by J. D. Robb
“He’s willing, and anxious to cooperate.”
She nodded, and pulled out her communicator. “I’ve got an Ident man in there with a neighbor who’s neither willing nor anxious to cooperate. He’ll get our image, but it’s taking too long. I’m going to arrange to have another artist work with the doctor. Give me his name and location.”
When she’d completed the arrangements, she started to pocket her communicator again. It beeped in her hand.
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant, your warrant’s coming through.”
About damn time, she thought, but bit back the words. “Thank you, sir. Officer Yancy is still working with the neighbor. I’ve called in replacements for Baxter and Trueheart, so the building’s still covered, and ordered them to do an hour’s surveillance at the data club before clocking out. Peabody and I will enter subject’s apartment as soon as the warrant’s in hand. Am I clear to call in the sweepers I have on alert?”
“Call them in, get it done. Let’s put this away tonight.”
“Nothing I’d like better,” she agreed as she watched his face blink off.
“Darling.” Roarke skimmed a hand down Eve’s hair while Peabody pretended to look elsewhere. “You needed to get into an apartment, and you didn’t call me?”
“Thought about it.” She spoke under her breath, then turned to face him while she willed the warrant to come through. “I won’t deny I thought about just going in. But it wouldn’t wash clean, and it has to. I’m not giving this bastard any legal way out.”
“You’re right, of course. Your patience—”
He broke off as her communicator beeped again, signalling the authorization.
“Son of a bitch, bite my ass! It’s about fucking time!” She spun around and strode down the hall. “Peabody, we’re going in.”
“Perhaps patience wasn’t precisely the right word,” Roarke considered as he followed her.
She shot him one brief look, and considered. Argue with him, give in. Or make it her idea. “You’re going in with us. Seal up.” She tossed him a can of Seal-It and enjoyed the quick wince on his face as he studied it. “It’ll come off your fancy shoes, Ace.”
“But they’ll never be quite the same. Ah well, being a good citizen requires some sacrifice.”
“Like you don’t have two hundred other pairs. He’s got a good eye,” she said to Peabody. “We can use him.”
“Yes, sir. I often think of uses for your hubby.” And because Roarke was between them, the safety factor, she grinned.
“That’s really amusing, Peabody. I’ll be chuckling when I tie your tongue into a knot later. Straighten up,” she ordered. “Record on.”
Behind her back, Roarke passed the Seal-It to Peabody and added a wink.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Officer Delia, and civilian consultant Roarke are duly authorized with warrant, signed by Judge Marcia B. Brigstone to enter apartment 1208 of this location on full search and seizure. All pertinent data regarding this procedure are listed in said warrant. Sweeper unit is en route. Using police master to disengage locks and security.”
She inserted it, keyed in her code. And the access was denied.
“Damn it. Subject has installed secondary security that repels standard master.” Deliberately she turned away from the door so the record showed the apartment across the hall. And she looked coolly at Roarke. “It will be necessary to send for and utilize a battering ram in order to gain entrance and fulfill the authorization of the warrant.”
Understanding, Roarke slipped behind her and taking a slim device from his pocket went to work on the locks.
“Officer,” Eve began, noting that Peabody was watching Roarke with obvious fascination.
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” But her eyes never left Roarke, and her mouth formed a silent “wow” as she watched his fingers move, and okay, wondered if they were just that skilled in other, more personal activities.
Imagining they were, she felt her heart give a quick, hard knock against her ribs.
“Officer!” Eve repeated. “We’re going to try the master again momentarily. Contact Dispatch and request a unit with battering ram.”
“Uh-huh. I mean, yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you should try your master again, Lieutenant.” Expression bland, Roarke stepped away from the door. “Before your aide fulfills that order. Sometimes these things jam a bit.”
“Affirmative. Belay that order, Peabody. Retrying master.”
He’d done whatever magic he could do, and this time her code had the security flashing to green.
