The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  “Hey, hey.” Shaken, Feeney squatted down, put his hands on Eve’s shoulders. Her eyes had gone glassy, her breath thick and uneven. “Come on, kid.”

  “Sorry.” She closed her eyes.

  “It’s okay.” He patted her awkwardly. He knew what had been done to her as a child, knew because Roarke had told him. But he wasn’t sure if Eve was aware he knew. Better, he figured, for both of them, if they pretended he didn’t know. “Sometimes you get too close, that’s all.”

  “Yeah.” She had to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She could smell the unlovely odor of sex going stale, of sweat. And, she thought, of helpless female terror.

  “You want, uh, some water or something.”

  “No, I’m okay. I just . . . I hate sex crimes like this. Let’s bag this stuff and finish going through. We might get lucky here and pick up some prints.” Steadier, she got to her feet. “Then we’ll see what the sweepers can suck up. Wait.” Abruptly, she put her hand on Feeney’s arm. “Something’s missing.”

  “What?”

  “Five, this is five—what is it?” She juggled the song through her mind. “Where are the five golden rings?”

  They did a thorough search, every room, but found nothing that fit the pattern of jewelry left at the scene. Eve’s blood went cold.

  “He took it with him. He still needs number five. But he doesn’t have his tools. I’m going to check the salon downstairs, see if he broke into it. Can you finish here and call the sweepers?”

  “Yeah. Watch your back, Dallas.”

  “He’s gone, Feeney. He’s back in his hole.”

  But she was careful as she made her way down to the store level. She could see no signs of forced entry on the elegant doors of the salon. Beyond the glass, it was black.

  Following instinct, she used her master code to disengage the locks. And drew her weapon. “Lights on,” she ordered, then blinked into the sudden glare.

  When her eyes adjusted she saw the cash/credit drawer behind the reception counter standing open. And empty.

  “Oh yeah, you stopped by.”

  She swept the room first, eyes and weapon, then sidestepped toward the display cases. The glass was whole, and she could spot no spaces between the neat lines of products. Moving left, she walked toward the treatment rooms.

  Each was empty, and surgically neat.

  She uncoded another door and stepped into the staff lounge and locker area. It was, like the rest of the salon, scrupulously clean. Almost obsessively so, she decided as her blood began to hum.

  She scanned the lockers, wishing for Roarke’s skill with manual locks. Her master wouldn’t get her into the compartments. She’d need a warrant for that.

  The next room was storage. And here the stringent tidiness was broken. Cases of products were upended, bottles and tubes scattered. She imagined he’d rushed in, desperate to replace his supply, furious that he’d panicked and left it behind upstairs.

  He’d torn into the boxes, grabbing his choices, stuffing them into a bag, or another box.

  Quickly now, she went out to check each consultant’s station. Only one was disturbed, the drawers in the shiny white counter yanked out, rifled through. A thick blob of liquid of some kind had been spilled on the top and left to spread and gel.

  Though she already knew, she stuck to routine and searched for the stylist’s license. When she found it, she studied the photo.

  “Didn’t keep your area clean this time, Simon? And I’ve got your ass.”

  She whipped out her communicator, striding quickly toward the doors to secure the scene. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, all points required on Lastrobe, Simon, last known address 4530 East Sixty-third, unit 35. Subject may be armed and dangerous. Current photo will be transmitted immediately. Pick this guy up, suspicion of sexual homicide, multiple, first degree.”

  Dispatch. Acknowledged and authorized.

  “Feeney.” Eve shot a transmission to his communicator as she relocked the doors and pulled a crime scene tag out of her kit. “Secure up there. I’m calling Peabody in to handle the sweepers. We’ve gotta ride.”

  “Our guy’s a face painter. Jesus.” Feeney shook his head in disgust as Eve drove east like a bullet. “What’s the world coming to, Dallas? Swear to God.”

  “Yeah, he painted their faces, their bodies, played with their hair, listened to the stories of their lives, fell in love, and killed them for it.”

