by J. D. Robb
“Luther was in Madrid at the time of the murder. As far as I can confirm at this point. Wife’s not on my list. In fact, unless she’s an award-winning actress, she and the victim were as much friends as boss and domestic. More. She took it hard, but stood up to it. I liked her.”
“I can tell you, from what I know of Luther, I can’t see him raping a woman, much less murdering one and cutting out her eyes.”
“He the type who might try to diddle with the maid under his wife’s nose?”
“One never knows what a man might try to diddle with under his wife’s nose, but it wouldn’t be my call where he’s concerned, no. They strike me as very happy together. I think they have a young child.”
“Girl, age four. Same age as the victim’s daughter. Deann Vanderlea’s having a very hard morning.”
“The victim have a spouse?”
“Ex. Lives in the Caribbean. Abusive history. We’ll look at him close.”
“Current lover?”
“Not according to Deann. Victim, Elisa Maplewood, purportedly went out, between ten and midnight, to walk the little foo-foo dog. We’ll get the exact from building security. Strolled into the park where he grabbed her. Waited—had to be waiting—attacked, raped, strangled, then carted her over to the rocks to lay her out, finish his job. Are the eyes a symbol?” she wondered. “Windows to the soul, an eye for an eye? Or a twisted religious ritual? Maybe just a souvenir.”
“You’ll want Mira.”
“Oh yeah.” Eve thought of the city’s top profiler. “I’m pulling her in this morning.”
She’d cleaned her plate while she’d talked and got up now to dress. “We could get lucky, and this was a one-time deal.”
“Why do you think it’s not?”
“Too organized and precise. Too many symbols. The eyes, red ribbon, the pose. Maybe we find all these apply directly somehow to Elisa Maplewood, but I think they apply to the killer rather than the victim. They mean something to him, personally. Elisa may have been a type: physically, her location, her background, something of the sort. Or it may have been enough for her to be female and available.”
“Do you want my help with the Vanderleas?”
“I might, at some point.”
“Let me know. Darling, not that jacket.” More resigned than appalled, he rose to take the one she’d yanked out of her closet, and after a quick study, drew out one with pale blue checks over cream. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know what I did before you were my fashion consultant,” she told him.
“I do, but I don’t like to think about it.”
“I know a dig when I hear one.” She sat to pull on her boots.
“Mmm.” He slid his hands in his pockets, and fingered a small gray button. One that had fallen off possibly the most unattractive, ill-cut suit he’d ever seen. One she’d been wearing the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
“I’ve a ’link conference shortly, then I’ll be in midtown most of the day.” He leaned over, laid his lips on hers. Left them there for a long, satisfying moment. “Take care of my cop.”
“That’s my plan. You know, I hear your friends say your cop is scary, mean, and relentless. What do you say about that?”
“Lieutenant, your friends say the same. Give my best to Peabody,” he added as he walked out.
“I’ll keep your best,” she called out, “and give her what’s left over.”
She heard him laugh, and decided that was every bit as good as coffee for setting her up for the day.
Setting up the appointment with Dr. Mira was her first task when she got to her office at Central. Peabody’s to-do list included confirming Luther Vanderlea had been in Madrid, and ascertaining the ex-husband’s whereabouts.
Eve fed the known data into her office computer and ran a check with IRCCA to search for any other like crimes.
The number of sexual homicides involving mutilation didn’t surprise her. She’d been a cop too long. Even the number that involved damaging, destroying, or removing the victims’ eyes didn’t put a hitch in her stride.
She eliminated those where the perpetrator was in a cage, or in the ground, and spent her morning studying the unsolved or unconvicted.
Her ’link signaled a number of times—reporters on the scent. And these she easily ignored.
Letting accumulated data cook, she shifted back to the victim.
Who was Elisa Maplewood?
