by J. D. Robb
“The unmedicated kind. He bandaged the wound, but no point in medication because, hey, dead girl. But he didn’t want her bleeding on her shirt.” He brought up a close-up image of the wound on-screen. “No corresponding hole in the shirt she was wearing. He didn’t stab her through the shirt or the bra.”
“He took them off her first,” Eve murmured. “Maybe not off, maybe just loosened them. Stabbed her. Pressure bandage to stop the bleeding so it didn’t get on her clothes for the shot. Buttoned her back up, posed her. But when he’s done, he takes the bandage off again. Why?”
She paced away to think. “Because he was done. He’s finished with her and she’s just garbage now. Maybe he worries about fingerprints on the bandage, or that it can somehow be traced back to him. Or maybe he doesn’t think or worry about that, and just kept it back as a fucking souvenir.” She dragged a hand through her hair.
“I’ve seen sicker,” Dickie commented.
“Yeah, there’s always sicker.”
“Trina’d be a good source on the enhancements,” Peabody said as they got back into the car. “She’d know all the local and online sources for the products.”
“Yeah.” Eve had already thought of that. And of what would happen if she contacted the stylist. She’d be trapped into some sort of horrifying and sadistic session that involved haircuts and facials and body treatments.
She shuddered.
“You talk to her.”
“Coward.”
“That’s right. Want to make something of it?”
Peabody studied Eve’s hair. “You could probably use a little trim.”
“Maybe you could use a good colonic.”
Peabody hunched her shoulders. “Just saying.”
“Contact her when you’re back in your cube. I don’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity. If she asks, tell her I’m on a top-secret investigation off planet. I may not be back for weeks. No, years.”
“Check. Meanwhile?”
“Diego.”
“It’s not lunchtime.”
“You can have a breakfast burrito.”
But Peabody knew she was doomed to go hungry within five minutes of entering the pretty cantina. It smelled great. All spicy and exotic. Kids were chomping down their morning meals in booths and four-tops, giving the place a buzzy chatter while the waitstaff moved along efficiently, topping off mugs of fancy coffees.
Diego didn’t work the breakfast shift they were told by one of the busy waitresses. Nobody saw him until noon when he surfaced from his apartment above the cantina.
“Works the lunch and dinner shifts,” Eve said as they headed up to the apartment. “Better tips, more action. Comes from having an uncle as a boss. See if he’s got a vehicle registered under his name, Peabody. Then check the uncle, or the business for a van.”
“On it.”
Peabody started the search as Eve knocked on the door. There was silence, so she used her fist. Moments later there was a spate of Spanish. From the tone, she took it to be curses. She pounded again, and held her badge up to the Judas hole.
“Open up, Diego.”
“Nothing under his name,” Peabody said under her breath. “Uncle’s got a late-model sedan, and a service van.”
She broke off when Diego opened the door and she was treated to a blast of color from a pair of electric blue pajamas.
McNab, she thought, would totally dig on them.
“What’s this about?” His eyes were dark and slumberous, his stance both lazy and cocky. As he scanned Eve, his full lips set in a leering smile while he lifted a finger to run it over the dot of beard on his receding chin.
“Questions. Want me to ask them out here, or inside?”
He shrugged, using one shoulder, then swept his hand in what was supposed to be a courtly gesture as he stepped back. “I always welcome ladies into my home. Coffee?”
“No. Night before last. You know the drill.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where were you night before last, Diego? Who were you with, what were you doing?”
She got a look at the room while she spoke. Small, furnished in sex-god style of red and black. Overly warm and smelling too strongly of some musky male cologne.
“I was with a lady, of course.” He flashed brilliantly white teeth. “And we were making sweet, sweet love all night long.”
“Lady got a name?”
He cast his heavily lashed eyes downward. “I’m too much of a gentleman to say.”
“Then I’ll give you one. Rachel Howard.”
He continued to smile, and lifted his hands, palms up.
