The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  “What?”

  Morris chuckled, waved a hand in front of his face. “Joke. He was beside the bed, on the floor.”

  “Signs of disturbance, forced entry?”

  “None.”

  “He live alone?”

  “He did, indeed.”

  “Looks like he stroked out, had a big-ass brain pop.” Since Morris was sealed up, she gestured. “Open his mouth for me, peel the lips.”

  Morris obliged, shifted aside so she could lean in. “But I’d talk to the domestic and find out if he or she’s the one who gave dead guy the laced nightcap that popped his brain. Reddish splotches on the gums and under the lips indicate he downed, and probably OD’d on, an illegal. Booster, or a derivative, would be my guess before tox eval. Guy was going to self-terminate for any reason, he’d have finished putting his pajamas on and gotten into bed nice and comfy first. So means are foul. Where’s Sommers?”

  “I don’t know why they bother to keep me around here.” But he was grinning as he slid the brain into a tray for scan and analysis. “I expect the tox eval will verify both our suspicions shortly. Sommers is done, and in a cold box. Her family and boyfriend came in together this morning. I was able to block them from seeing her, though it wasn’t easy. I had to use official grounds.”

  “The eyes aren’t public yet, and I don’t want them to be, not even to next of kin. Even family and lovers can leak to the media. More so if they’re grieving or pissed. No access outside of need-to-know to any of the vics in this investigation.”

  “You want to see her again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me clean up a bit. Our gentleman friend will hold.”

  He went to the sink to scrub blood, matter, and sealant from his hands. “Her body was more traumatized than the others.”

  “Violence is escalating. I know.”

  “So is his pace.” Morris dried his hands, then removed his protective gear, dumping it in a hamper.

  “We’re closer. Every minute, we’re closer.”

  “I have no doubt. Well.” He stepped over in his pristine blue shirt and red necktie, offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  She laughed, as only he could make her in the company of the dead. “Jesus, Morris, you’re some number.”

  “I am, indeed, I am.” He led her to storage, checked the logs, then opened the seal on one of the drawers. The puff of cold vapor steamed out as he drew out the body tray.

  Ignoring the marks of Morris’s work, Eve studied the body. “Face took more of a beating this time. Face and upper body. Maybe he’s straddling her.” She put it into her head. “Straddling her while he pounds on her.”

  “Her jaw wasn’t broken, as with Napier, but her nose was, and several teeth. The blow to the back of the head wasn’t fatal. She may or may not have come around for the rest of it. My guess is not, mercifully.”

  “The rape. More brutal this time.”

  “If there can be degrees of brutality in rape, yes. More abrasions, more trauma. She was a bit small, vaginally. Smaller, that is, than the other two victims in this particular area. And our killer sports one hell of a woody.”

  “The eyes. Surer cuts than the first, not quite as clean as the second.”

  “You’re very good at what you do, and again cause me some concern about my own paycheck. Yes. They’re all three within a range of skill, but this one falls between the others.”

  “Okay.” She stepped back so he could replace the tray, seal the door.

  “How close, Dallas? It’s beginning to depress me, hosting all these pretty young women in my house.”

  “It’s not close enough,” Eve said flatly, “until he’s in a cage.”

  Chapter 17

  Dickie, less affectionately known as Dickhead, Berenski was sitting at a long white counter in the lab, apparently compiling or assessing data on a screen.

  When Eve came up behind him she saw the data consisted of a role-playing game involving a bevy of scantily clad, stupendously endowed women battling each other with swords.

  “Hard at work, I see.”

  In response, he waved a hand in front of the screen. The battling beauties laid down weapons, bowed low enough to show considerable cleavage before calling out: “At your pleasure, my lord.”

  “Jesus, Berenski, are you twelve?”

  “Hey, maybe the program’s evidence from a crime scene.”

  “Yeah, one where several adolescent boys masturbated to death. You may not be on the clock, but I am.”

  “Ten minutes recreational. Got you the shoe, didn’t I?”

