by J. D. Robb
Roarke thought it over while he drank some wine. “I can, to a point. If you don’t need the money, or if profit itself isn’t the goal, it’s quite satisfying to have trinkets around that you’ve lifted from elsewhere.”
“A kind of payback. I’ve got it now, sucker, you don’t?”
“It could be. Still, people routinely collect souvenirs, after all, to remind them of a trip, an event, something they enjoyed. It may be just that simple.”
“Nothing personal,” she muttered.
“It’s often not, even most usually not personal—from the perspective of the thief.”
Something, he knew, the cop he loved would never appreciate.
“But as he’s cleaned out a number of safes,” Roarke continued as Eve brooded, “he’d have to make himself a kind of Aladdin’s Cave for his spoils, wouldn’t he? That’s excessive.”
Now she frowned. “Which guy’s Aladdin?”
“Depending on the version, he’s a young thief who stumbles across a cave filled with treasures—amassed by bigger, badder thieves—and acquires a genie in a lamp.”
“Hmm. So hoarding, basically. That’s an angle. Maybe this guy’s hoarding all the loot, either because he’s just a sick bastard or because he’s a well-off sick bastard. And there was cash in every hit, so that would add to the well-off. Add e-skills, a risk-taker. And I’m betting he knew the layout of the Strazza house. He may have been inside previously. Maybe as a guest, maybe as some sort of worker.”
“Or he might have accessed the floor plans.”
“Those e-skills.” She nodded. “He walked right in, right up the stairs. He waited up there for close to three hours. Patience, that he’s got. But he’s a coward. Comes in from behind, gets his prey restrained before he starts on them. Pounds on them even when they cooperate, so he likes to hurt people. But the rape, that’s the main event. Raping the woman, making the spouse watch. Forcing her to say she likes it so the spouse can hear it. And terrorizing with the costume, adding that flourish.”
Roarke waited a beat—she was in the groove. “Why does he untie them when he’s done?”
“It only adds to how helpless they were, rubs their noses in the helplessness. Free them so they know he was always in control. Free them and they call for help—have to tell what happened. Reporting a rape, it’s another level of humiliation. You have to go back over it, relive it to tell it. He likes that part, too.
“It’s all part of it,” she added. “Invade their home, where they feel the safest—their bedroom, their most intimate and private space.”
Without thinking, she stabbed some cauliflower, ate it.
“Hurt them, take away their freedom, humiliate them, and make the male vic feel helpless, enraged, impotent while you violate the female. Stealing adds a layer. I can take whatever I want. Beat them unconscious before you release them so they wake in pain, in that shock and humiliation, and somehow worse, free again. It’s a big mind-fuck, start to finish.”
“And when you have him in the box, Lieutenant, you’ll show him what it is to be mind-fucked.”
“Damn straight I will.” She looked back at the board, at the victims. “Damn straight.”
* * *
She refined her notes, wrote reports, studied case files. At the end of it, the best she could do was lay out her plans for the next day. She’d interview the previous victims, tug hard on those connections, start exploring possible theater angles.
She had to hope a night’s sleep would help coalesce her thoughts enough to pull a solid theory out of them.
This time she got in the fancy new bed, and decided it was more than fine.
“Married couples so far, not cohabs. Does that matter?” She closed her eyes as Roarke’s arm draped over her. “No kids in the house. I think that matters. No pets, no kids—or absent human staff.”
“Let it go for the night.”
“Except the Strazzas had a houseful. So…”
She didn’t let it go so much as drop away.
* * *
When she woke just after dawn, it took her brain a minute to catch up with her eyes. New room, she reminded herself.
Roarke sat on the big sofa, fully dressed in one of his impeccable dark suits—apparently unconcerned about cat hair on the material, as the cat had deserted her, and was now stretched out on his back beside Roarke.
Roarke absently scratched Galahad’s exposed belly while he sipped coffee and watched the incomprehensible stock reports on screen.
