Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “ME has confirmed, yes.”

  “Bigger threat—and having Strazza get loose, to go at him? Spooked and pissed. But if he can work up the balls, he’ll do the female first next round.”

  Eve nodded, following Baxter’s reasoning. “Watch me kill your wife. You can’t stop me, can’t protect her. I’m a bigger, better man than you.”

  Trueheart cleared his throat—his substitute for raising his hand. “Slitting the male’s throat? It’s quick, eliminates any potential threat. But it’s also messy. I think he liked the mess. It desecrates the bedroom. The victims’ private space.”

  “And adds to the staging,” Eve agreed. “We can—”

  She broke off as Olsen came in with her partner. Something tugged at her memory when the male detective—narrow shoulders in a tired-looking glen-plaid sport coat, lanky legs like skinny pipe cleaners in brown trousers—walked in.

  His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and his eyebrows formed sharp, inverted Vs over hazel eyes. He wore a single gold stud in his left earlobe.

  Then it clicked.

  “Tredway. It’s been a while.”

  “It has. What, six, seven years?”

  “About. Detective Tredway and I worked a murder together some time back,” Eve explained.

  “Back when Feeney was your LT. Vic was one of my weasels, so Feeney brought me in. We got the bastard.”

  “Still in a cage.”

  “And now you’re the LT.” He crossed to the board, shook his head. “Better you than me. These potential targets?”

  “So far.”

  “We have two couples to add to that,” Olsen said.

  “Put them up,” Eve told her, “and let’s get down to it.”

  She had Peabody run them through the interview with L’Page and Burroughs.

  “This guy who put the moves on her at the gala deal. Any chance of a sketch on him?” Tredway asked.

  “Next step. She says it was dim light, and almost a year ago, but we have a detective artist who’s got a way of refreshing memories and getting details.”

  “Is that his work?” Olsen gestured to the devil sketch on the board.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s worth a shot.” Tredway considered, drank cop coffee as if it didn’t burn the stomach lining. “Course some guys—most, really—are likely to put the moves on a frosty-looker. We’re either assholes or optimists, depending how you look at it.”

  “Me, I’m an eternal optimist.”

  Olsen snorted at Baxter’s comment. “World champ.”

  “Worth a shot,” Tredway continued. “What are the odds some random asshole or optimist puts those kind of moves on her at that event, and she and the guy she gets married to fit the target requirements down the fricking line?”

  He took notes as they talked—actual notes in a little dog-eared book with a stubby pencil. Though she knew better, Eve would have sworn it was the same book, the same pencil he’d used seven years before.

  “I tagged Yancy on this,” Eve said. “He’ll take his first pass with L’Page today. If this is our guy—and though the world is full of assholes, I’m with Tredway on the odds—she’s the only one we know of who’s seen the suspect’s face.”

  “Maybe that face?” Tredway gestured toward Anson Wright’s ID shot.

  “I’ve just completed an interview with him.”

  Eve ran them through it.

  “To sum it up, there’s some weight there. He’s been in the third vics’ home, has a second connect with them through the first male vic’s studio. He knows how to do makeup. No alibis, lives alone. He’s the right height and build, and if L’Page is correct, the right race. On the other side, he made no attempt, whatsoever, to come up with an alibi, and seemed oblivious as to why I asked. Not stupid, but oblivious and self-absorbed.”

  “An actor,” Baxter added.

  “Yeah. Apparently a good one. So I want to keep eyes on him the next couple days.”

  “We can take some of that.” Olsen glanced at her partner for confirmation, got his nod.

  “The boy and I can run shifts with you. That work, boss?” Baxter asked.

  “I’ll clear it. Set it up. Who are your picks up there?”

  “Take it away, Detective,” Baxter told Trueheart.

  He ran through the bombshell’s data, her husband’s.

  “My angle on that,” Eve began, “she doesn’t fit.”

  “My angle is, she’d fit anywhere.”

  Eve sent Baxter a cool stare. “Keep it in your pants, horndog. She doesn’t fit his type,” Eve continued, and laid out her theory.