Standard public education, she read. No college. One marriage, one divorce, one child. Professional mother’s stipend through first two years. Parents divorced when she was thirteen. Mother, also a domestic; stepfather, a laborer. Father in the Bronx, unemployed and with a sheet, Eve mused, and looked more closely at Abel Maplewood.
Petty larceny, drunk and disorderlies, receiving stolen property, assaults—spousal assault, illegal gambling, public lewdness.
“Well, well, Abel, you’re a little bit of a creep, aren’t you?”
No sexual assaults on record, but there was always a first time. Fathers raped their daughters. She knew that only too well. They held them down, beat them, broke their bones, and pushed themselves into their own flesh and blood.
She eased slowly away from the desk when she felt her heart begin to race. When she felt the memories, the nightmare of memories, begin to descend over her mind.
She went for water rather than coffee, drank it, slowly as well, standing at her single, narrow window.
She knew what Elisa had suffered during the rape—the pain, the terror that was more than pain—the degradation and shock. She knew, the way only another victim knew.
But she had to use that knowledge to find the killer, to find justice, or she was no good. If she let those memories come down too hard, blur her focus, she was no good.
Time to get back into the field, she told herself. Back in the field and do the job.
“Dallas?”
She didn’t turn, and didn’t ask herself how long Peabody had been there, watching her find her control. “You confirm Vanderlea?”
“Yes, sir. He was in Madrid, as advertised. He’s on his way home now. Canceled his last day of business after his wife contacted him. He was at a breakfast meeting this morning—time difference, here and Europe—at seven Madrid time. Next to impossible for him to have zipped home, killed Maplewood, zipped back and made that meeting.”
“The ex?”
“Brent Hoyt. He’s clear. Seeing as he spent the night at the drunk tank on St. Thomas last night, he wasn’t in New York.”
“All right. Maplewood’s father—Abel—has a sheet. We’ll need to look at him. We’re heading back to the Vanderleas first.”
“Ah, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”
“Pertinent?”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t have time to chat.” Eve turned around. “We’ll check in with Morris at the morgue, then head uptown. I have to be back here to meet with Mira.”
“Yeah, well, she’s very insistent. Claims to have information. She looks normal.”
“As opposed to? If someone’s come in with information regarding the current investigation, why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because—” Peabody debated letting Eve find out for herself, or protecting her own skin. It was a short debate. “She says she’s a psychic.”
Eve stopped dead. “Oh, come on. Feed her to the liaison. You know better than to let the loonies in.”
“She’s registered and licensed. And she pulled the pal card.”
“I don’t have psychic pals. It’s a firm policy.”
“No, it’s the mutual friend deal.”
“Mavis has all kinds of looney friends. I don’t let them into my office.”
“Not Mavis. She claims to be a friend of Louise’s. Dr. Dimatto. The really normal, upstanding Dr. D. And she’s shook, Dallas. Her hands are trembling.”
“Hell. We give her ten minutes.” She checked her wrist unit, and as a buffer set it to signal i
n ten. “Bring her in.”
Eve sat, brooded. This is what happened when you went and made friends. They had to go out and make friends, and then those friends somehow insinuated themselves into your life, or your work. Before you knew it you were hip-deep in people.
And half of them were crazy.
All right, she amended. Not all psychics were crazy or scamming. Some of them—a very few some of them—were legit. She was well aware that law enforcement sometimes used sensitives to good effect.
But she didn’t use them. She believed in doing the job through investigative procedure, technological processes, evidentiary study, deduction. Then you tossed in instinct, luck, and some ass-kicking.
That worked just fine for her.
She went for coffee now.
She turned from the AutoChef, cup in hand as the woman came to the door with Peabody.
She looked normal. Her hair was long, waving past her shoulders in a perfectly normal shade of brown. A dark and glossy brown that looked as if it might have been the one God opted for when he put her together. Her skin was dusky and smooth, her eyes a clear and pale green that showed nerves, but seemed sane, as they met Eve’s directly.