“Locks are disengaged. Must’ve just been a jam,” she said, turning to Peabody.
“Yes, sir.” Peabody gave her a sober nod. “Happens all the time.”
“Entering Stevenson apartment.”
Though she believed it to be empty, she drew her weapon. “This is the police,” she called out as she opened the door, swept the room. “We are duly authorized to enter. Stay where you are, with your hands above your head and in clear sight. Lights on.”
Like the Fryburn apartment across the hall, it was spacious. It was clean, ruthlessly so, and appointed in such a way that made Eve think: female.
Color, texture, thriving, live plants, pretty dust-catchers set around. The windows were privacy screened, and through them she could see a new storm boiling in the dark sky.
The lights, on bright and full, illuminated the framed photographs lining the walls.
Gotcha, Eve thought, but her face was set and cold as she gestured Peabody to the left, Roarke to the right.
They’d check the entire apartment for Stevenson, or anyone else, before beginning the search.
“This is an official NYPSD operation,” she said clearly, though she knew the place was empty. She closed the door at her back. If she was wrong, she didn’t want to give him an escape route.
She moved through the living area with its homey floral sofa and deep, welcoming chairs. She checked closets—noted that a woman’s coat, a woman’s jacket, winter boots, a bright pink umbrella were still mixed in with a man’s outer gear.
She moved into the kitchen, saw a bowl of glossy red apples on the counter and a quartet of oversized coffee mugs in the same flashy color.
“Dallas?” Peabody stepped to the doorway. “Nobody home.”
“He plans to come back.” She picked up an apple, tossed it lightly. “This is still home. Let’s get started.”
She called Feeney, wanting him and McNab on the apartment’s ’links and electronics as soon as possible. But with Roarke already there, she didn’t see the point in waiting for them to arrive.
“I want all incoming, all outgoings. Any communications that give us a line on his whereabouts, his place of employment, where he hangs, what he does. I want to know if he made any contact with any of the victims from this location.”
“I know what to do.”
“Yeah, you usually do. Peabody, start in his mother’s bedroom. We want anything that ties him to the vics, but we’re also looking for anything that points to his location. I’ll take his room.”
But first she walked along his gallery, studying faces, images, trying to see him in them.
There were several of his mother. An attractive woman, soft eyes, soft hair, soft smile. There was always a light around her. Had he done that deliberately, or was it just chance?
He left nothing to chance.
There were other faces, other themes. Children at play, a man in a ball cap hoisting a loaded soy dog. A young woman stretched out on a blanket by a pool of flowers.
But none of the images that played in her head, none of the dead, graced these walls.
Did he? she wondered. Were any of these faces his?
She’d have Feeney run an image check for ID. It would take time, more precious time, but they might get lucky.
She moved into his bedroom.
It was neat and orderly, like the rest of the apartment. The bed tidily made, pillows fluffed
. In his closet, the clothes were arranged by type, and by color.
Obsessive/compulsive, she decided, though it ran through her mind that Roarke’s department store of a closet was similarly arranged.
Young. She studied the wardrobe choices. Trendy shirts, airboots, gel sandals, plenty of jeans, lots of styling pants. Nothing too cheap, nothing too pricey. Lived within his means, but liked his clothes. Liked to look good.
Image.
She started on his desk first.
In his organized files she found an orientation disc for Columbia University, another marked class notes from a course titled Exploring the Image, Professor Leeanne Browning, from the previous year.
Piling up on you, Ger, she thought as she labeled them and sealed them into evidence.
She moved to his dresser, began to search through the neatly folded socks and underwear. Tucked among them was a small, cloth-covered box, and inside some of his treasures.
A dried rosebud, a shiny rock, an old ticket stub from Yankee Stadium, a scrap of cloth that might have been from a blanket.
One of the toss-away coasters often found in clubs. This one had Make The Scene scrolled across it in electric blue letters. She sealed that and a business card for Portography into her evidence bag.
