. And snotty about it.” But his smile warmed a little. “Why did you call?”
“So I could be snotty. I’m at the lab, about to tackle Dickhead. I’ve got a few stops to make after this. I’ll check in.”
It was a casual way to let him know she understood he worried. And he accepted, in the same tone. “I’ve several ’link conferences this afternoon. Call in on the private line. Watch your back, Lieutenant. I’m very fond of it.”
Satisfied, she swung into the lab. Dickie, the chief tech, was there, looking sleepy-eyed and pale as he stared at the readout on his monitor.
The last time she’d been in the lab, there’d been a hell of a party going on. Now those who’d bothered to come in worked sluggishly and looked worse.
“I need reports, Dickie. Wainger and Ring.”
“Jesus, Dallas.” He looked up mournfully, hunching his shoulders. “Don’t you ever stay home?”
Since he looked ill, she gave him a little leeway. Silently she opened her jacket, tapped the silver star pinned to her shirt. “I’m the law,” she said soberly. “The law has no home.”
It made him grin a little, then he moaned. “Man, I got the mother of all Christmas hangovers.”
“Mix yourself up a potion, Dickie, and get over it. Dave’s got number three.”
“Dave who?”
“Palmer, David Palmer.” She resisted letting out her impatience by cuffing him on the side of the head. But she imagined doing it. “Did you read the damn directive?”
“I’ve only been here twenty minutes. Jesus.” He rolled his shoulders, rubbed his face, drew in three sharp nasal breaths. “Palmer? That freak’s caged.”
“Not anymore. He skipped and he’s back in New York. Wainger and Ring are his.”
“Shit. Damn shit.” He didn’t look any less ill, but his eyes were alert now. “Fucking Christmas week and we get the world’s biggest psycho-freak.”
“Yeah, and Happy New Year, too. I need the results, on the rope, on the paper. I want to know what he used to carve the letters. You get any hair or fiber from the sweepers?”
“No, wait, just wait a damn minute.” He scooted his rolling chair down the counter, barked orders at a computer, muttering as he scanned the data. “Bodies were clean. No hair other than victim’s. No fiber.”
“He always kept them clean,” Eve murmured.
“Yeah, I remember. I remember. Got some dust—like grit between the toes, both victims.”
“Concrete dust.”
“Yeah. Get you the grade, possible age. Now the rope.” He skidded back. “I was just looking at it, just doing the test run. Nothing special or exotic about it. Standard nylon strapping rope. Give me some time, I’ll get you the make.”
“How much time?”
“Two hours, three tops. Takes longer when it’s standard.”
“Make it fast.” She swung away. “I’m in the field.”
She stopped at the morgue next, to harass the chief medical examiner. It was more difficult to intimidate Morse or to rush him.
No sexual assault or molestation, no mutilation or injuries of genitalia.
Typical of Palmer, Eve thought as she ran over Morse’s prelim report in her head. He was as highly asexual as anyone she’d come up against. She doubted that he even thought of the gender of his victims other than as a statistic for his experiments.
Subject Wainger’s central nervous system had been severely damaged. Subject suffered minor cardiac infarction during abduction and torture period. Anus and interior of mouth showed electrical burns. Both hands crushed with a smooth, heavy instrument. Three ribs cracked.
The list of injuries went on until Morse had confirmed the cause of death as strangulation. And the time of death as midnight, December twenty-fourth.
She spent an hour at Carl Neissan’s, another at Wainger’s. In both cases, she thought, the door had been opened, Palmer allowed in. He was good at that. Good at putting on a pretty smile and talking his way in.
He looked so damn innocent, Eve thought as she climbed the steps to her own front door. Even the eyes—and the eyes usually told you—were those of a young, harmless man. They hadn’t flickered, hadn’t glazed or brightened, even when he’d sat in interview across from her and described each and every murder.
They’d taken on the light of madness only when he talked about the scope and importance of his work.
