by J. D. Robb
“Got word you were back, so I held off having her bagged.” He nodded toward Roarke who stood at the edge of the barricade. “Quick trip.”
“Yeah. We’re fine. He’s fine. Shit, Feeney. Shit. I should’ve been here.”
“Wouldn’t have made a damn, and you know it. He didn’t get past us. Van hasn’t been touched. Nobody approached it.”
“She’s still dead, so he got past us one way or another.” She fixed on microgoggles and studied the neat heart wound. “He keeps things orderly, stays on pattern.” With the goggles in place, she could see the thin, faint line of bruises around the wrists.
“He posed her. When Morris gets her in, he’ll find other marks from the wires he uses.”
“Yeah. Dallas. He went a little off pattern this time around.” Though his face was cold and set, there was a little flare of fury in his eyes as he reached in his evidence bag and took out a sealed note.
“She was holding this. He had it taped to her fingers.” He turned the bag to show Eve the envelope, and her name printed on it.
Eve took the evidence bag, turned the note to read.
Lieutenant Dallas. You don’t understand. How could you? Your scope is limited. Mine is expanded. You see here a victim, but you’re wrong. She has been given a gift, a great gift, and by a small sacrifice offers that gift to others.
You think I’m a monster, I know. There will be those who agree with you and curse my name. But there will be more, many more, who will see, and finally understand the art, and the beauty, and the power I’ve discovered.
What I do is not simply for myself, but for all mankind.
Her light was brilliant, and is brilliant still. I hope one day you will know it.
You see too much death. One day there will only be life. And light.
It is almost done.
“Yeah, it’s almost done,” she muttered. She slid the note into her bag. “My scope’s limited, Feeney, but what I see here is a pretty black girl, around twenty years of age, dressed in a medical uniform. About five-five, a hundred and thirty. No defensive wounds.”
She bent close again, turned the girl’s right palm up. “Slight round mark, consistent with pressure syringe, on her right palm. Hi, how you doing, nice to see you again. And the bastard tranqs her with a handshake. Dressed for work, so she was coming or going. We know which?”
“Med student, doing rotation here. Off shift at ten. We got statements from some of the staff who saw her clock out.”
“Mmm.” She continued to study the girl. Pretty face, high, sharp cheekbones. Glossy black hair, curly and drawn tidily back with a band at the nape of her neck. A trio of studs along the lobes of each ear.
“Pretty busy around here. Big risk to scoop her up right outside a health center at ten at night. You got her home address?”
“Got that, and the rest.” Though he remembered, he pulled out his e-pad. “Alicia Dilbert, twenty. Student at NYU, Medicine. Residence on East Sixth, puts her place three blocks north of here. Next of kin’s a brother, Wilson Buckley.”
“What?” Her head came up. “What did you say?”
“Buckley, Wilson, next of kin.”
“Damn.” She massaged the back of her neck. “Goddamn, Feeney, we know him.”
When she’d done all she could on scene, she walked to where Roarke stood beside Nadine. “Don’t ask me now,” she said before Nadine could speak. “I’ll give you what I can when I can.”
Something in Eve’s expression had Nadine harnessing her natural instincts and nodding. “Okay. By ten, Dallas. I need something by ten, something more than the official line.”
“When I can,” Eve snapped back. “He sent you the transmission at oh-six hundred.”
“My usual wake-up call, yeah. I did my civic duty, Dallas. Feeney’s got everything.”
“So he told me. I can’t give you more now, Nadine.” Eve combed a hand through her hair.
Something’s here, Nadine thought. Something bad. “What is it?” In a gesture of friendship, she touched Eve’s tensed shoulder. “Off record, Dallas. What is it.”
But Eve only shook her head. “Not now. I have to notify next of kin. I don’t want her name out until I do. You can get the official line from Feeney. He’ll be on scene for a while yet. I have to go. Roarke?”
