by J. D. Robb
But she let Peabody guide her away.
When the door closed behind them, Randa blew her nose. “She can’t help it. They were really tight. And Charlie’s a drama major.”
“Is that what she’s studying, or is it just her personality?”
As Eve hoped, Randa’s lips trembled into a smile. “Both. But, I don’t feel like I’ll ever get over this either. I don’t feel like I’ll ever think about anything else.”
“You will. You won’t forget it, but you’ll get through it. I know you and Charlie, and a lot of the other people I’ve talked to, liked Rachel.”
“You just had to.” Randa sniffed. “She was just the kind of person who lights things up. You know?”
“Yes,” Eve agreed. “Sometimes people are jealous of someone like that. Or they dislike them because of what they are inside. Can you think of anyone who felt that way about Rachel?”
“I really can’t. I mean, she only went here part-time, but she made a lot of friends. She was smart. Really smart, but she didn’t geek.”
“Anybody who wanted to be a better friend than she did?”
“Oh, like a guy?” Randa drew a breath now. The tears were drying up as her mind became occupied. “She dated around. She didn’t sleep around. She was really firm about not giving it out until she was good and ready. If a guy pushed, she’d turn it around into a joke until they got to be friends, or if that didn’t work, she’d walk away.”
“She ever mention somebody named Diego?”
“Oh, him.” Randa wrinkled her nose. “God’s gift, Latino type, hooked onto her at the club. She went to dinner with him once, some Mex restaurant he said he owned. He tried to put the moves on her, wasn’t too happy when she deflected. Came by campus once and got a little hot because she laughed him off. That was a few months ago, I guess.”
“Got a last name for him?”
“No. Um, short guy, too much hair, soul patch. Always wearing those cow-kicker boots with little heels. But he could dance.”
“Anybody else try to put the moves on her?”
“Well, there was Hoop. Jackson Hooper. He’s a TA, a teacher assistant—English Lit. Another one of those God’s gifts, but whitebread style. He racks girls up like pool balls, and Rachel wouldn’t play. He came on pretty strong, following her around. Not stalking her,” Randa qualified. “Just being where she was a lot, and making plays. We all figured it was because she was the first girl to turn him down in his life, and he didn’t want to spoil his streak.”
“Did he end up where she was just on campus, or did it happen elsewhere?”
“She said he came into the store where she works a couple times. Just hanging around and being charming. She got a kick out of it, actually.”
“When did you see her last, Randa?”
“I didn’t make dinner, had to study. She was talking about bunking here after class. She did that sometimes on her evening classes. She’s not really supposed to, but nobody cared. Everyone liked having her around. But when she didn’t show, we just figured she’d gone home. I didn’t even think about it.”
Two fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. “I didn’t think about her at all. Charlie was out, and I had the room to myself. All I thought was, how nice and quiet it was so I could study. And when I was thinking that, somebody killed Rachel.”
They tracked down Jackson Hooper at another dorm. The minute he opened the door, Eve knew word had spread. His face was a bit pale, and his lips trembled once before he firmed them into a thin line.
“You’re the cops.”
“Jackson Hooper? We’d like to come in and speak with you for a few minutes.”
“Yeah.” He dragged his hand through a tousled mop of sun-streaked hair as he stepped back.
He was tall, and he was built. The kind of body created through regular workouts or through stiff fees for body sculpting treatments. Since he was a teaching assistant, his quarters were even smaller than the ones she’d just come from, and he was probably strapped for cash, she opted for workouts.
That meant he was strong, disciplined, and motivated.
He had chiseled looks—the All-American boy—clear skin, blue eyes, firm jaw. It was easy enough to see why he’d rack up available coeds.
He dropped into the spindly chair at his desk, and gestured vaguely toward the bed. “I just heard about ten minutes ago. I was heading to class and somebody told me. I couldn’t go to class.”
“You dated Rachel.”