  Tredway took his notes, nodded through her explanation. “He’s looking for his dream girl, and his dream girl doesn’t bang out the sexy.”

  “Unless it’s for him,” Olsen agreed. “But the get-’em-up-big-boy on screen doesn’t fit the image.”

  “Too much competition,” Baxter added.

  “That factors. They should take precautions,” Eve added, “but they’re low on the list. Who’s next, Trueheart?”

  “Jacie and Roderick Corbo, both age thirty-one. Married three years with main residence Upper East. Additional home in Oyster Bay, and an interest in a family estate—her side—on St. Lucia.”

  “Big-time trust-fund babies,” Baxter put in. “Both of them.”

  “They’ve used both vendors,” Trueheart continued, “and Mrs. Corbo has used On Screen twice to record and broadcast infomercials for a line of skin-care products one of her family’s businesses represents.”

  “She’s the face,” Baxter explained. “It’s a hell of a face. She also states she received a couple of overtly suggestive ’link calls a short time after the last infomercial hit the screen.”

  “You got her ’link?”

  Baxter shook his head. “She said she lost it. Husband confirms she loses her ’link about once a month.”

  “The infomercial initially aired in November, Lieutenant,” Trueheart continued. “She thinks the calls came in right after. Two of them.”

  “Describe ‘overtly suggestive,’” Eve said, and Trueheart flushed.

  “I’ll take that and spare the boy. A male, blocked video, told her he was going to fuck her and fuck her right and she’d beg for more. He claimed he was watching her. The second time he called, she thinks maybe a week after the first time, it was more of the same, but he added he liked her in green, how that tight skirt hugged her ass. But he was going to like her naked, tied up, and begging for it even more.”

  “Did she report any of this?”

  “No, sir.” Trueheart cleared his throat again. “She said she just considered it an annoyance at the time. She didn’t even tell her husband, didn’t relate it to us until she began to get nervous during the interview.”

  “When would the suspect have been able to see her in green? Could she pinpoint?”

  “She checked her closet records, gave us two dates. The first was a family Thanksgiving dinner, which included some close friends, the second was an anniversary party held at the Corbo mansion, and catered by Jacko’s. We verified that as she wasn’t a hundred percent on it. The first event had about seventy-five people, the second more than two-fifty.”

  “We’ll need the guest lists.”

  “Working on it. We’re expecting the one from the first shortly,” Baxter said. “The problem with the second is the Corbos’ social secretary is currently on vacation. Some sort of meditation camp—no communications. And apparently nobody else seems to know where to find the guest list.”

  “Christ’s sake.”

  “We’re pushing.” Baxter shrugged. “The rich really are different. The social secretary has an assistant—and if that isn’t excessive enough, the assistant has an assistant. Neither of them are allowed to access her files. Even if they were, the woman’s so paranoid she took it with her. She works on a portable. We’re running down where she is because nobody there seems to know. We’re on it, Loo.”

  “Stay on it.
Your two,” she said to Olsen.

  “Gregor and Camilla Jane Lester. Ages forty-eight and twenty-nine respectively. Married two years. His second time around,” Olsen added. “Gregor is chief of emergency medicine at—drumroll—St. Andrew’s. He knew Anthony Strazza well. He chose his words carefully, but clearly, no love lost there. He met Daphne Strazza, briefly and casually at a few events, such as the gala. They have used Jacko’s. Camilla Jane loves to entertain,” Olsen added with an eye roll. “But she likes to mix it up, surprise her guests, and Jacko’s is so, you know, conventional.”

  “Bimbo.” Tredway circled a finger in the air, then tapped it at his partner. “Her word.”

  “Well, Jesus, if you did a search on the word, Camilla Jane Lester’s picture would pop up. She’s gorgeous, incredibly silly, and her husband adores her. Indulges her. It shows.”

  “Guy’s got a face like a hamster, and he lands somebody who looks like that? Why wouldn’t he? Interesting fact,” Tredway continued. “As Camilla Jane, prior to the marriage, she made a living acting. Bit parts, stage and screen. Very bit from the sound of it. And supplemented that living as, we’ll politely call it, a dancer.”

