by J. D. Robb
Her gaze swept the patio, then stopped, held on her own daughter. “I hope, one day, Lana will feel that way about me. In any case, I felt you were stealing little bits of my mother from me. I was prepared to dislike you on sight—an attitude that is in direct opposition to what I believe, to what I am, but there you are.” She lifted her glass in a little toast, sipped. “I just couldn’t pull it off.”
Gillian picked up the pitcher of margaritas, poured more in each of their glasses. “You came here today for her. Probably with a little persuasion from your gorgeous husband, but primarily you’re here for her. She matters to you, on a personal level. And I noticed the way you look at my father, with a kind of charmed affection. It tells me you’re a good judge of character, and I know from my mother—who’s one as well—that you’re a good cop, a good woman. It makes it easier for me to share her with you.”
Before Eve could think of a response, Mira walked over, carrying the now sleeping baby on her shoulder. “Did everyone get enough?”
“More than,” Gillian assured her. “Why don’t you give him to me? I’ll take him upstairs.”
“No, he’s fine. I don’t get to hold him nearly often enough.” Agilely, she sat, lightly patting the baby’s back. “Eve, I should warn you, Dennis has convinced Roarke he can’t live without a grill.”
“Well, he has everything else.” She polished off her burger. “And it works great.”
“Dennis would tell you it’s all in the cook, not the cooker. Which I’ll claim when you’ve tasted my strawberry shortcake and peach pie.”
“Pie? You made pie?” Obviously, Eve realized, there was a great deal to be said for family cookouts after all. “I could probably—”
Eve’s communicator beeped. Her face closed down; Mira’s cheerful smile vanished.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me a minute.”
She rose, pulling it out of her pocket as she walked back inside the kitchen, back into the quiet.
“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s the matter?”
“Her work,” Mira murmured, thinking of how Eve’s eyes went cool and flat. “Death. Take the baby, Gilly.”
She was rising when Eve stepped back out. “I have to go,” Eve began, then lowered her voice as Mira walked over, took her arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Is it the same?”
“No. It’s him, but it’s not the same. I’ll get you the details as soon as I can. Damn, brain’s a little sloshy. Too many margaritas.”
“I’ll get you some Sober-Up.”
“Appreciate it.” She nodded to Roarke when he joined her. “You can stay. This is going to take awhile.”
“I’ll take you, and if need be I’ll get myself home and leave you the car. Another LC?”
She shook her head. “Later.” She took a breath, studying the patio, with its family sprawl, its flowers and food. “Life’s not always a goddamn picnic, is it?”
Chapter 7
“Drop me off on the corner. You don’t have to go down the block.”
Roarke ignored her and breezed through the light. “But your associates would miss the opportunity to witness your arrival in this particular vehicle.”
The vehicle was a shiny silver jewel with a smoked glass retractable top and a snarling panther of an engine. It mortified her, they both knew, for other cops to whistle and hoot about her connection with Roarke’s fancy toys.
She sucked it up, yanked off her sunshades. They were new, one of the items that habitually, and mysteriously, appeared among her things. She suspected they were stylish, knew they were ridiculously expensive. To save herself a little grief, she stuck them in her pocket.
“There’s no reason for you to hang. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I’ll stick around awhile and stay out of your way.” He eased in behind a black-and-white and an emergency services vehicle.
“That is some ride, Lieutenant,” one of the uniforms said even as she climbed out. “Bet it burns on a straightaway.”
“Button it, Frohickie. What’ve we got here?”
“Sweet,” he murmured, sliding a hand over the gleaming hood. “Female vic, strangled in her apartment. Lived alone. No sign of forced entry. Name’s Lois Gregg, age sixty-one. Son became concerned when she didn’t show up at a family event or answer her ’links. Came over, let himself in, found her.”
He spoke briskly, though he did shoot one more look over his shoulder at the car as they trooped into an apartment building.
“Strangled?”
“Yes, sir. Definite signs of sexual assault with object. Fourth floor,” he said when they were in the elevator. “Looks like he used a broomstick on her. It’s pretty bad.”
She said nothing, letting the new data filter through.
“He left a note,” Frohickie said. “Addressed to you. Bastard stuck the envelope between her toes.”
“DeSalvo,” she muttered. “Good Christ.”
Then she blanked it out, blanked it all out so she would walk into the scene with no set images or preconceptions in her head.
“I need a field kit and a recorder.”
“Brought them up when we got word you were tagged away from home.”
She forgave him for his comments about the car. “Scene’s secured?” she questioned.
“Yes, sir. We’ve got the son in the kitchen, with a uniform and an MT. He’s in bad shape. He says he didn’t touch her.”
“My aide’s on her way. Send her in when she gets here. You have to stay out,” she said to Roarke.
“Understood.” But he felt a quick wrench that he would remain closed out while she walked into what was going to be another nightmare.
She marched in the open door, noted there were no signs of forced entry nor of struggle in the neat, simple living area. There were plain blue curtains at the window, sheer enough to let in the light. No privacy screens were engaged.
She squatted down to examine a few drops of blood on the edge of an area rug.
