Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He pushed up, walked to his windows, circled the room. “Sorry, it still gets me right in the gut. Seeing them that way. Nothing like that, nothing has ever happened to somebody I love. We make vids with some nasty shit, but that’s make-believe. It’s not real. All the director says is ‘Cut,’ and it’s done. I don’t know if this will ever be.

  “This monster took their lives—their everyday lives, their normalcy. How do they ever get that back?”

  “Knowing the person who did this is locked in a cage can be a good step toward that.”

  Kyle came back, dropped into the chair again. “Whatever I can do to help put him there, consider it done.”

  “You make a lot of the vids here?”

  “In New York? Yeah, we have our own studio. Neville and I built the company on the idea of starting small, being self-sufficient. We’ve got the studio right here, and now another soundstage in Brooklyn. Our team of scouts, production teams, our own writers for original productions and series.”

  “Makeup, costumes.”

  “Sure. Our girl copped an Emmy, two years running now, for makeup in an original series. Planet Plague. Christ, don’t cops watch screen?”

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “Planet Plague’s the number one original series, two years running. Zombie apocalypse never goes out of style.” He jerked a thumb behind him at one of the posters, depicting a tough but beautiful woman, armed with a crossbow, and a hard-bitten yet handsome man with a katana surrounded by what certainly looked like walking corpses.

  “Last year, it took makeup, original score, best guest appearance, and capped it off with best actor, original series.”

  “Nice.”

  “Oh, yeah. Awards aren’t just shiny, they can translate into ratings and funds, and ratings and funds translate into more creative productions. And don’t get me started.”

  On a half laugh he swiped a hand in the air. “We’re building something solid. We’re doing what we always dreamed of doing. Neville’s been shattered and shaken, and he’s just coming back. It’s been a hard road. Having him hit, seeing Rosa hit, with more cops, more questions, it can’t help him.”

  “Reality doesn’t wrap up when the director says cut, or the screen goes to black, Mr. Knightly. What you do may give people a break from reality, and that’s all good. But we’ve got to come back to it.”

  She pushed to her feet. “I appreciate your time, understand your concerns. Now we both better get back to doing our jobs.”

  He rose with her. “We put in a bid on the Icove project.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Nadine Furst’s book. We tried to get the rights to it, but it was above our reach. Congrats on the Oscar noms.”

  “Okay.”

  “They announced them this morning. It’s up for seven Oscars—best actress, best supporting actor, best director, best adapted screenplay, best editing, best sound, and the holy grail of best picture. You didn’t hear?”

  “I’m a cop, Mr. Knightly.”

  “Kyle. And you’re the Icove cop.”

  “No, I’m the NYPSD cop.”

  She stepped out, headed in the direction of the main reception, tagging Peabody as she walked.

  “Where are you?”

  “One floor up in Makeup. Jesus, Dallas, I met Adrianna Leo. I talked to her while she was getting hair and makeup for a scene. Then Joe P. Foxx just strolled right in, and I could’ve passed out!”

  “Do I have to come up there?”

  “What? No, I covered it.”

  “And your face? What’s on your face?”

  “Um. Makeup.”

  “Get your made-up face down to the garage.” Eve clicked off, reminding herself she’d been the one who sent Peabody into the damn candy store.

  She rode down on the elevator, ignoring other passengers who seemed buzzed on Oscar talk, until one of the women stared at her.

  The woman’s eyes popped. “Oh my God, you’re Marlo Durn!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Obviously undeterred, the woman continued to chatter while digging in her rhino-sized bag. “Oh, I’m such a fan. I just have to have a picture with you.”

  “I’m not Marlo Durn.”

  ’Link already in hand, the woman frowned at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You could so be her stand-in for The Icove Agenda. I mean you look just like her Eve Dallas character. Are you her stand-in?”

  “No.”

  Eve escaped the elevator, took another down to the garage.

  She got in the car, began a run on Kyle Knightly. And sent Peabody a long stare when her partner climbed in.

