by J. D. Robb
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Peabody echoed, pressing her lips together to hold back a grin. “So that means both of us will be bunking at your place.”
Eve stared straight ahead. “We need to put in some time on this, so it’ll be easier this way.”
“And you’ll have a Summerset buffer.”
“What’s your point?”
“You have less trouble with the idea of me and McNab bouncing on the gel bed in the guest room than you do with dealing one-on-one with Summerset. It’s kind of sweet.”
“Don’t make me stop this vehicle, Peabody.”
“Did you have a chance to ask Roarke if he’s got any apartments up for grabs?”
“No. He’s been busy. He’s got stuff on his mind.”
Peabody sobered. “So I gathered. Dallas, is he in trouble?”
“Yeah. It’s a big mess, personal mess. He’s working it out. It’s a family thing.”
“I didn’t think he had any family.”
“Neither did he.” She couldn’t talk about it. Didn’t know how to talk about it. Didn’t know if she was supposed to talk about it. “He’ll work it out. He’ll be back in a couple of days.”
Meanwhile you’re off, Peabody thought, because he’s off. “McNab and I can hang at your place until he’s back if you want.”
“Let’s take it a day at a time.”
She didn’t complain about waiting while Peabody packed a bag. Instead, she sat in her vehicle and began streamlining her notes into a report. She didn’t complain about swinging by Central to pick up McNab. Anything was better than going home alone.
So it had come to that, she thought, tuning out the chatter Peabody and McNab insisted on making. She didn’t want to go home alone. A couple of years before she’d have thought nothing of it. In fact, she’d have preferred it. Closing herself into her own space and spending the bulk of any evening on her caseload.
Of course, she hadn’t had Summerset hovering around somewhere. Broken leg or not, he was still in the house. Still breathing the same air as she was.
But that wasn’t the whole reason she was dragging Peabody and McNab home with her. She wanted the company, the noise, the distraction. Something, anything, to keep her mind focused on the work so she’d stop worrying about Roarke for a while.
Where the hell was he now, and what was he doing?
Deliberately, she blocked that train of thought and tuned back in to the conversation.
“Crimson Rocket is totally juiced,” McNab claimed. “They’re completely iced.”
“Oh please. They blow.”
“You don’t jive with rocking tunes, She-Body. Catch this.”
He turned on his pocket player and had something screaming out. It sounded, to Eve’s ear, like a train wreck. “Off!” she ordered. “Turn that shit off.”
“You gotta give it a chance, Dallas. Open up to the energy and irony.”
“Two seconds, and I’m opening up the window and throwing you and your energy out on the street.”
Peabody’s face settled into smug lines. “Told you they suck.”
“You’ve got no musical taste.”
“You don’t.”
“You don’t.”
Eve hunched her shoulders, trying to lift them over her ears. “What have I done?” she asked herself as she drove through the gates of home. “What have I done?”
They argued all the way up the drive, taking jabs at each other’s musical preference with terms like Free-Ager pap, and retro-rock ripoff. She slammed on the brakes, all but leaped out of the car to escape it, but they were right behind her, bickering their way to the door.
“Go. Go back there.” Eve stabbed a finger in the general direction of Summerset’s quarters. “Take the insanity back there. Maybe his head will explode, and I’ll have one less problem. Visit the patient, argue until your tongues turn black and fall out, have dinner, have monkey sex. Go away.”
“But, sir, you wanted to work on the case,” Peabody reminded her.
“I don’t want to see either of you for an hour. One full hour. I must have gone mad,” she mumbled as she started upstairs. “I went mad and didn’t know it, and now I need a nice, quiet padded room.”
“What’s with her?” McNab wanted to know.
“Roarke’s got some problems. It messes her up. Let’s go back and see how Summerset’s doing. Crimson Rocket still blows,” she added.
“Man, how can I be in love with a woman who doesn’t recognize true musical genius?” He gave her butt a squeeze. “Oh yeah, that’s one reason.” He leaned down to her ear. “Think we can fit Summerset, chow, and monkey sex into an hour?”