  “You figure he worked on all of them in that salon?”

  “Maybe, but if not, he saw them. Picked them out. He could have accessed the match lists easy enough, gotten data on them.”

  “Doesn’t explain the Christmas fetish.”

  “It’ll come out once we have him.” She squealed to a stop, fishtailing behind two cruisers already blocking the street. Her badge was in her hand as she jumped out. “You been up?” she shouted through the wind and sleet.

  “Yes, sir. Subject doesn’t answer the door. Men are posted on it, and on the rear exit. Windows are dark. No movement spotted.”

  “Feeney? The entry warrant come through yet?”

  “Still waiting.”

  “We’re going in. Hell with it.” She started up, shoving through the grilled doors.

  “You muck the case you go in without a warrant,” he reminded her, grumping a bit when she pounded up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.

  “I could find the door unsecured.” She sent one hot look over her shoulder as he rushed up behind her. “Couldn’t I?”

  “Shit, Dallas. Give me five here. I’ll light a fire under the warrant.”

  He was puffing a bit when they reached the third floor, and his rumpled face was bright pink. But he shoved in front of her and stood in front of the door to 35. “Just hold on, damn it. Let’s take him clean. You know the drill.”

  She wanted to argue, wanted the sheer, physical satisfaction of kicking the door in. Because it was personal, she thought, certain she felt her own bones vibrating against tensed muscles.

  She wanted her hands on him, wanted him to feel fear and helplessness and pain. Wanted it, she realized with a sick jolt, much too much.

  “Okay.” With an effort, she pulled herself in. “When we go through the door, if we find him, you take him down, Feeney.”

  “Kid, it’s your collar.”

  “You take him down. I can’t swear it’ll be clean if I do.”

  He studied her face, saw the strain, and nodded. “I’ll take him for you, Dallas.” He yanked out his communicator when it beeped. “Here’s our pass. We’re clean to move. You want high or low?”

  Her lips curved, without humor. “You always wanted high in the old days.”

  “Still do. Low hurts my knees.” They turned, a unit, drawing that hard breath together, then slamming the door. As hinges popped, she went low, crouching under Feeney’s arm, weapon out.

  Guarding each other’s back, they did a full sweep of the room, dimly lit by the backwash of streetlights.

  “Tidy as a church,” Feeney whispered. “Smells like a hospital.”

  “It’s the disinfectant. I’m calling for lights. I’ll take the left.”

  “Go.”

  “Lights on,” she ordered then swung left. “Simon? This is the police. We’re armed and warranted. All exits are blocked.” She gestured toward a doorway, received Feeney’s go-ahead nod.

  Leading with her laser, she moved in, shoving the door with her elbow so that it bounced against the wall. “He’s been here,” she told Feeney, scanning the disordered room. “Packed up what he could. He’s gone under.”

  chapter eighteen

  “Here’s what we’ve got,” Eve began once her team had regrouped in her home office. “He’s good at disguises. We can give his photo to the media, let them blast it every half hour, but he won’t look like his picture. We suspect he has enough cash, loose credits, or alternate ID to travel freely. We’ll put out the traces, but the odds of tagging him that way are slim.”

/>   She rubbed the fatigue out of her eyes and pumped more caffeine into her system. “I want Mira’s take, but mine is that his being interrupted tonight, after the rape, before the payoff, will have him sexually frustrated, on edge, shaken. He’s an obsessively neat individual, but he left his workspace and his living space upended in his rush to get what he needed and get out.”

  “Lieutenant.” Though she didn’t raise her hand for attention, Peabody felt as if she should. It was cop to cop and nothing else when Eve looked at her. “Do you think he’s still in the city?”

  “The data we’ve been able to gather so far indicates he was born here, raised here. He’s lived here all of his life and it’s unlikely he would seek safety elsewhere. Captain Feeney and McNab will continue to dig for personal data, but for now we assume he’s still in the area.”

  “He doesn’t own transpo,” Feeney put in. “Never took any vehicle pilot tests. He has to depend on public for his movements.”

