by J. D. Robb
“Give me the goods. So I finished my gig on the vid,” she said as Eve ordered the sketch accessed and sent.
“What vid?”
“Nadine’s vid—your vid. The Icove Agenda. It’s mag to the nth they wanted me to play myself. And the chick playing you? Man, they made her a ringer. I got wigged when I—Holy shit on a flaming stick!”
“Shit,” Bella echoed happily in the background.
“Oh hell—hello,” Mavis muttered. “I swore in front of the baby. But holy you know what, this is too totally scary. I’m scheduling my nightmare right now.”
“Sorry. I need to know what it takes to make somebody look like this.”
“A pact with Satan?”
“With makeup and prosthetics, and that stuff. Trina knows that crap.”
“I’ll be passing it on—and getting it off my ’link just in case it has the power to materialize.”
“Come on. Other angle. You did some carny work.”
“Back in the day, sure. Always plenty of marks at a carny.”
“Ever see anything like this? Freak show–wise.”
“I saw plenty of mega weird, but nothing like this. You wouldn’t ask unless it—he—whatever—killed somebody. He looks like he’s born to kill. Jes—jeepers,” she corrected. “I got bumps of the goose all over. I’ll tag Trina now, so I don’t have to wig alone.”
“Thanks. Let me know.”
Eve pulled over at the curb in front of the crime scene.
She unsealed the door, used her master. And stood inside, left the lights off. Not as dark as it would’ve been, she thought. But there was a streetlight, enough for some backwash.
Still, he’d had to know which mattress each vic slept on. He’d moved with purpose, with a plan despite the ferocity.
She moved straight through to the back, opened the window, climbed out.
And yeah, the building across the street had a good view of the window, the sidewalk, the recycler. Eve imagined the killer dancing and spinning in the spot of the streetlight, laughing.
Spinning and dancing up the street, Cynthia had said. So he didn’t care about being seen. A vehicle nearby? Or a hole to crawl into. His own place?
If he’d taken a cab, the subway, a bus? Even in New York somebody would’ve reported it. All of the lab rats lived within blocks. Both of the doctors and Arianna had vehicles.
Eve turned back to the window. He jimmies it, she thought—quiet now. No dancing and laughing, not yet. Climbs in.
She followed the steps, easing in, sliding down to her feet—left fibers behind. Opens the satchel for the protective coat.
Some boxes in here, she noted, and tidy piles of old materials—but he doesn’t bump into them. He’s been here before. And he walks right into the front.
As she did, the door started to open.
She had her weapon out, trained. Then hissed when Roarke stepped in.
“Damn it.”
“I’m the one with a stunner aimed at me. I get to say, ‘Damn it.’ ”
She shoved it back in the holster. “You’re not supposed to pick the lock on a crime scene.”
“How else would I get in? Your vehicle’s outside, and the seal’s broken. I knocked like a good civilian, but you didn’t answer.”
“I was out the back window.”
“Naturally.” He stood where he was, looking around. “What an unholy mess. The crime-scene records never have quite the same impact.”
Since he was here, she’d use him.
“He jimmied the window, rear, quietly stepped around the stuff back there—in the dark or near dark. Not much would come through the window—it’s grilled—from the streetlight. But he doesn’t wake them.”
“He’d been in here, and back there, before.”
“Yeah. Knew just how to navigate, and knew where each one slept. Leads with the bat.” She swung. “Cracks Vix across the side of the head where he lay. He’s the lucky one. I doubt he ever woke up. Changes to the knife.” She mimed switching hands. “Puts it into Bickford’s chest—two blows, and another in the gut. Fast. Bickford might’ve made some sound, tried to call out, but his lung’s punctured. Now it’s time for Darnell.”
“She’d have woken, don’t you think?”