“Bet we can.”
Eve went directly to her office, directly to the kitchen, directly to the AutoChef. “Coffee. Coffee will keep me sane.” She ordered a pot, considered drinking it straight down where she stood, but restrained herself. Taking it and a mug to her desk she sat, poured. Took a long, long breath.
“Computer on.” She sat back and sipped the first mug. Cleared her head. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, primary, case numbers H-23987 and H-23992 connected. Additional notes. Connection between victims Howard and Sulu is established through various witness statements. Both frequented Make The Scene data club, and had interaction there. Both were photographed by Hastings. Connection between Hastings and Browning, one of Howard’s professors, one of the last people to see Howard alive, established. They know each other professionally and personally. Through her recommendation some of Browning’s students have served as photographic assistants for Hastings, giving them access to his files, and the images of the victims removed from said files. Browning also had access when escorting classes to Hastings’s studio for workshops.”
She let that stand while she turned the known facts over in her head. “Browning’s alibi is loose and verified by her spouse. Suspect has capability to manipulate security discs. EDD will study discs for any sign of tampering.
“It’s not her,” Eve said quietly. “Just doesn’t fit, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Considering Angela Brightstar, Browning’s spouse. Loose alibi also applies, giving her means and opportunity. Motive? Jealousy and/or artistic expression.”
She picked up her coffee so she could pace and drink. “Computer, run probability. Given method of crimes and current profile, is perpetrator of the same age bracket as victims?”
WORKING . . . WITH KNOWN DATA, PROBABILITY PERPETRATOR AND VICTIMS SHARE AGE BRACKET—18 TO 22—IS THIRTY-TWO POINT TWO PERCENT.
“Yeah, that’s my take. Not impossible we’ve got a kid working here, some twisted wunderkind with a lot of patience, but it feels more adult.
“Computer, run list noted in casefile of Hastings’s assistants. Give me the age span.”
WORKING . . . AGE SPAN IS 18 TO 32.
“Okay, display, wall screen, all names from age 25 up.”
WORKING . . . DISPLAY ON.
She scanned them, saw two of the names Peabody had listed as bogus. “All right, Brady, Adams, Olsen, Luis Javert. Cross check those names with students sent to Hastings from Browning. Search for match with family names, street addresses. Also run combinations. Run combinations for match to photographic or imaging artists of any note.”
WORKING . . . ESTIMATED TIME TO COMPLETE ALL TASKS IS TWENTY-THREE POINT FIVE MINUTES.
“Whatever. Switch display to map on file while working.
SWITCHING DISPLAY . . .
She moved forward, studying the routes and locations she’d already highlighted. Nothing matched the names she was running. In her mind, she ran those routes, trying to see what he’d seen.
“Where do you work?” she queried aloud. “Where do you store your vehicle? Who are you? Why are you?”
Light, she thought. Light equals energy, life. Light equals soul. There’s no image without light. No life without light.
Something stirred in her brain. She tilted her head as if to bring it to the surface.
And
her ’link beeped.
“Damn it.” She crossed over to answer. “Dallas.”
“There she is. Hello, darlin’.”
“Roarke.” Every other thought flew out of her head, slapped away by love and worry. “Where are you?”
“In Dublin’s fair city.” He grinned at her.
“Are you . . . Are you drunk?”
“Well and truly pissed, that I am. We’re well into the second bottle now. Or maybe it’s the third. Who’s counting?”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and my old boyhood mate, Brian Kelly. He sends all his love and devotion.”
“Right.” They’d gotten plowed before, foolishly buzzed on wine while on holiday. But she’d never seen Roarke stupidly drunk. His beautiful eyes were blurry, and his wonderful voice so thick with Ireland and slurred from drink, she could barely understand him. “You’re at the Penny Pig.”
