by J. D. Robb
“It’s all right, baby. It’s all over now. Nobody’s going to hurt you again. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
“Man. Big cast on his arm. Never seen big cast like that. Couldn’t, couldn’t get the sofa in. Kept sliding back out, thumping against the street. Felt sorry for him. Mommy.”
Deliberately Eve stepped closer, took Marlene’s other hand. “He can’t get to you now. He’s never going to touch you again. He thinks he beat you, but he didn’t. You’ve already won.”
Her eyes fluttered again. “I can’t remember much. I was going to help him, then something hit me. It hurt. I never hurt like that. I don’t know after that, I don’t know.” Tears began to leak. “I can’t remember anything after that, except Mom talking to me, or Dad or my brother. Uncle Pete? Was Uncle Pete here, and Aunt Dora?”
“Yes, honey. Everyone’s been here.”
“I was just floating somewhere while they talked to me, then I woke up here.”
“Before he hurt you, you looked at him.” Eve felt Marley’s fingers twitch in hers. “I bet you hesitated a little, got an impression of him. You figured he was okay, just some guy in trouble. You’re too smart to go up to someone who looked dangerous.”
“He had that big cast, and he looked so upset and frustrated. He was cute. Curly dark hair. Curly hair and a ball cap. I think. I can’t . . . He looked over at me and smiled.”
“Can you see him now. In your head? Can you see him, Marley?”
“Yes . . . I think. It’s not clear.”
“I’m going to show you some pictures. I want you to look at them and tell me if one of them is the man with the cast. Just see his face in your head, and look at the pictures.”
“I’ll try.” She wet her lips. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Here you are, sweetheart.” All but crooning, Sela brought a cup and straw to her daughter’s lips. “Take your time. Remember you’re safe now.”
“Hard to stay awake. Hard to think.”
“She’s had enough, Lieutenant.”
At Laurence’s voice, Marley stirred again, struggled to look toward him. “I heard you, when I was floating I heard you. You told me not to give up. That . . . you wouldn’t give up if I didn’t.”
“That’s right.” It was the compassion in his voice, on his face that had Eve stifling her impatience.
“And you didn’t give up,” Laurence said. “You’ve made me look real good around here.”
“Give me one more minute,” Eve pleaded with him. “Just one more minute, Marley, and we’ll be all done.”
“You’re the police?” Marlene turned her head on the pillow and looked impossibly young, impossibly frail. “I’m sorry. I’m getting mixed up.”
“I’m the police.” Eve drew out photos of her suspects. “When you look at these pictures, remember he can’t touch you now. You got away, you didn’t give up, and he can’t touch you.”
She showed them to Marlene one at a time, watching her eyes for that shock of recognition. She saw it, and the fear that rode with it.
“Him. Oh God, him! Mom. Mommy.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, that’s enough.”
She elbowed the doctor back. “Marley. Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” She turned her face into her mother’s breast. “That’s his face. Those are his eyes. He smiled at me.”
“It’s all right. He’s gone.”
“I want you out. Now.”
“I’m going.”
“Wait.” Marlene groped for Eve’s hand again, and turned her bruised and exhausted face away from her mother. “He was going to kill me, wasn’t he?”
“He didn’t. You beat him. And you stopped him.” She leaned over the bed, spoke very deliberately as Marlene’s eyes fluttered closed again. “You’re the one who stopped him, Marley. You remember that. Don’t ever forget that.”
She stepped back while the doctor checked the vitals, the monitors. Then she turned and left the room.
“Got that son of a bitch,” she said to Roarke and kept walking toward the elevator. “I need to go to Central, put this together. I still want you to check the travel dates. I want this ice cold and locked. I’ll have my warrant within two hours if I have to strangle a judge to get it.”
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant, wait.” Sela rushed down the corridor. “You’re going after him now.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Did you mean what you said, that she’d stopped him?”
“I did.”
She pressed her fingers to her lids. “That’s going to get her through. I know my girl, and that’ll get her through this. They didn’t think she’d ever wake up. I knew she would.”
