by J. D. Robb
“Yeah, I caught that.”
“He was, I believe, more authority figure than mate or partner. His death frightens her more than grieves her. When I asked her about her routines, her interests, her friends—to try to make a connection—she spoke more of his expectations, his wishes, his social circle than her own. And there’s a look,” Mira added, “a look in the eyes, a body language, a tone, when someone’s been bullied or abused.”
“Yeah, there is. She’s got all of that, but I can’t be sure it’s from the husband or a result of this attack.”
In her pretty suit, Mira sipped her tea as if they sat in front of a classic work of art rather than a murder board.
“Are you considering, if she’s been abused, she had a part in her husband’s death?”
“I have to consider it, but a partnership doesn’t fit. Not with what was done to her. Her injuries were brutal, and she wasn’t playing it when we found her wandering the streets, naked, freezing, in the middle of the night.”
Eve pushed off the desk, paced. “On the other hand, if there was some sort of partnership, you could consider the partner just went too far, damaged her more than planned. Plan is, mess her up to give her cover, kill the husband.”
“I need more time with her, but my opinion at this point is Daphne Strazza is far too passive to have engineered any of this.”
“It doesn’t make sense anyway, for a lot of reasons.”
“She fears violence, which may be yet another way her husband dominated her. She has several of the symptoms of an abused spouse, but as you say, it could be muddled with this assault.”
“Okay, so more time there. Were you able to read the data on the killer?”
“Yes, reviewing the two open case files I’d previously profiled, and yours. Unlike Daphne, this man enjoys violence—perpetrating it, and even more so doing it to victims who are unable to fight back.”
“A coward.”
“Undoubtedly, but one who feels courageous by striking out when his quarry is helpless. Another sort of bullying. He may have been bullied, felt helpless as a child or young man. He’s found a way to compensate. To punish, to humiliate, as he was once humiliated.”
Mira set her tea aside. “He selects married couples. The third makes that a very clear pattern.”
“Yeah, that’s important.”
“I believe it is, and I can add to the initial profile. Certainly his victims are surrogates, perhaps for his own parents. They may have, or one of them may have, bullied and abused him. Or brushed off and ignored those who did. He certainly had sexual feelings for his mother.”
“His—huh.”
“Possibly stepmother. It’s possible his father remarried—younger woman, attractive woman, and he developed feelings for her. And he has a deep hatred for his father, or father figure. At the same time a deep envy of him. His father had authority, power over him, and, more, had a sexual relationship with the mother your killer wanted. If we follow this line, it’s most likely the killer came from some privilege.”
“Not that he envied that lifestyle, but had it.” Eve eased back on the corner of the desk. “I lean there.”
“I believe he grew up in a wealthy home, but never had what he most wanted. Power, control, physicality, and courage. He hides behind masks, elaborate ones, monstrous ones. They add to his sense of power, and probably theatrics as well. The stealing isn’t beside the point. He takes the tangible as well. Strips things away from them.”
“And keeps them—all. It’s looking like he hasn’t sold or pawned any of the jewelry or valuables, from—so far—the three hits.”
“Hmm. I missed that. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Not just a souvenir, a token, a remembrance, but all. Greed. The theft isn’t, even on a minor level, about profit. It’s about having, holding, seeing, touching. He needs the tangible as well.”
Pausing, Mira looked at the board. “He selects beautiful women—I believe they come first. He must find one, then find one who’s married. The couple must be wealthy, privileged.”
“No kids.”
“Yes, that’s another requirement. It may be because having children in the house adds complications to his plans, or—”
“He doesn’t want the competition.”
Mira smiled. “Exactly. I doubt very much he was an only child, and true or not, felt his sibling or siblings garnered the most love and attention—took what was rightfully his. He won’t be married. If he’s in a relationship it’s a front. Another mask. He won’t have children. He will be financially solvent, very likely successful. He knows how to become what’s needed, even enjoys the false fronts, how he fools the people around him. His sex life is pedestrian if it exists. He needs to rape to feel true release. He needs to hear the victim praise him, to tell the father figure he’s better, more virile, a better lover. By this time, he’s impotent unless it’s rape.”
“How about jerking off?” Eve asked. “He takes an outfit from the female victims. Maybe dresses up a droid or whatever.”
“Yes, he could achieve release by reenacting the experience, though that will become more difficult, more frustrating. He’s probably between thirty and fifty. Old enough for control, for planning rather than impulse, for patience. He’ll continue to plan—he has no desire to be caught, to be stopped. And he’ll continue to escalate, to attack at shorter intervals.”
“And he’ll kill again now.”
“Yes, almost certainly. He didn’t plan on murder, but he will with the next. Eventually, he’ll kill both mother and father figure.”
“Not if I find him first. Thanks. I’ve got a picture.”
“Will you tell me how you feel?”
Eve glanced away from her board, into those soft blue eyes. “What?”
“Eve. Clearly there are similarities between what happened to you and to Daphne Strazza.”
“I’m dealing with it. It’s not in my way.” But she pushed up, stuck her hands in her pockets, paced to her skinny window. “Won’t get in the way. I can empathize, sure. I’m not where I was a couple years ago. I don’t shake as easy on things like this. It gave me some bad moments, and may give me more, but I can handle it.”