“What is it you won’t tell her?” he asked as they walked through the crowds and noise to her car. “What’s different about this one?”
“Degrees of separation, I guess. I know her brother. So do you.” She looked back at the scene before climbing behind the wheel. “You said you wanted to do what you could, so I’m using you. I want Peabody with Feeney, talking to the staff here, interviewing people at her residence. I’m going to need some help with the next of kin.”
“Who is it?”
He’d kept himself close to his baby sister, Eve noted. Not in the same building, not even in the same block, but close. And had kept her distant from his business. The simple geography spoke to her.
Give her some room, let her spread her wings, but don’t let her fly too far. And don’t let the dregs that frequented the club smear her.
His building had good security. He’d be careful about such matters. Her badge got her through it, and up to the fifth floor where she took a long breath before pressing the buzzer.
Minutes passed before she saw the light blink on the scanner, and knew he was checking his security panel, seeing her standing there.
It blinked green, and he opened the door.
“Hey there, white girl. Why you gotta roust me during my sleeping time?”
He was huge, a huge black man naked but for a purple loincloth and many tattoos.
“I need to talk to you. Crack, we need to come in.”
Puzzlement ran over his face, but he grinned. “Now, you ain’t hassling me ’bout some trouble down to the D&D. No more going on there than the usual.”
“It’s not about the club.” The Down and Dirty was his baby, a sex and music club in the bowels of the city where the drinks were the next thing to lethal.
She’d had what had passed for her bridal shower there.
“Shit. Gonna need coffee if I gonna be talking to some skinny-assed cop this time of day. Roarke, can’t you keep this white girl busy enough so she leave me be?”
She stepped inside. The place didn’t surprise her, nothing about Crack did. It was spacious and tidy, tastefully decorated in what she supposed was African art, the masks, the bright colors, the lush fabrics.
As a testament to his preference for the night, the wide windows were covered with long thick drapes that blocked out the morning in shades of crimson and sapphire.
“Guess you be wanting coffee, too,” he began, but Eve laid a hand on his arm before he could move toward what she assumed was the kitchen.
“Not now. We need to sit down. I want you to sit down.”
The first hints of irritation snapped into his voice. “What the hell’s this about that I can’t have me a hit of coffee when you get me out of bed before the crack of noon?”
“It’s bad. It’s bad, Crack. Let’s sit down.”
“Somebody hit my place? Sumbitch, somebody mess with the D&D? I locked up myself a couple hours ago. What the hell?”
“No. It’s about your sister. It’s about Alicia.”
“Alicia? Get out.” He snorted, waved one of his platter-sized hands in dismissal, but she saw the leap of fear in his eyes. “That girl’s not in any trouble. That girl’s good as gold. You messing with my baby girl, Dallas, you gonna mess with Crack.”
No other way to do it, Eve thought. No other way. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your sister’s dead. She was killed some time early this morning.”
“That is bullshit!” He erupted, grabbing her by the arms, hauling her to her toes. Even as Roarke stepped forward, Eve shook her head to hold him back. “That’s a goddamn lie. She’s in medical school. She’s going to be a doctor. She’s in class right now. What’s wrong wi
th you, coming in here telling me lies about my baby?”
“I wish it was a lie.” She spoke quietly. “I wish to God it was a lie. I’m so sorry, Wilson.” She said his given name, gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sorry to be the one to tell you. She’s gone.”
“I’m going to call her right now. Right now, and get her out of class.” The jive vanished from his speech. “I’m going to get her out of class so you can see this is a lie. What you did, is you made a mistake. You make a mistake about this.”
She let him go, resisted the urge to rub her throbbing arms where his fingers had dug into flesh. She waited while he barked into his ’link, waited while a musical female voice cheerfully told him she wasn’t able to take the call, to leave a message.
“She’s just busy in class.” His voice, so big, so sure, was beginning to shake. “We’ll just go down to the college, get her out of class. You’ll see.”