“We’re not, no. I don’t believe. No,” he verified after glancing around. “Don’t appear to be in the pub. This much whiskey deserves a more private setting. We’re drunk in Bri’s flat. Come quite some ways from the shanties, Bri has. Nice cozy flat here. That’s him you hear singing now about Molly Malone.”
“Uh-huh.” So he was safe then, she thought, and wouldn’t go stumbling out of the pub and in front of a maxibus. “I guess it’s after midnight there. You should go lie down now, get some sleep.”
“Not ready to sleep, don’t want the dreams. You’d understand that, wouldn’t you, my one true love?”
“Yeah, I would. Roarke—”
“Found out some things today that I don’t want to think about quite yet. Drowning them for the night. Found out some things from one of my father’s old mates. Bastard. Didn’t kill him, you’ll be pleased to know. But I wanted to.”
“Don’t go anywhere tonight. Promise me you’ll stay in Brian’s flat. Drink yourself unconscious, but don’t go anywhere.”
“Not going anywhere till tomorrow. Heading west tomorrow.”
“West?” She got an image of cattle ranches and mountains and long, empty fields. “Where? What, Montana?”
He laughed until she thought he’d burst. “Christ, is it any wonder I’m besotted with you? West in Ireland, my darling, darling Eve. I’m bound for Clare tomorrow. Odds are they’ll kill me the minute they see my face—his face. But it has to be done.”
“Roarke, why don’t you stay with Brian another day. Let things settle down some. Then . . . What the hell was that?” she demanded when she heard a violent crash.
“Ah, Brian’s down, and appears to have taken a table and lamp with him. Passed out flat on his face, poor sod. I’d best go try to haul his ass up and into bed. I’ll ring you up tomorrow. See that you take care of my cop. I can’t live without her.”
“Take care of my drunk Irishman. I can’t live without him either.”
He blinked those blurry eyes in confusion. “What, Brian?”
“No, you idiot. You.”
“Oh.” He grinned at her again, so foolishly her throat burned. “That’s good then. Makes us even. ’Night now.”
“Good night.” She stared at the blank screen, wishing she could just reach through it and haul him back to where he belonged.
The computer was just detailing her matches when Peabody and McNab strolled in. “Summerset’s fine,” Peabody told her. “He gets the skin cast off tomorrow and can start walking for short periods.”
“Picture me doing handsprings. Matthew Brady, Ansel Adams, Jimmy Olsen, Luis Javert. Who are these guys?”
“Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter, the Daily Planet,” McNab supplied.
“You know him?”
“Superman, Dallas. You’ve got to get more exposure to pop culture. Comics, graphic novels, vids, games, toys. See, Superman’s this superhero from the planet Krypton who’s sent to Earth as a baby, and—”
“Just the highlights, McNab.”
“He disguises himself as mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent and comes to Metropolis to work at the Daily Planet, a newspaper. Jimmy Olsen’s one of the characters, a young reporter and photographer.”
“Photographer, check. And the other two?”
McNab shrugged his bony shoulders. “Got me.”
“Ansel Adams was a photographer,” Peabody supplied. “My father’s got some of his prints. Nature stuff, powerful.”
“And Matthew Brady.” She went to the computer for that one. “Another photographer. Three for three. No other matches in family names, street address. And behind door number two?”
Her eyes went flat and hard. “We’ve got a winner. Not Luis but Henri Javert, photographer, primarily known for his portraits of the dead. Came to popularity early this century in Paris. Though Shadow Imagery, as this art form was termed, went quickly out of fashion, his work is considered the best of the style. Examples of his work can be viewed at the Louvre in Paris, the Image Museum in London, and the International Center of Photography in New York.
“McNab, get me everything you can on Henri Javert.”
“On it.”
“Peabody, there’s a couple dozen matches here for Luis. Trim it down. Children,” she said with a fierce grin, “we’ve got his scent.”
She worked until she thought her eyes would bleed, worked long after she’d sent Peabody and McNab off to do whatever they were going to do on the gel bed.