“I don’t doubt you can handle it. You’re strong, and always have been. Even then, Eve, even at eight, you had strength or you’d never have survived it.”
“Plenty of cracks. Less of them now.” Eve turned back. “You get credit for some of that.”
“I’ll take it.” Mira rose. “And tell you to remember that if you need to lean, need to talk, just need someone to listen.”
“I do remember it. And if I start to shake, I’ll come to you.”
“Good.” Mira rose, gathered her coat. “I’ve got an early session, but I’m available if needed.”
“Thanks.”
Eve turned back to her board, studied the hard, handsome face of Anthony Strazza, the bloody broken body she’d recorded.
She had a strong instinct that he’d been a mean son of a bitch. But he was her victim.
She wouldn’t shake.
Moments after Mira clicked out of the office, Peabody clomped in.
“I’ve got Neville Patrick, at his office at his studio. I made a push to speak to his wife at the same time, and he balked about speaking to her at all. But given the choice of us going to his house, he’s going to talk to her about coming into the studio this morning.”
“That’s one.”
“Both Ira and Lori Brinkman prefer to address this in their home, want the privacy. They’re juggling their schedules, and one of their admins will get back to me on the best time.”
“Good enough.” Eve grabbed her coat. “Let’s go.”
“Did Mira add anything we can use?”
“She says it looks like the killer has mommy issues.”
“Mommy issues?” Scrambling to keep up, Peabody grabbed her own coat out of the bullpen.
“And daddy.”
“I don’t … Oh.” Peabody’s face scru
nched up as she swung on her coat. “Mira thinks the vics are surrogates for the killer’s parents. That’s just beyond the ick.”
“It gives us an angle.” When the elevator doors opened, revealed the logjam of cops, visitors, support staff, Eve simply turned on her heel and headed for a glide. “All the elements are violations, deliberate humiliations, excessive violence. But the rapes are the centerpiece. Mommy may be stepmommy, but the surrogate makes solid sense.”
“Daddy remarries—because marriage plays, too,” Peabody said. “Younger, frosty new wife—probably—and this guy wants her for his own. Or at least wants to do her. Or…”
Peabody hoofed it as Eve switched glides. “What if mommy remarried? Killer’s bent because he wasn’t enough for mommy.”
Eve angled her head. “Good. That’s good. Either way. If Mira’s right, we’re looking for a schmuck with an Edison thing.”
“Edison? Like Thomas?”
“Who’s Edison Thomas?”
“I mean Thomas Edison. The inventor?” Peabody explained. “The lightbulb?”
“No, for Christ’s sake, this isn’t about lightbulbs. Like the sicko guy who married his own mother, then whined about it.”
After a moment’s confusion, Peabody’s own lightbulb went off. “That’s Oedipus. I’m pretty sure that’s Oedipus.”
“Edison, Oedipus, platypus. Whatever.”
Peabody huffed out a laugh, then realized the strange discussion had distracted her from hopping off yet another glide and hoofing it down two flights of stairs into the garage.
Peabody put on her hat, wound on her scarf.
“Plug in the studio address,” Eve ordered, sliding behind the wheel.
Once Peabody programmed the address into the in-dash, Eve glanced at it and bulleted out of the garage. As she fought downtown traffic, she gave Peabody the main thrust of Mira’s profile.
“Same social/financial strata rings for me,” Peabody decided. “Or he could have grown up in that world—say the son of live-in staff.”
“You’ve got your thinking hat on, even if it is pink and purple. That road leads to maybe the employers are surrogates for mommy and daddy, and the vics surrogates for the employers. It’s an angle. In the world, but not of it. Resentment simmers and boils, and to maintain requires a false face. Acting. It’s not bad.”
“The Patricks have to know a lot of actors, a lot of people in the industry. But then that falls apart with the Brinkmans and the Strazzas.”
“Brinkman’s international finance. A lot of people in the entertainment industry are rich. She’s a human rights attorney. A lot of people in the industry get involved in causes. Strazza, hotshot doctor. There’s going to be a cross in there, another common factor. And the first victims are always the launch point.”
“The Patricks.” Peabody pulled out her memo book. “What I dug up is they met through a mutual friend at a party on Long Island about three years ago. At that time she was involved with someone else. A few weeks later, that ended, but he was seeing someone else. Basically they knew each other for around ten months before they started seriously dating. They got engaged about a year later—big splash—bought a house and moved in with each other last spring. Got married—even bigger splash—last June. They honeymooned in Europe—a three-week deal—and had been back for just over a week before the assault.”
“I’ll bet there was a lot of splash, too, in the gossip and society blathering about their honeymoon.”
“Yeah, I skimmed through some of it. They did Paris, Provence, Rome, Venice, London—”
“Not asking for their itinerary. They were specific targets. The assailant knew they were out of the country. If he’d just wanted to rob them, he’d have done that when they were gone. It just solidifies that the assaults, specifically the rapes, were the main objective.”
The building that housed On Screen Productions had its own underground parking. She pulled in, veered toward the visitor’s section, and wound through until she found a slot.
