by J. D. Robb
“It’s where I want to be.” He stepped away from the elevators, wandering now behind the screened windows.
“The furniture’s staged to give you a feeling, an idea of one use of the space. The fact is, Drew, you could do anything with this area. Work, play, a combination. I know you said you didn’t cook, but you have to see the kitchen. It’s perfect, ultra and efficient. Maybe a girlfriend would enjoy using it.”
He grinned, wagged his finger.
“I know, no girls right now,” she said with a laugh. “Art first. But artists can entertain like minds, right? And have to eat. You can zap leftover takeout, stock the AutoChef, and there’s a built-in D and C—for checking out takeout spots, deliveries, menus.”
“Now that works for me.”
“Oh, and the security system. You can take a look at the camera zones.”
He waved that off. “Let’s see the rest first.”
“We’ll take the master bedroom then. It’s staged, too, so you’ll have an idea how it could be used. And the advantage of being on the top floor? Skylights there, too.”
She took a few steps, weaved a little.
“Okay?”
“Wow. A little light-headed.”
Concern shone in his eyes. “Why don’t we sit down a while?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m good. Just putting in a lot of late hours, trying to get everything done.”
“Right. Big day Saturday.”
“The biggest. And since we’re taking off on Monday for Honeymoon-Extraordinaire, I want to get everything cleaned up. Just need another jolt.” She took a deep swallow of coffee.
“There’s a little half bath off the second bedroom—or what I see as your studio. That would be handy for you, but the master? It’s ro cking-A.”
She walked in, then swayed as her knees buckled.
“Hey, hey.” He took her arm, her weight, walked her toward the bed. “Let’s sit down.”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She all but floated down to the bed. “I feel . . . wrong. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“I don’t really think so. Here, finish this up.” He held the coffee to her lips, poured it down her throat as her eyes glazed.
“Wait.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to take my time. We’ve got all day.”
His face blurred, but for an instant, the look of it, his teeth bared in a horrible smile, she felt fear. She felt fear, then nothing.
Since he’d sealed up in the elevator, he opened his bag for the cord.
“Safety first,” he murmured, and bound her hands behind her back.
As the sellers had provided very nice high-end sheets, he used them to secure her legs by the ankles to the bright silver knobs of the footboard.
He took out the rest of his tools before he stripped, and stowed his neatly folded clothes in the bag.
He studied Karlene as he finished off his own, undoctored coffee, decided she looked peaceful. That wouldn’t last long.
The loft was soundproofed, he’d verified that. Just as he’d verified that the other two tenants in the building were at work.
Naked, he walked over to the controls to change the music to some hard, grinding thrash, bumped up the volume a bit. Satisfied, he went back to the main security controls, checked the cameras, checked all locks.
Later, he thought, when he’d sufficiently . . . softened her up, she’d give him her security number. She’d beg to give it to him. He’d log her out, shut down the cameras, and upload the virus.
But before that, well before that, he’d give her pain, and give her fear. And he’d talk to her, intimately, about her bitch of a mother. And why Jaynie Robins was responsible for her daughter’s ugly death.
He set the doctored go-cup—a ploy as he’d purchased the actual coffee blocks uptown, then transferred it—on the kitchen counter.
He went back to the bedroom, checked his to-do list to make certain he’d forgotten nothing.
When she moaned, stirred, he smiled.
Time to go to work.
Eve strode into the Homicide bullpen with a purpose. Several conversations stopped. Baxter got to his feet.
“LT—”
“Ten minutes, conference room, full briefing.” She kept going, straight into her office. She needed five of those ten to clear her head, organize her thoughts. She got coffee, turned to check the incoming on her comp.
“Media, media, media. Screw that. Talk to the liaison.” She brought up the list—Peach Lapkoff moved fast—and skimmed the performances, the dates.
