by J. D. Robb
“So are we all.”
Peach handed Eve a card. “My contact information, including my personal ’link. Please use it if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lapkoff.”
“Call me Peach.”
10
AS SHE CROSSED THE GREEN EVE REACHED FOR her pocket ’link to check if Mira was on site or close, then spotted her. The police psychiatrist and top pro-filer sat in the white stream of sunlight on the wide ledge of a grand fountain. She wore shades with bold pink frames. Eve wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the elegant Mira in shades, much less any so frivolously female. Her face tipped up to the sun, her hair scooped back to wave at her nape and expose the multi-colored dangles at her ears, Mira looked absolutely relaxed and perfectly at home with the casual summer pace of the campus.
A faint smile softened a face lovely in repose while the water spilled musically from stone tier to stone tier behind her. Her excellent legs were crossed, exposed by the knee-length skirt of a suit the color of vanilla cream. Sassy open-toed shoes in the same tone boasted needle-thin heels. Beside her sat a petal pink handbag large enough to swallow a toddler.
Eve wondered if Mira slept, and if she should poke her or clear her throat. Then the smile spread, and Mira sighed deeply.
“God! What a gorgeous day. I so rarely get to take advantage of a spectacular morning like this.” Mira lifted her shoulders, then let them fall in a kind of happy shrug. “I have to thank you for pulling me outside.”
“Well, I’m glad there’s an upside. I didn’t have time to go downtown and back. We’re pushing hard on this.”
“Understood. The age of the victim and the connection to a police officer make it a priority. Can we speak here?”
“Yeah.” Eve sat beside her. “You read the file.”
“Yes.” Mira touched her hand briefly to Eve’s, a gesture they both knew acknowledged the painful memories of Eve’s childhood. “Would you have taken this case if MacMasters hadn’t asked for you specifically?”
“I don’t cherry-pick assignments.” The sharp tone, the defensive-ness in it, caught Eve off guard. She shook it off. “If I can’t handle what comes to me,” she said, “I don’t deserve the badge. That’s that.”
“For you, yes, I agree. Not with the philosophy, but with your belief in it. She’s lucky to have you—Deena—because you understand what she faced in those last hours of her life.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s never the same. And, conversely, it’s precisely the same. I need to ask before we discuss the case, about your nightmares and flashbacks. I need to ask,” Mira repeated, gently, when Eve’s face went blank. “If this case exacerbates them—”
“It’s not. It won’t. They’re not as bad.” Dragging a hand through her hair, Eve struggled to put annoyance at the personal queries aside. Mira was right, she admitted, the question needed to be asked. “I still have them, but they’re not as . . . severe,” she decided. “They’re not as frequent or as intense. I think I’ve come to a place—I don’t know—it happened, and nothing can change what he did to me. But I stopped him. If I go back, in the nightmares, I can stop him again if I have to. He doesn’t have the power anymore. I do.”
“Yes.” Mira’s smile was as brilliant as the sunlight, and again she laid her hand over Eve’s. “You do.”
“I can’t stop the nightmares, but I can handle them better now. They’re not a dance in a meadow, which I don’t get anyway. Why is dancing in a meadow with all that tall grass hiding whatever’s slinking around under it, and the bugs flying around your head such a fun deal?”
“Hmm” was the best Mira could think of.
“What I mean is I don’t look forward to getting jerked around by my subconscious, but it doesn’t kick my ass nightly, not anymore.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.”
“I had a few moments, looking at Deena, at what was done to her, that had me a little shaky. But I got through it. It won’t affect my ability to lead the investigation.”
“I’d worry about your ability to lead the investigation if you weren’t touched in some way by what was done to her.”
Eve said nothing for a few moments. “And you brought this up, pushed it, so I could get it out. So I wouldn’t have it sneaking around in the back of my mind.”
Mira gave Eve’s hand a quick pat. “Did it work?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, good for me. And you. And Deena.”
“Okay.” Done, Eve thought. For now. “Did you review the video?”
“Yes. Particularly cruel, isn’t it? To force the girl to say those things, to intend the father to hear them, to show, graphically to the father the result.”
“No question it was a message to MacMasters.”
“No, none. It was all a message. The location, the use of police restraints, the method, and even the length of time the killer spent. Hours.”
“He enjoyed it,” Eve commented. “He enjoyed stretching it out.”
“Undoubtedly. But more, it’s a form of bragging. An in-your-face gesture. I did this to what you loved, in your own home, and I took my time.”
“He made her suffer, wanted MacMasters to know she’d suffered, that he’d had total power over her.”