The face was strong and sexy with one of those lush mouths and a thin, aquiline nose. Mexican or Spanish blood, Eve assumed. Ancestors who’d baked in the heat and strummed guitars. Exotic.
Eve put her in the middle thirties. Judged her to be about five six, with a toned, disciplined build.
She wore casual and well-cut pants with a long shirt, both the color of summer poppies, a couple of rings with deeply colored stones, and dangles at her ears—slim drops of gold.
“Lieutenant Dallas. This is Celina Sanchez.”
“Okay, Ms. Sanchez, have a seat. I’m pressed for time, so why don’t we get right to it.”
“All right.” She sat, folded her hands tightly together on her lap. She breathed in and out once. “He took her eyes.”
Chapter 3
“Well, now that I’ve got your attention . . .” Celina unhooked her fingers to press two to her right temple, as if to compress a pain. “Could I have some of that coffee?”
Eve stayed where she was, sipping her own. They hadn’t released the mutilation details to the media. But there were leaks, she knew. There were always leaks.
Her voice was shaky, and carried no accent. It was husky, a shade on the provocative side. “How did you get this information, Ms. Sanchez?”
“I saw it, and it’s not an image I enjoyed.”
“You saw the victim in Central Park?”
“Yes. But I wasn’t in the park. I was in my home. I’m here to explain it to you. I’d really appreciate the coffee.”
Eve sent Peabody a brief nod. “You knew Elisa Maplewood?”
“No. Before we go any further, I’ve never worked with the police. It’s not what I do and not something I aspire to.”
She used her hands when she talked, lifting them, gesturing in a manner that told Eve it was habitual. Then she gripped them together in her lap as if to hold them still.
“I don’t want to see what you see, Lieutenant. I don’t want to live with those images in my head. Primarily, I do private consultations and parties. I’m not a lunatic or a glory-seeker, though from what Louise has told me about you, I imagine you think I am.”
“How do you know Louise Dimatto?”
“We went to school together, and we’ve remained friendly since. Thanks.” She took the cup of coffee Peabody handed her. “You’re more open to extra-normal areas, Detective. Do you have sensitives in your family?”
“Ah, I—”
“Let’s keep this about you,” Eve interrupted.
“All right.” Celina sampled the coffee, and smiled for the first time since she’d come into the room. “This is wonderful, and I can tell you, frankly, I need the jolt. I had a dream.”
“Uh-huh.”
Celina’s smile only widened. “The snarkiness settles me down. Who knew? Louise also said I’d like you, Lieutenant Dallas. Oddly enough, I think she’s probably right.”
“That’s real nice. Can we stay on line here?”
“Of course. In the dream I saw a woman. She was young, attractive, light brown hair, I think. Straight hair, just brushing her shoulders. It looked light brown in the streetlights. She came out of a building, leading a little white dog on a leash. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. There was a doorman, and they exchanged a few words. I couldn’t hear; I was too far away.
“She crossed the street—wide street—with the little dog prancing in front of her. In the dream, my heart started pounding with fear. I wanted to shout at her to go back, to go back inside the building, but I couldn’t speak. I watched her take the dog into the park. She rubbed her arm, and I thought that she was thinking she should’ve tossed on a jacket. The nights are getting cooler. She’ll go back for a jacket, and maybe it’ll be all right. But she didn’t.”
Celina’s hands trembled again as she lifted the cup to her lips. “She kept walking, with the dog pulling on the leash. The shadow fell over her, but she didn’t see, she didn’t know. He came at her from behind. I couldn’t see him, just shadows. He’d been waiting, watching, as I’d been watching. Oh, I could feel his excitement, the madness of it, just as I could feel her fear. His was red, dark, vicious red, and hers silver. Red shadows, silver light.”
The cup rattled as she set it aside. “This isn’t what I do. This isn’t what I want.”
“You’re here. Finish it.”
