by J. D. Robb
“Hey, you.” She signaled to a passing uniform, then dug out credits.
“Get me a tube of Pepsi.”
The uniform looked down at the credits Eve dumped in her hand. “Ah, sure, Lieutenant.”
The credits were plugged in; the machine responded with a cheerful and polite announcement of the selection and its contents. The tube slid quietly out of the slot.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Satisfied, Eve drank as she walked back toward the bull pen. That’s how she’d handle this deal, she decided. She’d have other people screw with the machines whenever possible. She was rank, after all. She was supposed to delegate.
“Lieutenant?” McNab signaled her, and though she tried not to see it, watched him purse his lips toward Peabody.
“No kissy faces in Homicide, Detective. Is my unit up and running?”
“Good news, bad news. How about the bad first?” He gave her a come-with-me head signal and went back to her office. “Bad news. You got a dink system here.”
“It was working fine before.”
“Yeah, well, see it’s got some internal problems. That’s the easiest way to explain it. Some of its guts, we’ll say, were designed with planned obsolescence in mind. Only so many operating hours before they start to fail.”
“Why would anybody build something that’s programmed to fail?”
“So they can sell new ones?” Because she looked like she needed it, he risked patting her shoulder. “Administration and Requisitions buy cheap most times, I guess.”
“Bastards.”
“Absolutely. But the good news is I’ve got it up for you. Replaced some things. It’s not going to last more than a few days the way you use it. But I can get my hands on some parts. I’ve got connections. I can basically rebuild it for you. Meanwhile, if you could try not to smack it around, it should hold.”
“Okay, thanks. I appreciate the quick work.”
“No prob. I’m a genius. See you tomorrow night, right?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Dinner? Louise and Charles?”
“Right. Right. Don’t blow kisses in my bull pen,” she called when he pranced out.
She sat, drank Pepsi, and stared at the machine. Dared it to give her trouble. Since Peabody was running Manhattan, Eve decided to expand to the Bronx for gyms.
The machine responded to her search request as if nothing had ever happened between them. It gave her enough confidence to turn her back on it while the search ensued, and study her board.
“Where’d he see you, Elisa?” she asked aloud. “Where did you come into his radar? He saw you, and something about you clicked in that sick mind of his. So he watched you and studied you and laid in wait for you.”
A domestic. A single parent. Liked to make things with her hands. Divorced. Abusive husband.
She didn’t need the file to remember the details on Elisa Maplewood.
Early thirties, slightly-less-than-average height, average build. Light brown hair, long. Pretty face.
Standard education, lower-middle-class upbringing. Native New Yorker.
Liked nice clothes in simple styles. Nothing too trendy, nothing too provocative. No current personal partner or romantic entanglement. Minimal social life.
Where did he see you?
The park? Take the kids to the park. Walk the dog. The shops? Buy your craft supplies, window shop.
She grabbed the hard copy of the report McNab had left on her desk. ’Link transmissions to her parents, to Deann’s pocket unit, to Luther’s office, to the craft store on Third to check on an order. Incomings ran along the same lines.
Her web activity ran to parenting sites, craft sites, and chat rooms. Downloads of magazines showed crafts again, parenting again, and some home decorating stuff, some online shopping. Downloads of a couple books tagged as current bestsellers.
Nothing popped from the search of the Vanderleas’ equipment.
Chat room might be worth checking out, she thought, and made a note of it. But it was tough for her to see this big, muscular guy knitting . . . whatever people knit. More than that, Elisa struck her as being too sensible, too savvy, to give personal information to anyone in a chat room. He hadn’t tracked her through her discussions on making blankets or the like.
He’s done it before.
She thought of Celina’s words. And she agreed with them.
What he’d done to Elisa had been well planned and well executed under risky conditions. Quick and efficient, and to Eve that meant practice.
She hadn’t hit all the elements with her search for similar crimes. Maybe he’d added or adjusted. Maybe one or more of those hits had been his work.
Pride. Celina had spoken of his pride. She wasn’t sure she liked depending so heavily on the opinion of a psychic, but it was another point she agreed with. There’d been pride, arrogant pride, in the way he’d displayed his victim.
Look at what I’ve done, what I can do. In the city’s great park, so close to the home of the wealthy and privileged.
Yeah, he was proud of his work. And what did a man with pride in his work do when that work didn’t reach the standards he wanted?
He buried the mistakes.
Her blood began to hum. It was the right track. She knew it. And she swung back to her machine. She saved and filed the results of her initial search, then brought up Missing Persons.
She started with a twelve-month search, stuck with Manhattan, and keyed in Elisa’s basic description to narrow the parameters.
“Dallas—”
“Wait.” Attention focused on her screen, Eve shot up a hand to stop Peabody. “He had to practice. He had to. Guy builds his body up, stays strong and fit, it takes discipline. Takes practice. He lives and walks and exists day after day, holding in that kind of rage, it takes discipline, it takes willpower. But you have to let it out some time, you have to let go. You have to kill. So you practice until you get it just right.”
SEARCH COMPLETE. TWO RESULTS THAT MATCH PARAMETERS GIVEN. FIRST IMAGE ON-SCREEN.