  “And public transpo, in, out, and around the city, is at peak usage right now.” This was from McNab, who barely glanced up from his work at the computer. “Only way he’s getting out of the city if he didn’t have prebooked reservations is to sprout wings and fly.”

  “Agreed. Added to that, the other targets on his agenda are here. All previous victims have been in the city. Spooked or not, he’s going to be compelled to go for number five. The Christmas holidays are his trigger.”

  Eve moved over to the wall screen. “Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 1-H,” she ordered. “We confiscated dozens of video discs with holiday themes from his apartment,” she continued as the first flashed on screen. “This is vintage stuff. Some twentieth-century film—”

  “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Roarke said from the doorway. “Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed.” He only smiled pleasantly at Eve’s scowl. “Am I interrupting?”

  “This is police business,” Eve told him. Didn’t the man ever sleep?

  Ignoring her, Roarke came in and sat on the arm of Peabody’s chair. “You’ve put in a long night. Can I order some food for you?”

  “Roarke—”

  “Man, I could eat,” McNab said over Eve’s objections.

  “There are several other like videos,” she continued, turning back to the screen as Roarke rose and strolled into the kitchen area. “He collected them, and print discs such as A Christmas Carol. In addition, we found a large supply of porn, in both print and video, that follow the theme. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 68-a. For example,” she said dryly when the screen behind her filled.

  Roarke stepped back just in time to see a woman, wearing nothing but reindeer antlers and a strap-on tail, purr “Just call me Dancer,” as she took Santa’s waiting dick into her mouth.

  “Now, that’s entertainment,” he commented.

  “There are more than a dozen of these, another dozen underground snuff films, also vintage, that aren’t quite as cheery. But this one’s the award winner. Run Evidence Disc, Simon, 72.”

  She flicked a glance at Roarke, then stepped away.

  On screen Marianna Hawley struggled against restraints. Her head whipped frantically right and left. She was weeping. Simon stepped into view, still wearing his red suit and beard.

  He mugged for the camera, then grinned at the woman in bed. “Have you been naughty or nice, little girl?”

  Be quiet, little girl. The smell of candy on his breath with liquor under it. Daddy’s going to give you a present.

  The voice came into her mind, like a whisper in the ear. But Eve forced her hands steady and kept her eyes on the screen.

  “Oh, I think you’ve been naughty, very, very naughty, but I’m going to give you something nice anyway.”

  He turned back to the camera, doing a stylish striptease. He left the wig and beard in place as he began to stroke himself.

  “It’s the first day of Christmas. My true love.”

  He raped her. It was quick and brutal. While her screams echoed through the room, Eve picked up her coffee. However bitter and foul it felt going down her throat, she swallowed it.

  He sodomized her. And she stopped screaming and simply whimpered like a child.

  His eyes were glassy when he’d finished, his well-toned chest heaving. He took something out of his enhancement case, swallowed it.

  “We believe that he’s ingesting an herb and chemical mix, partly Exotica, in order to maintain an erection.” Eve’s voice was flat, and her eyes stayed on the screen. It was, for her, a responsibility to the dead and a challenge to herself. She would look, she would see. And she would survive it.

  Marianna didn’t struggle through the next rape. She’d gone away, Eve knew. Away where it couldn’t hurt any longer. Deep inside where she was all alone in the dark.

  She didn’t struggle as Simon began to weep, began to curse her as a whore, wrapping the pretty garland around her neck and yanking it taut until it snapped and he was forced to use his hands.

  “Oh sweet Jesus.” McNab’s choked whisper was full of horror and pity. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Now he decorates her,” Eve continued in the same empty voice. “Pretties her face, styles her hair, drapes the garland. You can see as he lifts her here, the tattoo is already in place. He lets the camera linger on her. He wants this. Wants to be able to run this over and over again when he’s alone. See her as he left her. As he made her.”

  The screen went blank.