Without a swipe card for other floors, the elevator took them as far as the main lobby. Security and Information held the center in a space ringed with coffee shops, sundry shops, snack shops.
The coffee shops had the bulk of clientele.
Eve headed for the central counter, took out her badge. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Neville Patrick. On Screen Productions.”
“One moment.” The woman in an all-business black suit scanned the badge, swiped at a screen. “You’re cleared for that. Twenty-second floor would be their reception level. Take any elevator in Bank B.”
“Got it. Does Neville Patrick have a brother?” Eve asked Peabody.
“Two sisters.” Peabody consulted her memo book. “Half sisters. One lives in New L.A., one in London. There’s also a big family estate in the Lake District.”
“Parents?”
“Father is a director—primarily episodic home screen. First wife died in a vehicular accident, leaving him a widower with two girls. He remarried nearly a decade later. They produced Neville, and have been married for about thirty-five years. She was an actor, pretty much retired from that when she had their son.”
“What about Rosa Patrick?”
“Half sister from father’s previous relationship. Parents have been married for about twenty-five years. He’s fourth-generation money—that’s Hernandez money, which is substantial. He’s an engineer, specializing in rebuilding areas after natural disasters. The mother’s on the board of Give Back, which is an arm of the Hernandez Family Foundation.”
“Lori Brinkman’s a human rights attorney. Rosa Patrick’s family is heavy into good works. Daphne Strazza’s parents were killed in a natural disaster—nearly fifteen years ago, but possible cross there. Thin, but possible.”
The elevator opened into a colorfully lush reception area just as a woman strode through a set of glass doors etched with the On Screen logo.
Her suit wasn’t all business. A flowing jacket in bold red had a snatch of black lace beneath where impressive breasts swelled. The tiny skirt showed off long legs and skyscraper heels that matched the jacket. Her hair, shorter than Eve’s, formed a golden halo around a face dominated by huge eyes so blue they read purple.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” She had a smoky-room voice and a firm handshake. “Detective. I’m Zella Haug, Mr. Patrick’s admin. I’ll take you to his office. We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”
“No problem.”
They walked by a few offices, and a large area with a conference table around which about a dozen people all talked at once. A lot of people walked briskly while they talked on ’links or headphones or tapped on tablets.
Eve saw a man in an NYU sweatshirt with his feet on a big desk, watching a car chase on his wall screen. And another pacing his office while juggling three blue balls and apparently talking to himself.
“Writers,” Zella said absently. “Show runners, project acquisitions.”
She led the way to a corner office, knocked on the door, then opened it. “Neville, the police are here.”
He turned from the trio of wide windows and a view grander than his office.
He seemed younger than his ID shot, Eve thought, and certainly less polished. He wore a dark gray suit, no tie. He had a curling mass of hair around a thin face. His frame was also thin, as if he’d lost muscle as well as weight.
His eyes, a few shades lighter than his suit, met Eve’s, then shifted to Zella. “Thanks. I’ve got it. Send Rosa straight back if she comes in.”
“Of course.”
She eased back, shut the door.
“I spoke with Detective Olsen,” he began. “She said there’d been another, but this time…” He gestured vaguely. “I’m sorry, please sit down. I can offer you coffee or tea, or my own personal vice? Pepsi.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry to put you in the position of revisiting a difficult experience, Mr. Patrick.”
“Revisiting?�
�� He shoved at his hair, sat on a chair that looked more comfortable than stylish. “We live with it every day. Every night. My wife … We sold the house we loved and are living in a fully secured condo neither one of us want. And still she can’t be alone for more than a few hours during the day, has nightmares constantly. She was just starting to do better. We were starting to do better. And now this.
“Why can’t you find him?” Neville demanded. “Until he’s locked away, it’ll never be over.”
And not even then, Eve thought. “I wish I had a simple answer, and could promise you we’ll find him quickly. What I can tell you is Detectives Olsen and Tredway have never stopped working the investigation. Detective Peabody and I won’t stop, either.”
“He’s a monster. It wasn’t just a costume.”
“I know it.”
“How do you catch a monster?”
“By understanding him.”
Frowning, Neville leaned forward. “Yes. Yes. Understanding him. How do you do that?”
“We’re working on doing that right now. It’s why we’re here. He targeted you and your wife, specifically.”
“Why do you say that? Nikki and Stan never said that.”
“I believe you were specific, as were Ira and Lori Brinkman, as were Anthony and Daphne Strazza.
“You represent something to him. Someone.”
“Rosa’s never hurt anyone in her life. You can’t—”
“You did nothing. She did nothing.” Because it mattered, Eve let her words simply hang for a moment before continuing. “It may be that the ones you represent to this individual did nothing.”
Though he nodded, Neville rubbed his hands over his face like a man scrubbing away a film. “I did everything he told me to do, gave him whatever he asked for. And still he raped her, and he choked her, and he hit her.”
“Because that’s what he wanted. That was his purpose. The rest was incidental.”
“What do you mean?”
“He violated your wife in front of you. That’s what he wanted. You know him, Mr. Patrick.”
Those words had him flinching back as if from a sharp slap.