“What is it?” Peabody demanded.
“Potentially? His practice sessions. Look at her. Same physical type as Maplewood. Same age group, same coloring, same basic build.”
Peabody came in, mirroring Eve’s earlier position by leaning over her shoulder. “No resemblance—beyond surface I mean—but yeah, same basic type.”
“Computer, split screen for second image, list date on each.”
WORKING . . . TASK COMPLETE.
“Thumbs-up for McNab,” Eve mumbled.
“Don’t look like sisters,” Peabody commented. “Cousins, maybe.”
“Marjorie Kates,” Eve read. “Age thirty-two. Unmarried, no kids, midtown address. Employed as restaurant manager. Reported missing by fiancé, April second of this year. Didn’t come home from work. Lansing and Jones caught this one. Second is Breen Merriweather. Age thirty. Divorced, one child—son, age five—Upper East Side. Employed as a studio tech, Channel 75. Reported missing by childcare provider, June ten, this year. Didn’t return home after her shift. Polinski and Silk caught it.
“I need these files, Peabody. I need to talk to these detectives.”
“On it.”
Since Lansing and Jones worked out of Central, it only took trips on three glides and one elevator to get to their division.
She found them both at desks, facing each other.
“Detectives Lansing and Jones? Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Appreciate the time.”
“Lansing.” The bull-chested, redheaded cop of about fifty stuck out a hand. “No problem, Lieutenant. You think one of yours is connected to one of ours.”
“I need to check it out.”
“Jones.” The petite, thirtyish black woman shook Eve’s hand, then Peabody’s. “Fiancé, Royce Cabel, came in to make the report. She was only missing overnight, but the guy was a mess.”
“Last seen when she left the restaurant—Appetito
on East Fifty-eighth—at closing, about midnight, April first.”
“She lived about three blocks away, usually walked back and forth. Guy’s expecting her home by twelve-thirty, he says, but he falls asleep. When he wakes up, about two, she’s not there. He flips, calls around to everybody he can think of. Then he’s here, bright and early next morning, to talk to the cops.”
“She poofs three weeks before the wedding,” Lansing continued. “So you look at a couple things. Maybe her feet got cold and she took off. Maybe they had a fight and he offs her, comes in to report to cover it up.”
“But it doesn’t play.” Jones shook her head. “We got copies of the reports, our notes, witness statements, interviews for you. You can see everybody we talked to said Kates was hip-deep in wedding plans. She and Cabel had been cohabbing for about eighteen months. Got nothing on him that points to violence.”
“Took a Truth Test. Didn’t even blink when we suggested it.”
“She got dead,” Jones said. “That’s my gut on it, Lieutenant.”
“And we got nothing, until you buzzed us up.”
“I don’t know if we’ve got anything now. Any problem if I talk to some of the people on your list?”
“Nope.” Lansing pulled his lip. “How about a clue?”
“We’re on the sexual homicide/mutilation in Central Park. Our vic’s the same physical type as your MP. I’m pursuing the theory that he’s done some practicing.”
“Well, shit,” Jones said.
“We can go by Polinski’s and Silk’s station on the way to see this Royce Cabel.”
“How about the gyms with sweaty guys with thick necks?”
“We’ll move on it.”
Because it was faster, they squeezed on an elevator to ride down to garage level. Eve did her best to ignore the elbow wedged in her ribs. “I want us to give Nadine an interview.”
“Because of the 75 connection?”
“Not just. I’m thinking it might grate our big, strong man to see three women dissing him on-screen. To know two women are heading the investigation.”
“There’s a thought.”
Several people pushed their way off when the doors opened. Eve glanced up, noted she had three levels to go. “Why don’t we see if we can set up the interview later today?”
“At Central?”
“Yeah. Central Park. At last.” Eve all but leaped out of the doors when they hit the garage.
“Dallas, wait!” Peabody grabbed her arm, dug in her heels. “I have something to tell you.”
“Make it snappy.”
“I want to say first, that in just a few moments, you’re going to be overcome with a powerful urge to kiss me on the lips. I won’t think less of you for it.”
“Peabody, why, even in your wild, perverted dreams—dreams I want no part in or of—would I ever have the least compunction to kiss you on the lips?”
“Close your eyes.”
Eve spoke quietly, almost casually. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“Okay, okay.” Peabody pouted a little. “You’re no fun.” She crossed over to Eve’s parking slot, spread her arms with a flourish and said: “Voilà!”
“What the hell is that?”
“That, Lieutenant, is your replacement vehicle. Pucker up.”
Eve goggled. It was a rare thing to see the lieutenant goggle, and Peabody celebrated the moment with a snappy little tap dance.
Slowly, Eve walked around the sleek, navy blue sedan. It shone under the hard garage lights like a dignified jewel. The tires were big, black, and clean. The glass and chrome sparkled.
“This is not my vehicle.”
“Is too.”
“This is my vehicle?”
“Uh-huh.” Peabody bobbed her head like a puppet on a happy string.
“Get out.” Eve smacked her in the shoulder. “How’d you pull this off?”
“A little fast talk, some slight exaggeration, a lot of prevarication, and a little assistance from an e-fairy who knows how to hack.”