They made a hell of a good-morning picture, she thought, the insanely gorgeous man in his emperor-of-the-business-world suit and the big cat riding on bliss at the touch of those skilled hands.
She could relate to the bliss.
He’d probably already had a couple of ’link or holo meetings, she mused. Might have bought Saturn for all she knew. But all in all, her biggest interest at the moment involved the fact that he had coffee, and she didn’t.
“Good morning,” he said when she pushed up to sit. “It’s bitter out, and they’re calling for snow—quite a bit of it—starting mid-morning.”
She said, “Ugh,” and stumbled her way to the AutoChef, remembered it wasn’t where it used it be, stared blankly at the carved doors.
“Touch either,” Roarke reminded her.
“Right.” She slapped at one and both popped open, and the interior lights gleamed on. She programmed coffee—all that currently mattered—and waited to down the first heady gulp.
“You’re going to have cat hair all over your million-dollar suit, pretty boy.”
“It’s easy enough to deal with, and it only cost a half million.”
“Ha.” She took the coffee into the bathroom, caffeinated and showered herself awake.
When she came out, wrapped in a red robe she’d never seen before—but it was as soft as a cloud, as warm as a hug—he’d already set up breakfast.
She knew, thanks to his handy weather report, she’d start the day with oatmeal.
At least it came with lots of berries and the crunchy stuff—and he’d added a side of bacon. Which explained why he’d banished the cat. Galahad now sat in front of the fire, industriously washing himself—and sending the human an occasional steely stare.
“It matters,” she said.
“Does it?”
“That the victims are married. It matters. I just need to figure out why.”
“Did you dream?”
“Just slept—and let me add another hot damn on that bed. Three assaults is pattern and purpose and profile. Typical escalation, and the murder comes off as of the moment. That wasn’t planned. Next time it will be.”
“Because there’s no going back, only forward.”
“Yep. Do you have any—trinkets—from back when?”
Walking his fingers down Eve’s arm, Roarke ate some bacon. “Now that’s a loaded question from a cop over breakfast. I did have a few, here and there,” he said with a shrug. “But I passed them on, you could say, when a cop came into my life—as she wouldn’t like it.”
“She wouldn’t have known.”
“I would have. As a former thief, I’d say if your suspect is indeed keeping all his spoils, he’s what you termed him last night. A hoarder. He doesn’t need to liquidate, so it’s not for the money—and a man can have plenty of that and enjoy taking more. Serials often take souvenirs, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but it tends to be something specific to the victim, a memento. This is more … Aladdin’s Cave … He’d need a place, and a private one. The jewelry alone is a serious haul. The dresses—he’s taken a cocktail dress from each vic—though I haven’t confirmed that with the Strazza hit. That’s more a souvenir, but it’s a weird one. A fancy dress, shoes, and an evening bag.”
“Costume.”
Eve poked Roarke’s shoulder. “What I’m thinking. Not for him—different body types, so I don’t think we’re after a cross-dresser—but maybe for a woman or a droid or just one of those dead bodies the stores u
se to display clothes.”
“Mannequins, darling Eve. Not dead bodies.”
“They look like DBs. Anyway, he’s got a lot of whacked-out layers to him. No pets, no kids, in-home safes, married couples, single-family residences with good security. They’ve got to be surrogates, it’s too specific otherwise.”
“You’ll talk to Mira.”
“Yeah, soon.” She glanced back, frowned.
“Problem?”
“It’s intimidating. The new closet deal.”
“Some would find it efficient and convenient—especially some who don’t care to ponder overlong on what to wear on any given day.”
“Yeah, well.” She rose. “I’m going for it.”
“Good luck.”
It was more a damn room than a closet to her eye. Sure, everything was set up in order, and that helped. All the fancy duds and the fancy stuff that went with them had their own area. She didn’t even have to acknowledge their existence, and sure as hell didn’t intend to use the closet comp to have them sliding forward on their magic rods, or to preview on screen how this sparkly dress went with those ridiculous shoes.