“I rechecked the ID personally,” Eve told him. “I rechecked it when I saw your name. Get dressed now, and I’ll take you to her.”
“It won’t be her. It won’t be my baby.”
Roarke stepped forward. “I’ll give you a hand. Bedroom through here?” He led Crack along as if the big man were a small child.
Eve took a deep breath when the bedroom door shut.
Then another as she called the morgue.
“This is Dallas. I’m bringing next of kin in to Dilbert, Alicia. I want her presented as cleanly as possible. I want her draped, and I want the viewing room cleared. No civilians or personnel in the area when I come in.”
She clicked off. She could give him that, she thought. It was little enough.
He didn’t speak on the way to the morgue, but hulked in the back of the car with his arms folded over his chest and dark sunshades wrapped around the top half of his face.
But she felt him there—the blasts of cold that was his fear, the pumping heat that was his hope.
He kept his face averted from hers, on the drive, on the walk down the chilly white corridors of the morgue. It was her fault now, she understood that. Her fault because there was no one else to blame for his terrible fear, his terrible hope.
She took him into a private viewing room where she and Roarke could flank him.
“If you’ll watch the monitor,” Eve began.
“I ain’t watching no monitor. I don’t believe nothing I see on no screen.”
“All right.” She’d expected this, prepared for this. The glass in front of them was still dark, the privacy screen engaged. She pressed a button under it.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, escorting Buckley, Wilson, next of kin. Request viewing for personal identification of Dilbert, Alicia. Remove privacy shield.”
The black faded slowly to gray, then cleared. Beyond the glass she lay on a narrow table, covered to the chin with a white sheet.
“No.” Crack lifted his fists to the glass, pounded once, twice. “No, no, no.” Then he rounded on Eve, would have leaped on her if Roarke hadn’t anticipated and muscled Crack back, slapped him against the glass.
“This isn’t what Alicia would want.” Roarke spoke quietly. “This won’t help her.”
“I’m sorry” was all Eve could say.
Though his face was murderous now, he made no move. “You let me in there. You let me in there with her right now, or I’ll throw him through this glass and you after him. You know I can do it.”
He could, and she could stun him. But the grief was already raging up to smother the fury on his face.
“I’ll take you in,” she said calmly. “I have to be with you, and the cameras have to stay on. That’s procedure.”
“Fuck you, and your procedure.”
She signaled Roarke back, spoke into the speaker again. “I’m bringing in the next of kin. Please vacate the area. Come with me.” She motioned with the hand low at her side for Roarke to stay where he was.
She moved through the doors, down a short corridor, and through another set.
There were other tables here, other victims waiting to be viewed. And more, she knew, in the refrigerated drawers lined in a steel wall along the back. She couldn’t shield him from them, could only walk directly to Alicia, and rest her hand on the butt of her weapon in case he lost control.
But he stepped to the table, looked down at the pretty face with its sharp cheekbones. He stroked the glossy black hair gently, so gently.
“This is my baby. My baby girl. My heart and my soul.” He leaned over, touched his lips to her forehead.
Then he simply slid down, nearly seven feet of solid mass, into a weeping puddle on the floor.
Eve knelt beside him, put her arms around him.
Through the glass, Roarke watched as the huge man curled into her like a baby wanting comfort. And she rocked him while he wept.
She pulled more strings and commandeered an office, got him water, and sat, holding his hand while he drank.
“I was twelve when Mama came up pregnant again. Some bastard made her all kinds of promises, and she believed them. He didn’t stay around long after the baby came. Mama did domestic work, and whored some on the side. She put food on the table, a roof over our heads, didn’t have time for much more. Alicia, she was the prettiest baby you’d ever seen in your life. Good as gold, too.”
“And you took care of her,” Eve prompted.