“You got it through unethical and possibly illegal means.”
“Damn straight.”
Eve set her hands on her hips, looked Peabody square in the eyes. “This is such a proud moment for me. A proud, proud moment.”
“Are you going to kiss me on the lips?”
“Not that proud.”
“How about a peck on the cheek?”
“Get in the car.”
“Your codes, Lieutenant.” She handed them over, strolled around to the passenger side. “And you know what, Dallas? This bitch is loaded.”
“Oh yeah?” Eve slid into a seat, grinned when she didn’t get the sensation of sitting on bumpy rock. “Well, let’s see what she can do.”
Chapter 8
It rocked. Not only was everything operational, but it moved. She could zip into vertical and down again, stream instead of muscle her way through traffic.
All comp systems were go, as she was told, politely, by a computerized voice before she even thought to ask. The voice addressed her as Lieutenant Dallas, informed her the outside temp was a pleasant seventy-eight degrees with winds from the south, southwest, at a mild twelve per hour.
It offered to calculate the most convenient route to her destination, or destinations, with projected traffic patterns and ETAs.
It was a fricking miracle.
“You love this car,” Peabody said with a smug little smile on her face.
“I do not love a vehicle. I appreciate and expect efficient machines and tools, machines and tools that assist me in doing my job rather than inconveniencing and hampering me.”
She whipped around a trudging maxibus, threaded through a mired mass of Rapid Cabs and, for the hell of it, executed a quick vertical maneuver that shot them east.
“Okay. I love this car!”
“Knew you would.” Peabody all but sang it.
“If they try to take it from me, I’ll fight them. To the death. To the bloody death.”
She smiled all the way to her destination.
Since Polinski was out on personal time, she dealt with Silk, a stubby fireplug of a man who sat at his desk munching on no-fat soy chips while he gave her background on the Missing Person’s investigation.
Breen Merriweather had been reported missing by her neighbor and childcare provider on June tenth. She’d left the studio between midnight and twelve-fifteen. And vanished without a trace.
No serious romantic relationships, no known enemies. She’d been in good health and good spirits and had been looking forward to an upcoming vacation—she’d planned to take her son to Disney World East.
Eve took copies of files and notes.
“Tag Nadine,” Eve told Peabody. “Let’s do this setup at the castle. In an hour. Make it ninety minutes.”
They met Royce Cabel at his apartment. He opened the door before they knocked, and looked at them with what Eve recognized as terrified hope.
“You found out something about Marjie.”
“Mr. Cabel, as I told you when I contacted you, we’re conducting a follow-up. I’m Lieutenant Dallas. This is my partner, Detective Peabody. Can we come in?”
“Yeah, sure. Yeah.” He dragged a hand through his long, wavy brown hair. “I just thought—I wanted to meet you here instead of at work because I thought maybe you’d found something. Found her. And didn’t want to tell me over the ’link.”
He glanced around the room, blankly, then shook his head. “Sorry. I guess we should sit down. Ah, aren’t Detectives Lansing and Jones still working?”
“They are. We’re pursuing another angle. It would help us if you’d tell us what you know.”
“What I know.” He sat on a deep green sofa heaped with pretty pillows.
The apartment was painted a dull gold, and struck Eve as being female—the pillows, the soft, fancy throws, the sudden splashes of reds and dark blues.
“I feel like I don’t know anything,” he said after a moment. “She was workin
g nights. That was going to change in June, when she took over as day manager. We’d be on the same schedule again.”
“How long had she been working nights?”
“For about eight months.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. “It was okay. She liked the work, and the restaurant’s only a couple blocks away. I’d go in and have dinner at least once a week. And having her days free gave her lots of time to handle the wedding stuff. She was doing almost everything herself. Marjie loves planning.”
“Did the two of you have any problems?”
“We didn’t. I mean we did—everybody does—but we were in a real up phase. The wedding. Hell, I didn’t have to do anything but show up because she had everything organized. We talked about starting a family.”
His voice shook, and he cleared his throat, stared hard at the wall.
“Did she ever mention anyone coming into the restaurant who disturbed her? Anyone coming by here, or anywhere else?”
“No. I told the other detectives. If somebody’d been bothering Marjie, she’d have told me. If somebody’d pissed her off at work, she’d have told me. We talked all the time. I always waited up for her, and we’d hash out the day. She just didn’t come home.”
“Mr. Cabel—”
“I wish she’d just walked off.” Emotions pitched into his voice. Traces of anger now, anger circling around the fear. “I wish she’d gotten freaked or fallen out of love with me or found somebody else or just got a goddamn wild hair. But she didn’t. It’s not Marjie. Something happened to her, something terrible. And I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Mr. Cabel, do you or Marjie belong to a health club or gym?”
“Huh?” He blinked, sucked in a breath. “Yeah, who doesn’t? We, ah, we go to Able Bodies. We try to make it two, three times a week. Sundays for sure since we’re both off. We’d do a couple hours, maybe, then have brunch in their juice bar.”
Brunch in the juice bar didn’t fit, Eve thought, and decided on another tack. Before she could speak, Peabody lifted one of the couch pillows.