“Bash, slice, movement. I think she woke up before he’d finished with Bickford. Got up, either tried to run or tried to fight. He uses the bat, breaks her kneecaps. Maybe she screamed—nobody heard—or maybe she just passed out or went into shock. But he went back to Vix, beat him into jelly. Blood’s flying everywhere, bones snapping, shattering. He put the protective gear on in the back room, but blood’s on his face. It feels warm, tastes hot. He loves it. He wants more, so he goes back to Bickford with the knife and stabs and hacks. Over eighty times.”
Eve shifted. “She tried to drag herself away. See, the blood’s smeared on the floor there from her knees, from her trying to pull herself away. But she’s in terrible pain, in shock, in hysterics. He’s laughing now because this is so much fun. Just better than he’d ever imagined. And now it’s her turn.”
She could see it, all but smell the blood.
“He says her name. I bet he said her name, and his. He wanted her to know him. It’s face-to-face, it’s his hands on her throat so he can feel her pulse going wild, then slowing, slowing, slowing while her eyes bulge and her body beats itself against the floor. While that pulse stops, and her eyes fix, and her body goes limp.”
“Christ Jesus, Eve.”
“That’s how it happened.” Inside she was as cold as the images fixed in her head. “That’s close, anyway. He’s not done. It’s too funny and thrilling. He doesn’t use the knife. He takes a scalpel out of his satchel because he takes pride in the work. Now he makes a point. An ear, an eye, her tongue. They’re a trio, aren’t they, like the monkeys. Hear no, see no, speak no.”
“Evil,” Roarke finished. “Because he is. What you’ve just described is evil.”
“Maybe, maybe even to him. But he likes it. Likes the taste of evil, the smell of it. He just can’t get enough, so he breaks the place up, what little they had. Destroys it. He stages them against the wall. Then he uses their blood to leave us a message.”
Roarke studied the wall. “It took time to do that. His letters so carefully formed. Not dashed off, but clearly printed. He gave it some thought.”
“He’s so clever, a real joker. Dr. Chaos. I bet he slapped his knees over it.”
She paused a minute. “Arianna said something. How they’d found their quiet. Especially Darnell. That addiction steals the quiet. That’s what he brought back. The unquiet. The chaos. So that’s the name he picked.”
She walked away, into the back. “He takes off the protective gear. Turns it inside out to keep the blood off his clothes, and he climbs back out, shuts the window. He laughs, and he dances, just so full of the fun of it he can’t contain it. He stuffs the gear in the recycler, properly disposing of it like he tells us to do with the bodies. A little clue, so we’ll be sure to find it. And that has him doubled over with laughter. Then he dances away, high on the unquiet. Dr. Chaos had the time of his life.”
“Did you learn any more from this re-creation?”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“Then you can tell me about it over the drink I find I want very much right now.”
Seven
Eve looked around the bar as they went in. Quiet and cozy, with a neighborhood feel, she observed. A couple of guys sat at the bar, deep in their brews and conversation. She bet they were regulars, bet the seats of the stools all but carried the imprint of their asses.
The bartender, bright, young, female, joined in with them, idly swiping the bar with a rag as she laughed at something they said. A couple sat at a table—had a first-date, drink-afterwork-to-see-how-it-goes look about them. Another four had a booth, scarfing down bar chips while they held one of those quick, coded conversations of intimate friends.
Roarke took a booth, smiled at her over the table. “S
atisfied?”
“About what?”
“That you won’t have to arrest anyone in here.”
She smiled back. “You never know.”
She opted for a beer when the waitress came over, and Roarke held up two fingers. “Now, as we’re a bit early, tell me what you learned back there.”
“It was the girl. It was Jen. She was the primary motive. He wanted her to see what he did, how he killed the others, took away what mattered most to her in the cruelest way. She was the easiest kill of the three, but he saved her for last because she was the most important. Then he killed her with his hands, so she could see his face and he could see hers. The others didn’t matter as much, except for their connection to her. He wanted her, and she said no—or worse, didn’t see him as a man.”
“He didn’t rape her. I looked at your board.”