“The rapes are another form of that power, and that message. I violated her, hurt her, humiliated her, terrified her, took her innocence before I took her life.” Mira shifted, angling toward Eve. “And he did so by first charming and dazzling her, making her feel something for him, believe he felt something for her.”
“It hurts more that way.” Eve studied the students strolling or jogging by. “Hurts her more when she understands he felt nothing.”
“It adds to it, to that power. He deceived her first, developed a relationship with her that took effort and time—and again he took his time. He enjoyed the planning, the deceit, her romantic entanglement with him as much as the killing itself.”
“He’s young. If he passed for nineteen, he can’t be past thirty.” She watched the people walking by, calculated their age on looks, skin tone, movement, gestures, wardrobe. “And I’d say younger than that. Mid-twenties. But he’s organized, controlled, focused. He doesn’t have a young mind, doesn’t give in to impulse—or certainly, not with this. He stalked and studied and researched his target. He knew exactly how to approach her.”
“Sociopathic tendencies, with a purpose,” Mira confirmed. “It’s a dangerous combination. While the video wasn’t an impulse, it was indulgent. He needed MacMasters to understand: This is your fault. Even the cruelty, the rape, the killing wasn’t enough unless MacMasters understood he was to blame for it. He didn’t want the father just shattered, he wanted him to understand this was a result of some prior act or offense.”
“We’re going through his cases. I’ve got a couple of lines to tug.”
“He’ll be buried there.” Mira shook her head. “Nothing and no one obvious. While it’s hard to believe this is his first kill, it may be. It was a purpose, so may very well have driven him for some time. All the evidence you’ve gathered indicates to me he knows how to acclimate, to blend, to behave in a fashion society considers normal or acceptable.”
“He’s spent time on this campus, and he has e-skills.”
“He has education. Your victim was a bright student, and she’d expect him to have education as he posed as a college student. He would do what’s expected, therefore acclimate. He has a job or a source of income. But I believe he deals with people. He would need to, to observe them, to ply his trade of being what’s expected. He probably lives alone and is considered by his neighbors, his coworkers, to be a nice young man. Friendly, helpful. He detests authority, but would be careful not to show it. Does what he’s told, and if necessary, finds a way to pay back any slight or offense.
“The police are the enemy,” Mira continued, “but it’s unlikely he’ll have a sheet. Minor stuff, perhaps, before he fully developed contr
ol and focus. More than that, this cop is the enemy, someone to be crushed. But not directly. He understands it’s more painful to take away a loved one.”
“Like MacMasters took away one of his.”
“I believe so. Yes, that would be my conclusion. If it was MacMasters and him, the punishment would have been more direct. But this punishment—it’s your fault—indicates a specific sort of payment. You took mine, I take yours.”
But who? Eve wondered, frustrated. Or what? “MacMasters has ridden a desk for a long time. He doesn’t work the streets. He’s got a rep for closing cases, or supervising cops who do. But he’s methodical, not flashy. He’s a straight arrow, and he doesn’t have any terminations. He’s never taken down a suspect on the job.”
“There are other ways to take away a loved one besides death.”
“Yeah, and I’ve thought of that. But, do you rape and kill, go through all that led up to it, because a cop had a part in sending your brother, your father, whatever, to a cage? It’s eye for eye. Death for death. It’s purpose, like you said.”
“I’m inclined to agree, but people die in prison, are killed or self-terminate. Or come out and do the same. Witnesses are murdered to prevent them from testifying, and the police work to convince them to testify. Victims are not always given justice.”
“Yeah, been there, too. How do we find this bastard’s loved one—who died, was killed, went in, got whacked—in the case files of a cop with more than twenty years on the job?”
“He’ll believe or have convinced himself that this person was or is innocent. As Deena was innocent. You might consider that this connection to the killer was abused, injured, raped, killed in or out of prison. Or one who self-terminated after release, or after an attack. I’d start looking for someone who was strangled or smothered. The method was another message. He could have beaten her to death, used a knife, given her an overdose. There are any number of ways to kill a helpless girl. He chose the method.”
“That’s right, that’s exactly right.” Eve narrowed her eyes as she turned it over. “Every detail was planned. Of course he planned the method. Not just because he wanted to see her when he killed her, not just because he wanted to use his hands. Because he had to, to make his point. It’s a good angle. We can narrow it down with that, push on that.”
She thought it through. “They’re having Deena’s memorial on Thursday.”
“There can’t be anything more painful. How is MacMasters holding up?”