  “Why do you have blue eyelashes?”

  “They make my eyes pop, and it’s just a hint of blue. Mags gave me a professional daytime look.”

  “That’s so special.”

  “It was for me,” Peabody muttered. “Plus I got to meet one of my favorite screen stars, and interview two of the top studio makeup artists. One of them also does the specialty work—like on Planet Plague.”

  “Zombies.”

  “Yeah, I love that show. Scares the crap out of me, but I love it. They have everything our UNSUB would need, right in studio. I’ve got a handful of names to run. Plus, Mags’s good friend Uma in Wardrobe half dated Hugh—Jacko’s nephew—a few months ago.”

  “Half dated?”

  “They went out a couple of times, but it didn’t click. She clicked more with his friend Anson—bartender at Jacko’s—and they’re semi-dating now.”

  Eve concluded semi-dating was more serious than half dating. “Maybe it was worth the blue lashes.”

  “I’m buying this lash color, you can bet on it. And did you hear? Our vid’s up for major Oscars!”

  “Peabody.”

  “It’s mega, Dallas. Nadine has to be zooming out of orbit. She could win a fricking Oscar. I’ve got to text her.”

  “Peabody.”

  “Later. I’ll text her later. Run the names now.”

  “Good plan.”

  “It was exciting, sitting there getting my makeup done right next to Adrianna Leo, and she was really nice. Mags said she’s total earth. Just like Wendy Rush is a total bitch—and she always plays a sweet thing, but she’s completely not. And how Joe P. Foxx is not only frosted cream, but is always showing off pictures and little vids of his kids. Devoted family guy, which makes him frostier.”

  “Mags likes to gossip.”

  “Which is how I got the data on the wardrobe pal dating two of Jacko’s crew, and a lot of info on makeup, who does what, where they get it, how accessible it is. Mags is strictly in studio, but they have several artists who work location shoots or travel with the crew for exterior shots. Some are freelance and move from project to project, company to company, but some are contracted to On Screen.”

  Peabody shook her head as she studied her handheld. “And my top choice isn’t going to fit. Mags said this Max Bloombaum was the ace at monster makeup and prosthetics, which is why they contracted him to create the makeup for Planet Plague. He’s sixty-three, height six-two, married, three kids, two grandkids.”

  “Too tall, too settled for the profile. Finish my run on Kyle Knightly.”

  “Does he ring for you?”

  “He’s connected to the first vics, has used the caterer and the rental company, has access to the necessary makeups and effects. His alibi is a house droid.”

  Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel. “He comes off as sincere, concerned, emotionally attached to the Patricks. But he runs about five-eight, knows their house, would easily know their plans. Not married, lives alone.”

  “I’m on it— Wait.” She switched to her ’link. “Detective Peabody. Yes, Mr. Brinkman, thanks for getting back to me. That would be fine. We’ll come to you now. Yes, sir, we will. Thank you.”

  Leaning forward, Peabody programmed the Brinkmans’ address in the in-dash. “They’re home now, ready to talk to us.”

>   Eve took the next turn and headed uptown.

  “Knightly, Kyle,” Peabody read. “Caucasian, age thirty-one, height five-eight and a quarter, weight one-fifty-two. Born Greenwich, Connecticut, to Lorinda Mercer and Quentin Knightly, no sibs. Good education,” she added. “Private schools, prep schools, majored in cinema art and science—at Juilliard, two years, with another two in London. No marriage, no cohabs on record. Got a few minor producing credits—England, France, New L.A. Formed On Screen Productions with Neville Patrick (cousin) in 2055. Some links here to various articles on that.”

  “Later.”

  “Their first production was a low-rated but critically acclaimed home-screen series, Urbanites, canceled after its first season. Several other productions, more successful, also listed. No criminal that shows. Net worth estimated at sixteen-point-five million—that’s personal. Company is estimated at just under five hundred million, largely due to the success of Planet Plague, At Sea, and the big-screen production of Camelot Down. Do you want me to dig deeper?”