She stepped back, took stock. Live here, but you don’t work here. This isn’t your work space. Got to keep that separate. This is your mother’s place, the place you come for a nice, quiet meal, for a good night’s sleep. But it’s not where you create.
Haven’t been here in awhile. She ran a fingertip through the light layer of dust on the dresser. So much work to do. Too much to do to come home and relax. To come home and not find your mother waiting for you.
“Eve.”
She looked over at the doorway where Roarke stood. “Finished already?”
“Not much there. He has a thirty-day clearing system. If you take the units in, you could dig out the deleted transmissions, but from here, without any tools, you’ll only get the month. And he wasn’t the chatty sort. He ordered pizza about three weeks ago, and fresh flowers for his mother’s grave—”
“Location of cemetery?” she interrupted.
“I’ve got it for you, yes. There aren’t any transmissions to or from friends, relatives, acquaintances. He’s left his mother’s voice announcement on the unit.”
“But his voice is on there. We’ll get a clear voice print.”
Something moved in his eyes before the shutter came down. “Yes, that’s no problem.”
“You want me to feel sorry for him because he lost his mother? Because you’re still close enough to your own grief to relate in some way. Sorry, fresh out of sympathy here. People die. It sucks. You don’t deal with grief by murdering three innocent people.”
“No, you don’t.” He sighed. “There’s just something pathetic about this place, about the way he’s living here with his mother’s things. Her clothes still in the closets, her voice still on the machine. I’ve been working out there and found myself looking up, time and again, at her face. Do you see what he’s done?”
“No, what has he done?”
“He’s made her into an angel. From all reports, she was a good woman, maybe a special one at that. But human, mortal. It’s that he hasn’t accepted, you see. She isn’t allowed to be human, so he deifies her. He’s killing for her, and God knows, it doesn’t seem she deserves it.”
“It’s her you feel sorry for.”
“A great deal. She would have loved him, wouldn’t she? Loved him very much by all accounts. Wouldn’t she love him still, even after all he’s done?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t suppose we ever will. Here’s Feeney now,” he added, and stepped out.
Had he been talking about Gerald Stevenson’s mother, Eve wondered, or his own?
She cleared the bedroom for the sweepers and huddled with Feeney. “Where’s McNab?”
“Ah, he nipped into the other bedroom there. Said he’d give Peabody a hand.”
“I bet it’s not his hand he’s hoping to give her.”
Feeney could only wince. “Please. Don’t put such pictures in my head.”
“I like to share, since they keep getting jammed into mine. Pictures,” she repeated and gestured to the wall. “I don’t think he’s here. No nice little photos sitting around his mother’s room. There would’ve been. She’d have had some of him in there, or sitting around.”
“Mothers tend to,” Feeney agreed.
“Figures, especially given his line of work or interest. So he cleared out any images of himself, just in case.”
Trying to ignore what may or may not be going on in the bedroom, she tapped an evidence bag. “The mother liked Barrymore products. He left her enhancements in her room.”
She jerked her head toward the open hallway door. “Yancy’s still working on the witness—stubborn twit. Hopefully, he’ll have it done soon, but I figure you should start an image search on the faces here anyway, see if anything pops.”
“Take awhile.” He brightened. “I’ll have McNab do it. Keep his hands, and everything else on him, where it belongs.”
“Works for me. I’m going to goose Yancy in a minute. If he’s making progress I’m taking Roarke and checking out the parking facilities he tagged for us. Be easier if we have the guy’s face to show around.
“He’s coming back here, Feeney. His mother’s things are here, this gallery of photos, some of his clothes, his mom’s girl stuff. There’s still food in the kitchen, and he’s too compulsive and well-trained to let it spoil. But he’s got work to do. I think he wants to finish his work before he comes home. The neighbor was right. He’s on assignment.”
“How close is he?”