Intimidating, she thought again, and just a little embarrassing.
She stared at the line of jackets. Why did she have so many jackets? If you just had a couple, choosing wasn’t a problem. But there had to be more than a hundred jackets, all arranged in color groups, the blacks leading to the grays, the grays leading to the blues and right down the line.
It could give a person a headache.
“Aim for warmth,” Roarke said as he stepped in.
Plenty of room for him, she thought. Hell, they could throw a party in here. Serve drinks. Hire a band.
He pulled a jacket from the blue section. Navy blue, she observed, no fancy work.
“Now if you used the comp, it would make suggestions on what to pair it with.”
“How does it know?” But when he turned to it, she grabbed his arm. “No, it’s too much for the first time in here. I have to sort of ease into it.”
“I simply adore you,” he stated, but stilled her hand before she grabbed navy trousers. “Then you’d have a sort of uniform, wouldn’t you? These.” He pulled out brown trousers, a kind of rusty brown, then shifted to vests, pulled one that had the same tone with navy blue buttons, added a crisp, tailored white shirt.
He handed her the lot, selected boots, brown and sturdy.
“I was getting the hang of it before everything got bigger.”
“And you’ll get the hang of it again.” He kissed her cheek, left her to dress.
Maybe she would, she thought, but she didn’t think she’d be making friends with the closet comp anytime soon.
When she came out, strapped her weapon harness over the vest, Roarke gestured to the screen. “Reports and speculations re the Strazza assault/murder and the investigation.”
“Then I’d better get to it.” She pulled on the jacket, picked up her badge, her ’link, her comm, her restraints, added her clutch piece.
“You look completely competent.”
“Clothes don’t make the cop.”
“But they give her an aura. Take care of my competent cop.”
“Will do.” She stepped to him, kissed him. Then left him to get to it.
8
As she fought her way downtown, Eve checked in with the duty nurse, learned Daphne had had a restless night, required a mild sedative. And that Dr. Nobel was already on his way in. The patient’s physical condition had been upgraded to satisfactory.
The cuts and bruises would heal, Eve thought. The damage to the psyche took longer.
Put the past behind you—that’s what people always said. But those people didn’t get that the past was always behind you. Like a hound on the scent.
She pulled into Central, started toward the elevator, and spotted Jenkinson. You couldn’t miss the tie, not even from space.
With his coat open, it glowed toad green with—perhaps not coincidentally—bug-eyed frogs of yellow and blue hopping over it.
“You could light a cave with that thing around your neck.”
“Never know when you might end up in one. How was the time off, LT?”
“Quiet. Warm. Sunny. Everything winter is not.”
“Nice.” They stepped onto the elevator. “Cleared a couple while you were dancing on the beach.”
“Junkie knifed by second junkie, woman bludgeoned by ex-boyfriend.”
Jenkinson eyed her as the elevator stopped and more cops shuffled on. “Checking up on us from sun and sand?”
“I was in yesterday. Caught one yesterday morning, about two in the A.M.”
“Well, welcome home.” Then he frowned. “Strazza business?”
“That’s the one.”
“Getting play in the media. Bigwig surgeon, young fancy wife. She messed up bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Still…”
“Yeah, always look at the spouse first. But this woman didn’t rape herself, bust up her own face. Got two like crimes in the past year, just without the murder.”
Though the elevator stopped again, added more people, she decided to ride it out.
“He dresses up.”
Jenkinson, who’d been balefully eyeing the levels as they lit up, turned back to Eve. “What, like in a tuxedo?”
“Like monsters. Horned devil on this one.”
Jenkinson shook his head. “People are fucked-up.”
A couple more cops came on. One of them studied Jenkinson. “That’s some tie you got there, Jenks.”
“Yeah, that’s what your sister said when I put it on this morning.”
That got a few snorts and made the crowded ride a little more entertaining.