  “Not now. Run the others on your list. And we’ll see if the Brinkmans bring any of this into focus.”

  10

  The Brinkmans’ home had a dignified look of weathered brick and creamy trim. It wore its age gracefully, and that age and grace contrasted with an obviously new security system. She counted three cams, imagined there would be more on the sides, the back. Another trio—sharp, silver-toned police locks—bored into the thick front door. A palm plate, with scanner, had been installed in the rosy old brick beside it.

  The minute she hit the buzzer, the security comp demanded her name and her purpose.

  “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re expected.”

  Please hold your identification up to be scanned and verified.

  She did so, as did Peabody.

  Thank you. Your identification has been verified. Please wait.

  Moments later the door opened. The man who answered wore what she thought of as a Summerset suit. Unlike the bony butler, this one had shoulders like an arena ball tackle, and a subtle bulge at his side under his jacket where he wore a weapon.

  “Lieutenant, Detective. You’re cleared to enter.”

  Second line of defense, Eve thought as they stepped into the foyer. A tall mirror, a long table, a dreamy painting of a water lily gave the narrow entrance the illusion of space and depth.

  “Maxine will take your coats.”

  Eve eyed the woman in black. She might be a housekeeper, but she looked like she could kick some ass. Eve shrugged out of her coat, passed it over.

  The man said, “Follow me,” and led them into the living area off the foyer.

  A fire simmered in a room where everything sparkled, nothing seemed out of place. Eve would have termed the room stylishly elegant, a long way from cozy.

  The Brinkmans sat together on a gel sofa where bold red birds flew over a deep blue background. They sat so close they might have been fused at hip and shoulder.

  Though it had started out black, Ira Brinkman had allowed his hair, like the bricks, to age so wiry strands of silver sprang through it, reminding Eve of Feeney. His eyes, a clear blue, stayed steady on her face even as he took his wife’s hand in his.

  Lori’s heritage had gifted her with pure mocha skin, with eyes caught between blue and green under sharp, dark brows. Eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, eyes that held nerves and fatigue.

  Ira squeezed his wife’s hand, released it, got to his feet.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, my wife and I are very sorry to learn there’s been another, even more tragic incident.”

  “Yes, sir. We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.”

  “It’s difficult.”

  “Understood. We’ll do what we can to make it less so.”

  “Please sit down. Can we offer you anything?”

  “Please don’t bother.” Eve and Peabody took chairs facing the sofa. “My partner and I have familiarized ourselves with the details of the investigation into what happened to you. We’re coordinating with Detectives Olsen and Tredway.”

  “Are you sure it was him?” Lori Brinkman’s voice was like silk, smooth and soft. “Are you sure?”

  “All evidence at this point indicates that, yes. The details of this latest attack are too similar to yours, to the Patricks’, to believe otherwise.”

  “But he killed someone. He could have killed us. We were helpless. He killed the husband. He could have killed Ira.”

  “He didn’t.” Ira took her hand again. “I’m right here.”

  “He kept hitting him, even when Ira gave him the combinations, kept hitting him even when I … I said what he told me to say. I thought he would kill us both.” She closed her eyes, breathed in. “But he didn’t. I know it wasn’t our fault. I’ve gotten through that part.”

  “No, nothing that happened was your fault.”

  “But it happened to us. At first you ask why—why did this happen to us? Then you realize, and try to accept, there is no why.” Lori leaned her head to Ira’s shoulder. “An evil person does evil things. There is no why.”

  “There can be enough of a why, though it makes no rational sense, to help us find him.”

  “Enough of a why?” Ira echoed.

  “Why the Patricks, why you, why the Strazzas? Married couples, childless married couples, who live in single-resident homes in good neighborhoods.”

  “Three makes a pattern,” Lori stated. “I write screenplays.”

  “My information is you’re a lawyer.”

  “Yes. I write on the side—under other names. It’s more than a hobby, less than a job. In any case, I’ve script doctored several thrillers. Three makes a pattern. We’re … a type.”