  “He didn’t need a record of the cleanup. This disc ran thirty-three minutes and twelve seconds. That’s how long it took him to accomplish this section of his goal. There are other discs of the subsequent murders. All follow the same pattern. He’s a creature of habit and discipline. He’ll find a comfortable place in the city he knows to recuperate, to hide. He won’t go for a flop, but a good hotel, or another apartment.”

  “Booking a room this time of year won’t be easy,” Feeney put in.

  “No, but it’s where we start looking. Uptown to start. We’ll question his friends and coworkers at start of business tomorrow. We might get a handle on where he’d go. Peabody, you’ll meet me at the salon at nine hundred, in uniform.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The best we can do is get some sleep, for what’s left of the night.”

  “Dallas, I can hang with this for another hour. If I could bunk right here, I could get an early roll on it in the morning.”

  “All right, McNab. Let’s pack it in for now.”

  “I’m for that.” Feeney rose. “I’ll give you a lift home, Peabody.”

  “Don’t play with my toys, McNab,” Eve added as she walked out. “I get really cranky.”

  “You need a sleep inducement tonight.” Roarke took her arm as they started toward the bedroom.

  “Don’t start on me.”

  “You don’t need dreams tonight. You need to turn it off for a few hours, if not for yourself, for the sake of that woman we watched being brutalized.”

  “I can do my job.” She began to strip the minute she was inside, peeling off her clothes in a rush. She needed a shower, viciously hot water to scrub the stench off her skin.

  She left her clothes heaped on the floor, strode directly into the bath, and ordered water at blistering.

  He just waited her out. She would, he knew, need to fight it first. Even to fight him and his offer of comfort. That prickly, resistant shell was only one of the aspects of her that fascinated him.

  And he knew, as if he’d been inside her head, inside her heart, what she had gone through viewing that disc.

  So when she came out, bundled in a robe, her eyes too dark, her cheeks too pale, he simply opened his arms and took her in.

  “Oh God, God!” She clung, her fingers digging into his back. “I could smell him on me. I could smell him.”

  It tore him to pieces to see her break, to feel her shudders and the quake of her heart against his. “He can’t ever touch you again.”

  “He touches me.” She buried her face in his shoulder, filled herse
lf with the scent of him. “Every time he comes into my head he touches me. I can’t stop it from happening.”

  “I can.” He picked her up, and sat on the bed to cradle her. “Don’t think any more tonight, Eve. Just hold onto me.”

  “I can do my job.”

  “I know.” But at what cost? he wondered and rocked her like a child.

  “I don’t want drugs. Just you. You’re enough.”

  “Then go to sleep. Let go.” He turned his head to kiss her hair. “And sleep.”

  “Don’t go away.” She burrowed into him and sighed once, long and deep. “I need you. Too much.”

  “Not too much. It can’t be too much.”

  She’d put a memory into their box, he thought. Now he put a wish there. One night, or the few hours left in it, she would sleep in peace.

  So he held her until she slipped away into dreamless slumber.

  And was holding her still when she woke.

  They were wrapped around each other, her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. Sometime during the night he’d undressed and slipped them both into bed.

  She lay still a moment, studying his face. It seemed impossibly beautiful in the soft light. Strong lines, long thick lashes, that dreamy poet’s mouth. She had an itch to stroke his hair, the silky sweep of it, but her arms were pinned.

  She kissed him instead, lightly, as much to thank him as to rouse him enough to allow her to wiggle free. But his hold merely tightened.

  “Mmm. Another minute.”

  Her brows lifted. His voice was thick, slurry, and his eyes stayed closed. “You’re tired.”

  “God, yes.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’re never tired.”

  “I am now. Quiet down.”

  It made her chuckle, that edge of sleepy crossness in his tone. “Stay in bed awhile.”

  “Damn right.”

  “I have to get up.” She pried an arm free and did stroke his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I would if you’d shut up.”

  She laughed, then slithered free. “Roarke?”

  “Oh Christ!” He rolled in defense and buried his face in the pillow. “What?”