by J. D. Robb
“A personal message to the killer. Off-record here, Nadine.”
“Tell me how he mutilated her. Off-record, Dallas. It’s driving me crazy.”
“He cut out her eyes.”
“Jesus.” Nadine breathed in, stared off into the trees. “Oh, Jesus. Was she already dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God for that. So you’ve got some psychotic out there who has a big hate on for women? Not Maplewood specifically.”
“That’s my working theory.”
“And the reason you suggested the interview. Us three girls. Clever of you.”
“Tell me what you know about Breen Merriweather.”
“Breen?” Nadine’s head snapped around. “Oh God, oh God, did you find her?” She gripped Eve’s arm now. “Is she dead? Did this bastard kill her, too?”
“No, she hasn’t been found. I don’t know if she’s dead, but I suspect she is, and I believe it might be connected. What do you know about her?”
“I know she was a nice, hardworking woman who adored her son . . . Jesus, is he targeting single mothers?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Let me take a second.” She walked a few feet away, hugged her arms. “We weren’t best pals or anything like that. More a working friendship. I liked her, and appreciated her efficiency. I saw her, evening shift, the night she disappeared. I left the station about seven. I know she was on till midnight, handling the eleven o’clock. Everything I’ve heard is second-hand, but it’s reliable.”
She turned back. “She clocked out, left the station just after her shift ended. She would have taken the subway home, that’s what she always did. It’s just three blocks east. One of the guys saw her heading out, yelled good night. She waved to him. As far as I know he’s the last one in the station who saw her. He said she was walking east, toward the subway.”
“Did she do crafts?”
“Crafts?”
“You know what crafts are, Nadine.”
Interest, keen, replaced the sorrow. “As a matter of fact, she did. She did a lot of handwork, always had a bag of supplies with her, and some project going. She used to work on it during breaks or wait time. Is that the connection?”
“It’s looking that way. You know any big, bodybuilder-type guys? Anybody like that at 75?”
“We’re desk jockeys and faces.” She shook her head. “We on-air types work out, body-sculpt, whatever it takes to keep trim, but the public doesn’t want their news and entertainment from big bruisers. We got some burly techs, and some overweight drones, but none of them would qualify as bodybuilders. Is that your line on him?”
“Another working theory.”
“I need a full interview when this is wrapped, Dallas. If Breen was part of this thing, I need to do a full interview with you and Peabody for the station. She was one of ours.”
“You’d want one anyway.”
“I would.” Nadine smiled a little. “But if this hits home, I need it. Fuck objectivity. It’s personal.”
“I hear that.”
To save time, Eve requested Breen Merriweather’s childcare provider meet them at Breen’s apartment. Eve used her master to gain access, and stepped into a small, cheerful set of rooms with air stale from disuse.
“Her family’s paying the rent.” Annalou Harbor, the sixtyish provider, looked around the apartment with sad eyes. “I still come in once a week, water her plants. Aired it out a couple times, but . . . I live upstairs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Her husband took Jesse, her little boy. I miss that baby. Such a sweetie.” She gestured to a framed photo that showed a grinning little boy in a sideways ball cap. “Breen would never have left him. Not while there was breath in her body. So I know there isn’t. I know she’s dead. That’s why you’re here. You’re Homicide. I recognize you. I’ve seen you on-screen.”
“We don’t know, Mrs. Harbor. But we’re pursuing—”
“Don’t pad it for me, Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was firm, and just a little prim. “I’m not a gossip, and I’m not looking for some sort of twisted excitement. I loved that girl like she was my own, and I can help you more if you don’t try to dance around it.”
“We believe it’s highly possible that she’s dead, Mrs. Harbor, and that her death may be connected with another case we’re investigating.”
“The murder in Central Park, the rape-murder. I keep up.” She pressed her lips together until they turned white, but she didn’t crumble. “What can I do to help you?”
“Where does Ms. Merriweather keep her craft supplies?”
“In here.” She led the way into a tiny room equipped with two counters, several hand-painted cabinets, and the machines Eve was now accustomed to seeing in such places.
“See, she set it up as an activity room, for her and Jesse. His toys and games over there, her supplies here. That way they could be together when they had leisure time. Breen liked making things. She knit me a beautiful throw last Christmas.”
Eve opened cupboards while Peabody tackled communications and data. There were several samples of the corded ribbon.
“I got hits on Total Crafts, and a couple of the others on the list,” Peabody announced.
“Mrs. Harbor, we’re going to need to take her ’links and computer, and some other items into evidence. Can you give me the contact number for her next of kin?”
“Take what you need. Her mother told me to cooperate with the police in any and every way. I’ll get in touch with her.”
“My partner will give you a receipt.”
“All right. It’ll be easier for them, for all of us, to know.” She looked around the room, and though her lips trembled once, she firmed them. “However bad it is, it’ll be easier to know for certain.”
“Yes, ma’am, it will. I realize the other detectives interviewed you, but I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“That’s fine. Can we sit down? I’d like to sit down.”
“It’s hard to think,” Peabody began when they were back in the car, “that if these three women are linked, that nobody connected to them saw this guy. If he’s the physical description we believe, you wouldn’t see him blending.”