“Computer, start search. Victims of rape/murder through suffocation and/or strangulation within penal system. On and off planet, including halfway houses, home detention, local, federal, global. Add factor of connection to MacMasters, Captain Jonah, as part of investigative, administrative, or arresting team.”
Acknowledged . . . length of search?
Brother, son, lover. Could be any. Could be none. “Twenty-five years.”
Warning . . . Search for data of this nature twenty years or more will delay results.
“Then you’d better get started. Command given.”
Acknowledged . . . Working . . .
“Computer, send results, year by year, to both my office and home units.”
Warning . . . Extracting data by year will delay results.
“Can’t be helped. Command given.”
She topped off her coffee and left for the conference room while the computer worked.
She’d hoped Peabody would be back so she could palm off the setup on her partner. Instead, she loaded the data in the room comp, began updating the board.
She muscled out a second board and began to write.
Crime mirrors previous event?
Connection—MacMasters to killer—killer to person unknown killed by same MO. Search in progress.
UNSUB—organized, focused, ability to acclimate.
She continued, listed the salients of Mira’s profile.
Two wits with possible sightings of UNSUB currently working with Detective Yancy.
Columbia connection. Student and staff files accessed.
Shoes ID’d by wit, Columbia sweatshirt, long shots.
Attendance with vic, Columbia public performances and/or lectures, long shot.
She was still writing when Baxter and Trueheart came in.
“Report.”
“Neighborhood canvass, zip. If we get a sketch, I think we’d have better luck. We hit her known haunts, got zip there. Kids in and out, who pays attention? Plenty who recognized her, but nobody who put her with a guy who matches what we know.”
He passed to Trueheart. “Well, we didn’t really do any better with the canvass of the area your wit states she spotted them. We had a couple people who thought maybe they’d seen her, but wouldn’t commit. We had one who thought he’d seen her and with a boy around twenty. But he couldn’t give us any more than that. Not even coloring, build, clothing. Just maybe. We have his name and data, when we get the sketch.”
“We’ve started going through MacMasters’s cases, working from current back,” Baxter added. “Anything that even squeaks, we’re ru nning.”
“Split it, work from each end and meet in the middle,” Eve ordered. “We’re stalled on the more currents, so let’s start hitting further back, all the way back and working forward.”
“Back to files from about a quarter century ago?” Baxter rubbed his nose. “You’re the boss.”
“That’s right.” She glanced over when Peabody came in carrying a large box. Trueheart hurried over to take it from her.
“My boy’s a real gentleman,” Baxter commented.
“More than the cops on the elevator when I had to squeeze in with that sucker. Have to be fifty playbills,” Peabody continued. “And programs and posters. Saw where you were going and went through her things, added show and concert tees and other memorabilia.”
“Good. I got the list from Dr. Lapkoff, detailing performances and l
ectures at the university since April. Odds are if the vic attended, the killer went with her. We match the paraphernalia to the list.”
She turned to the murder board where she’d put up a map. “Red pins show the three locations we know they were together. The park, the Second Avenue location, and her home. We’re going to keep digging until we add more.”
She checked her wrist unit. “Where the hell is EDD?”
“I tagged McNab on my way in. He said they’d be here.” Peabody scanned the conference table. “No food, no beverage. Anybody want? Stupid question,” she said before anyone answered. “Be right back.”
“Well, while your refreshments are being arranged,” Eve began, breaking off when Feeney and McNab walked in. “Nice you could make it.”
Feeney shot a finger at her. “Neck-deep. Gonna need a transfusion for the blood I lost leaking out of my freaking eyes.”
He sat, circled his neck. Eve heard the pops and cracks from across the room.
“Son of a bitch used some new virus. Nothing like we’ve seen before. I’ve got men working on identifying it, piecing together the elements.”
“New viruses pop up every day,” Eve said. “Comps are supposed to be shielded anyway. CompuGuard’s supposedly on that.”
“They’re busy trying to regulate, screwing around with privacy issues, unregistered. The new shit crops up every few weeks, really good new shit every year or two. This is really good new shit.”
