J D Robb - Dallas 17 - Imitation in Death

by Imitation in Death(lit)

  "Yeah, yeah, blah blahs" Eve decided she'd been right. This 'was fun. "My warrant gives me the right to open this door, with or without the code." She pulled out her master. "I am employing that authorization at this time, and using a police master code. to disengage the subject's security on this door."

  The housekeeper turned and fled up to the third floor. Mrs. Renquist, Eve thought, was about to get a rude awakening.

  She used the master, and wasn't the least surprised to find the police code denied.

  "He's taken extra precautions." She looked over her shoulder at Roarke. "At this time I find it necessary and expedient to employ alternate methods. If the electronic experts on team are unable to disengage locks, I will utilize the battering ram."

  "Let's have a look first," Feeney suggested, and Eve deliberately turned her recorder away so that it wouldn't show Roarke crouching down with burglar tools in his hands.

  "Feeney, I'm going to need you to confiscate all security discs. I suspect the subject doctored them, so that he wasn't scanned when he left the house for the'murders and attack."

  "If he did, we'll find the shadows." He tracked his gaze toward Roarke and had to bite down on a grin. Magic hands he thought again.

  "I want all 'links and transmission devices as well." She didn't look at Roarke, kept herr back to him. But her mind was muttering: Hurry up, damn it, hurry up. I can't stall much longer."

  "Lieutenant," Roarke said a moment later, "I believe the locks are now disengaged."

  "Good." She turned back. "We're now entering the private home office of Niles Renquist." She opened the door, called for lights on full, then took a deep breath. "Let's get to work."

  The room was meticulously organized, even elegant in its -choice of furnishings and decor. The antique desk held modern communication and data equipment, and what she concluded, after a puzzled study, was an old silver ink well and quill. There was a leather-bound notebook, an electronic calendar, and deeply cushioned chairs in dark, masculine green.

  There was a neat black-and-white bath attached with the towels perfectly aligned on the rack.

  He would wash up there after the murders, she presumed. She could see him perfectly, cleaning, grooming, watching himself in the long mirrors that shone on the walls.

  She turned back, mentally measuring the room, and gestured to what looked to be a closet door.

  "There. Five gets you ten his-unregistered's in there."

  She crossed the room, found the door locked. Rather than waste time, she waved to Roarke, then planted her feet at the sound of rushing footsteps.

  With a pale peach robe swirling around her, Pamela Renquist rushed into the, room. Her face was naked of enhancements, and looked older than it had. Her color was high, her teeth were already peeled back in a snarl.

  'This is outrageous! This is criminal. I want you, all of you, out of my home immediately! I'm calling the ambassador, I'm calling the consulate, and your superiors."

  "Be my guest, Eve invited, and all but slapped the warrant in her face. "I have all the proper authorization for this search, and I will complete same with or without your cooperation."

  "We'll see about that." She started to march to the desk, and Eve blocked her. "You won't be able to use this 'link, or any of the house 'links until the search is complete. If you wish to make a call or send a transmission, you are restricted to the use of your personal 'links, in the company of a duly authorized officer. Where is your husband, Mrs. Renquist?'

  "Go to hell."

  "He's going to beat me there, I promise you."

  She caught the signal from Roarke out of the corner of her eye, and moved over to the unlocked door. She opened it.

  "Well, well, well, what have we here. A little hidey-hole, complete with data and communication center. We're going to find this is unregistered, Feeney. And look at all these discs. Renquist is a big fan of Thomas A. Breen, and his ilk. Alt these books and data on serial killers tucked in here."

  "It's hardly against the law, even in this country, to have a private space, and to own books on any subject." But Pamela was losing her furious color.

  Eve eased farther in, and opened a barrel-shaped leather bag. "Not against the law to own surgical tools either, but it sure is funny. I'm sure he cleaned these very well, but I just bet we find traces of Jacie Wooton's blood on them."

  She opened a long cupboard, felt her own blood pump when she studied the collection of wigs, the black cape, the city employee uniform, and other costumes. "Niles likes to play dress -up?"

  She booted a container of plaster with her toe. "And does his own home improvements, too. A real Renaissance man."

  Opening a drawer, she felt a little hitch in her heart. Then reached in with a sealed hand and picked up a gold band, set with five small sapphires. "Lois Gregg's ring," she murmured. "I think her family will want this back."

  "Got another of that sick bastard's souvenirs." -

  Eve turned, saw Feeney's face was white. He held the lid of a portable cold box, and she knew before he spoke what was inside.

  "Looks like we found the rest of Jacie Wooton." Feeney breathed slowly through his teeth. "Son of a bitch has it labeled, for sweet Christ's sake.

  Eve made herself look, made herself take the step over and look down into the container where the icy steam was already dissipating. Within was a clear, sealed bag, with its horror meticulously labeled: WHORE

  She whirled around quickly and caught the expression on Pamela's face. "You knew. Part of you knew, and you covered for him. Don't want any scandal, don't want any smudges on your perfect little world."