Eve gestured to Peabody, and took the picture of Rachel, held it out. “Refreshed?”
“Ah, yes. Pretty Rachel of the dancing feet. We had a brief and beautiful romance, but I had to end it.” He laid a dramatic hand on his heart, and a gold ring winked on his pinky. “She wanted too much of me. I have to give myself to all the ladies, not just one.”
“You ended it? By stabbing her in the heart and tossing her in a recyler?”
The smirk vanished as his jaw dropped, and his expression went bright with fear. “What is this?”
“She was killed night before last. Word is you were hassling her, Diego.”
“No. No way.” The slight Spanish accent disappeared, and his voice was all New York. “We danced a few times, that’s all, in that data club a lot of the college crowd hangs in. I hit on her, okay, no crime in that.”
“You came by her place of employment.”
“So what? So the hell what? Wanted a taste, that’s all.”
“What about your brief and beautiful romance?”
He sat now, looking slightly ill. “We never got down to it. I took her to dinner, showed her a nice time, then she brushed me off. Challenged me, so I put the squeeze on. Figured she was playing me, wanted a pursuit.”
“Want to give me that lady’s name now?”
“I don’t know it. Jesus. I was on the bounce, club to club. Got a little action with some girl at her place. On the East Side. Shit. Second Avenue. Halley, Heather, Hester. Fuck if I know. Just some blonde chica who wanted a bang.”
“You’re going to want to do better.”
“Look.” He put his head in his hands a moment, then scooped them through all the glossy black. “We were wasted, okay? Scored a little Zoner, dipped a little Erotica. Went to her place. Second, I know it was Second, maybe in the Thirties. Near a subway, ’cause I caught a train home at three, maybe four in the morning. It was just a one-night bang. Who pays attention?”
Eve nodded toward the pictures of naked and scantily clad woman that graced his walls. “You like to take pictures, Diego?”
“Huh? Oh. Man, what is this? I download them from the Net, frame ’em up. I like looking at women, so what? I like women, and they like me. I don’t go around killing them.”
“Slimy,” was Peabody’s opinion when they walked back to the car.
“Yeah, slimy’s an offense, but it’s not a crime. We’ll get a search for the uncle’s vehicles, see if we get a fiber match. But I can’t see him planning this out. Popping her in the heat of the moment, maybe, but putting all the parts in play? He’s a petty operator. Still, he’d be able to score the opiates, had contact with the victim, a reason to be annoyed with her, played in the club where the transmission was sent, and has access to a vehicle that fits the general type we suspect was used for transport. We’ll keep him on the short list.”
“What now?”
“We’re going shopping.”
“Sir, have you had a blow to the head recently?”
“Cameras, Peabody. We’re going to take a look at cameras.”
She’d run a list the night before of the top outlets for cameras and imaging supplies in the city. This was someone who considered himself a professional, even an artist, and who took pride in his work. To Eve, that meant he’d take pride in his tools.
A good investigator had to understand the murder weapon. A came
ra had killed Rachel, every bit as much as the knife through her heart.
She stepped into Image Makers on Fifth.
Businesslike, she noted, scanning the shelves and counters. Organized. In addition to products there were two wall screens that ran various still photos, all very colorful and artsy.
A small, dark-haired man in a limp white shirt hustled right over to her. “Something I can show you?”
“Depends.” She flipped her jacket to show the badge she’d hooked to her belt. “I got some questions.”
“Christ on a crutch I paid those traffic citations. I got a receipt.”
“Good to know. This isn’t about traffic citations. I have some questions about cameras. About photographs, imaging.” She drew out the candid shot of Rachel at work. “What do you think of this?”
He took it—fingertips and thumb—at the corners. Then immediately huffed out a breath. “I saw this. On the news. This is that girl they found downtown. It’s a dirty shame. A damn, dirty shame.”
“Yeah, it is. What about the photograph. Is it any good? Artistically speaking.”
“I sell cameras. I don’t know dick about art. It’s good resolution. Wasn’t taken with a throwaway. Hold on.”