“You sure as hell did.”
Sela laughed, then clamped a hand over her lips to hold back a sob. “Dr. Laurence, I know he was rude to you, but he’s been very kind to us, and worked very hard for Marley.”
“I was rude right back. We’re all just looking out for her.”
“I just wanted to say that I’ve thought of Dr. Laurence as her guardian angel, and you as her avenging one. I won’t ever forget you.” She rose on her toes, gave Eve a quick peck on the cheek, then hurried away.
“Avenging angel.” Embarrassed, Eve hunched her shoulders as she stepped into the elevator. “Jesus.” Then she straightened, grinned fiercely. “I can tell you this, when I’m finished, Niles Renquist will see me as a demon from hell.”
It was a tricky business, both politically and personally. Peabody was going to be pissed, and undoubtedly sulky, that she hadn’t been called in. She’d just have to suck it up, Eve thought, as she prepared to make her pitch to Commander Whitney.
He was, she imagined, none too pleased himself to have been called back into Central. When she stepped into his office and noted the tuxedo covering his big frame, she fought back a wince.
“Sir, I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening.”
“I assume your reasons for doing so will be strong enough to placate my wife.” As Eve wasn’t quite as successful in holding back the wince this time, Whitney nodded. “You don’t know the half of it. You’d better have Niles Renquist cold, Lieutenant, because before I deal with my wife, I’ve got the ambassador, the U.N., and the British government in line.”
“Marlene Cox has positively identified Niles Renquist as her assailant. I have a statement from Sophia DiCarlo, employed as au pair in the Renquist household, which conflicts with his and Mrs. Renquist’s claim that he was home during the time of one of the murders. He is in possession of the stationery used for the notes left at the murder scenes, and he fits the profile. At this time Captain Feeney and expert civilian consultant Roarke are doing a search and scan on travel. I believe we will confirm that the subject was in London, Paris, Boston, and New L.A. at the time of previous murders, which match the methods of this case. Under ordinary circumstances, this would be enough for a search warrant and a warrant to bring the subject in for questioning on suspicion.”
“But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.”
“No, sir. The subject’s diplomatic status and the political arena add a sensitivity and a level of bureaucracy. I request that you speak directly with the judge and the necessary parties to expedite the warrants. He will kill again, Commander, and soon.”
“You want my head in the noose, Lieutenant?” He cocked his head. “You have the statement of a woman in severe physical and emotional distress. A woman with head trauma. You have a statement from a household employee, who in your report claims to have been sexually abused by the subject. Those are both shaky. Owning or purchasing the brand of paper used in the notes isn’t enough, and you know it, or Renquist would have been in a cage before this. And there are others who fit the profile. All of this will be argued by Renquist’s representatives and attorneys, and the British government. You need to lock this down.”
“If I get into his house, into his office, I’ll lock it down. It’s him, Commander. I know it’s him.”
&nbs
p; He sat in silence, wide fingers tapping on the surface of the desk. “If you’ve got any doubt, if there’s any room for doubt, it would be best to hold off on taking these steps. We can surveil, watch his every move until there is no doubt, and the case is a noose around his neck.”
Good luck watching his every move if he gets back inside the U.N., Eve thought, but tried to put it more diplomatically. “Renquist may already be in the wind. Without the search, he stays in control. He’s the only one who knows the identity and whereabouts of his next target. If he beats me to her, she may not be as lucky as Marlene Cox.”
“Once the calls are made and the ball starts rolling, it could flatten both of us. I can survive it. I’ve had more years wearing a badge than you’ve had breathing. I can live with retirement. The ramifications of this should you be wrong will damage your career, perhaps irrevocably. Understand that.”
“Understood, sir.”
“You’re a solid cop, Dallas, perhaps the best under my command. Is it worth pushing this forward now? Is it worth possible reassignment, losing your status in Homicide, and your credibility?”
