Visions in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “None of the people Sommers spent the evening with gave her or remember her with a droid or a toy. No cat. I’ve started running purchases, haven’t hit anything yet.”

  “Run it through, then you’re going to hook up with Feeney for some OT in the field.”

  “Feeney?”

  “We’re splitting his match list, such as it is. I want to cover as much territory as we can, tonight. You saddle with Feeney. I’m bringing Roarke in. He’s mostly up to speed anyway. Saves me briefing another badge.”

  She paused, sat on the corner of her desk. “Listen, if you get lucky, and pop on this guy tonight, remember, he’s not going to let you take him down easy.”

  “You’re not going to tell me to be careful, are you?”

  “I’m going to tell you to be good. Stay sharp. You pop him, and he goes for either of you, he’ll go for you first.”

  “Female.”

  “Right. He’ll hurt you if he can.”

  “So don’t let him. And right back at you, sir.”

  “Give Feeney the rest of the description. Keep it in your head. Maybe he wears a rug, so—”

  “Dallas, this isn’t my first flight out of the nest.”

  “Right. Right, right.” Restless, she got up, but bypassed coffee for water. Overcaffeinated, she told herself as she opened the bottle. “I got bad vibes, is all.”

  “Want me to call and check in when I get home, Mommy?”

  “Scram.”

  “Scramming.”

  Eve dropped down at the desk, added her record of the session with Mira to her case file, and organized her notes into her daily report.

  Roarke had told her he’d meet her at her office at seven-thirty if not before, so she had time. A little time. She started the research on eye sensitivities, then let the computer hum along while she got up, paced to the window.

  Bad vibes, she thought again, and looked out at her city.

  It wasn’t extrasensory. What she had, what she did was, in her opinion, the antithesis of paranormal. It was elemental, maybe on some level even primitive—the way early man had known when to hunt and when to hide.

  She’d say visceral except the word always sounded sort of pompous to her. And there was nothing pompous about cop work.

  The vibes, for lack of a better word, were a combination of instinct and experience and a knowledge she had no inclination to analyze.

  She knew he’d marked his next target. And could only wonder who, and where, he’d strike tonight.

  Chapter 18

  In his elegant dark business suit, Roarke circled Eve’s new vehicle while it was parked in her slot in Central’s garage. “Haven’t had a chance to really examine your upgrade. Long overdue, Lieutenant.”

  “It does the job.”

  “Better, one hopes, than your previous one.” He tapped the hood. “Release the hood latch.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can look at the engine.”

  “Why? It runs. What else is there to know? Looking at it doesn’t change anything.”

  He gave her a long, pitying smile. “Darling Eve, your absolute lack of interest and aptitude for mechanics is so female.”

  “Watch it, pal.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what’s under here?” He tapped the hood again. “What’s getting you where you’re going?”

  “No.” Though he had stirred some mild curiosity. “Besides, I’m getting a later start on this than I’d planned. Let’s just move.”

  “Well, let’s have the codes.” He lifted a brow when she frowned. “If you won’t let me play with it, you can at least let me drive it.”

  She supposed it was fair. He was giving her the evening for work. She gave him the codes, then walked around to the passenger side. “The department appreciates your time and assistance, blah, blah.”

  “Please, you’re much too effusive in your gratitude.”

  He settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to his preference, scanning the dash. He judged the data and communication system to be middle-range. It baffled him that the NYPSD didn’t spring for top-of-the-line for their mobile situations.

  He engaged the engine and wasn’t displeased by the sound. “You’ve got more power under you this time, at least.” Then he smiled at her. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “It’s okay. I kept busy. And Feeney couldn’t wiggle loose until about twenty minutes ago, so he and Peabody are getting a late start with this, too.”

  “Then let’s catch up.” He eased out of the slot, drove at a discreet speed to the entrance. Flicked a glance at the pattern of traffic.

  And punched it.