He hustled away again, signalled to a woman behind the counter. “Nella. Take a look at this.”
The woman was thin as a stick with magenta hair that rose up in a six-inch loop that curled back into the crown of her head. Beneath the arrangement, her face was a triangle of absolute white relieved by magenta lips and eyes.
She studied the photo, then Eve.
“This is the dead girl.” Her voice was nasal Queens. “I saw her on the news. The sick fuck who killed her take this?”
“That’s the theory. How’s the sick fuck as an imager?”
Nella laid the photo on the counter, examined it. Held it up to the light, put it down again, and looked at it through a hand-held magnifier.
“Good. Pro or talented amateur. It’s got excellent resolution—good texture, light, shadows, angles. Shows a connection with the subject.”
“What do you mean, connection?”
Nella opened a drawer, took out a pack of gum. She continued to study the print as she unwrapped a stick. “He’s not just snapping shots of the family dog or the Grand fucking Canyon. This shows an affection and understanding of the subject. An appreciation for her personality. It’s a good candid portrait done with a good eye and a steady hand.”
“What kind of camera did he use?”
“What am I? Sherlock fucking Holmes?” She cackled at her own wit and folded the gum into her mouth.
“What would you use, if you took yourself seriously? If you wanted to document a subject without her knowledge?”
“Bornaze 6000 or the Rizeri 5M, if I had bags of money. The Hiserman DigiKing, if I didn’t.” She pulled a camera the size of her palm out of the display. “This here’s the Rizeri. Top-of-the-line pocket model. You want candid, you need small. But you want art, you probably don’t go for the lapel or spy size, so if you’re any good, this is your baby. Especially for serious work. This interfaces with any comp.”
“How many of these do you sell in a month’s time?”
“Hell, we maybe sell a dozen of these in a year. The good news is they are damn near indestructible. And that’s the bad news, too. You buy one, you got it for life unless you upgrade. And at this point, there’s nowhere to upgrade.”
“Got a client list for the three models you mentioned?”
Nella snapped her gum. “You think that sick fuck bought something here?”
“Gotta start somewhere.”
“We’ll run the three brands,” Eve told Peabody when they walked out. “Start citywide, see if anyone pops. I’ll do a probability on them, but I’m betting top-of-the-line. We cross the cameras with the enhancements, and maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“What if he rented the equipment?”
“Don’t burst my bubble.” But she leaned on the car before opening the door. “Yeah, I thought of that, but we go with purchase first. How many professional photographers do you figure are in the city?”
“Can this be a multiple choice question?”
“We’re going to find out. We’ll start with four sectors. Crime scene, victim’s residence, college, data club. He had to see her to want her. She had to know him, at least by sight, to go with him. Once we get that, we go back to interviews. People who knew her, taught her, worked with her. Area photographers, imaging artists.”
Her dash ’link beeped as she merged with traffic, and McNab’s pretty face popped on.
He had his long blond hair pulled back to show off the trio of silver hoops in his earlobe.
“Lieutenant . . . Officer. I’ve pegged your unit. If you want to swing by and—haha—make the scene, I’m—”
“Get it to Central,” Eve told him. “The transmission to Nadine was sent at one-twenty with a hold. Run the security disc. I want to see who was using that station at that time. I want that individual ID’d asap. I’m on my way in.”
“Yes, sir. But it might take me a little while to—”
“Status meeting at eleven hundred. I’m booking a conference room now.” She shot a look at Peabody who obediently pulled out her communicator to do so. “Be there, with the data.” She waited a beat. “Fast work, Detective.”
His face brightened again before she cut him off.
“Conference room A, Lieutenant,” Peabody told her.
“Fine. Contact Feeney and ask him to join us.”
She had time to organize her own data, to run probabilities, to study both the lab and ME reports before updating her own. Then guilt had her contacting Nadine.
“I wanted to bring you up to speed, but there isn’t a hell of a lot I can tell you.”
