by J. D. Robb
“People are often stupid,” Morris pointed out.
“They sure as hell are. Smart enough to get in there, slip right in the house during a dinner party for fifty with about a dozen staff. Unless he was a guest or staff. Vicious enough to beat and rape—made the wife strip, raped her in front of the husband—but not vicious enough to kill when the husband comes at him. Stupid or cocky enough to hang around for fifteen after—and he could have thought the guy was dead or dying—then finish him off. The way it looks, almost certainly took the time to cut the wife loose before he heads out.”
“He released the wife?”
“She’s got lacerations—she struggled against the restraints. Not as hard as the dead guy here, but she struggled. The shape she was in, I don’t see her getting loose on her own, and there was no rope or tape left behind. Killer bagged it up, took it with him. Had to.”
“Not only left her alive, but cut her loose. Can she identify him?”
“The devil, she says. She’s a mess, but I figure that’s how he looked. Mask or makeup. You go to that much trouble to disguise yourself, you probably don’t intend to kill the targets. But now he has.”
Eve studied Strazza again. “And they hardly ever stop at one.”
5
When she walked out, Eve saw Peabody walking toward her.
“I managed to contact all five of the delivery guys,” Peabody began. “One of them whined a little, but they’re all coming in. Two of them are roommates anyway.”
“Good, saves times and trouble.”
“I tagged Santiago and Carmichael for the party guests. So far, they’re all checking out—times they left, arrived home. Nobody noticed anyone out of place, or felt anything off.”
Peabody bundled back into her endless scarf as they swung into the car. “Olsen of Olsen and Tredway is on her way to Central now—just wants to talk it through. Tredway’s actually in Philadelphia for a family wedding weekend. He’ll be back tomorrow, and would come in today if you think it’s necessary.”
“It’s not. If we don’t beat Olsen to Central, I need ten to sort this out, take a quick look through the files. We’ll set her up in the lounge.”
She wanted to start her book, set up her board, but that could wait until they’d had their meeting with the detective. Still, she wanted another good look at the files on the other attacks.
“We take the delivery guys one at a time, in Interview. I want a consult with Mira first thing in the morning.”
“Already set. She’ll come to you.”
“Appreciate it.” Eve pulled into the garage at Central, zipped into her designated space. “Tag Nobel again, get an update on Daphne Strazza’s condition.”
Peabody made the tag as they rode the elevator. “Got v-mail, leaving a message.”
“Try the nurse in charge.” Still running it over in her head, Eve got off the elevator, strode into the bullpen, noted Baxter at his desk instead of being off-duty, and apparently entertaining a pale-skinned blonde in shiny knee-boots and a bold blue sweater over skinny black pants.
The woman turned, met Eve’s eyes. In them, Eve saw cop.
“Detective Olsen.”
“Lieutenant. Thanks for making time.”
“Back at you. Can’t get enough of the bullpen, Baxter?”
“Trueheart and I caught one, already wrapping it up, so I sent him home. Nikki says you caught one, too—maybe connected to one of hers.”
“Maybe. Detective Peabody will get you set up in the lounge, Detective. I need ten.”
“I know the way. Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant. Later, David.”
Olsen walked out, tossing a dark coat over her arm.
Eve lifted her eyebrows at Baxter.
“Nikki and I worked together a time or two back in the day.” He smiled, and the quick gleam in it said they’d done more than work. “She’s solid.”
“Good to know.” She left him with his wrap-up, walked back to her office.
Coffee came first. Once the mug was steaming in her hand, she sat at her desk, cleared her brain.
Then started at the beginning with her notes. Timelines, observations, facts, evidence, names, locations.
She skimmed the two case files, noted Olsen and Tredway appeared to be thorough. And yet nothing they’d unearthed connected the victims. No cross there but for the fact both couples were financially well-off, had a rung on the upper end of society.
She made more notes, added some questions—and decided her time would be better served by speaking directly with Olsen.
She walked out, signaled Peabody, who held up a finger as she spoke on her ’link.