“He’s careful.”
“Are we going to try another push with Celina?”
“Not yet. I need think time.”
She settled down to it in her office, her feet on her desk, her head back. She visualized the pattern. He wouldn’t have expected them to recognize the pattern so quickly, because he wouldn’t have expected the police to link the murder with the disappearances.
But if—when—he killed again, he’d know they’d see the connections between victims. It didn’t worry him.
Why?
The murder weapon was available at the shops the murder victim, and the suspected victims, had frequented. It wouldn’t take much longer for the exact location to be identified. Did he think, because it was a fairly common item, the cops couldn’t nail the source through basic lab work? Possibly.
But even so, he’d have to believe the investigation would include the point of purchase. Even if someone else had bought the ribbon, he’d been inside or within sight of the store or stores in order to select his victim.
But he wasn’t worried about it any more than it seemed he’d worried about being seen or caught assaulting Elisa in a public park.
Because, like many psychopaths, he believed he was invulnerable? That he wouldn’t be caught, or because a part of him was begging to be caught?
Stop me. Find me, catch me.
Either way, wasn’t he enjoying the risk factor? Wasn’t he aroused by the chances he took?
Arousal: in the selection, in the trolling, in the stalking. All that anticipation building.
Gratification: physical violence, sexual violence, murder committed with an item considered more traditionally female, then left on the victim like a decoration.
Enjoyment: possessing the strength to overp
ower and control and kill. And more, the strength to bear the weight of the dead, more than the average man could manage.
Final satisfaction: removal of the eyes. Owning the eyes, Eve thought. Arranging the body in a specifically chosen manner and location.
He’d be back to the arousal stage again. If not now, soon.
She swung her legs off, wrote up her daily, then gathered what she needed for an evening session at home.
She went out to Peabody’s desk. “I’m hitting some of the gyms, working my way uptown toward home. If you’re with me, you’ll have to get yourself back downtown when we call it a day.”
“I’m not missing a chance to ogle and interrogate big, sweaty guys. I might cut out at six, though, unless we’ve got something. McNab and I have a packing date tonight.”
“A packing date?”
“Yeah, we’ve got to get some serious packing done at my place. We’ll be moving into our place in a few days. Our place.” She patted her belly. “Still gives me a little bit of the jitters.”
“You can’t imagine what it gives me,” Eve said, and walked away when Peabody snorted.
Chapter 9
They spent a couple of hours talking to men with big pecs and tree-trunk legs in workout facilities that carved out the frills and concentrated on the testosterone.
Peabody’s main complaint was that a large percentage of the members seemed to be more interested in ogling themselves or each other rather than a certain police detective.
It was a fishing expedition, Eve thought as she swung toward home. And she didn’t feel any appreciable tugs on her line. Yet.
She’d start running names, that’s all. The few hundred of them she’d compiled from membership and subscription lists. See if she got any pops on sex crimes. He hadn’t started down his current path yesterday.
He’d be single, so that would eliminate more. He wasn’t gay, or hadn’t recognized himself as such. He didn’t work nights; that’s when he killed.
No human hair recovered on the victim or from the murder or dump sites. Had he sealed that up thoroughly, or did he—like some of the obsessive body guys she’d seen today—regularly remove his head and body hair?
She could almost, almost, get a picture of him in her head.
Trying to define it, she turned toward the gates of home. Then was forced to stomp on the brakes when they remained shut.
“Summerset, you prick.”
She lowered the window, barked into the intercom. “Open the damn gates, you rat-faced, pointy-assed—”
“One moment, please. Your voice print is being identified.”
“I’ll give you my voice print. I’ll give you my voice print all over your—”
She broke off again, hissing as the gates slid open. “Thinks he’s got a new trick up his sleeve to bust my chops. Thinks he’s going to keep me stewing outside the gates now while he runs his little game. If he had balls, I’d kick them into his throat.”
She slammed out of the car, jogged up the steps, and burst into the house ready to rumble.
“If you wish automated entry, Lieutenant,” Summerset said before she could spew, “you’ll need to inform us when you intend to arrive in a strange vehicle. One not yet scanned and cleared for security. Otherwise, as you know, you’re required to announce yourself so the system can read and verify your voice identification or access codes.”
Shit. He had her there.
“It’s not a strange vehicle. It’s my vehicle.”
He gave her his sour smile. “Come up in the world, have we?”
“Just blow me.” Annoyed at the missed opportunity to pound on him, she started up the stairs.
“You have guests. Roarke is entertaining Mavis and Leonardo on the west terrace, first level. I’m about to serve canapés.”
“Goodie.” But since the half candy bar was now a far, fond memory, she could admit, privately, that anything involving food sounded fine to her.
She wound her way through the house, and found everyone sipping drinks. Not exactly, she corrected. Mavis was gesturing with her glass as she bubbled, more frothy than the lemon fizz in her hand.
She stood on the patio in a pair of shimmering green boots that ran up to her knees like a thin coat of paint, where they met equally tight pants in red, no blue, no red.
Eve narrowed her eyes as the pants changed hues every time Mavis wiggled, which was always. The shimmering green top floated down to her hips, where a lot of beads dangled.