“We went out a couple times.” He hesitated, then rubbed his face as if coming out of a long sleep. “Somebody’s already told you. Somebody’s always hot to talk. I wanted to go out with her again, and yeah, I wanted her in the sack. She wasn’t having any.”
“That must’ve irritated you,” Eve commented and wandered over to the framed photographs grouped on his wall. They were all of him, in various poses. A nice little pile of vanity, she thought.
“Yeah, it did. I don’t have any trouble getting girls in bed. I’m good at it,” he said with a shrug. “So I was a little steamed when she wouldn’t go for it, then kept turning me down when I asked her out. More, I was like, well, baffled. Hey.” He flashed a white, straight-toothed smile as he gestured toward the photographs. “Prime merchandise.”
“But Rachel wasn’t buying it.”
“Nope. So I was steamed, and I was baffled. But then, you know, I was interested. Like, what was it going to take. And what was it with this girl anyway? So I got hooked.” He lowered his head into his hands. “Fuck.”
“You followed her around.”
“Like a pet droid. I’d find out she was going to a club, or heading to the library, whatever, and I’d be there. I trotted over to the place she worked just to talk to her. Borrowed my roommate’s scooter so I could talk her into letting me take her home a couple times. She’d let me. I didn’t worry her one damn bit.”
“Did you fight with her?”
“I shot off my mouth a few times. She’d just laugh, then what could you do? Another girl would’ve told me to screw myself, but she’d just laugh. I think maybe I was in love with her.” He dropped his hands. “I think maybe I was. How do you know?”
“Where were you last night, Hoop?”
“I was going to catch her after her class, see if I could talk her into a cup of coffee, or some pizza. Something. But I got hung up. A couple of the guys got into a shoving match, and I had to break it up. She was gone when I got over there. I beat it to the subway, figuring maybe I could catch her there, and when I didn’t I took it over to her place in Brooklyn. But the light wasn’t on in her room. She always turns the light on in her room when she gets home. I hung around maybe an hour—I don’t know. Went and had a beer, walked back, still didn’t see her light. Then I said what the fuck, and came back here.”
“What time did you get back?”
“I don’t know, close to midnight, I guess.”
“Anybody see you?”
“I don’t know. I was irritated and feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t talk to anybody.”
“What about your roommate?”
“He’s banging a girl off campus. He’s there more than here. He wasn’t around when I got in. I didn’t hurt Rachel. I didn’t hurt her.”
“Where’d you have the beer?”
“Some bar—a couple blocks up from the subway over there.” He gestured vaguely to indicate Brooklyn. “I don’t know the name.”
“These pictures look professional,” Eve commented.
“What? Oh yeah. I do some modeling. It’s good money. I’m writing a play. That’s what I want to be—a playwright. You have to live pretty lean to make it. So I pick up coin where I can. TA, dorm monitor, modeling. I got certified as an LC last year, but it’s not what I thought it would be. I never figured sex could be work—and boring.”
“Got a camera?”
“Yeah, somewhere. Why?”
“I wondered if you liked to take pictures, too.”
“I don�
��t see why . . . oh Rachel, her Imaging class.” He smiled a little. “I should’ve thought of that one. As TA I could’ve monitored that class, hung out with her.” The smile faded. “I’d’ve been there last night when class ended. I’d’ve been with her.”
“Keep him on the short list,” Eve told Peabody as they headed back to the car. “He had motive, means, and opportunity. We’ll run him a little deeper, see if anything pops.”
“He seemed really torn up about it.”
“Yeah, really torn up over a girl who laughed at him, who wouldn’t fall at his feet begging for his pretty penis, and who let her friends know she’d turned him down.”
She slid into the car. “He’s got an ego the size of Saturn, and as a model potential knowledge of photography, and access to the necessary equipment. He knew where she lived, where she worked, he knew her movements and habits. She trusted him because she believed she could handle him. So we’ll take a good, long look at him.”