“Thanks. We’ll check in again later. Nobel,” she told Eve as she rose. “Mrs. Strazza woke agitated and anxious—basically hysterical. He’s given her another mild sedative. She begged him not to let the devil find her, to hide her. So far that’s it. It’s all she remembers. He’s spoken directly with Mira—he’s the proactive sort—and she’s going in later today to do an evaluation.”
“Good. Maybe Mira can pull something out of her.”
They walked to the cop lounge, where Olsen sat at one of the little tables working on her PPC while something steamed in a go-cup at her elbow.
She set down the handheld. “Coffee’s better here than in my house.”
“Then your house must have stupendously bad coffee.”
“Oh, it does. Stan would be here, Lieutenant, but his niece’s wedding’s in Philadelphia—or was yesterday. A kind of family deal going on today.”
“It’s no problem. I skimmed your files, Detective, but why don’t you walk us through?”
“Sure. July last year, Rosa and Neville Patrick returned home from an evening out—dinner and theater with friends. Newlyweds—had a big society wedding the previous June, and had lived in the residence on Riverside Drive since April. Three-story townhouse, solid security. They noticed the alarm was off, but Rosa admitted—as she had met Neville at the restaurant and left the house last—she couldn’t remember if she’d activated it. In any case, they didn’t think anything of it. EDD later confirmed the alarm had been compromised, the security cameras jammed.”
She paused, sipped. “Rosa went straight up. Neville got them both a nightcap, and went up two or three minutes after her. Rosa stated a man in vampire garb—white face, black eyes, pointed incisors, black cape—grabbed her from behind, held a knife to her throat. He told her to be absolutely still, absolutely silent or he’d slash her. He snapped restraints on her wrists—behind her back—then punched her in the face. Rang her bell, LT. She was half out of it when Neville came in. He states he saw his wife, her nose bleeding, her eyes glazed. The assailant had the knife to her throat, ordered him to sit down. When Neville hesitated, the assailant gave Rosa a little taste of the knife. Neville sat, and the assailant held the knife to Rosa’s throat, forced her to put zip-tie restraints on Neville.
“Neither vic resisted, both told the assailant to take whatever he wanted. He forced Rosa to tie Neville to the chair with a rope, then put the restraints back on her, ordered her to lie facedown on the floor while he added more rope, secured the rope with tape. Once Neville was fully secured, he beat him—black leather gloved fists, a black weighted sap. Then he dragged Rosa to the bed, tore her clothes off, and raped her.”
“Tore her clothes?”
“All but shredded them. He then restrained Rosa to the headboard, punched her a few times, and demanded the combinations for the safes—he knew there were three. One in each of their closets for their personal valuables, and one in Neville’s home office. They didn’t hesitate, gave him what he wanted, but still he beat them both unconscious. When Neville came to, both he and Rosa were untied—she was still out. He called nine-one-one. The call came in just over two hours after they got home. All three of the safes were emptied and a few items—including one of Rosa’s cocktail dresses, a pair of her evening shoes, and an evening bag—were missing. There’s a list of the other missing i
tems in the file. We haven’t come across any of them being pawned or sold.”
Olsen stopped, drank more coffee. “Questions?”
“Plenty, but finish it out.”
“To wrap this one, for now, no DNA, no fibers other than from the rope and tape, no prints, no nothing. He’s not stupid. Eventually Rosa remembered he’d whispered in her ear while he raped her. ‘The best you ever had,’ over and over, and he choked her, told her to tell him he was the best she ever had or he’d kill her, then Neville. Neville stated while the fucker was raping Rosa, he looked at Neville, grinned, and laughed.”
“Did they get anything from his voice?”
“Smooth, sophisticated, public school Brit accent. But he dropped the accent a couple of times when he raped Rosa, and Neville—who is public school Brit—said it was fake. They think he was a white guy, but neither are sure. His face was covered in makeup and a kind of mask—very theatrical, both claim, very authentic.”
“More than his face was exposed during the rape,” Eve pointed out.