  “Jesus, Roarke!”

  He whipped through, skimming his way around cabs and cars and one-seaters, and nipped through a light a blink before it went to red. “Not bad,” he decided.

  “If I bung this thing up the first week, I’ll never live it down.”

  “Umm-hmm.” He went vertical, maintaining it until he’d swung around a corner. “Could be a bit more elastic on the turns, but it handles well enough.”

  “And if Traffic lights you up, I’m not flashing my badge to kill the violation.”

  “Lateral’s fairly smooth,” he decided after testing it out. “So, where are we going?”

  She sighed, long and deep, but at least the question allowed her to relay the first name and address to her map system. “You want the route displayed on windshield or the dash monitor?”

  “Dash will do.”

  “On monitor,” she ordered and couldn’t suppress the smile when it popped on. “I ditched the vocals. It’ll only blab at me if I specifically order it to. Too bad people don’t come with the same accessory.”

  She rattled off the route.

  “How did Celina’s session go?” Roarke asked her.

  “She handled it. We got a few more details, but it’s tough going. Mira won’t approve another session without a twenty-four-hour break.”

  “A slow process.”

  “Yeah, and he’s not going to move slow. It’s not just women he’s after, but women he sees as having control over him.”

  “Symbolically.”

  “Maybe I pushed him the wrong way, pushed him when I did the interview with Nadine, then the media conference. He’s escalating.”

  “Whether you push or not, he’ll continue to kill until you stop him.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be doing that. I’ll damn well be doing that soon.”

  Her first stop was named Randall Beam, and he wasn’t happy about having a cop at the door.

  “Listen, I got a thing. I’m just about out the door already. What gives?”

  “If we can come in, Randall, we’ll tell you what gives, then maybe you can keep your thing.”

  “Hell. How come a guy has a coupla assaults on his sheet, cops’re always yanking him?”

  “It’s a mystery all right.”

  Eve stepped in, scanned the room. It was small, man messy without being revolting. There was the faintest whiff of something in the air that could get Randall a little visit from Illegals, but she’d let it pass unless she had to squeeze him.

  There were curtains at the windows, which was a surprise, and a couple of nice-looking pillows tucked into the corners of a sagging couch.

  Physically, Beam didn’t fit her profile. He was about six feet tall, a solid and muscular one-eighty. But compared to a size fifteen, his feet were almost dainty. His complexion leaned toward jailhouse white, and he sported a long brown ponytail.

  Still, she’d need to take the time with him. He might have a friend, a brother, whatever, who fit her needs more closely.

  “Need your whereabouts, Randall.” She gave him the nights of the three murders, waited while he stood looking put-upon and sad.

  “How’m I supposed to know?”

  “You can’t tell me where you were last night?”

  “Last night? One of them’s last night? Last night, after I got off work? I got gainful employ
ment.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So, after work, me and a couple of the guys stopped in at the Roundhouse. Bar on Fourth? Knocked back a few, grabbed some chow, played some pool. LC works the joint. Name’s Loelle? I was flush, so I took her up to one of the privates—Roundhouse’s got two—for a bang. Had a couple more drinks, got home, I dunno, about two? This here’s my day off.”

  “Loelle and your buddies going to confirm all that?”

  “Sure. Why not? Loelle’s down there most nights; you can ask her. And you can ask Ike—Ike Steenburg—we work together. He was there last night. What gives?”

  “Let’s get through the other two nights.”

  He was clueless about his activities on the night of Napier’s murder—but he balked on explaining what he was doing on the night of Maplewood’s.

  “I had a thing. Was there till after eleven. Went out with . . . with some people after for, you know, coffee. Got home, I dunno, maybe midnight. I really gotta go now.”

  “What’s the thing, Randall?”

  He shuffled his feet, stared at them while color came up on his cheeks. “Why I gotta say?”

  “Because I have a badge, you have a sheet, I need to know, and if you make me ask again I’m going to be a lot more interested in the Zoner I smell.”