She headed back to Central to tie up loose ends. The tox report on Rachel Howard was waiting for her. At least she hadn’t known what was done to her, Eve thought as she scanned it. Not with all those opiates in her system.
So he’d tranq’d her, she thought, leaning back in her desk chair. Before transport, or during? Either way, he had a vehicle. Or he’d lured her somewhere. An apartment, a studio. Had to be private. Then he’d slipped her the drugs.
If it was the last scenario, she’d known him. She was too smart to be lured by a stranger.
She was his first, he’d said. But he’d been well prepared. Step by step. Selecting, observing, recording. Youth and vitality, she thought. He’d wanted to own them. And her innocence.
She’d walked out of class at nine. Had he waited for her? She spotted him, flashed that smile. Maybe he offered her a ride home, but she turned him down. Going to study with pals, but thanks. A couple of her classmates had verified that. She told them she was going to stay on campus, study with some friends.
He couldn’t afford to be seen, so how had he lured her?
Staged the run-in, she decided. He was good at staging. Maybe he’s on foot. Easy to meld and blend. But he has to make her take a detour, has to get her into his vehicle. Can’t take a chance on public transportation.
He wants her face in the media—his image—so he knows she could be recognized after the murder. And he could be described. So, no subway, no buses, no cabs. Private vehicle.
But why did she go with him?
She began to write her report, hoping that some of the facts she put in would trip over into theory.
Her desk ’link beeped.
“Dallas.” Captain Feeney’s hangdog face slid onto the screen. Noting the crumbs at the corner of his mouth, she leaned closer to the ’link.
“You got danishes up there?”
“No.” He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Not anymore.”
“How come EDD always rates pastries and stuff? Murder cops need sugar substitute the same as the rest.”
“We are the elite, what can I say. We’re finished with Nadine’s ’link.”
“And?”
“Nothing that’s going to help much. He transmitted the images and text from a public comp at one of those dance, drink, and data joints. Transmitted it just after six hundred hours, but he shot it out earlier, with a hold. Shot it out about two. Straight job—he didn’t bounce it around. Either he doesn’t know how, or he didn’t give two shits. Those places are crawling that time of night. Nobody’s going to remember some guy who popped in for a brew and used a ’link.”
“We’ll check it out anyway. Location?”
“Place called Make The Scene.”
“Pop.”
“Mean something?”
“It’s a club she frequented. Thanks. Quick work.”
“That’s why we’re the elite, and get danishes.”
“Bite me,” she muttered and cut him off.
She swung into the bullpen. There were no danishes, she noted. There weren’t even crumbs. She’d have to settle for a Power Bar from vending or take a chance on the food at the data club.
Surely it couldn’t be worse than a Power Bar.
“Peabody, we’re in the field.”
“I was just about to have this sandwich.” She held up a wrapped lump.
“Then you should be thrilled to be able to demonstrate those multitasking skills. Eat and roll.”
“This is bad for the digestion,” Peabody replied, but she stuffed the sandwich in her bag, grabbed her tube of OrangeAde.
“EDD’s got the location of the transmission to Nadine.”
“I know. McNab told me.”
Eve pushed through the crowd on the elevator and studied her aide’s face. “I just got off the ’link with Feeney, his superior—as I am yours. So why is it my aide and his detective are chatting about the information in my investigation?”
“It just happened to come up—between kissy noises.” She smiled, pleased when Eve’s eye twitched. “And sexual innuendos.”
“As soon as this case is closed, I’m putting in for a new aide—one who has no sexual drive whatsoever—and transferring you to Files.”
“Aw. Now that you’ve hurt my feelings, I’m not inclined to share my sandwich.”
Eve held out for ten seconds. “What kind is it?”
“Mine.”
It was also some sort of fake ham drowned in fake mayo. Eve was forced to shift to auto on the trip, then grab Peabody’s tube of OrangeAde to try to wash down the two bites she scrounged. “Christ, how do you drink this crap?”