“It had gone past sex or rape as power and control, and he got off on the killing. But taking the body parts—they’d seen or heard something he couldn’t afford them to talk about. Whatever it was, it was recent.”
She waited until the waitress served the beers. “See that group over there.” She lifted her chin toward the booth of four. “Two guys, two girls. But they’re not couples.”
“Aren’t they?” Roarke said, enjoying her.
“Look at the body language. They’re tight, but it’s not sexual. Pals. And they never run out of conversation. Blah, blah, blah. They talk all the time, hang all the time. When they’re not together, they tag each other. He took their ’links because he got that, he knew they connected that way when they weren’t together, and had to conclude they’d talked about whatever they’d seen or heard via ’link.”
“All right.”
“He worked alone. He doesn’t connect, he doesn’t have that closeness with anyone. So that bumps the two female suspects down the list for me. It wasn’t Arianna Whitwood or Marti Frank. They may know something, may not know they know it, but this one had to have all the fun for himself. He’s smug, and a show-off, which is why I like Billingsly just on principle.”
“Arianna said no to him,” Roarke pointed out.
“But he still believes he can get her. She’s also on his level. How humiliating would it be for a man like that to want an addict, a squatter, a nothing, and be rejected by her?”
“That’s a great deal for a second look at the crime scene.”
“But not enough. Here’s Louise and Charles.”
Roarke stood, greeting Louise with a kiss, Charles with a handshake.
As Charles, former licensed companion turned sex therapist, slid in beside his wife, he grinned at Eve. “How’s it going, Lieutenant Sugar?”
“I’ve got three bodies and a short list of suspects. It could be worse. Sorry,” she said to Louise. “Insensitive.”
“No. We both deal with death all too often, but at least I come into it when there’s still a chance.”
“You look tired,” Roarke commented.
“Long day. Good day,” she added, “as I didn’t deal with death.”
Both she and Charles ordered a glass of the house white.
“What can I tell you about your short list of suspects?”
Eve drew out the sketch, laid it on the table. Puzzled, Louise leaned closer. “We’ve still got a month till Halloween.”
“This is who the witness saw outside the crime scene.”
“It’s a hell of a disguise,” Charles commented. “Why would anyone want to dress up, be that noticeable when doing murder?”
“Maybe it added to the thrill. We’re not having any luck on replicating the disguise, and Mira says it’s unlikely he could tolerate the jaw—broken or dislocated that way.”
“Now you have two doctors telling you that. This is extreme.” Louise tapped a finger, tipped in pearly pale pink, on the sketch. “There would be airway blockage, difficulty breathing, speaking, eating. There should be considerable swelling, but I don’t see any in this sketch. The pain would be enormous. And the eyes certainly aren’t natural. Not just the color. Hyperthyroidism can cause the eyes to bulge, but I’ve never seen anything that severe. And the skin? I’d diagnose multiple organ failure at worst, anemia at best. He had to fake all this.”
“Hey, I saw that guy.” The waitress paused as she served the wine.
“When?” Eve demanded. “Where?”
“Last night. Well, this morning. You don’t forget a face like that,” she added with a laugh.
“Exactly what time? Exactly where?” Eve drew out her badge, laid it next to the sketch.
“Oh. I guess he wasn’t just a weirdo. I had the late shift last night, so I didn’t leave until after two. I live on Jane, right off Greenwich Street. I did some yoga when I got home. It relaxes me. I don’t know exactly, but it was probably about three fifteen, three thirty or thereabouts, when I finished. I heard this weird laughing, and went to the window. I had it open, and I saw this dude here sort of skipping down the sidewalk across the street. You see all kinds, you know, so I didn’t think anything of it. I saw him jump up, swing on the pole of the streetlight, waving this black bag. I just thought, weirdo, shut the window, and went to bed.”
“Which way was he going?”
“East, toward Eighth, it looked like. What’d he do?”