She’d lost all color, and her pale eyes were glassy. “He hit her, and the little dog ran away when he kicked at it. She tried to fight, but he was very strong. He hit her in the face, knocked her down. She tried to scream, but he kept hitting her. He kept . . .”
Her breathing went shallow as she rubbed a hand over her heart. “He kicked her and hit her, and he dragged her deeper into the shadows. She lost a shoe. He wrapped a ribbon, a cord, around her neck. Red for power. Red for death. Tight. She fought for air, she fought him, but he was too strong. He tore at her clothes. Bitch, whore, cunt. Hating her, hating her, he raped her. Tightened the cord, tighter and tighter until she was still. Until she was dead.”
Tears tracked down Celina’s cheeks. Her hands were back in her lap now, twisted together like wires. “He’d shown her what she was good for. Shown her who was in charge. But he wasn’t done. He picked up her clothes, put them in a small bag. And he carried it, and her, deeper into the park. He’s strong, very strong. He takes care of himself. Who’s more important, after all?”
Her breath continued to hitch and jump. Her eyes stared.
“There’s a castle, a castle on a lake. He’s king of the castle. He’s king of everything. He slings her over his shoulder, climbs down the rocks. And he lays her out, very carefully. She’ll like it there. Maybe this time she’ll stay.”
Staring, Celina lifted her joined hands, pressed them between her breasts. “Rest in peace, whore. And he cuts out her eyes. God, God, he cuts out her eyes and puts them in a little pouch, and the pouch into the bag. There’s blood running down her face. Blood on his hands. And he, he leans down and kisses her. I woke up, I woke up from the dream with the chill of that bloody mouth on mine.”
Eve’s wrist unit beeped, and had Celina jolting.
“What did you do?” Eve asked her.
“What did I . . . Well, after I finished shaking, I took a tranq. I told myself it was a nightmare. I know better, but I wanted it to be a nightmare, not a vision. My gift has never taken me anywhere so dark, and I was afraid. I took a tranq and used it to block it out. Cowardly, but I don’t claim to be brave. I don’t want to be brave, not about something like this.”
She picked up her coffee again. “But this morning, I turned on the screen. I tend to avoid the news channels, but I was compelled to check. I had to know. And I saw the report. They ran her picture—the pretty woman with the light brown hair. They said her name. I didn’t want to come here. Most of t
he police are born skeptics. It’s why you are what you are. But I had to come.”
“You say you saw—in this vision—the victim. But you didn’t see her attacker?”
“I saw . . . his essence, you could say. I saw a form.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It frightened me, more than I’ve ever been frightened in my life. And, frankly, I wasn’t going to come here. I was going to try to put it away. Knowing that about myself made me feel small and ugly.”
She lifted a hand, toyed with a chain around her neck. Her nails were painted a deep and shiny red, with the half moons picked out in vibrant white. “So I came to you, because Louise has spoken of you. And I’ll try to help.”
“How do you intend to help?”
“I might see more if I had something of his, something he’d touched. I don’t know.” A flicker of irritation ran over her face. “This isn’t my field. It’s new ground for me, and you’re not making this any easier.”
“It’s not my job to make it easy, Ms. Sanchez. It’s my job to investigate.”
“Well then, investigate me all you want,” she shot out. “I can only tell you what I know. I know the man who did this is big, or thinks of himself that way. I know he’s strong. Very strong. I know he’s mad. And I know this woman, Elisa Maplewood, wasn’t his first. He’s done it before. He doesn’t intend for her to be his last.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you so that you’d understand.” She leaned forward now, urgently. “It’s what I felt from him. He hated her, and the hatred thrills and frightens him. Hate and fear, hate and fear. Those are paramount. He’s hated all of them, and feared all of them. I don’t know why I saw her, saw him. Maybe she and I were connected in some other life, or will be in one to come. But I’m afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been, that I’m connected, somehow, to him. I need to help you stop him because I think I’ll go mad myself if I don’t.”
“And your fee?”