  "That's ridiculous. I don't know what you're talking about." There was a green tinge to her-skin now, as she stepped back from the closet and its awful contents. But her chin stayed high and firm, and her tone dismissive.

  "Yes, you do. You know what goes on in your house. You make it your business to -know. Why don't you take a closer look."

  Eve took her arm, gave it a little tug, though she had no intention of letting her into the closet.

  "Get a good up-close at what Niles has been up to. And think about when it might have been your turn. Or your daughter's."

  "You're out of your mind. Take your hand off me. I'm a British citizen. I'm not under your aegis."

  "You're hip-deep in my aegis, Pam." She stepped just a little closer. "I'm going to put him away. That's priority. And after I've got him in a cage, I'm going to make it my mission in life to get you on accessory."

  "You have no right to speak to me that way. In my own home. When I'm finished with you-"

  "We'll see who finishes. Feeney, get her out of here. House arrest, female guard. She gets one call."

  "Don't you touch me. Don't you dare put your hands on me. I'm not leaving this room until I'm satisfied every one of you has forfeited your badge."

  Eve tucked her thumbs in her pockets, stood with hip thrust out, and hoped. "You go voluntarily with Captain Feeney, or I add resisting and have you forcibly restrained."

  Pamela's hand swung out. It was a girl move, and one Eve could easily have dodged or deflected. But she let it land, and got her wish. "I was so hoping for that. There's resisting and assaulting an officer. You just made my night." In a quick move, Eve had her restraints out. As Pamela blustered, she spun the woman around, jerked her arms back, and cuffed her.

  "Have her transported to Central," Eve told Feeney. "Booked on resisting and assaulting an officer. She can stay in a box until we're through here."

  Pamela kicked, swore with a vehemence and creativity that had Eve's eyebrows lifting. "I like her better that way."

  Rolling her shoulders as Feeney muscled Pamela out, Eve turned to Roarke. "I need to verify that this is unregistered equipment, which gives me another nice ball to add to the weight against Renquist. And I need all data contained within. What are you grinning at, pal?"

  "You baited her so she'd take that swipe at you."

  "So?'

  "So I'm surpri
sed you didn't take her out yourself."

  "She's small change. I'm going to pocket that change before I'm done, but I want him first. I'm going to update the commander." She pulled out her communicator. "Get me that data."

  Within fifteen minutes she had an all-points out on Renquist and was reading over Roarke's shoulder.

  "It's all here," she noted. "Carefully logged. His travel, his trolling, his selection. Every victim, with chosen method. Tools, wardrobe."

  "You'll notice he has quite a file on you, Lieutenant."

  "Yeah, I can read."

  "And," Roarke continued in that same cool tone, "that he intended you to be his crescendo. Using Peter Brent's copkilling method. Long-range laser blaster."

  "Which means he's got one in here. Better find it."

  "And him. I want him now, as much as you."

  She shifted her gaze, met his. "It's not personal." She waited a beat, shrugged. "Okay,-what is it you say to crap like that? Bollocks. It's personal, but it can wait. I'm not next on his list."

  .She looked back to the screen. "Katie Mitchell, West Village. CPA. Twenty-eight, divorced, no kids. Lives alone, works primarily out of her loft. He's got everything on her. Height, weight, habits, routines, even her fucking shopping preferences. Stores, purchases. He's a thorough bastard. He's looking to do a Marsonini on her."

  "Gain initial entrance by posing as a client," Roarke said. "Clone security. Enter again, when the victim is sleeping. Restrain, torture, rape, and mutilate, leaving a single red rose on the pillow beside them."

  "Marsonini got six women with that method between the late winter of 2023 and the spring of 2024. All brunettes, like Mitchell, all home workers, all between the ages of twenty-six and twenty-nine. All bearing a slight resemblance to his older sister who had, reputedly, sexually and physically abused him in childhood."

  She straightened. "We'll get this Katie Mitchell under wraps. If we don't find Renquist within the next forty-eight hours, he's going to find us."

  Chapter 22

  There was no choice but to risk going directly to Katie Mitchell's apartment. If Renquist had it staked, it would spook him, but Eve couldn't risk a life.

  If he bolted, she'd hunt him down.

  With help from EDD, she had a list of residents and a layout of the building where Mitchell had her third-floor loft. She left Feeney in charge of the ongoing search of Renquist's home, and took Roarke along.

  For ballast, she told him.

  "You're too good to me, darling. Really, I'll get spoiled."

  "Fat chance. Anyway, you've got a good touch with women."

  "Now I'm blushing."

  "I'm going to laugh my ass off any minute, then where will I sit? This woman may become hysterical. You're better with hysterical females than I am."

  "Excuse me, did you say something? I was busy thinking about your ass."

  She whipped her vehicle up a ramp and squeezed it into a second-level spot a half block from Mitchell's loft. "I'm sure that's entertaining-"

  "You have no idea."