She could hear weeping from another room. The son in the kitchen, she thought, then blocked it out. Rising, she gestured the other cops back, sealed up, fixed on her recorder, then went into the bedroom.
Lois Gregg lay on the bed, nude, still bound, with the sash that had strangled her around her neck tied just under her chin in a festive bow.
The creamy envelope with Eve’s name printed on the front was stuck between the toes of her left foot.
There was more blood—not as much as Wooton—on the plain white sheets, on her thighs, on the broomstick he’d left on the floor.
She was a small woman, probably no more than a hundred and ten pounds, with the caramel complexion that indicated mixed-race heritage.
Broken capillaries in her face, in her eyes, the distended and swollen tongue, were signs of the strangulation. The body fought back, Eve thought. Even after the mind went dark, the body fought for air. For life.
Eve spotted the long green robe beside the bed. He’d used the robe sash to strangle her.
He’d have wanted you conscious when he hurt you. He’d want to see your face, the pain, the horror, the terror. Yes, he’d want that this time. He’d want to hear you scream. Nice building like this ought to have decent soundproofing. He’d checked it out, checked you out before today.
Did he tell you what he was going to do to you? Or did he work in silence while you begged?
She recorded the scene, documenting the position of the body, the placement of the robe, the broomstick, the carefully drawn curtains.
Then she took the envelope, opened it, and read.
Hello again, Lieutenant Dallas. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? A day that just begs for heading down to the shore or strolling through the park. I hate to interrupt your Sunday, but you seem to enjoy your work so much—as I do mine—that I didn’t think you’d mind.
I’m a little disappointed in you, however, for a couple of reasons. First, tsk, tsk, on stonewalling the media reports on me. I was really look
ing forward to the buzz. Then again, you’re not going to be able to keep a lid on the barrel too much longer. Second, I thought you’d be giving me just a bit more of a challenge by this point. Hopefully, my latest offer will inspire you.
Best of luck!
—Al
“Self-important bastard, aren’t you?” she stated aloud, then sealed the note and envelope before opening the field kit.
She’d completed the preliminary exam when Peabody came in. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry. We were in the Bronx.”
“What the hell were you . . .” She broke off. “What is that? What are you wearing?”
“It’s a, um, ah, it’s a sundress.” Flushing a little, Peabody brushed a hand over the poppy pink skirt. “It took us so long to get back, I thought I should come straight here instead of heading home to change into uniform.”
“Huh.” The dress also had skinny little shoulder straps and a very low bodice. It demonstrated what McNab was fond of saying: Peabody sure was built.
Peabody’s ruler-straight hair was covered by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she was wearing lip dye that matched the sundress. “How are you supposed to work in that getup?”
“Well, I—”
“You said we? You brought McNab?”
“Yeah. Yes, sir. We were at the zoo. In the Bronx.”
“That’s something anyway. Tell him to go check the outside security, and the discs for the lobby level and elevators. This building should have them.”
“Yes, sir.”
She went out to relay the order as Eve walked into the adjoining bath.
He could’ve washed up after, she figured, but there was no sign of it. The bath was tidy, the towels looked fresh. Lois hadn’t liked fuss, Eve mused, or clutter.
Must have brought his own soap and towel, too, or took some away with him.
“We’ll want the sweepers to check the drains. Might get lucky,” she said as Peabody came back in.
“I don’t get it. This isn’t like Wooton. Nothing like Wooton. Different type of victim, different method. There was another note?”
“Yeah. It’s sealed.”
Peabody studied the scene, tried to commit it to memory as the recorder did. She noticed, as Eve had, the little vase of flowers on the nightstand, the square catchall box on the dresser that said I LOVE GRANDMA in pink swirly letters on the top, and the framed photos and holos that stood on the dresser, the nightstand, the small desk by the window.
It was sad, she thought. It was always sad to see those bits and pieces of a life when the life was over.
But she tried to shake it off. Dallas would shake it off, she knew. Or bury it, or use it. But she wouldn’t let herself be distracted by the pity.
Peabody looked again, making the deliberate shift from woman to cop. “Do you think there’s more than one killer? A team?”
“No, there’s only one.” Eve lifted one of the victim’s hands. No polish, she noted. Short nails. No rings, but a faint pale circle where one had been, and habitually. Third finger, left hand. “He’s just showing us how versatile he is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I do. See if you can find where she kept her jewelry. I’m looking for a ring, band style.”
Peabody started on the dresser drawers. “Maybe you could explain what you understand, so I can.”
“Victim is an older woman. No sign of forced entry or struggle. She let him in because she thought he was okay. He was probably suited up as maintenance or repair. She turns her back, and he hits her over the head. She’s got a laceration on the back of the skull, and there’s some blood on the living room rug.”
“Was she an LC?”
“Doubtful.”
“Got her jewelry.” Peabody lifted out a clear-sided box with insets of varying sizes. “She liked earrings. Got a few rings, too.”
She brought the case over, holding it while Eve poked through. Exposure to Roarke, and his propensity for dumping glitters on her had taught her to spot the real stuff from the costume. Lois’s body adornments were mostly costume, but there were a few good pieces as well.