Eve considered. “How long would it take you to come up with really good new shit?”
He put on a sober face. “I’m an officer of the law.”
“Yeah, and?”
He shrugged. “Depends on how much time I’ve got to work it, how much damage I want to do.”
“Something like this?” McNab put in. “You’d have to have a good hundred-fifty dedicated hours in it. More if you’re a hobbyist and not cued in. Plus you’d have to do it shielded. CompuGuard’s got spotters. They don’t catch everything, that’s for frigging sure, but if they slap you, you’re slapped hard.”
She started to speak, but he anticipated her. “We started a run on CG’s known infractions and fines. The trouble is they don’t like to share, so we have to get an official go every time we hit a flag.”
She thought of Roarke’s skills, and his unregistered equipment. There, she considered, she might be willing to blur the line if necessary.
She turned back to the board, wrote: New comp virus, possible e-education or employment.
“Yeah.” Feeney nodded. “It’s an angle.”
“Mira’s profile, which I’ll cover, includes his having employment, or an income source. It includes education, skill, focus. All required for e-work.”
“Bet your ass,” McNab agreed, then grinned as Peabody came in hauling another box. “Hey, She-Body, let me give you a hand.”
“See, my guy’s a gentleman, too.” Peabody added a flutter of eyelashes.
“He scented food,” Baxter said.
“Sandwiches, soy chips, Energy bars.” Peabody snagged a sandwich herself. “Water, fizzies, Pepsi.”
“Brain drain,” Jamie said, “need fizzy.”
“Current.” Eve grabbed a tube of Pepsi, cracked it, then briefed the team on the morning’s progress and avenues.
“Method as mirror.” Feeney shoved the last of the mystery meat and processed cheese in his mouth. “That’s a good one. He didn’t take her out that way for the hell of it.”
“On the other hand, using a blade, bat, pipe, something of that nature,” McNab speculated. “It’s messier.”
“He had drugs. ODing her’s not messy, but he didn’t go with that. Even a blade,” Baxter continued, “in a heart jab—and he had plenty of time to aim, isn’t going to give you spatter. Bare-handed strangulation. That takes time, effort, and yeah, that purpose again.”
“Hurting her was the thing, right?” Jamie stared down at the fizzy in his hand. “That was the score.”
“He didn’t really mess her up.” Trueheart cleared his throat when eyes turned to him. “Her face. If he was working off rage, he would have. I think. Maybe he didn’t want to use his fists, mess up his hands. But there were plenty of weapons in the house. Objects he could have used as either blunt or sharp instruments. And he choked her more than once, so . . . that’s what he wanted. That’s the way he wanted to kill her. I think.”
Baxter beamed. “Boy gets an A.”
“To pursue this angle, I’m running searches on like rape-murders within the penal system, with victims who connect to MacMasters and his investigations or the investigations by officers under his command.”
“That’s going to take a hell of a while,” Feeney calculated. “But it’s a good angle.”
“Meanwhile, as Detective Yancy is not here, he’s still working with one or both of our wits. We’ll get that status after the briefing. Baxter and Trueheart have goose egg thus far on the canvass. They will recanvass when we have a sketch.
“We’re also tugging lines with Columbia. We’ll do searches on students and staff—again—” she said before anyone commented. “Widen it to include all Southern states, and go back another five years. We’ll also cross-reference the articles brought from the vic’s room pertaining to theater and lectures with any given at the university since April. If he took her or accompanied her, we’ll have another location, and more potential wits. Peabody. Shoes.”
“Shoes. Okay, the wit from the park made the suspect’s shoes. Anders Cheetahs, navy on white. These are high-end, geared for running shoes. As the wit’s opinion was they were new, or fairly new, I’ve been doing a search for vendors with sales of this model starting in January. Let me just say a hell of a lot of people fork out a hell of a lot of scratch for a shoe you’re supposed to run in. I’ve split that into various categories. Online, Skymall, New Jersey, and New York sectors. As the locations where the suspect is known or believed to have been with the vic, I flipped to concentrate below Fortieth, online, and outside Manhattan.”