When her thoughts began to blur as well as her vision, she crawled into the sleep chair for a few hours down. She didn’t want another night alone in the big bed.
And still the dreams found her, and tugged her with icy hands from exhaustion to nightmare.
The room was familiar. Terrifyingly so. That hideous room in Dallas where the air was brutally cold and the light was washed with dirty red. She knew it was a dream and fought to will herself out of it. But she could already smell the blood—on her hands, on the knife clutched in them, splattered on the floor, seeping out of him.
She could smell his death, and the vision of it—of what she’d done, what she’d become to save herself—was etched on her mind.
Her arm screamed with pain. The child’s arm in the dream, the woman’s who was trapped in it. It was burning hot where he’d snapped the bone, burning cold up to the shoulder, down to the fingertips that dripped with red.
She would wash it off. That’s what she had done then, that’s what she would do now. Wash off the blood, wash away the death in the cold water.
She moved slowly, like an old woman, wincing at the sting between her legs, blocking out the reason for it.
It smelled metallic—the water, the blood—how could she know? She was only eight.
He’d beaten her again. He’d come home, not quite drunk enough to leave her be. So he’d beaten her again, raped her again, broken her again. But this time she’d stopped him.
The knife had stopped him.
She could go now, away from the cold, away from this room, away from him.
“You never get away, and you know it.”
She looked up. There was a mirror over the sink. She could see her face in it—thin, white, eyes dark with shock and pain—and the face behind it.
So beautiful, with those magic blue eyes, the silky black hair, that full mouth. Like a picture in a book.
Roarke. She knew him. She loved him. He’d come with her to Dallas, and now he’d take her away. When she turned to him she wasn’t a child anymore, but a woman. And still, the man who’d been her father lay bloody between them.
“I don’t want to stay here. I need to go home now. I’m so glad you’re here to take me home.”
“You’ve done Richie in, haven’t you?”
“He hurt me. He wouldn’t stop hurting me.”
“Well now, a father has to hurt the child now and again to teach them some respect.” He crouched, and taking a grip on her father’s hair, lifted the head to examine it. “I knew him, you know. Wheeled some deals. We’re two of a kind.”
“No, you’re nothing like him. You
never met him.”
Those blue eyes sparked with something that made her stomach clutch like a fist. “I don’t like being called a liar by a woman.”
“Roarke—”
He picked up the knife, rose slowly. “You’ve got the wrong Roarke. I’m Patrick Roarke.” Smiling, smiling, he turned the knife in his hand as he stepped toward her. “And I think it’s time you learned a little respect for fatherhood.”
She woke with the scream trapped in her throat, and sweat pouring off her like blood.
By the time her team arrived, she was steady. Bad dreams, worries about Roarke, even the conversation she knew she needed to have with Summerset were all locked away.
“We’re looking for this Luis Javert, listed as Hastings’s assistant during the period in January the photographs of Rachel Howard were taken at a wedding. Going off profile, we’re going to assume he’s between twenty-five and sixty years of age. Highly functional, artistic, intelligent. Odds are he lives alone and owns or has access to imaging equipment. I’m saying owns. These are his tools, his work, his art.
“Feeney, I want you to work Browning on this angle. The name doesn’t appear on her list of students sent to Hastings, but he might have changed it. I’m banking that he studied under her, and that she covered Javert in some of the classwork at one time or another. She’s tired of looking at me at this point, and maybe a fresh face will jog something loose.”
“First time I’ve been called a fresh face in two decades.” Feeney munched on a danish.
“McNab, I want you at Columbia. Work on students, play up the Javert angle. Who’s interested in that kind of work.”
“Cops are.” His mouth was full of scrambled eggs. “Homicide cops are always photographing the dead.”
“They don’t generally take pictures of them before they’re dead.”
“How about doctors?” He scooped up bacon. “They take imaging records of patients, right? Then there’s the before and after records. Mostly it’s to cover their asses in case somebody decides to sue, but—”