“Exactly. He wore a black condom, covered the shaft, and his balls were white—painted white—stark white. He never took off his clothes or cape. Long black hair—they couldn’t tell if it was a wig or real. Black eyes. Rosa thinks they were contacts, but that’s not a hundred percent. We believe he had experience with theater or costuming, and has above average e-skills. And we’ve gotten nowhere.”
Olsen paused, drank some coffee. “Okay. The second incident, last November. In this case, the couple—Ira and Lori Brinkman—return home after a long holiday—Thanksgiving—annual weekend in the Hamptons. The house droid takes their bags upstairs, doesn’t come back. Ira goes upstairs, finds the droid disabled, and is assaulted from behind. He wakes up restrained to a chair, and his wife has a black eye and our assailant has a knife to her throat. He’s outfitted as a kind of ghoul this time—gray face, cadaverous cheekbones, gray eyes, wearing an old-fashioned black suit. He tells Lori to strip or he’ll gut Ira. When she does, he drags her to the bed, smacks her around, rapes her, chokes her.
“The assailant leaves her on the bed,” Olsen continued, “takes some time to beat the crap out of Ira, then he goes back, rapes Lori again, tells her to scream ‘You’re the best I’ve ever had,’ and when she doesn’t, he cuts her until she does.”
After a short breath, Olsen drank more coffee. “They have two safes, one in their dressing room, one in their library. The assailant demands the combinations, knocks them both around some more, leaves them alone. Ira is barely conscious, going in and out. Lori is in shock. The assailant comes back, gives her round three, this time telling her, repeatedly, it’s the best she’s ever had or he knows she wants it. He also watches Ira as he rapes Lori. When he’s done, he strikes Ira on the back of the head with the sap. Lori doesn’t remember if he hit her again, she’s hazy, doesn’t remember when he cut her loose. She called nine-one-one, couldn’t give them any real information. Just ‘Help us.’ She thought Ira was dead. The responding officers found her curled up in Ira’s lap, him still unconscious. The assault took two hours and about twenty minutes.”
“What did he take?”
“Safe contents, some expensive bric-a-brac, a small painting, a bottle of high-end brandy and one of Lori’s cocktail dresses, with shoes and bag.”
“Voice?”
“Gravelly, hollow, deep-throated. He messed the second couple up more than the first, multiple rapes on the female on the second assault, used the knife—what they both believe was a medical scalpel—on both of them. Just shallow cuts and slices, but it’s an escalation. We found no crossover between the victims.”
Olsen rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, forgot. He had sound effects going. Howling wolves for Dracula, rattling chains for the ghoul. Lori and Ira say he did something to the lights. They’re hazy about it, understandably, but they both said the lights were gray and dim, and there was a strobe light.”
“To go with the costumes,” Eve said. “The theme of each attack.”
“That’s how we see it. The first couple, Upper West—he’s one of the owners of On Screen Productions—has his offices in their New York base. We looked at that—the costume, theater—but got nothing. Rosa’s a, well, professional committee person, you could say. Society girl, does good works and shops a lot. Second couple, he’s in international finance, she’s a human rights attorney. And I want to add all of them are nice people. We didn’t find any cheating or whoring or illegals or dastardly deeds among them. Rosa’s twenty-six, Neville’s thirty. Ira’s forty-four, Lori, forty-two. Rosa’s Hispanic, Neville’s Brit, Ira’s Jewish, Lori’s mixed race. Both women are stunners, Lieutenant, so that may play. Both are often featured in society media. Neville’s in entertainment media, Ira’s in financials. Rosa’s into charity work, Lori’s human rights, but she’s done some script doctoring, some screen writing under other names. But they didn’t have any mutual friends, didn’t use the same vendors, doctors, gyms, housekeeping services, and so on. Nothing taken from the residences has shown up on the street.”
Olsen shoved her cup aside. “And now he’s killed someone.”
Eve sat back. Even if Baxter hadn’t verified Olsen as solid, Eve would have judged her the same. “Our surviving vic can’t give us many details yet. She describes a devil.”