When they shoved their way off, Jenkinson kept pace with Eve toward the bullpen. “Reineke and I are clear right now if you need more hands with this case.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
The minute they stepped into the bullpen, Jenkinson leaped forward. “Hey! Are those sticky buns?”
Santiago stuffed the last of one—from the box Eve had left in the break room—in his mouth, mumbled incomprehensibly over it.
Eve kept going toward her office, so whoever had already reported for duty could fight over whatever was left.
Eve hit her office AutoChef for coffee, tossed off her coat and winter gear, and studied her board with rested eyes.
She had two police artist concepts of the first two costumes. Not Yancy’s work, but more than decent. And still, she imagined, the victims’ impressions, their fear, might have lent some drama to the looks.
She put in a tag to Yancy, left him a v-mail requesting he work with Daphne Strazza at the hospital in addition to the rental crew. She could use a good sketch of the devil.
Since Peabody hadn’t reported in, Eve contacted the first victims, ran into a house droid that gave her grief. She geared up for a fight, then heard the click of Mira’s heels heading to her office.
“We’ll get back to you.” She disconnected, held up a finger as Mira came in, and tagged Peabody. “Get your ass to work and contact the first two pairs of vics, arrange interview times. There or here. Make it happen.”
She clicked off before Peabody could respond, turned to Mira.
“Sorry.”
Waving it off, Mira slipped out of her soft blue winter coat to reveal a rosy red suit. The clicking heels went with a pair of silver-gray short boots, with the combo showing off excellent legs.
“You want some of that tea stuff?”
“I’d love it, thanks.”
“Use my chair. Seriously.”
“I absolutely will. And welcome back. You look rested. Amazing what just a couple of days away can do.”
“You should’ve seen me yesterday.” Eve programmed the tea, and while its floral scent wafted through her office, passed it to Mira.
Mira sat, crossed those excellent legs, smiled at Eve out of her soft blue eyes. “I looked at Daphne
Strazza’s medical chart. You and Roarke may very well have saved her life.” Sitting back, Mira brushed back a strand of mink-colored hair.
Eve cocked her head. “Did you and Mr. Mira head for the sun, too?”
“No, but that’s a compliment. I decided to add some more highlights, get through the winter doldrums. Actually, Trina talked me into it.”
Eve goggled. “You’re going to Trina now?”
“I am. My hairdresser moved to Brooklyn, and Trina—though I know she can be … opinionated—is excellent.”
Opinionated, Eve mused. She’d have used pushy, scary, and in-your-face. And she couldn’t believe she was talking about hair anyway.
“Okay, well. Daphne Strazza.”
“I’ll have a written evaluation for you this morning, and she’s agreed to talk to me again. Physically, as you know, the attack was brutal, the beating and the rapes. Emotionally, only more so. She’s blocking a great deal of it, and that’s to be expected. Additionally, the blow to the head could be responsible for blank spots. She was tortured, terrorized, and I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“Not so far.” Eve sat on the corner of her desk. “Everyone I’ve spoken to about her describes her as sweet—that’s a repeated word. Personable, a perfect hostess, generous. It may be cynical, but some of my takeaway on that is she’s naive.”
“I wouldn’t disagree. She’s young—even younger emotionally, I’d say, than her years. Soft would be another word I’d use. Malleable.”
“Okay, that’s the word.” Eve shot a finger in the air. “Malleable. People don’t speak of her dead husband in the same terms. Perfectionist, impatient, domineering, cold.”
“And brilliant. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew his reputation. Those in his field, with that reputation, are often cold and domineering. The classic God complex.”
“Right. And often when an older, successful individual—with a domineering personality—marries a younger spouse, that individual goes one of two ways. Pampers or bullies. I vote for bully.”
“I’ve only spoken with her once, for less than an hour, and was careful to keep it more on the surface. But my impression of their relationship matches yours. Small things. She refers to him as ‘my husband’ more than she uses his name.”