  “We believe there’s a pattern, yes, and that helps us. We believe he selected you as he did the others. And that he’s done with you,” Eve added when she saw fear leap into Lori’s eyes. “If he continues the pattern, he’s already selected his next victims. You may be able to help us stop him.”

  “We agreed to talk to you,” Ira said, “because we would do anything, anything to stop him, to know he’s locked away. I wanted to kill him. I’ve never been a violent man, but I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I’ve dreamed of it, of getting free, and beating him to death right there, in our bedroom.”

  Even as he said it, Ira’s eyes glittered with retribution.

  “He struck Lori, again and again, raped her, again and again. And he watched me while he raped her. Grinned at me. I could do nothing.”

  “He wanted to humiliate you, Mr. Brinkman,” Peabody told him. “As much as he wanted anything, he wanted that. He’s a coward, and he’s weak, that’s why he threatened your wife. He threatened her to disable you.”

  “He used me to hurt Ira, used Ira to hurt me. Yes, he’s a coward, but you haven’t stopped him.”

  “We’re adding details that may help us do that.”

  Lori looked back at Eve. “You said selected. He selected us. What do we represent to him?”

  “We’re working on that. You had no connection with the Patricks before this?”

  “No—at least we didn’t know them,” Ira qualified.

  “I recently learned I’d script doctored a screenplay, one that had been shelved. On Screen acquired the option when the previous one expired.”

  “When was this?” Eve asked.

  “It was just last month, early last month. I haven’t met or discussed it as yet with the producers. The last thing on my mind the last months has been the fun, and that’s what this is for me. We met with the Patricks, with Neville and Rosa a few weeks ago. Nikki—Detective Olsen—arranged it when I asked if we could. It helped, just talking, the four of us.”

  She glanced at Ira. He smiled a little, lifted her hand to press it to his cheek.

  “It’s helped,” Lori repeated. “And Rosa and I have talked several times since. She’s younger than I am, and they were just married when … Jus
t starting their lives together. I think it’s been harder for her.”

  “She struck me as strong.”

  For the first time Lori smiled. “I think so, too. So am I. So are we,” she said, looking at Ira. “Ask what you need to ask.”

  “Can you tell me if you’ve ever used Jacko’s Catering?”

  “Catering?” Lori sent Eve a puzzled look. “No. We’ve used First Class for years. My friend Rhia raves about them, but—”

  “So you’ve been to events they’ve catered?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Loan Star Rentals?”

  “I couldn’t say. Ira?”

  “No, it’s not familiar. Why?”

  “Just some details we’re exploring. Do you entertain here often? Personally, professionally?”

  “I’ll bring clients and associates here for dinner occasionally,” Ira said. “It’s more usual to take them out to dinner, or lunch. Certainly we have friends over.”

  “Ira actually likes to cook, so if we’re hosting a couple of friends or a small, intimate group, he makes the meal. For larger groups, Lilia sets it up with First Class.”

  “Lilia?”

  “Our border collie—and I mean that in the best way. Ira’s fiercely organized, and I’m not. I’m a failure when it comes to times and dates, even checklists, particularly when I’m inside a case. So Lilia handles it all. We’ll just say, we’re having a party on this date, and she takes care of the details—and makes sure I remember to stop work in time to actually shower and dress.”

  “And that’s been a close call a time or two.” More relaxed, Ira lightly pinched Lori’s arm.

  “Lilia Dominick?” Peabody asked, consulting her PPC.

  “Yes. She’s been with us for about eight years. She makes Ira’s fierce efficiency look like chaos.” Watching Eve, Lori rubbed a hand just above Ira’s knee. “Do you think we’ve had the person who did this in our home? Invited him in?”

  “We’re going to explore every avenue, Mrs. Brinkman. Whatever we find, you’ll remember: You didn’t invite him in that night. You didn’t invite his actions that night. You aren’t responsible, in any way, for what happened.”