  "But let's try to keep to the program. It's possible if we go in as a couple, straight- in, he won't make me if he's staking out the building. I don't think he's around tonight..I think he's in some bolt-hole, putting it all together. Odds are we've got time, but I can't be sure. Marsonini always hit his victims between two and three A.M. We're plenty early if he's marked her for tonight. But I want us to walk straight, to the building, and in. How fast can you get through the security?"

  "Time me."

  "Let's move."

  "I think you should hold my hand," he said as they started down the ramp. "You'll look less like a cop."

  "Take the left." She switched sides with him. "I want my weapon hand free."

  "Naturally." Even as he gave her arm a playful little swing, he saw her eyes, those cop's, eyes, tracking, scanning, dissecting every shadow. "I'll need. my hands free at the door.. You could ease behind me. It wouldn't hurt to give my butt an affectionate little pat."

  "What for?"

  "Because I like it."

  She ignored that, but did move behind him slightly as they climbed the short flight of ,steps to the building's entrance.

  "It's cooled off considerably. I think we're done with the worst of the heat for the year."

  "Hmm. Maybe."

  "Why don't you lean in a bit, nuzzle my neck?"

  "For cover, or because you like it?"

  "As a kind of reward," he said and opened the door.

  She hadn't even seen him finesse the lock. "You're pretty fucking slick," she commented and stepped in ahead of him.

  She walked straight back to the steps rather than hassle with the elevator's security system. That would open, once cleared, directly into Mitchell's loft. Less traumatizing, Eve hoped, to knock on the hall door on the third level, and gain admittance that way.

  "His log shows an appointment with her here, this afternoon," Eve continued. "That tells me he's already bunged up her loft security, and plans to move in tonight, tomorrow latest. I need to get her out, but I don't want cops around yet. We'll set up a unit in the morning, early." She knocked on the door, held up her badge, then turned to smile at Roarke.

  "So I'm giving her to you. You'll transport her to Central, and she'll be transferred to a safe house until this goes down."

  "And you plan to stay here tonight, alone? I don't think so."

  "I outrank you."

  Eve heard the click of the speaker engage, and the puzzled Yes? that came through it.

  "Police, Ms. Mitchell. We need to speak with you."

  "What's this about?"

  "I'd like to come in."

  "It's nearly midnight." Katie opened the door a crack. "Is something wrong? Has there been a break-in?"

  "I'd like to discuss this inside."

  She studied Eve's badge again, then glanced at Roarke. The double take was almost comical. "I know you." It was reverent. "Oh my God."

  "Ms. Mitchell." Eve had to order herself not to act annoyed as Katie brushed at her hair with her hand. "May we come in?"

  "Um. Yes. Okay. I was just going to bed," she said, apology in her voice as she tugged at the belt of a thin pink robe. "I wasn't expecting... anybody."

  The living area was spacious and simple, with an opening on one side through which Eve could see a small bedroom.

  And through the opening on the other side was a larger, professional-looking office.

  A long, galley-style kitchen was behind a low wall. She imagined the other door, which was discreetly closed, led to the bath.

  Good windows, probably let in considerable light during the day, she judged. Two exits, including the elevator.

  "Ms. Mitchell, you had an appointment today with this man."

  Eve took a photo of Renquist from her bag.

  "No," Katie said after a quick look. Her gaze went back to, and held on Roarke's face. "Would you like to sit down?"

  "Would you please look at this picture again, more carefully, and tell me if this man was your three o'clock appointment this afternoon."

  "My three o'clock? No, he was... oh, wait, It is Mr. Marsonini. But he had red hair. Long red hair done in a braid. And he wore these little blue, sunshades the entire time. A little affected, I thought, but he was Italian."

  "Was he?"

  "Yes. He had a really charming accent. He's relocating here, from Rome, though he'll still have some business interests in Europe. He's in oil. Olive oil. He needs a personal accountant to work with his corporate people. Oh my. Has something happened to him? Is that why you're here?'

  "No." She was measuring Katie as she'd measured the loft. As she'd concluded from the data and ID picture, Katie Mitchell was the same general build and coloring, as Peabody. That might come in handy.

  "Ms. Mitchell, this man's name isn't Marsonini. It's Renquist, and he's suspected of murdering at least five women."

  "Oh, you must be mistaken. Mr. Marsonini was perfectly charming. I spent nearly tw
o hours with him today."

  "There's no mistake. Posing as. a potential; client, Renquist gained entrance to this loft for the purposes of cloning your security, having personal contact with you, and assuring himself that you did, still, live alone. Which I assume you do."

  "Well, yes, but-"

  "He has stalked you for some time, as is his pattern with his victims, gathering information: on your routines and habits. He intends to enter this residence within the next fortyeight hours, most likely when you're sleeping. He would then restrain you, rape and torture you before using your own kitchen utensils to mutilate and kill you. in the most painful way he could devise."