“Will tell me,” Nadine corrected.
“Can or will. I’ve got angles I’m working, and a lead I’m about to look at more closely.”
“What lead?”
“If anything breaks out of it, I’ll tell you. You have my word. I’m not cutting you out, I just don’t have anything to give you.”
“There’s always something. Give me something.”
Eve hesitated, then blew out a breath. “You can say that a source at Cop Central confirmed that there was no sexual assault, and investigators believe that the victim knew her killer. The primary is unavailable for comment at this time.”
“Slick. See, there’s always something. Has the body been released to the family?”
“The Medical Examiner will release the body to the victim’s family tomorrow. I’ve got to go, Nadine. I’ve got a meeting.”
“One more thing. Will you confirm that the primary, and the investigative team, believe Rachel Howard’s killer will kill again?”
“No, I will not. Don’t play that card, Nadine. Don’t play that card until it falls.”
She broke transmission, rubbed her hands over her face. Because, she thought, it was going to fall soon enough.
She was the first to arrive in the conference room, so she settled down, took out her notebook, and began to write and review.
Images, youth, pure, portrait, light.
Her light was pure.
Virginity?
How the hell would the killer know her sexual status?
Had the killer been a confidant? A potential lover? Counselor, authority figure?
Who did Rachel trust? Eve wondered and brought the pretty, smiling face back into her mind.
Every damn body.
Had she herself ever trusted people so completely, so simply? Hardly, Eve thought. But then again, she hadn’t come from a nice, stable home, with nice, stable parents and a perky kid sister. Everything had been almost preternaturally normal in Rachel’s life. Up until the last hours of it. Family, friends, school, a shitty part-time job, a settled neighborhood.
At Rachel’s age Eve had already graduated from the Academy, had already donned a cop’s uniform. Had already seen
death. Had already caused it.
And she hadn’t been a virgin, not since she’d been six. Seven? How old had she been the first time her father had raped her?
What difference did it make? Her light had sure as hell never been pure.
That’s what had drawn him to her. What he’d wanted from her. Her simplicity, her innocence. He’d killed her for them.
She looked over as McNab came in, carting the bulky unit from the data club.
She couldn’t stop herself from checking the rhythm of his walk. The previous month he’d taken a direct hit with a police issue, and it had taken several worry-filled days until the feeling had started to come back in his left side.
He wasn’t quite back to prancing again, Eve noted. But there was no limp, no drag in the step. And the stringy muscles in both arms were bulging satisfactorily at the effort of carrying the unit.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.” He puffed a bit, and his cheeks were already red from hauling the weight. “Just take me a minute to set up.”
“You’re not late yet.” She watched him as he worked.
He wore summer-weight pants in grass green with a skin top that had green-and-white stripes. The vest over it was hot pink, like his gel sandals.
Rachel had been wearing jeans and a blue shirt. Slip-on canvas shoes. Two little pinprick studs, silver, in each ear.
Victim and cop, she thought, might have come from different planets.
So why did a conservative young girl frequent a data club? She wasn’t a geek or a freak, a nerd or a cruiser. What was the draw?
“You hit the data clubs on your off-time, McNab?”
“Nah, not so much. Boredom city. I did some when I was a kid, and fresh into the city. Figured I’d find action, and skirts who’d be impressed with my magical skills with the comps.”
“And you found them? Action and skirts?”
“Sure.” He sent her a quick and wicked grin. “All pre–She-Body era.”
“What was she doing there, McNab?”
“Huh? Peabody?”
“Rachel.” She scooted the picture down the table toward where he was working. “What was she looking for in that club?”
He angled his head to study the picture. “It’s a big draw for students, especially under drinking age. You can go in and play grownup. Nonalcoholic drinks with snappy names, hot music. You got the comps so you can do homework, break, take a spin on the dance floor, talk about classes, flirt. Whatever. It’s like, I don’t know, a bridge between being a kid and being an adult. That’s why you don’t see many over-thirties in those places.”