Her hair was red today and, to Eve’s relief stayed that way, even when she danced in place. She’d left it down so it trailed along her butt, with the ends picking up that same shimmering green, as if they’d been dipped in paint.
The two men watched her, Roarke with a bemused and affectionate smile, and Leonardo with open adoration.
Roarke shifted his gaze, winked at Eve.
Rather than interrupt, Eve crossed over to where a wine bottle and glasses were set up. She poured herself a drink, then crossed the patio to sit on the arm of Roarke’s chair.
“Dallas!” Mavis threw out her arms, and somehow didn’t spill a single fizzing drop. “Did you just get here?”
“Just.”
“I didn’t know if we’d get to see you. But we wanted to come by so I could give Summerset a smoochie.”
“Please, you’re going to make me sick.”
Mavis only laughed. “Then Roarke came in right behind us, so we’re having a little hang. We’re getting snacks.”
Her eyes, green to go with the shimmer, danced.
“So I hear.” Eve leaned around Roarke. “How’s it going?” she asked Leonardo.
“Couldn’t be better.” He beamed at Mavis. He was a giant of a man, with skin of coppery gold. A wide face with dark eyes that were currently accented with a sweeping line of silver studs at each corner.
He wore boots as well, pale blue that rode up his calves. There his loose sapphire pants sort of poofed into them, reminding Eve of pictures she’d seen of—she thought—Arabia.
“Oh, boy, here’s food!” Mavis made the dash over as Summerset rolled out a two-tiered trolley, laden with trays of fancy appetizers and sweets. “Summerset, if it wasn’t for Leonardo, I’d scoop you right up and make you my love slave.”
He smiled, a wide, toothy smile. Fearing nightmares, Eve turned away and stared into her wine.
“I believe I have several of your favorites here. You’re eating for two.”
“Tell me! I’m like an oinker every five minutes. Oooh, that’s the salmon thingy with the stuff! This is just mag.”
She popped it into her mouth. “I just love eating.”
“You sit down now, honeypot.” Leonardo walked over, rubbed her shoulder. “I’m going to fix you a plate.”
“Cuddle bear,” she cooed. “He totally spoils me. This pregs business is the top deal of the day. You gotta look.”
Even as Mavis reached for the hem of her shirt, Eve was curling into herself and wincing. “Oh, Mavis, I don’t . . . oh well.”
There was the belly, in all its glory and accented by an interlinking trio of belly-button rings.
“Now check this.” Still holding the shirt up, Mavis turned to the side. “See? It’s poking. I know I said it was poking before. You know like five seconds after I found out I was knocked up, but now it completely is.”
Eve tilted her head, pursed her lips. There was a little bit of a slope in that area. “Are you pushing it out?”
“No. Feel.”
Eve wasn’t quite quick enough to whip her hand behind her back. “I don’t wanna. Don’t make me touch it again.”
“You can’t hurt it.” She pressed Eve’s hand to her belly. “Solid baby.”
“That’s good, Mavis.” Her palm was going to go damp any second. “Really good. You’re feeling okay?”
“At the summit. Everything is totally uptown.”
“You look beautiful,” Roarke told her. “And cliché or not, you glow.”
“I
feel like I’m sending off waves.” She laughed and bounced to a chair. “I still get the weepies sometimes, but they’re happy weepies mostly. Like Leonardo and I were talking a couple days ago about how Peabody and McNab are moving into the building soon, and we’re going to be neighbors, at least until we get a bigger place, and I just flooded.”
She took the plate Leonardo brought her and cuddled up with him on the padded love seat. “So what do you think they want for, like, a housewarming?”
“Don’t they have regulation temp control?”
“Jeez, Dallas.” With a giggle, Mavis popped something else in her mouth. “Housewarming. You know, where people move into a new place and you get them a gift.”
“Hold on. You have to give them a gift for moving?”
“Uh-huh. Plus they’re shacking, so it should be a couple thing.” She ate another canapé, fed one to Leonardo.
“Why does there have to be a gift for every damn thing?” Eve complained.
“Retail conspiracy.” Roarke patted her knee.
“I bet it is,” Eve said darkly. “I just bet it is.”
“Anyway.” Mavis waved it all away. “We really came by—and we’re all pumped that you’re both here—because we wanted to talk to you about the baby.”
“Mavis, since you got pregnant, when haven’t you wanted to talk about the baby?” Eve leaned over, took a canapé from her plate. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Yeah, but this is a specific thing, that involves you.”
“Me?” Eve licked her thumb and decided to steal another loaded cracker from Mavis’s plate.
“Uh-huh. We want you to be my backup coach.”
“You’re taking up baseball?” Eve bit into the salmon thingy with the stuff, and decided it wasn’t half bad. “Shouldn’t you wait until you get the kid out of there?”
“No. Labor and delivery coach. You’d back up Leonardo when I have the baby.”
Eve choked on the canapé and turned white.
“Take a drink, darling,” Roarke said with a laugh in his voice. “Put your head between your knees if you feel dizzy.”
“Shut up. Are you talking about . . . like, being there? In the actual place at the actual time? In the same room as . . . it.”