“Vampire, ghoul, devil. I sense a theme.”
“Follows,” Eve agreed. “The basic MOs are the same. Slick break-in, waiting for the couple in the bedroom, the fists, the knife, the sap, the restraints. Escalation in violence, and a narrowing of his downtime. Our crime scene reads the male victim broke the chair, tried to attack, and the assailant downed him with a heavy crystal vase. Then there’s a time gap—Morris,” Eve said to Peabody. “About fifteen minutes before the two killing blows. That’s something to think about. He cleaned out three safes. Other than that, we can’t confirm what else he took, including potentially a cocktail dress with accessories—until the survivor is able to tell us. Dr. Mira is going to see her today.”
“Nobody better,” Olsen said. “Any way I can talk to her?”
“I’m going to say no at this time. Not because you don’t have a stake in this, and I intend to read you in as our case progresses, but she’s in bad shape, emotionally. I don’t want to add another face, another questioner.”
“I get that. I want to say, if and when, Stan and I know how to approach a victim of rape.”
“Understood, and I’ll have Mira copy you and your partner on her reports. I’ll give you what I’ve got, and expect the same.”
“You’ll have it.”
“To begin, there’s a variation. These vics were having a dinner party for fifty when, we believe, he entered the house.”
Olsen puffed out her cheeks. “Christ, he’s getting bold.”
“The rest follows the basic pattern—up until the murder. We’ve got some people to talk to. We get anything, we’ll pass it on. I’m going to check your files—you do the same—for Jacko’s Catering and Loan Star Rentals. The last vics used both for this party, and have used them in the past. The caterer’s coming up clean, but it could be a connection.”
“I’ll get on that. My take, if you want it?”
“I do.”
“He’s a coward, but a lot of rapists are. And a sadist, and he likes drama. You’ve got to figure he’s punishing them both. He wants the husband to suffer, wants him to feel impotent. Maybe daddy issues, who knows. I’ve got Mira’s profile—we went to her after the second one clicked in. It’s in the file.”
Olsen got to her feet. “Any help we can give, it’s yours. We can clear it with our LT.” She hesitated. “You’ve got a rep—both of you,” she said with a glance at Peabody. “And that’s rock solid. But I still asked Baxter for his take. He’s not a bullshitter when it matters.”
“Just all the rest of the time.”
Olsen grinned. “And he’s so good at it. He says you’re the best LT he’s ever worked under, and Peabody’s as good as t
hey get. So.”
She offered a hand to Eve. “Thanks for making the time. Anything we can do to bag this bastard will have me doing my happy dance.”
When Olsen left, Peabody preened. “I have a rep.”
“That’s what you got out of all that?”
“Just taking a moment to bask.”
“Basking’s done,” Eve said as she rose.
“Good thing, as I’ve got a notification Oliver Quint’s just signed in. He’s one of the delivery guys.”
“Let’s get him in Interview.”
“I liked Olsen,” Peabody said as they headed out. “Do you think she and Baxter…”
“What is Baxter’s middle name?”
“Horndog. Yeah, that answers that.”
* * *
Quint was a skinny black guy with huge eyes and a tiny beard. He sat in the box with his narrow shoulders hunched and his dark moon eyes darting. Eve’s first thought was nobody that jumpy could successfully shoplift a bag of soy chips from a 24/7 much less orchestrate a trio of break-ins, rapes, and a murder.
But you had to start somewhere.
“Nervous, Oliver?”
“It’s Ollie, okay. My ma calls me Oliver when I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble?”
“Have you done anything to get you there?”
“Look, Chachie said how he found the wrist unit, and he needed some scratch, so I bought it off him cheap. Maybe I sort of figured he maybe stole it somewhere, but I didn’t steal it.”
Eve arched an eyebrow, studied the black, fake leather band and oversized unit on Quint’s bony wrist.
“That wrist unit?”
“Well, yeah. See, mine got busted, so—”
“So you’re wearing what you believe is stolen property to a police interview?”
“I…” He looked sincerely baffled. “My old one got busted.”