  “She was a stripper?”

  “Ah, you say tomato. She had some work as an extra on a couple of serials—the daytime sort—played a dead girl once, and so on.”

  “Connection to On Screen?”

  “Auditioned for a couple of productions there, didn’t get the parts. Did shoot a pilot for them, but it didn’t get picked up.”

  “Connects,” Eve stated. “A lot of connections.”

  “She hasn’t worked since the marriage—her choice, she says.” Olsen shrugged. “She met Lester when she was further supplementing her income as part of the entertainment on Burlesque Night, a fund-raiser.”

  “The kicker? Why they’re up there?” Tredway lifted his chin toward the board. “She swears somebody was in the house last month, and went through her underwear. Took a matching set. Since nothing else was missing they dismissed it. But when she was shopping a few days ago, for more fancy underwear, she says she got a text telling her to buy more purple. It was a good color for her.”

  “Her ’link?”

  Olsen fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, she got so upset, so angry, she threw her ’link right in the recycler and bought another. Bim with a big bo. We got the name of the boutique, went by. Any security refreshes every twenty-four, and no one could recall a man loitering in the shop.”

  “Your number two?”

  “Anna-Teresa and Ren Macari, twenty-eight and thirty. Married eighteen months. More trust-fund babies, and these two don’t much pretend to work at anything.”

  “Now, Olsen, he has his magic,” Tredway reminded her.

  “Right. He’s a magician. That’s his passion. Daddy bought him a magic club where he can perform. A quick check on that shows he’s driving it into the ground playing Houdini, doesn’t actually do anything else there. Neither have used the vendors, but her mother’s used Jacko’s for events, and both the Macaris have eaten there. His father is a major donor at—buzz—St. Andrew’s, and helped defray the costs for a fund-raiser. A masquerade ball last May. At that event, Anna-Teresa was accosted—her word—by a man dressed like the Phantom of the Opera.”

  “Wait,” Eve interrupted. “How does anybody dress as a phantom? Aren’t they invisible? Isn’t that the whole stupid idea?”

  “It’s a character, sir,” Trueheart explained. “An actor who was burned and disfigured in a theater fire, and went insane. He’s obsessed with a young actress, and kills people he blames for his accident.”

  “Pretty much,” Olsen agreed. “He was, according to the wit, wearing a black cape, a white mask obscuring half his face, and what she thinks might have been a wig—longish, black, curling.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “She’d gone outside.” Tredway picked up the report. “To get some air, she claimed, how it was crowded and stuffy. There’s a garden area, and eventually she confessed she’d snuck out and found a dark corner because she wanted to smoke an herbal. So the Phantom comes along, tells her they have to dance, grabs her. At first she figures drunk and obnoxious, and starts to pull away. But he clamps on, grabs her ass with one hand, and he’s got an erection. Now she struggles, and he laughs. Tells her it’s going to be the best she’s ever had. As she’s gearing up to scream, he shoves her down, swirls his cape, and runs away.”

  “She went right in, told her husband, and they told security. They didn’t find him.” Olsen looked back at the board. “‘Best you’ve ever had.’ That’s the magic phrase.”

  “There’s going to be more,” Eve said. “He’ll have accosted more, harassed more. Doing that helped him fill the gap between break-ins, rapes. Guest list for the party?”

  “Not an invite deal. You bought tickets. A cool grand a pop. Twelve hundred plus tickets sold. You could buy a table,” Olsen added. “Plunk down ten large for a table, and bring guests.”

  “People don’t pay cash for that sort of thing, so there’ll be a paper trail. Peabody.”

  Peabody added the task to her handheld. “I’ll start heading down the trail.”

  “And let’s see if Wright can verify his whereabouts on the night Macari was accosted. Have EDD go to the underwear shop, dig into the security. If necessary, have them get a warrant, confiscate and bring it here to work on. The four couples added should be advised to add to their own security.”

  She glanced around the conference table. “Thoughts, complaints, remarks, comments?”