  “Jesus. Cops. You’re always hassling a guy.”

  “Yeah. It’s the part of the job that gets me up out of bed every morning with a big smile on my face.”

  He blew out a breath. “I don’t want the guys to hear about it.”

  “I’m the soul of fricking discretion.”

  He shifted his gaze up, ran it over her face, shifted it to Roarke, and hunched his shoulder. “You shouldn’t oughta get the wrong idea. I ain’t no fairy or nothing. Don’t know why guys want to bang each other when there’s women around. But you know, live and let.”

  “That’s a touching philosophy, Randall. Spill.”

  He pulled on his nose, shuffled his feet. “Just that . . . last assault bust, they say I gotta take anger management and shit. So I stop punching people and starting fights. But I never punched nobody didn’t ask for it.”

  Eve supposed the flaw was in her, but she was starting to like him. “I know the feeling.”

  “So they, shit, they say I should do some therapy kind of deal. Occupational, recreational, relaxational. What all. I sign up for this class in, ah, crafts.”

  “You do crafts.”

  “Don’t make me no fairy or nothing.” He gave Roarke a steely look as if daring him to disagree.

  “Did you make the curtains?” Roarke asked, pleasantly.

  “Yeah. So?” His fists bunched at his sides.

  “It’s very good work. A nice use, I’d say, of fabric and color.”

  “Well.” He eyed Roarke, eyed the curtains. Then shrugged. “They come out okay. It’s constructive and, you know, therapeutic. I sorta got into it. I was working on the pillows there at Total Crafts, they got clubs and shit, and instructors. That’s where I was the night you’re saying. They give you a break on the supplies and shit, and you can use their machines you need to. And it’s kinda interesting is all. I got a class tonight, on needlepoint. You can make all kinds of shit, you know what you’re doing.”

  “Your instructor and classmates verify this?”

  “Yeah. But, hey, you go down there asking questions, talking about my sheet, it’s gonna mess me up. Coupla skirts in there I’m thinking about hitting on, and it’s gonna mess me up.”

  “You forgot about me being the soul of discretion, Randall. Any of your buddies know about your hobby?”

  His face went to stark, stupefied shock. “Hell, no. You think I’d mouth off about fricking curtains and pillows to the guys? They’d rag me till I had to pound on them. Then I wouldn’t be managing my anger issues and all that.”

  “Got a point,” Eve agreed.

  “You knew it wasn’t him when he opened the door.” Roarke slid back behind the wheel.

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to run the lap. He says his buddies don’t know, but it’s possible one does. Or somebody he works with, somebody he’s played pool with. A neighbor.” She lifted a shoulder. “He nips the cord from Randall, or uses his name to buy it. You can’t discount long shots. Let’s hit the next.”

  She went through the paces because it had to be done, but she didn’t quibble when Roarke announced it was time for a meal. Nor did she quibble over his choice of a French place with candles on the table and waiters with their noses in the air.

  His name got them a corner booth in thirty seconds flat, with the expected fawning service. But the food was choice.

  Still, she brooded over it, picked at it, and did more rearranging of it on her plate than eating it.

  “Tell me what’s troubling you.” He laid a hand over hers. “It’s more than the case.”

  “I guess there’s a lot going around in my head.”

  “Give me one.”

  “I told Peabody about . . . I told her about when I was a kid.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “I wondered if you ever would. It would’ve been difficult for both of you.”

  “We’re partners. You’ve got to trust your partner. I’m rank, and I expect her to follow an order without hesitation. And I know she will, and that my rank isn’t why she will.”

  “That’s not the only reason you told her.”

  “No. No, it’s not.” She looked at him through the candlelight. “Cases like this, they get into my gut. I can make a mistake because I’m looking too hard, or I’m looking away because I can’t stand to look too hard.”

  “You never look away, Eve.”