  He had, and she told herself to remember that and not crush his egg-shaped head between her hands. “Annalisa Sommers. Hair anal.”

  “Work, work, work.” He swiveled around on his stool. “Gave that to Harvo, my best hair guy. She’s a fricking genius, even if she won’t put out.”

  “I like her already. Where is she?”

  He pointed one long, skinny finger toward the right. “That way, then left. Redhead. Hasn’t sent me a report yet, so she’s not done.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  Peabody let Eve get a few strides away, and kept her voice low. “That program come with male characters?”

  Dickhead grinned. “Oh yeah.”

  “Ice.”

  Eve made her way into one of the glass-walled analysis rooms and saw the redhead. “Harvo?”

  “That’d be me.” She looked up from her work, studied Eve with eyes the color of spring grass.

  Eve figured Harvo was the whitest white woman she’d ever seen still breathing. Her skin was the color of milk powder against those bright green eyes and the thin slash of mouth dyed the same screaming red as her hair.

  She wore the hair in a tuft, maybe three inches high and straight up from the crown of her head. She wore a baggy black tunic in lieu of a lab coat.

  “Dallas, right?” Her nails were short, and painted in thin, diagonal stripes of black and red.

  “That’d be me.”

  “Peabody, Detective.”

  Harvo nodded at both of them, gestured them in. “Harvo, Ursa, Queen of Hair.”

  “What have you got for me, Your Majesty?”

  Harvo snickered, scooted a bit to the left on her stool. “Hairlike trace recovered from vic and surrounding scene,” she began. Strands of it were secured in a clear, disc seal on the work counter. Harvo popped it in the comp slot, brought its magnified image on screen.

  “Hairlike?”

  “Yeah, see, it’s not human hair or animal hair. Dickhead bounced it to me because when he eyeballed it, he made it as man-made fiber. Guy’s freaking brilliant. Too bad he’s a complete ass-wipe.”

  “Hear me loudly not disagreeing.”

  Harvo chuckled again. “I also serve as Fiber Princess. What you got here . . .” She revolved the image, increased magnification. “Is manufactured.”

  “As in rug?” Eve tugged her own hair.

  “Not so much. Not likely to find this in hair enhancements or replacements. This is more fur than hair. Something you’d find on a toy—stuffed animal, droid pet. It’s coated, meeting federal flame retardant standards and child safety laws.”

  “A toy?”

  “Yep. Now, we analyze the makeup, the dye, the . . .” She glanced up at Eve as text and shapes began to flash on her screen. “You want the process and deets?”

  “No, though I’m sure they’re endlessly fascinating. Bottom-line it.”

  “Gotcha. Through my amazing, almost mystical powers, I’ve made the manufacturer of the fiber, and its various uses for it with this particular gray dye. Droid pet, feline, common tabby. They do kittens, young cats, full-grown, even your aged family mouser. Manufacturer is Petco. I can hunt up retail outlets if you want.”

  “We’ll take it from here. Fast work, Harvo.”

  “I am also Goddess of Speed and Efficiency. Oh, and Dallas, fibers were clean. No skin oils, no detergents, no soil. I’d say this little kitty was new.”
/>   “Thoughts, Detective?”

  “How do you think Harvo gets her hair to stand up like that? It’s really jazzed. But that’s not what you meant.”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “Someone could’ve given Sommers the droid. We’ll need to check with the friends she had dinner with after the play. It’s also possible somebody lost the thing in the park before Sommers came along, and she saw it, picked it up. Not so easy to check that out. If we crap out with the friends, we start checking the retail outlets for purchases, and try to match any with the lists EDD is already running on the chance the kitty cat was his.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Start running with that,” Eve said as they started back to Central. “I need to check with Feeney on EDD’s progress, then get to Mira’s for the you’re-beginning-to-feel-sleepy hour.”

  “You think he’ll hit again tonight?”

  “I think if we don’t lock some names in, if Celina doesn’t have a breakthrough, and women don’t stay the hell out of the parks in the middle of the damn night, Morris is going to be hosting another guest real soon.”