“I happen to think it’s refreshing, and find it goes very well with the shortbread cookies I have for dessert.” She took the tiny package out of her bag and made a production out of opening it.
“Give me a goddamn cookie, or I’ll hurt you. You know I can.”
“My fear is almost as great as my love for you, Lieutenant.”
Eve found a slot on the second level, curbside, and zipped up the ramp at a speed and angle that had Peabody’s lunch lurching dangerously in her belly.
Delicately, Eve brushed cookie crumbs off her shirt. “Smartasses always pay.”
“You never do,” Peabody said under her breath.
Chapter 4
In the daylight hours, the action at data clubs whittled down to the geeks and nerds who thought they were living on the edge by hanging in a joint that offered a holoband and sports screens.
The stations were silver, and so small, so crammed together that even the shyest nerd was virtually guaranteed a free feel of a neighboring butt during peak hours.
The holoband was in mellow mode, with soft guitars and whispering keyboard with the vocals going for plaintive croon. The girl singer was dressed in black to match her glossy skin. The only spot of color was her stoplight red hair that fell over most of her face while she murmured something about broken hearts and minds.
The clientele was primarily male, primarily solo, and since no one looked distressed or interested in Peabody’s uniform, Eve figured a sweep of the place wouldn’t net an Illegals hound enough of a cache to fill a dwarf’s pocket.
She made her way to the sluggishly circling central bar.
There were two servers, a human male and a female droid. Eve opted for the one that breathed.
His dress was trendy—the loose shirt in sunset colors, the small army of multicolored loops riding up the curve of his left ear, the crop of spikes in the crown of his ordinary brown hair.
His shoulders were wide, his arms long. There was a sturdiness about him that told her he had a few years on the afternoon clientele. His face was white, edging toward pasty.
She pegged him at mid- to late twenties, probably a grad student, a shaky step up from geekdom, earning his tuition by manning the stick and chatting up the patrons.
He stopped playing with the small computer set on the bar and offered her an absent smile. “What can I do for you?”
Eve set h
er badge and the smiling image of Rachel Howard on the bar. “You recognize her?”
He used a fingertip to nudge the image closer and gave it the earnest study that told her he was fairly new at the job. “Well, sure. That’s, ah, shoot. Rebecca, Roseanne, no . . . Rachel? I’m pretty good with names. I think it’s Rachel. She’s in here most every week. Likes, ah, whatzit?” He closed his eyes. “Toreadors—orange juice, lime juice, a shot of grenadine. She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Yeah, she’s in trouble. You remember the names and the drinks of all the patrons here?”
“The regulars, sure. Well, especially the pretty girl regulars. She’s got a great face, and she’s friendly.”
“When was the last time she was here?”
“I don’t know, exactly. This is one of my part-time jobs. But the last time I remember being here and seeing her was maybe last Friday? I work the six to midnight on Friday. Hey, look, she never caused any trouble in here. She just comes in now and then with some friends. They grab a station, listen to tunes, dance, keyboard. She’s a nice girl.”
“You ever notice anyone hassling her?”
“Not so much. Like I said, she’s a pretty girl. Sometimes guys would hit on her. Sometimes she’d hit back, sometimes she’d blow them off. But nice. Things get zipping in here after nine, especially weekends. You get the cruisers, but this one always came in with a friend, or a group. She wasn’t looking for a one-nighter. You can tell.”
“Uh-huh. You know a guy named Diego?”
“Ah . . .” He looked blank for a moment, then drew his eyebrows together in concentration. “I think I know who you mean. Little guy, cruiser. Likes to strut around. Got some good moves on the dance floor and he’s always flush, so he didn’t leave alone very often.”
“Did he ever leave with Rachel?”
“Shit.” He winced. “Sorry. Not her type. She flicked him off. Danced with him. She’d dance with anybody, but she wasn’t after that kind of action. Maybe he tried to put the squeeze on her a few times, now that you mention it, but it wasn’t a big deal. No more than Joe College.”
“Joe?”