  Trueheart started to raise his hand, caught himself. “I think he’s been inside several more houses, Lieutenant. Taken other personal items the homeowners haven’t noticed. Or if they did, put it down to their own carelessness. Lost it, left it somewhere, that kind of thing.”

  “I agree. Small, intimate items belonging to the female is most probable. No valuables—that could be reported. He can fantasize, imagine, plot, and plan.”

  “He has to know when to go in. He has to watch them,” Olsen added.

  “Somebody with plenty of free time,” Eve agreed. “Either has money enough he doesn’t have to work every day—or at all—or has a job that allows him to go out of the office or place of business. Or a job or position that gives him access to their schedules.”

  “They broadcast a lot of it.” In a world-weary way, Tredway shook his head. “Through the society channels, and on their own social media. Fricking invites a break-in, you ask me.”

  “I wouldn’t argue,” Baxter said, “but even bimbos aren’t likely to broadcast they’re going to buy panties today. A combo of watching them virtually and otherwise, I’d say.”

  “It started in earnest in April of last year at the Celebrate Art Gala.” Eve rose, paced to the board. “He may have harassed women before that time, and likely did. May have broken into their homes and taken panties to sniff. But what we have points to this night. Every victim on this board attended that gala. So did he.”

  She closed her eyes a moment, let it circle in her mind, turned back.

  “Mira profiles him between thirty and fifty. I think forty is top age. He’s younger, but old enough to have control and patience. Not as much patience as we previously thought, as he’s clearly used other avenues to satisfy his needs. Between thirty and forty, most likely white. Around five feet, eight inches tall. Average build. He’s either one of this social group or he knows how to blend with them.”

  She gestured to Anson Wright’s photo.

  “That doesn’t take the bartender out. An actor knows how to inhabit a role—and that’s pretty much what he told me in Interview. In fact, made a point of it. He won’t be married, won’t have a cohab or a serious relationship. He hoards. He has to have a place where he can keep all the loot he takes from his hits, as there’s no evidence he disposes of it.”

  She walked from one end of the board to the other. “He takes surrogates. Married couples only, exceptionally beautiful
woman. Rape is the primary goal. And it is about sex as much as power and causing fear. Violent sex, the sort that eases—temporarily—his frustration at not having the true object of his desire. At not being able to punish and humiliate her for rejecting him, to do the same to the male for having what he couldn’t have.

  “The ’link calls, the texts, the … putting moves on, even the break-ins to steal underwear, that’s all foreplay for him. Adds excitement, anticipation. But since he killed Strazza, everything changed, opened, expanded. He doesn’t need that kind of foreplay now—a grope in the dark, a voice over a ’link. He needs the kill, the climax. Now when he chooses his costume, does his makeup, goes in to set the stage, he knows those first performances were just—what do you call them—dress rehearsals. These are the real shows. And he just can’t fucking wait to step onstage again.”

  “He won’t wait long,” Tredway agreed. “Maybe a couple of days.”

  “Then we’d better find him first. We’re all going to go over the guest list, the list of staff and support staff for the gala. We’re going to cull out every man between thirty and forty, white—but it was bad light, so we need to consider mixed race. We have his approximate build. Unmarried males, no cohabs. He’s going to live alone. And when we have those, we’re going to look at his mother, a stepmother, or an older sister maybe. She’s going to be exceptionally beautiful.”

  “Lieutenant?”

  She gave Trueheart the nod.

  “It could have been a teacher—the person he’s fixated on. I just mean to say I, ah, had a pretty hard crush on my English Lit teacher in high school.”

  “You dog,” Baxter said with a laugh.

  “I got over it, but for a few weeks there, it was pretty intense in my head. Or it could have been a friend’s mom, a neighbor, or—”

  “Christ, you’re right. Someone he saw regularly, had a connection to, a relationship with. Enough to stick in his twisted brain. She’ll be married, and upper middle class at least. Start with mothers. We’ll work down the list of possible others. Look for any sort of complaint—even juvie. Dig in, maybe his parents sent him to therapy or rehab. Work the levels.