“Didn’t mind it. Guess I wanted to. Alicia was about four when Mama died. Wasn’t the whoring that did it. Some asshole she was cleaning for got hold of a bad batch of Zeus and chucked her out a ten-story window. I was working in clubs already, picking up change. Got some breaks, got some money. I took care of my baby. Just because I run clubs and crack heads doesn’t mean I didn’t take care of my girl.”
“I know that. I know you took good care of her. You saw she got into college. She was going to be a doctor.”
“Smart as a whip, my girl. Always wanted to be a doctor. Wanted to help people. Why would anybody hurt that sweet girl?”
“I’m going to find out. I’m promising you. I’m giving you my word that I’m going to take care of her now. You have to trust me to do that.”
“If I find him before you—”
“Don’t.” To cut off the words, she tightened her grip on his hand. “If you think I don’t know how you feel, you’re wrong. But it won’t help Alicia. She loved you as much as you loved her, didn’t she?”
“Called me her big, bad brother.” Another tear slid down his cheek. “She was the best thing in my life.”
“Then you help me help her. I want names of people she knew. People she worked with, played with. Did she have a boyfriend, anyone special?”
“No. She’d’ve told me. She liked boys all right, wasn’t any prissy thing, but she studied hard, worked all she could at the health center. She’d go out with friends, let off steam. Not in my place,” he said with what passed for a smile. “Didn’t want her in my place.”
“Other clubs, though. Did she mention any specifically? Did she ever mention spending time at a place called Make The Scene?”
“Data place, sure. Lots of the college crowd go there. And she liked this little joint near the health center. Coffee bar called Zing.”
“Crack, did she have her picture taken, professionally, any time recently. For any reason. Work maybe, or something at school. Maybe at a wedding or a party.”
“For my birthday last month. She asked what I wanted, and I said I wanted a picture of her, in a gold frame. Not just one of those snap-it-yourself jobs, but a real portrait where she was all dressed up fine, and the photographer knew what he was up to.”
She kept her voice cool as she noted it down. “Do you know where she had the portrait done?”
“Someplace called Portography, uptown. Classy. I—” He broke off as his brain started to work through the grief. “I’ve been hearing this on the news. This is that son of a bitch who’s killing college kids. Taking their picture and killing them. He killed my baby.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, he did. I’m going to find him, Crack. I’m going to stop him and see he’s put in a cage. If I think you’re going to get in my way on this, I’ll have you put in one until I do.”
“You can try.”
“I won’t just try,” she said evenly. “You know me, and you know I’ll stand for her now, no matter what it takes. Even if it means locking you away until I do what’s right for her. She’s mine now, too. Mine as much as yours.”
He tried to hold back the tears. “Any other cop said that to me, I wouldn’t believe it. Any other cop said that to me, I’d say whatever I needed to say to shake him loose so I could do what I wanted to do. But you’re not any other cop, white girl. You take care of my baby sister. You’re the only one I’d give her to.”
“What can I do?” Roarke asked her when they stood at her car outside the morgue.
“You got any pull at the East Side Health Center?”
“Money, Lieutenant, always has pull.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe he tagged her from the files at Portography. That’s a link. Maybe he tagged her from the data club. It pops every time. But, if he’s sick, and I think he’s sick, she might have recognized him from the health center. If he uses it, or has used it, the staff might not notice him hanging around. If he took her out there, it was because people are used to seeing him, or recognized his face and didn’t think anything of it. I’ve got Louise asking around, but she’s going at it from the doctor angle—no names, patient privacy, and blah blah.”
“And you’d like someone who isn’t so particular about privacy.”
“Three dead kids. Yeah. I don’t give a flying fuck about privacy. Grease whatever palms you need to grease and see if you can find me somebody—male, twenty-five to sixty—no, forty. He’s younger. That age span, with a serious, perhaps fatal neurological condition. Get me a name.”
“Done. What else?”
“Isn’t that enough for you?”
“No, I’d like to keep busy right now.”
“Summerset—”
“I’ve spoken to him via ’link. What else?”