“Lieutenant.” Summerset, tall and bony in severe black, slipped out of a doorway. “Do I assume your guests will be remaining for lunch?”
“Guests? I don’t have any guests.” She stripped off her jacket, tossed it across the newel post. “If you mean my team, we’ll deal with it.”
He had the jacket off the post even as she started up the stairs. At his low growl of disgust she glanced back. He held in his fingertips the gloves she’d balled into her jacket pocket. “What have you done to these?”
“It’s just sealant.” Which she’d forgotten to clean off before she shoved them into her pocket.
“These are handmade, Italian leather with mink lining.”
“Mink? Shit. What is he, crazy?” Shaking her head, she kept on going. “Mink lining, for Christ’s sake. I’ll have lost them by next week, then some stupid mink will have died for nothing.” She glanced down the hallway at Roarke’s office door, shook her head again, and walked into her own.
She was right, Eve noted. Her team could deal with lunch on their own. Feeney was chowing down on some kind of multitiered sandwich while he muttered orders into the computer and scanned. Peabody had a deep bowl of pasta, scooping it up one-handed, sliding printouts into a pile with the other.
Her office smelled like an upscale diner and sounded like cops. Computer and human voices clashed, the printer hummed, and the main ’link was beeping and being ignored.
She strode over and answered it herself. “Dallas.”
“Hey, got your rope.” When she saw Dickie shove a pickle in his mouth, she wondered if every city official’s stomach had gone on alarm at the same time. “Nylon strapping cord, like I said. This particular type is top grade, heavy load. Manufactured by Kytell outta Jersey. You guys run the distributor, that’s your end.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” She broke transmission, thinking Dickie wasn’t always a complete dickhead. He’d come through and hadn’t required a bribe.
“Lieutenant,” Peabody began, but Eve held up a finger and walked to Roarke’s door and through it. “Do you own Kytell in New Jersey?”
Then she stopped and winced when she saw that he was in the middle of a holographic conference. Several images turned, studied her out of politely annoyed eyes.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Gentlemen, ladies, this is my wife.” Roarke leaned back in his chair, monumentally amused that Eve had inadvertently mad
e good on her threat to barge in on one of his multimillion-dollar deals just to annoy him. “If you’d excuse me one moment. Caro?”
The holo of his administrative assistant rose, smiled. “Of course. We’ll shift to the boardroom momentarily.” The image turned, ran her hands over controls that only she could see, and the holos winked away.
“I should have knocked or something.”
“It’s not a problem. They’ll hold. I’m about to make them all very rich. Do I own what?”
“Did you have to say ‘my wife’ just that way, like I’d just run up from the kitchen?”
“So much more serene an image than telling them you’d just run in from the morgue. And it is a rather conservative company I’m about to buy. Now, do I own what and why do you want to know?”
“Kytell, based in New Jersey. They make rope.”
“Do they? Well, I have no idea. Just a minute.” He swiveled at the console, asked for the information on the company. Which, Eve thought with some irritation, she could have damn well done herself.
“Yes, they’re an arm of Yancy, which is part of Roarke Industries. And which, I assume, made the murder weapon.”
“Right the first time.”
“Then you’ll want the distributor, the stores in the New York area where large quantities were sold to one buyer within the last week.”
“Peabody can get it.”
“I’ll get it faster. Give me thirty minutes to finish up in here, then I’ll shoot the data through to your unit.”
“Thanks.” She started out, turned back. “The third woman on the right? The redhead? She was giving you a leg shot—another inch of skirt lift and it would have been past her crotch.”
“I noticed. Very nice legs.” He smiled. “But she still won’t get more than eighty point three a share. Anything else?”
“She’s no natural redhead,” Eve said for the hell of it and heard him laugh as she shut the door between them.
“Sir.” Peabody got to her feet. “I think I have a line on the vehicle. Three possibles, high-end privates sold to single men in their early to mid-twenties on December twentieth and twenty-first. Two dealerships on the East Side and one in Brooklyn.”