  On her way up to Feeney, she snagged a drone from Illegals and had him pump her out a tube of Pepsi from vending. She thought her new method was working out well. The machines didn’t balk, and she wasn’t tempted to beat them into rubble.

  A good deal all around.

  She spotted McNab doing the standard EDD pace, dance, chatter when she swung in. He saw her and pranced in her direction. “Hold program,” he said, and tipped down his headset. “Hey, Lieutenant. Where’s your curvaceous partner?”

  “If you refer to Detective Peabody, she’s working. Most of us do.”

  “Just wondering if you’re figuring to split end of duty. We’re hoping to finish up with pack-it-up mode tonight and start the haul-it-over mode tomorrow.”

  He looked so damn happy, she couldn’t work up any sarcasm. Any minute, she suspected the words would float visibly out of his mouth in the shape of little red hearts.

  Was it something in the air? Peabody and McNab, Charles and Louise, Mavis and Leonardo. It was like a smooch epidemic.

  Come to think of it, she and Roarke hadn’t had a single spat, skirmish, or spew in . . . well, days. “Can’t say when we’ll clock out. She’s tugging a couple lines right now, and after I talk to Feeney, we’ll have more, so . . . What?”

  He’d winced. Just a quick flicker, but she’d caught it.

  “Nothing. No thing. Man, I gotta get back to this or my ass’ll be in the flames. Continue program.”

  He pranced off, double-time.

  “Shit.” Eve muttered to herself, and made a beeline for Feeney’s office.

  Feeney had a headset, and was also running two comps simultaneously, biting out orders, tapping screens or keys in a method she supposed she’d have admired if she understood it. She thought he looked a little like one of those orchestra conductors, in charge, focused, and slightly mad.

  Today’s shirt was the color of egg substitute, but to Eve’s relief was showing some wrinkles and a little coffee stain bloomed between the third and fourth button.

  When she stepped into his line of sight, she caught the same flickering wince she’d seen on McNab’s face. She said, “Goddamn it.”

  “Pause all programs.” He pulled off the headset. “Doing another run, all data, but what I’m going to tell you isn’t going to make you happy.”

  “How can there not be matches?” She opened the soft-drink tube, violently.

  “We got a few—from residential to craft shop, from residential to gyms. But we get nothing on the shoe. None of the purchases of your shoe were made by names on the other lists.”

  She dropped into a chair, drummed her fingers on the arm. “What about the other matches?”

  “Got a couple residents—male, within age parameters, who made purchases at one of the craft shops within the last twelve months. Can’t put the red cord in their hands, but they’ve patronized the establishments. Got you a few more who use or have used the gyms. But we don’t get any dupes—no name or names that pop in both places, and none on record as purchasing the shoe.”

  “Well, he did it all. Ribbon, shoe, gym. I know it.”

  “Doesn’t mean he paid for the murder weapon or the shoes come to that. Guy who rapes and strangles and cuts out eyes isn’t going to blush over some shoplifting.”

  “Yeah, I’ve considered that. Could be on the murder weapon. Tougher sell on the shoes. Not a snap to slip a pair of shoes the size of airboards out of a store. Hell, he could’ve lifted them off a delivery van. He might drive a damn delivery van. Had to have transpo to take out Kates and Merriweather. Could’ve gotten the ribbon the same way.”

  “We can start looking at the delivery services and drivers.”

  “Yeah, Christ. I’ll start that. You still up for some fieldwork?”

  “Get me up from this desk? Sure.”

  She drank contemplatively. “We could split up the matches we’ve got. Have to check them out. Split them up, move faster through them.”

  “I can help you out in a couple hours. Got some things to finish up.”

  “Good. Peabody’s running something else. I’d want her with experience if she hits on our guy. She can handle herself, but it’d be better if she had somebody with her who’s clocked more field time. You partner with her for this?”

  “Sure. What about you?”