“Enough so if you see him again, contact the police.” She hitched up a hip, dug out a card. “Contact me.”
“Sure. Wow, a lieutenant. Homicide. Wow. He killed somebody?”
“Yeah. I’d like your name and address.”
“Sure. Sure.” Once she’d given it, the waitress hurried away.
“You scared the hell out of her,” Charles said.
“She’d be smart not to walk home alone, and to keep her windows closed.” She put the sketch away, sipped at her beer. “Do you know any of Rosenthall’s lab people?” she asked Louise.
“No.”
“Okay, we’ll set them aside for now. Did Rosenthall ever move on you?”
“No! He was with Arianna when we met, then I was with Charles not long after. He’s in love with Ari, and added to that, his work doesn’t give him a lot of time for moving on other women.”
“It doesn’t take that much time. She’s the one backing his research and work—or the Group is. If she cut him loose, it’d be a big loss.”
“She’s in love with him, and they’re bonded over the work,” Louise began. “If something went wrong between them, it would be a blow for both of them, personally and professionally.”
“But scientists are easier to find than backers like the Whitwood Group. If his work’s important to him.”
“Essential, I’d say.”
“Then he’d do a lot to protect it.”
“Not this, Dallas. Never this. Not Justin.”
“I’m going on the theory the three victims knew something about the killer. Something he killed to protect. Has Justin ever sampled product?”
“Absolutely not.”
Okay, Eve thought, as long as Louise spoke in absolutes they wouldn’t get anywhere on Rosenthall.
“How about Billingsly?”
“I can’t say. I’d certainly doubt it, but I don’t know him well.” Louise smiled a little over her wine. “That’s a deliberate choice.”
“He put moves on you.”
“He puts them on every female he finds attractive or believes can enhance his career. But Ari’s the gold ring.”
“How’d he react when you brushed him off?”
“Like it was my loss. He has a temper, but I’ve never seen anything to indicate he’s capable of murder or real violence. He’s rude and demanding, but from what I’ve heard, very good in therapy.”
“And if Arianna cut him off—from the Center?”
“He has money of his own, and should have a lot of contacts. But it would be humiliating, and he wouldn’t take it well. That’s just opinion, Dallas. I have as little to do with him as possible.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Not much help.”
“You confirmed and elaborated on Mira’s opinion on the killer’s face. You gave me a few more details on two of my suspects, and meeting you here gave me another wit who tells me the killer went up to Jane before heading toward Eighth. That’s pretty good over one drink.”
When they left, Roarke took her hand as she walked. “You did very well, managing nearly a half an hour on non-work-related topics after your interview with Louise.”
“I can talk about other stuff.”
“You can, yes, but I know it’s not easy when you’re steeped in a case.”
“The bar waitress was a stroke of luck. Heading toward Eighth. If it’s either of the doctors, he’s probably got a vehicle near there. If it’s Dickerson, he goes one crosstown block to home. Gupta, north on Eighth for a block and a half to home. Nobody at Slice or Get Straight lives in that direction—and they don’t fit anyway, but it’s another negative on that group.
“Where’s your car?” she asked when they reached the crime scene.
“I had it picked up so I could drive home with my adoring wife.”
“Good. You drive.” She took out her notebook, added the new information, new thoughts on the way home.
Roarke left her to it until she began to mutter.
“Is anybody really that good, the way everybody describes Rosenthall?”
“Some people have fewer shadows than others, fewer dark places. Others have more.”
“And illegals speak to those dark places, make more noise so they spread. Everyone on this list connects to illegals. Lost someone to them, works with them, lives with them. The killer’s a user—has to be. I don’t have enough on any of them to require a drug test. Yet. But if I asked each of them, and they’re clean, why wouldn’t they cooperate?”
“General principles,” he said as he drove through the gates of home. “But certainly worth a shot.”
“I’ll give it one tomorrow. Plus a scientist should be able to create an elaborate disguise.”