“Pretty close to done. He knows we’re moving in. He’s had to move to backup plans. It’s not that he planned to kill until he got caught.” Face set, she dropped the bag of enhancements back onto a table. “He planned to kill until he was finished. It’s not the thrill that drives him, it’s the work, so he has an endgame. He wants us to see it, wants us to see the finished work. He may have to move a little quicker now to get it done, so he can show it off before we stop him. He’ll have the next target in sight by now.”
“Lieutenant.” Pretty-faced Yancy leaned against the doorway. “I think we’ve got it. Sorry it took so long. It’s tougher when the witness figures we’re, you know, full of shit.”
“Are you confident she’s not stringing you?”
“Oh yeah. I explained, really politely and apologetically, that she could be charged with obstruction and so forth if she knowingly gave me a false image. Her lawyer made lots of lawyer noises, then verified—that’s another thing that delayed the result.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
He pulled out his Identi-pad, turned it so she could view the finished image.
“Jesus Christ.” Her heart did a quick leap into her throat. “Transmit that image to Central. I want every black-and-white, every on-duty officer to have that image ASAP. Suspect is identified as Gerald Stevenson, aka Steve Audrey, employed as bartender at Make The Scene. Get it out, Yancy, now!”
She yanked her communicator out of her pocket and tried to raise Baxter.
He’d given it the hour, and saw nothing more than the usual scene. A crowd of mostly kids, preening and parading, sipping ridiculously named drinks and heating up the keyboards when they weren’t jamming onto the dance floor.
Not that he didn’t enjoy watching young, agile female bodies gyrate in skimpy summer clothes, but the music was too loud, too brash.
It gave him a mild headache, and worse—much worse—made him feel old.
He wanted to go home, prop up his feet, suck down a beer, and watch some screen.
Christ, when had he become his father?
What he needed was to get cozy with a woman again. A noncop type female with long lines and soft curves. The job had been eating up too much of his recreational time—whi
ch went to show what happened when you transferred to Homicide from Anti-Crime, ended up under Dallas—and not in a sexual way—and took on a green rookie.
Nothing wrong with Trueheart, though, he had to admit it as he tracked his gaze across the room and saw his boy sipping a soda water and chatting up some fresh-faced young thing.
Kid was bright as a polished star, eager as a puppy, and would work until he dropped. He’d never figured on taking on the responsibility of trainer, but by damn, he was enjoying it.
Made him feel good the way the kid looked to him for advice, listened to his stories, believed his bullshit.
Oh yeah, he was turning into his old man right in front of his own eyes.
Time to clock out and go home.
He paid his tab, noting the change of shift at the bar. He wasn’t the only one calling it a night.
Casually, he made a circle, around the tables, scanning faces one last time, watching the data hounds, eyeballing the staff. He waited until Trueheart shifted his gaze, then Baxter tapped his wrist unit in the signal they were packing it in.
Trueheart nodded, turned his glass on the bar to indicate he’d just finish up, then head on home himself.
Working well together, Baxter decided as he walked out into the heavy air. Kid’s coming along fine. He glanced up once at the storm-tossed sky, and hoped to hell he made it home before it broke.
He was in his car, and ten full blocks uptown, when his communicator signalled.
“Ah, shit, Dallas. Can’t a guy go home once in a damn while?” Grumbling to himself, he pulled out his communicator. “Baxter. What the hell do you want now?”
“Suspect’s ID’d. Gerald Stevenson is Steve Audrey, your friendly, fucking bartender.”
He shot a look at his rearview, his sideview mirrors, then cut across a lane of traffic before he was pinned in by a maxibus and a streamline of Rapid Cabs. “I’m ten blocks away, heading north. I’ll double back. Suspect clocked off shift at twenty-one hundred. Trueheart’s still in there.”
“Contacting him now. Keep your communicator open and active. Get back there, Baxter. I don’t want the kid handling this alone. I’m already on my way.”