  “I’ll see if my personal expert consultant, civilian’s got some time. I’ve got a session with the psychic and the shrink. Depending on how it goes, I may have a little more data to input.”

  She pushed to her feet. “Feeney,” she said before she started out. “Why would anybody buy a droid cat?”

  “Litter box issue?”

  “Huh. That’s a point.”

  “I’m a little nervous.”

  Celina lay back in a sleep chair, with the lights dim and a whisper of music Eve thought sounded like water flowing into a pool.

  She’d left her hair loose and curling lavishly. Around her neck was a silver chain that dangled with several crystals in wand shapes. She wore a dress today, a long straight column in severe black that stopped inches above her ankles.

  Her hands gripped the arms of the chair.

  “Try to relax.” Mira moved around the chair, checking, Eve supposed, the subject’s vital and brain wave patterns.

  “I am. Really.”

  “We’re recording this, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve voluntarily agreed to undergo hypnosis.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve requested that Lieutenant Dallas be present during the session.”

  “Yes.” Celina smiled a little. “Thanks for making the time.”

  “It’s okay.” Eve ordered herself not to shift in her chair. She’d never witnessed a session, and wasn’t sure she was going to like it, even as an observer.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Celina breathed slowly, in and out. Her hand relaxed on the arms of the chair. “Yes. Surprisingly.”

  “I want you to continue to breathe, slow and deep. Picture the air coming inside you, soft and blue, expelling, clean and white.”

  Mira lifted a small screen, and Eve could see the silver star on a deep blue background. The star pulsed, gently, like a quiet heartbeat. “Look at the star. Your breath comes from the star, returns to it. The star is your center.”

  Uneasy, Eve looked away from the screen, pushed her thoughts back to the case to block out the soothing tone of Mira’s voice.

  She didn’t think you could get hypnotized by accident, but why risk it.

  Time drifted—the liquid music, Mira’s quiet voice, Celina’s deep breaths.

  When Eve risked a glance back, she saw the silver star now filled the screen, and that Celina’s gaze was riveted on it.

  “You’re floating toward the star now. It’s all you see, all there is to see. Close your eyes now, and see the star insi
de you. Let yourself float with it. You’re very relaxed, light as air. You’re absolutely safe. You can sleep now, and while you sleep you’ll hear my voice. You’ll be able to speak and respond. You’ll keep the star inside you, and know you’re safe. I’ll count, and when I reach ten, you’ll sleep.”

  As she counted, Mira set the screen aside, and once again moved around Celina to check her medicals.

  “Are you sleeping, Celina?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you comfortable?”

  “I am.”

  “You can hear my voice, and respond to my voice. Will you lift your left arm?”

  When she did, Mira nodded to Eve. “And lower it. You’re safe, Celina.”

  “Yes, I’m safe.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Celina Indiga Tereza Sanchez.”

  “Nothing can hurt you. Even when I take you back, when I ask you to see something difficult to see, to tell me something difficult to tell, you’re safe. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’m safe.”

  “Go back to the park, Celina. To Central Park. It’s night, a cool night, but comfortable. What do you see?”

  “Trees and grass and shadows, streetlights glowing through the leaves.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “Cars passing on the street. Music, a little music through an open window as one goes by. Neo-punk. It’s harsh. I don’t care for it. Footsteps. Someone’s crossing the street. I wish she wouldn’t come here.”

  “Do you see the woman? The woman coming toward you. She has a little dog on a leash.”

  “Yes. Yes, I see her. It’s a little white dog, silly little dog trotting along. She laughs at the dog.”

  “What does the woman look like?”

  “She’s pretty. A homey sort of pretty. She has brown hair, light brown hair, straight to her shoulders. Her eyes are . . . I can’t see the color, because it’s dark. They might be brown, too, but it’s too dark to tell. She’s white, and looks very fit and healthy. She looks happy as she walks the dog. She talks to the dog. ‘Just a quick walk tonight,’ she says. ‘You be a good doggy now.’ ”

  Her breath hitched, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “There’s someone there. There’s someone watching.”