by J. D. Robb
The computer gave a cheerful little beep, then a long grinding buzz. The screen flickered.
“Don’t you start on me. First my vehicle, now this. Don’t you even start.”
ACKNOWLEDGED. OPERATIONS SHUTTING DOWN.
“No! Damn it, you bitch, you son of a bitching bastard whore, you know that’s not what I meant.” She smacked it again, set her teeth, and repeated the start-up process.
After a series of mechanical hiccups, it hummed.
“That’s better. Okay. Open case file 39921-SH. Maplewood.”
ACKNOWLEDGED.
What flashed on-screen wasn’t a case file. It wasn’t police business unless the various naked couples writhing in athletic and impressive positions were a bunch of Vice cops undercover at an orgy.
WELCOME TO FANTA-CEE! YOUR VIRTUAL GARDEN OF SEXUAL PLEASURE. YOU MUST BE TWENTY-ONE TO ENTER. YOUR DEBIT ACCOUNT WILL BE CHARGED AT THE RATE OF TEN DOLLARS PER MINUTE DURING YOUR ONE-WEEK TRIAL MEMBERSHIP.
“Mother of God. Computer, close and delete current area.”
INCOMPLETE COMMAND.
“Like hell. Close this file.”
ACKNOWLEDGED.
The cavorting figures disappeared.
“Now you listen to me. This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I own you. I want case file 39921-SH, and I want it now.”
The screen jumped, filled with text. In what was possibly Italian.
The sound Eve made was somewhere between a scream and a bellow. She rapped the machine with her hand, punched it with her fist, and considered just ripping it out of the network and tossing it out her window.
Maybe, just maybe if her luck was in, there’d be a Maintenance guy strolling by under it. Two birds, one stone.
As satisfying as that would be, she calculated she could expect a replacement unit sometime near the end of the current century.
She swung to her ’link, intending to contact Maintenance and ream whoever was unfortunate enough to answer.
“And where will that get you, Dallas?” she asked herself. “Those puss-faced jerks in Maintenance, they live for moments like this. They’ll sit around down there and laugh and laugh until you’re forced to go down and kill every last one of them and spend the rest of your life in a cage.”
She punched the computer again, just for the hell of it. And, inspired, tried another angle.
“EDD. McNab. Hey, Dallas!”
Peabody’s main squeeze grinned at her from her ’link screen. His narrow, pretty face was surrounded by bright blond hair that sported a couple of skinny temple braids.
“I was just about to shoot you the report on the e-work.”
“Don’t bother. My unit’s funky. It’s giving me grief, McNab. How about doing me a favor and taking a look at it?”
“You call Maintenance?”
When she merely growled, he gave a heh-heh-heh sort of laugh.
“Delete that. I can give you thirty in about fifteen.”
“Good.”
“Or if you officially requested I report to your office at once, to bring you a disc and hard copy of the e-work, I could come now.”
“Consider yourself officially requested.”
“Allying op.”
“What?” But he’d already broken transmission.
Annoyed, she dug out her pocket unit and set to work trying to transfer the data she wanted from the desk unit to the PPC. She wasn’t an e-geek, but she wasn’t stupid, she told herself. She knew how to handle basic tech.
She was pulling her hair when McNab bopped in. He was wearing a purple shirt with a green placket down the center. It reached the thighs of baggy green pants with purple racing stripes. Both colors were picked up in his checked airsneaks.
“E-Man to the rescue,” he announced. Today’s complement of silver ear hoops dangled with purple and green beads. “What seems to be the problem?”
“If I knew the problem, I’d have fixed it myself.”
“Right.” He dumped a little silver toolbox on her desk, plopped into her chair. Rubbed his hands together. “Wow. Chocolate.” He widened his grin, wiggled his brows.
“Shit. Go ahead. Consider it payment in advance.”
“Uptown!”
“What?”
“Uptown.” He bit into the candy. “You know, like . . . excellent. Let’s have a look. I’ll just open it for a standard diagnostic.”
He gave a series of commands that might as well have been in Venutian to Eve’s ears. A lot of codes and symbols and strange little shapes spilled on-screen, and the computer’s voice responded in a kind of gasping croak.
“See! See!” Eve sprang to lean over McNab’s shoulder. “That’s not right, is it? That’s not good.”
“Well, hmm. Just let me—”
“It’s sabotage, isn’t it?”
“You expecting sabotage?”
“You don’t expect sabotage. That’s why it’s sabotage.”
“There’s a point. I need to look around some. Why don’t you, ah, take a break maybe.”
“You want me to leave my own office?”
He gave her a pained look. “Lieutenant.”
“Okay, okay.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’ll be in the bull pen.”
She heard his long, relieved sigh as she strode out.
She marched straight to Peabody’s desk.
“Comp woes?” Peabody asked. “McNab stopped by for a second on his way in to you.”
“They sabotaged it.”
“Who are they?”
“If I knew who they were, I’d hunt them down and peel the skin off their bones while they begged for mercy.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, so I got a hold of Deann Vanderlea. Somebody found the puppy.”
“Huh. The dog?”
“Yeah, Mignon. She was nearly on the other side of the park, and a couple joggers found her, checked her collar ID. They brought her back.”
“Was it injured?”
“No, just scared. Having the pup back will give them a little comfort. Anyway, she and her husband and the vic all used Total Health Fitness and Beauty for workouts and such, by the way. Not the kind of spot we’re looking for as regards the killer’s habits.”
“It was good to check.”
“She doesn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious around the neighborhood. Doesn’t recall noticing a big guy at any point, but she’s going to ask her husband and some of her neighbors. The doorman.”
“We’ll canvass again anyway.”
“Yeah. Father’s out of the picture. Alibied by a couple thousand miles, and he doesn’t fit the physical type we’re after.”
“He’d have been too easy. How about my vehicle?”
“I’ve got a line on that. Give me a little time.”
“Everybody wants time today. Let’s do a search on the health clubs. Manhattan-based to start.”
Eve watched with some irritation as Peabody’s unit responded smoothly to her commands.
“How come the detectives and uniforms in this division have better equipment than I do? I’m the boss.”
“You know, there’s a theory that some people have a kind of mechanical . . .” The term deficiency sprang to Peabody’s mind, but she was too concerned with her own health and safety to speak it. “Like an infection or something. And it affects the machines they operate.”
“That’s bullshit. I don’t have any trouble with my home equipment.”
“Just a theory,” Peabody said, and hunched her shoulders. “Do you have to lurk there while this is running?”
“I have to lurk somewhere.” Disgusted, Eve strode out. She’d get a tube of Pepsi, that’s what she’d do. She’d cool off with a drink, then go back and hassle McNab.
She wanted to sit in her own damn office and do her own damn job. Was that too much to ask?
She approached a vending machine, then just stood there, staring at it resentfully. It would probably spit the Pepsi all over her, or send her some health drink just for spite.
&
nbsp; “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.”