She thought of the dream, of the dead and the victims yet to come. There’s always another, her father had said. And damn him, he was right. “Yes, sir. If I weighed status more heavily than the job, I shouldn’t be here. I’m not wrong, but if I were, I’d take the hit.”
“I’ll make the calls. Get me a goddamn cup of coffee.”
She blinked at the order, looked vaguely around his office. The little twinge of resentment she felt as she walked to his AutoChef told her maybe status wasn’t so far down on her list after all.
“How do you want it, sir?”
“Coffee regular. Get me Judge Womack,” he said into the ’link. Then barked out a “Come” at the knock on his door.
Feeney hustled in, a grim smile on his face. Roarke strolled in behind him, grinned cheekily at Eve. “I wouldn’t mind a cup, while you’re at it.”
“I don’t serve civilians.”
“Serve and protect, Lieutenant,” he reminded her. “Protect and serve.”
“Bite me,” she mumbled under her breath and carried the coffee to Whitney’s desk.
“We got ’em,” Feeney said.
“Hold that call. What have you got?”
“Me and the civilian here did some E-finessing. If only the budget could afford this boy.” With sincere affection, he slapped Roarke’s shoulder. “Devious mind and magic fingers. Ah well.”
“Cut through the bullshit, Feeney, and give me some weight.”
“Our suspect took diplomatic, public, and private shuttles—and the private transpo was buried deep—to Paris, to London, to Boston, and to New L.A. He was in those cities during the time of the unsolved murders preceding the ones here. He frequently travels to London, as you’d expect. Less frequently to Boston. For London he uses the diplomatic transpo. For Boston, public, though it’s first-class and pricey all the way. But for the West Coast, he went private, and alone. Two trips by this method, the first, one month before the murder of Susie Mannery, the second, two days before with a return the following day—the day after the murder. Same pattern on the other unsolveds.”
He turned to Eve. “Bull’s-eye, kid.”
Even with the added weight, it was almost midnight before Eve had the warrants in hand. Still, her earlier fatigue had burned away in a rush of adrenaline.
“How did you know?” Roarke asked as she drove uptown. “Walk the civilian through it.”
“It had to be one of them. The stationery was too pointed, too much there for it not to be. He used it purposefully, to bring himself into it. The attention, the amusement, the excitement. He needs that.”
She swung in behind a Rapid Cab, and let the cabbie plow the road for her. “But he’d have to know there’d be others, in New York, viable suspects. So he wouldn’t have been the first to buy it. Smith was, and Smith would be easy to track. He’s public, and he likes to make a splash.”
“Go on,” Roarke prompted.
“There’s Elliot Hawthorne with his supply of the same paper.”
“Speaking of him, he’s divorcing his current wife. Something about a tennis pro.”
She took time to smirk. “Figured Hawthorne would get around to it. He was a toss in, never seriously on my list. Too old for the profile, and nothing there. No pop.”
“But you still had to take the time to check him out, had to have him in the general mix. That would’ve pleased Renquist.”
“There you go. Then Breen, sending him the paper, just added a nice touch for Renquist. Breen was the expert, and someone Renquist probably admired. A month’s pay says we find Breen’s books in Renquist’s office. He’s studied Breen, the work and the man.”
“You never thought it was Breen.”
“Didn’t fit. Arrogant enough, knowledgeable enough. But this isn’t a guy who hates or fears women.”
She remembered his devastated face as she hammered at him, remembered the broken look in his eyes. She’d have to live with her part in putting it there.
“He loves his wife, and that makes him a sap, not a murderer. He likes being at home with the kid. Probably he’d do it whatever the mother did. But I pushed him anyway, pushed him hard.”
He heard the regret in her voice, and brushed a hand over her arm. “Why?”
“In case I misjudged him. In case . . .” She blew out a breath and tried to let the guilt blow out with it. “In case I was wrong. I liked him, right off, the same way I didn’t like Renquist.”
“So you worried part of it was personal for you.”
“Some. And Breen could’ve been involved, that was an angle I had to factor in. He could’ve provided the killer with data, pooled all of it to put into his next book. How he acted and reacted, answered, didn’t answer, in interview mattered.”