She paused to slug down water. “And still, a lot of shoes. Given his reputed height, I’ve focused on average sizes for males of six feet, and slender build, according to the highest probability. And still—”
“We get it, Peabody,” Eve snapped.
“Sorry. I’ve kept the search on Auto on my PPC. But I had some thinking time riding the subway back to Central. School’s sprung, and there were a lot of teens and twenties in the car. I thought about how they were dressed, you know? And that started me thinking. We’re going on the theory he blends, acclimates. I agree. But I started to wonder about that first meet. He had it planned out. The Columbia sweatshirt—it was like a costume for his character, something she’d relate to. And the shoes? She was a runner, so she’d have probably recognized he was wearing high-end running shoes.”
“Dressed the part,” Eve agreed.
“Yeah. And he plans, right? Thinks things out in advance. So why wouldn’t he plan out his costume? When I’m buying something important to wear—like, say, for an important event, I want to coordinate, be sure everything goes together. If I can I buy it all—dress, shoes, bag, all that, in one place. If I just can’t, I take one of the pieces I have, or even a picture of it when I’m hunting for the rest.”
“A picture?” Eve asked, sincerely astonished.
“Sure. You don’t want your bag to clash with your shoes, or your shoes to look crappy with your dress. You want to look good. And even if you’ve got a squeeze . . .” She sent McNab a flirty look. “Even then, you want to make an impression.”
McNab sent Peabody a gooey smile. “You always look good to me.”
“Stop before I’m sick,” Eve ordered.
“Maybe he bought the shoes, the pants, the running pants together. In the same place, I mean,” Peabody continued, but snuck her hand between the chairs to wiggle fingers with McNab. “An outfit. It was, in a really twisted way, like a first date. First-date wardrobe is major. He wanted her to see him in a certa
in way, to give off a certain impression.”
“I get it,” Eve murmured. “Girl gets an A.”
“Really?” Peabody puffed out. “Because I’ve started another search for venues that sell college gear, running gear, and Anders shoes. There’s a lot, but not as many as just the shoes.”
“Shades,” Eve said. “He had on shades, and a cap.”
“I’ll plug it in. The other thing is, if he did buy all this from one vendor, he probably didn’t go with cash. Not if he didn’t want to stand out. It has to be near a grand, or more. He’d use credit or debit. He’d leave a trail.”
“Why would he worry about that?” Eve nodded. “Nobody’s going to notice, think twice. Push it.”
“All over it.”
“Baxter, Trueheart, keep working the files. When and if I have any results from my like-crimes search, we’ll factor it. I’ll give you a pint of my own blood,” she told Feeney, “if you get me something off that hard drive.”
“Your man contacted, should be in on it later this afternoon. He’s got some tricks.”
No question about it, Eve thought. “The vic’s memorial is scheduled for Thursday. I want a team—any of you who can be spared, as well as uniforms in soft clothes, any detectives I can get to attend. He’s going to want to be there, want to reap the benefits of his work. Whatever we have re the sketch by that time, every man on the team will have a copy. Let’s go, keep the hammer down.”
Eve waited, and tried to ignore the quick lip-lock and ass-grab Peabody and McNab exchanged by the door.
“That was good thinking,” she said, “the buying angle.”
“Shopping is a vital part of my life, unlike yours. Still, it feels like we’ve got lots of angles but no shape. He’s still a ghost.”
“Let’s hope Yancy can bring him to life.”
12
SHE KNEW BETTER THAN TO PUSH YANCY when it came to renderings. But she thought she could try a single, firm nudge. When she didn’t find him at his workstation, she did a quick search of the trio of private conference rooms.
She interrupted two other police artists, but didn’t find Yancy.
