by J. D. Robb
“Too many,” Eve agreed. “But it'd be risky. Someone could take her from you. Private,” she said again. “Can you get the blueprints for the building — the dance school?” When his answer was simply a long look, she rolled her eyes. “Go ahead, show off. Let me see the uncle's data. Sasha Korchov.”
“I've got deeper data on Natalya Barinova as well.”
“It's a man. Go with the man first.”
Benign. That was the word Roarke had used to describe Beata's coworker and his roommates. It was a word that came to mind with Sasha. Dreamy eyes, she remembered — a little like Dennis Mira there — and indeed his ID photo showed the same, along with the soft smile.
But the images Roarke had dug up from before the accident that had cost him his career and his lover showed a dynamic, intense, passionate man. Leaping, spinning a long, leanly muscled body showcased in dramatic costumes. The mane of hair coal black, the eyes on fire.
“How do you lose that?” she murmured. “Lose that energy, that passion, that fierceness? It must be almost like death or losing someone to death. Something breaks, something more than a leg, an arm. Something gets crushed, more than a foot, more than ribs.”
How do you get over the anger — that's what she'd asked Lopez about survivors, about families who lost someone to murder.
“You lost your badge once,” Roarke reminded her. “What did it do to you?”
“Destroyed me. Temporarily. Cut me off from what I was. But I had you to help bring me back, and I got my badge back. He lost his woman, too. His woman,” she repeated. “Another dancer. And look here, they danced the Diabolique ballet together. The Devil was his signature role. Son of a bitch. I should've seen it.”
“The building has a basement,” Roarke told her. “It runs the length and width of the building and holds a number of rooms, listed as storage and/or utility and maintenance on the plans.”
“Who owns the building?”
“Funny you should ask. He owns it. He made quite a bit of money during his career and was awarded a large settlement after the accident.”
“He's got no record anywhere. Unless it got covered up. No history of violence.”
“Money can smooth the way.”
“Yeah.” She angled her head at Roarke. “It can. But you can usually find a few bumps in the media. Speculation, gossip. A man might not be charged and still be guilty.”
“I'll see what I come across, and it's telling, I think, that he gave no interviews I can find, no public statements or appearances after the accident.”
“He went underground,” Eve murmured. “So to speak. Lost everything that mattered to him? That could be it. Had his sister, and she left her home and possibly the remains of her career to come here with him, bringing her infant son. Dreamy eyes,” she recalled. “Medication? His medicals show extensive injuries from the accident, the kind a man's lucky to live through. Had to have a lot of pain.”
More than physical, she decided, thinking of losing her badge again. Much more than physical pain.
“He sits in that studio now playing music for others to dance to. For this beautiful young woman who's about the same age, the same build and coloring as the woman he loved. She's going to dance that same role with his nephew.
“Would that piss him off, make him sad? They go to Vegas.” She stopped as her gut twisted. “Natalya said they go to Las Vegas to be showgirls. Maybe Beata's not the first.”
She strode to the auxiliary comp, started a search for missing persons, female of the same age group, coded in ballet.
“There's some speculation and juice regarding a young Sasha Korchov and his temper. Storming off stage at rehearsals, berating other dancers — neither of which is particularly unusual,” Roarke added. “And more, here and there, about wild parties and breaking up hotel rooms and such. Before he met and danced with Arial Nurenski. She, it's speculated here, was balm to his troubled spirit and other romantic analogies. She changed him, calmed him, inspired him. They were to be married two weeks after the accident that killed her.”
“Vanessa Warwich, age twenty-two, last seen leaving a café to go to rehearsal at the West Side School for the Arts. She was to dance the role of Angel in their autumn gala — just like Beata. That was two years ago. There are more.” She looked over at Roarke. “I need to cross-reference, find a connection with the school or Barin, or the role.”
“Send me your list. I'll take half.”
She shot the data to his computer. “Roarke, if he's been taking these women, holding them, trapped in a basement? He is a devil.”
They found eight.
Nine
It was no backyard barbecue, but it had nearly the same guest list. In the conference room at Cop Central, Eve laid out what she had.
“Nine women over twenty-three years,” she began, “with a direct or indirect connection to the school, or a connection to the ballet, have gone missing. All were in their early to mid twenties, dark hair, slim build. All were dancers, and all vanished without a solid explanation.”
She turned to the screen, to the images. “In some cases they'd made some noises about leaving the city; in most there were personal items missing from their apartments, as if they had done so.”
“The nine includes this Beata Varga.” Commander Whitney studied the board Eve had arranged with ID shots of the missing. “Who connects to your murder victim.”
“She's the latest. Detective Lloyd can give you the background on that.” She nodded at him.
Lloyd stood and walked to the board. “Last seen leaving the restaurant where she worked. Here.” He used the laser pointer Eve handed him. “In the company of two coworkers. They separated here, with Beata continuing south in the direction of her apartment.”