“He’ll get through it, Eve, or he won’t. It’s his wife who betrayed him, not you.”
“Yeah, all I did was shatter his nice fantasy shield. Anyway, anyway. Renquist’s got a good line on Breen. I bet he knows about the wife’s sidepiece. I’ll double that bet and say we’ll find unregistered equipment in his office, equipment he’s used to research and track the other suspects. He lined them right up for me, the son of a bitch.”
“I value my money too much to take that wager. Why not Carmichael Smith?”
“Because he’s pitiful. He needs a woman to adore him, and tend to him. He doesn’t kill them or who’d rub his feet and stroke his head?”
“I appreciate a good foot rub myself.”
“Yeah.” She snorted. “Take a number.”
He reached out to twist a lock of her shaggy hair around his finger, just to touch. And asked the next question just to keep her talking. “Fortney, then.”
“Peabody’s favorite. Mostly she leaned toward him because he offended her sensibilities. She’s soft yet, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
“She’ll keep some of that, the soft.” Eve tried not to think about the exam in the morning, and how much of Peabody’s ego and esteem was wrapped up in it. “That’s good,” she added. “It’s good she’s got the makeup to keep some of it. You get too hard, you stop feeling, then the job’s just being on the clock.”
You’ve never stopped feeling, he thought. You never will. “You’re worried about her.”
“I’m not.” She shot the words out, then hissed when he chuckled. “Okay, maybe I am. A little. Maybe I’m worried she’s so nervous and sweaty about this damn, stupid detective’s exam that she’ll blow it. Maybe I wish I’d waited another six months to put her up for it. If she blows it, it’s going to set her back—inside. It’s so fucking important to her.”
“Wasn’t it to you?”
“That was different. It was,” she said with conviction when he raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t going to blow it. I had more confidence in myself than she does. Had to. I didn’t have anything else.”
She surprised herself by smil
ing, looking over at him. “Then.”
It didn’t surprise her to feel his hand brush her cheek. “Enough mush. Back to Fortney. He clouded Peabody’s thinking. He’s a putz, and just not smart enough for this. Not an organized thinker, and not cold enough. Violent tendencies toward women, but a sock in the eye isn’t mutilation. You gotta be cold to mutilate. And brave, in a screwed-up way. Fortney’s not brave enough to go the whole route. For him, sex is his way of humiliating women. He bought the paper second, and I imagine that gave Renquist a smile—if he was following the purchases.”
“And you believe he was.”
She gazed at the rearview to make sure the team was still behind her. “Dead sure, and he likely did a search on Fortney and knew he’d be in New York during this period. Takes time to put on a show, months of lead time. Renquist didn’t plan this overnight.”
“Keep going.”
Roarke was keeping her talking, she realized, so she wouldn’t lose her temper and her patience with the traffic. Which was hideous. She toyed briefly with hitting the sirens and punching it. But that violated procedure. She’d do this straight, right down the line.
“He needed time to scope out his targets, so you’ve got several weeks between him sending the paper to Breen and the first murder. The first in New York,” she amended. “We’re going to find more bodies, or what’s left of them, scattered over the planet, and possibly off.”
“He’ll tell you,” Roarke deduced.
“Oh yeah.” Her face was grim as she threaded through a narrow break between bumpers. “Once we get him in, he’ll tell us. He won’t be able to stop himself. He wants his place in the history books.”
“And you’ll have yours. Care about it or not, Lieutenant,” Roarke said when she scowled. “You’ll have yours.”
“Let’s stick with Renquist. He’s a perfectionist, and he’s had years of practice. In his work, within the image he’s built, he has to be discreet, diplomatic, often subservient. And this goes against the grain, day after day. At heart, he’s an exhibitionist, a man who finds himself above others—even as he’s been hammered down by females all his life. Women are inferior, yet they have power over him, so they have to be punished. He hates us, and killing us is his greatest joy, his finest accomplishment.”