He hadn’t bothered with those. Unlikely he’d even looked. “No, I don’t think so. I think she was wearing a ring, a kind of wedding ring, and he took it off her finger. A symbol, a souvenir.”
“I thought she lived alone.”
“She did. Another reason he picked her.” She turned away from the box of pretty stones and metal, looked back at Lois Gregg. “He carries her in here. He’s got his equipment again, likely in a toolbox this time. Restraints for her hands and feet. Strips off her robe, ties her up. Finds what he wants to use to rape her. He’s going to wake her up then. He didn’t get to play with the other, but this one’s different.”
“Why?” Peabody set the jewelry box back on the dresser. “Why is she different?”
“Because that’s what he’s looking for. Variety. She screams when she comes around and realizes—when it comes into her like a flood what’s happened, and what will happen. Even though part of her rejects it, refuses to believe, she screams and struggles, and begs. They like it when you beg. When he starts on her, when the pain spurts into her, hot, cold, impossible, she screams more. He’d get off on that.”
Eve lifted one of Lois’s hands again, then moved down to her feet. “She bloodied her wrists and ankles trying to get free, straining and twisting against the restraints. She didn’t give up. He’d have enjoyed that, too. It’s exciting for them when you fight, makes their breath come fast in your face, makes them hard. It gives them power when you fight and can’t win.”
“Dallas.” Peabody kept her voice low, laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder as her lieutenant had gone pale and clammy.
Eve shrugged, carefully took a step back. She knew everything Lois Gregg had felt. But it wouldn’t take her down, not now, into the memory, into the nightmare. The blood and the cold and the pain.
Her voice was level and cool when she continued. “When he’s done raping her, he takes the sash from her robe. She’s incoherent now, from the pain and the shock. He gets on the bed, straddles her, looks into her eyes when he strangles her, listens to her fight to breathe, feels her body convulsing under his in that sick parody of sex. That’s when he comes, when her body bucks under his and her eyes bulge. That’s when he gets his release.
“When he comes back to himself, he ties the sash into a bow, wedges the note between her toes. He takes the ring off her finger, amused by it. Such a female thing, to wear the symbol when there’s no man to go with it. He slips the ring in his pocket, or puts it in his toolbox, then checks how it all looks, and he’s pleased. Just as it’s supposed to. An excellent imitation.”
“Of what?”
“Of who,” Eve corrected. “Albert DeSalvo. The Boston Strangler.”
She stepped out into the hallway, where cops were milling around, doing what they could to keep people from the neighboring apartments inside.
And there was Roarke, she thought. There was a man with more money than God sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor, his back supported by the wall as he worked with his PPC.
And would probably be content to do so, for reasons she could never understand, for hours.
She moved to him, squatted down so their eyes were level. “I’m going to be here awhile. You ought to go on home. I can catch a ride into Central.”
“Bad, is it?”
“Very. I’ve got to talk to the son, and he’s . . .” She let out a long breath. “They tell me the MT gave him something, but he’s still pretty messed up.”
“One is, when their mother’s murdered.”
Despite the presence of other cops, she laid a hand over his. “Roarke—”
“Demons don’t die, Eve, we just learn to live with them. We’ve both known that all along. I’ll deal with mine, in my way.”
She started to speak again, then looked up when McNab came off the elevator.
“Lieutenant, no disc run since eight this morning. Nothin
g from the outside unit, elevator, or the hall on this floor. Best I can tell, he jammed it by remote from outside before entering the building. I could verify, but I don’t have any tools on me.”
He held out his hands, a half-ass smile on his face, to indicate his baggy red shorts, blue cinch vest, and toeless airsneaks.
“Then go get some,” she began.
“I happen to have a few things in the car that might help with that,” Roarke interrupted. “Why don’t I give you a hand, Ian?”
“That would be mag. It’s pretty decent security, so I figure if he went remote, it had to be police-issue level or above. Can’t tell unless I can get into the panel and check the board.”
Eve straightened, then held out a hand. Roarke grasped her forearm, and she his, to help him to his feet. “Go ahead. Get me best guess on what he used.”
Oh eight hundred for entry, she thought. With the time of death she’d established, he’d spent no more than an hour on Lois Gregg. More time than Wooton, more time to play, but still fast.
She went back in, walked to the kitchen.
Jeffrey Gregg wasn’t weeping now, but the tears already shed had wrecked his face. It was red and swollen, much like his mother’s.
He sat at a small laminated table, his hands cupped around a glass of water. His brown hair stood up in tufts from where she imagined he’d pulled at it, raked his fingers through it, in his grief.
She judged him to be somewhere in his early thirties, and dressed in brown shorts and a white T-shirt for a casual summer Sunday.
She sat across from him, waited until those damaged eyes lifted to hers.
“Mr. Gregg, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I need to talk to you.”
“They said I couldn’t go in and see her. I should go in. When I—when I found her, I didn’t go in. I just ran out again, and called the police. I should’ve gone in—something. Covered her up?”
“No. You did exactly the right thing. You helped her more by doing just exactly what you did. I’m sorry, Mr. Gregg. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Useless words, she knew. Goddamn useless words. She hated saying them. Hated not being able to count the number of times they’d forced themselves out of her mouth.