He went over the time lines, the other particulars, reviewed his interview statements. “Up to the point she went missing, she had regular contact with her family. Her work hours weren't regular, as her employers scheduled her around her classes and auditions and rehearsals, but when she was scheduled to work, she showed up, and statements from her employers, coworkers, customers corroborate she was responsible. Happy. Dedicated to forging her career. She'd just landed a part in an off-Broadway musical. She wasn't the type to just take off.”
“Neither was Vanessa Warwich.” Eve used her own pointer to highlight the photo. “Missing for twenty-six months, last seen leaving her apartment — here — to rehearse at the school. She'd enrolled only five weeks earlier, had a new boyfriend. Or Allegra Martin, age twenty-four, a principal dancer for the City Ballet who was starring in the role of Angel when she went missing four and a half years ago.
“Lucy Quinn, seven years missing,” Eve continued, and worked down the line. “The pattern's clear, as is the victim type.”
“You believe Sasha Korchov is replacing his lover with these women.”
Eve nodded at Mira. “I know he is. He lost her, lost everything in one terrible moment. He left his home and is reduced to teaching others to dance, more to watching them — those young women — dance when his lover can't, while he plays for them.”
“He plays the tune,” Mira added. “They dance. If he's taken these women, it could be he needs them to dance for him — only him. He needs to keep them to himself, possibly to recreate the relationship he had with his fiancée, professionally and personally.”
“Could they still be alive?” Peabody asked.
“I think there could only be one at a time,” Mira told her. “One dancer, one lover, one partner if you will, or the illusion shatters. It would be more likely he's replacing the replacements over time than adding to the number.”
“Beata's alive.” Eve felt it in her bones. “But he's killed Szabo to protect himself. She made it known she believed Beata was alive and close by, trapped. Underground. A Romany, a dead talker, breathing down his neck.”
She saw Baxter roll his eyes at that, stuck with logic. “He has some Romany blood. His sister and the old woman talked regularly —
she's poking around, getting too close. He's afraid of her, superstitious. Enough so he disguises himself before he kills her. He doesn't want her to see his true face. And now he's had the cops at his door over it. How long can he keep Beata alive?”
“The pressure may push him to eliminate her,” Mira agreed.
“I need a warrant. We need to search that basement, his apartment, the whole damn place.”
“I can get one.” APA Reo pushed to her feet. “The pattern and connections should be enough.” She checked her wrist unit, winced at the time. “Waking up a judge or interrupting the Saturday night party isn't going to win me a popularity award.”
As Reo left the room, Eve ordered the blueprints on-screen. “His apartment. We need to take him first, secure him so he doesn't have the chance to panic and take Beata out. We also secure the sister and nephew. They may be involved, may be protecting him. Feeney, I want to locate everyone in the building before we go in.”
“We'll set it up. Get you heat source imagery.”
“I need the exits secured,” she continued. “And there are a lot of them: doors, windows, fire escapes, roof access. Elevators are down. If Korchov's in his apartment, we secure him. If he's not, we find him. We're also looking for the murder weapon. A dagger, seven and a quarter inches, likely a chipped tip. Renicki, Jacobson, you're on the apartment. Baxter, Trueheart, Peabody, we'll take the basement.” She glanced at Roarke. “We'll take the civilian.”
A locked door, she thought, would be easier to deal with if they had a thief — former — along.
“Feeney, McNab, Callendar, you run the electronics. I want locations, movements. Once the suspect, the sister, the nephew are secured, you'll move in.”
She went over the rest of the assignments, detailing the operation stage by stage.
This is what she did, she told herself. This was the logic, the instinct, the training. And if there was something inside her urging her, all but begging her to hurry, she had to ignore it.
“I want all of you to watch your asses,” she concluded. “This man is suspected of abducting and imprisoning at least nine women, very likely killing them when he was finished. He's suspected of slicing up a ninety-six-year-old woman in broad daylight. Just because he used to wear tights and ballet shoes doesn't mean he's not dangerous.”
“Potentially very,” Mira confirmed, “when cornered, when desperate. I'll ride with EDD,” she added. “If any of his victims are alive, I may be able to help.”
“Appreciate it.” She looked at Morris. “And if they aren't.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Let's get moving. Load it up, ride it out. Father Lopez, if I could have a moment.”
She gestured him to the side of the room. “I don't make a habit of calling a priest into an op, but — ”
“I'm grateful you did in this case. I'll do whatever I can to help.”
“You were there when Szabo died. You did the Last Rites thing. I figured if the old woman was Catholic, the girl probably is. Between you and Mira she'd be covered.”
“It's kind of you.”
She didn't know if it was — didn't know if it had been her impulse to call him in or if she'd been directed.
“How are you, Eve?”
“Hell if I know, and I don't have a lot of time to think about it right now.”
“If you need me — ”
“I'm hoping not to go there. No offense.”
He smiled at her. “None taken.”
“I'll need you to stay in the EDD van with Mira until we're clear.”
“Understood, even if it's disappointing not to be able to get in on some of the action.”
“This devil's my fight. Stick with Mira,” she said before she started toward Roarke.
“I can't figure out how you connected the dots.” Peabody stopped her. “The basement, all those missing women, the soft-spoken piano player. I feel like I missed a couple dozen steps.”