  “Well, I want to. Sometimes I want to, and the difference is a pretty thin line. She’s with me every day, and she’s a good cop. She’ll see if I’m off, and she’s got a right to know why I am, if I am.”

  “I agree with you. But there’s still one more reason you told her.”

  “She’s a friend. The tightest, I guess, next to Mavis. Mavis is different.”

  “Oh, let me count the ways.”

  She laughed, as he’d wanted. “She’s not a cop and she’s Mavis. She’s the first person I ever told any part of it to. The first person I could tell any part of it to. I should’ve told Feeney. We were partners and I should’ve told him. But I didn’t know, didn’t remember most of it when we were hooked, and besides . . .”

  “He’s a man.”

  “I told you. You’re a man.”

  “I’m not your father figure,” he said and watched her reach quickly for her water glass.

  “I guess. I mean, no, you’re sure as hell not. And maybe Feeney . . . in some kind of way. Doesn’t matter,” she decided. “I didn’t tell him. Telling Mira was almost an accident, and she’s a doctor. I’ve never dumped it, in a big lump, on anybody but you, and now Peabody.”

  “You told her the whole of it then?”

  “That I killed him? Yeah. She said something about hoping I ripped him to pieces. She cried. Jesus.”

  She dropped her head in her hands.

  “Is that what troubles you most about this? That her heart hurts for you?”

  “That’s not why I told her.”

  “Friendship, partnership. They aren’t just about trust, Eve. They’re about affection. Even love. If she didn’t feel pity for and anger over the child, she wouldn’t be your friend.”

  “I guess I know that. I’ll give you one of the other things on my mind, then we have to finish the list. I watched the whole hypnotherapy deal today. Mira’s brought it up before, she doesn’t push it, but she’s told me it might help bring things back to the surface, clear it out of me. Maybe the more you remember, the more control you have over it. I don’t know. But I don’t think I can go there, Roarke. I don’t know if I can, even if it means getting rid of the nightmares.”

  “Were you considering it?”

  “I hadn’t ruled it out, completely, for later. Sometime later. But it’s t
oo much like Testing. If you terminate somebody on the job, you have to go through Testing. That’s SOP, and you deal. You hate it, but you deal. This is like saying, sure, put me through the wringer, take away my control, because maybe—possibly—it’ll make things better.”

  “If you want to find out more, and you’re not comfortable with hypnosis, there are other ways, Eve.”

  “You could dig details out of my past for me, the way you dug them out for yourself.” She picked up the water again. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not sure I want to go there either. But I’ll think about it some more. I guess finding out what we did before, about Homeland surveilling him, knowing about me, knowing what he was doing to me, and letting it happen to preserve the integrity of their investigation—”

  Roarke said something particularly vile about Homeland and integrity. Something, she thought with dark humor, that didn’t belong in snooty French restaurants.

  “Yeah, well. It’s played on my head some, finding out other people knew. And it’s made me ask myself, would I sacrifice a civilian for a collar?”

  “You would not.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Not knowingly, not willingly. But there are people out there, people who consider themselves solid citizens who would. Would, and do, sacrifice others to get what they want or need. Happens every day, in big ways, in little ways. For the greater good, for their good, for their interpretation of someone else’s good. By action, by omission of action, people sacrifice other people all the damn time.”

  Peabody stepped off the subway and stifled a yawn. It was still shy of eleven, but she was beat. At least she wasn’t hungry on top of it, as Feeney had been as happy as she to break for food. Her belly was nicely full of fried chicken strips—at least it had been billed as chicken, and she didn’t want to question what else might have been inside the batter.

  Dipped into some sort of bright yellow sauce, they hadn’t been half bad.

  Of course, they’d crapped out on everything else, but that was life with a badge.

  She flipped out her palm-link as she trudged up the steps to street level.

  “There she is.” McNab’s face, split by a big, welcoming grin, filled the screen. “Heading home yet?”