“Things just started falling into place. Let's just say I followed Szabo. She was already closing in. Check with Reo. See if she's got the warrant.”
She continued on to Roarke. “I need to ask you for something.”
“Are you asking your husband or your civilian?”
“Looks like you're both. I need you to stay close to me. If I start to lose it — ”
“You won't.”
“If, I think you can help me stay grounded. She's in here.” Eve touched a hand to her chest. “This is the guy who took Beata, the guy who killed her. She might want some payback. If it looks like I'd turn that way, stop me. You stop me.”
“I have every confidence in Lieutenant Dallas, but if it makes you feel easier, I won't let you do anything you'll regret.”
“Good. But be, you know, subtle about it.”
He had to laugh. “You are absolutely you. All right then, while preventing you from taking a dead Gypsy's revenge, I'll do whatever I can to preserve your dignity. How's that?”
“It'll do.”
She reviewed the blueprints again on the way to the building, checked in with her teams, focused on the work.
“We go in the front, pass the main stairs, to the right and straight to the basement access door. It's going to be locked. If the master doesn't work, we use the battering ram or” — she glanced at Roarke — “other means. If Feeney picks up images down there, we follow his lead. Otherwise, Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart, take this sector. Roarke and I this one. One of you sees a mouse riveting, everybody hears about it. We clear sector by sector. If a door's locked, take it down. Call for backup if you need it.”
She toggled to the exterior view. “Locations of cams are highlighted. I don't see anybody watching them this time of night. But there are very likely cams down there not on the blueprints.”
Think like him, she ordered herself. Not like a frantic old woman.
“He'd want to watch her, and want his area secured in and out. Can't have somebody stumbling across her, and can't let her find a way out. If Renicki and Jacobson lock him down, they can work him for more information — but we won't count on getting it. We'll bring in the others, and we'll go through every inch of that basement.
“Feeney,” she said into her mic, “give me the word.”
“Got nothing in the suspect's place. Got two in the other apartment. Everything else aboveground is clear. Got nothing for you in the basement, but there are voids down there, Dallas, either due to the thickness of walls, jammers, or sensor blocks.”
“Tucks them up tight,” she murmured. “Give me the location of the voids.”
She keyed them in, felt the adrenaline begin to pump. “We hit those first. If he's not upstairs and didn't go for a goddamn walk, he's down there with her now. We're green. All teams, we're green. Move.”
She jumped out of the back of the transport, weapon out. She prayed she hadn't missed a deeper level of security, prayed he wasn't monitoring the cameras as she used her master to access the main door.
Cops spread out to the exits, up the stairs, moving quick and quiet while she and her team rushed to the basement door.
“Master's ineffective.”
“Give me a minute,” Roarke told her. “Battering rams are crude, and they're noisy.”
She stepped back to give him room, mentally checking off each exit as her men reported them secure.
When Roarke's clever tools and fingers unlocked the door, she signaled to Peabody. “High and left,” she told her, “then straight down.”
She went in low and right — and knew immediately her instincts had been on target.
Lights burned in the ceiling, dim but activated. The old metal stairs led down to a concrete floor, thick walls, narrow corridors.
She signaled Peabody to lead her team, then set off in the opposite direction with Roarke.
They passed through a cavernous room piled with old furniture, lamps, fabrics, down another dim corridor. She heard the clink and hum of the building mechanicals as they moved through a
utility area where tools were neatly stored on freestanding shelves.
“This area needs to be maintained,” she said quietly, sweeping with her weapon as Roarke did the same with the one he'd slipped out of his pocket. “Wherever he keeps them has to be soundproofed and fully secured.”
“This sector's void's west. Down that way.”
Eve started to turn, then went into a crouch, weapon up. Her muscles trembled as the ballerina blocked her way.
“I can't get out,” the woman said and held out her hands. “We can't get out. Can you help me?”
“You have to wait.”
“Eve?”
“It's Vanessa Warwich.” Eve fought off shudders as her skin shivered from the sudden cold. “You have to wait a little longer.”
“I couldn't dance anymore.” She lifted her sparkling white skirt. “He cried when he killed me.” She touched her fingers to the gaping slice across her throat. “But I couldn't dance anymore.”
“Just wait.” And gritting her teeth, Eve walked through the pleading woman. She reached out to try to balance herself when her head spun.
Roarke grabbed her, braced her. “Bloody hell. Stay here.”
“I have to finish it. You know I have to finish it. I have to make it stop.” She glanced back and into Vanessa Warwich's eyes but saw the others behind her. All the pretty girls in their sparkling skirts and toe shoes.
All those white throats gaping.
“She's waiting. Warwich waiting — trapped. And God, she's not alone. We have to move.”
“Hold on to me if you have to.”
He took the lead, brooked no argument. She steadied herself as she followed, cleared her throat as she listened to team updates.
Her op, she reminded herself. She was in command here. She had to be.
Natalya and Alexi were secured, Peabody had reached the first of her voids. An empty room. The search of Sasha's apartment was under way, but neither he nor the murder weapon had been found.
Roarke held up a hand, stopped her. “Sensors,” he murmured. “They'll read us.”