“Barely. He’s ready to take the blame, even without knowing about the vid. The killer wasted time there. He asked me how he was supposed to stand it, and I didn’t have an answer. I don’t know what it’s like to have a kid, but I know when the vic’s a kid it’s harder. We all feel that. I don’t know how anyone stands it when it’s their kid.”
“Most rely on the natural order. Children bury their parents, not the other way around. Those of us who do what we do know murder, even death, has no respect for the natural order. This is a burden MacMasters and his wife will never lay down. In time, they’ll live, work, play, make love, laugh, but they won’t ever lay this down.”
“Yeah.” She thought of what Summerset had told her. “That’s what I hear. In any case, the memorial. I think he’ll find a way to be there. I think he’ll need to see the results of his work. He’ll need to see MacMasters grieve and suffer. He’d have to be absolutely sure, wouldn’t he, that he’d done the job? However focused he is, he’s still young. What’s the point of screwing with someone if you don’t see them squirm?”
“I agree. There’s a very high probability that he’ll find a way to attend, or at least find a way to observe MacMasters. The girl was the weapon. MacMasters was the goal.”
“That’s what I think. Thanks for meeting me.”
“I only regret I can’t find an excuse to work right here the rest of the day. It’s a lovely campus. I’ve given some lectures here, and attended a couple of performances, but—”
“Wait. Lectures. Performances—like theater?”
“Yes, they have an excellent theater.”
“And the public can attend this stuff?”
“Of course. They—”
“Wait.” She snapped it this time, and yanked out her ’link. “Dr. Lapkoff.”
“That was very quick.”
“I need a list of every performance, concert, lecture, vid, live, holo—open to the public from April to this past Saturday. Send it to this contact.” She read off the data for her unit at Central.
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Thanks.”
“You know Peach?” Mira asked when Eve clicked off and keyed in another code.
“Huh? Well, sort of. You know her?”
“Yes. Dennis and I are patrons of the university. He taught here for years.”
“He—really? Mr. Mira taught here?”
“You know he was a professor.”
Eve thought of Dennis Mira and his comfortable, misbuttoned cardigans, his kind eyes, charmingly vague demeanor. “Yeah, I guess I never . . .”
“He still gives the occasional course and often lectures. We’re very friendly with Peach and her family.”
“Small world. Jamie.” She turned back to the ’link. “Have you gone to any of the concerts, plays, lectures, whatever at Columbia since April?”
“What?” He had the glassy-eyed look of an e-geek deep in chips. “Yeah, I went to a lecture on e-crime.”
“No, not that. Something Deena would have been into.”
“You mean like singing and dancing and shit?” He gave her a look that could only come from the young and the pained. “Why would I?”
“What I thought.” She cut him off, tagged Peabody. “I want you to go to the scene, get any playbills, posters, souvenirs, whatever the hell pertaining to any concert, performance, lecture at Columbia from the time of the meet until the day of the murder. Bring them to Central. Toss in any of the same from anywhere during the same time frame.”
“Can do. On the shoes? I thought about what you said. Upper East wasn’t his spot. Probably Deena’s area isn’t either if he didn’t want any chance of getting spotted. So I’m focusing on downtown vendors. Just a hunch.”
“Not bad. We’ll work that first. Get the stuff, head to the house. I’ll be there inside an hour.”
Eve shoved the ’link away, rose. “Thanks. Good angle. I have to book.”
“If you’re heading back to Central, maybe I could catch a ride.”
“I have to go see a guy about his dead brother.”
Mira gathered up her big pink bag. “Won’t that be interesting? May I?”
“I guess. He’s a potential. Not high on the list, but . . . Well, if he gives us any trouble, you could hit him with that bag and do some damage.”
Mira stroked a loving hand over the pastel leather. “We all have our weapons.”
When they reached her vehicle, Eve did a run on Risso Banks, obtained his home and work addresses.
“White male, age twenty-four. He’s kept his nose clean since his brother’s bust and unfortunate demise, and has gainful employment. Which fits the profile. Unmarried, no cohab on record. Also fits. And it doesn’t. His brother goes down—literally, as in four stories to splat. MacMasters is the boss, but not the primary, and it’s a shared bust with SVU. Cecil, the brother, worked the illegals and pedophile trades.”
“A charmer.”
“Apparently. He wasn’t raped, kicked around, smothered, or strangled. He took a header out a window while trying to avoid arrest. Still, not far out of the way.”
“A lot of it’s eliminating, isn’t it? Legwork, ’link work, details.” Obviously content, Mira settled back. “What an interesting vehicle. It looks so ordinary from the outside, but it has more hardware than my office inside. And it’s very comfortable—smooth, too,” she added as Eve wove through traffic.
“It moves like a turbo, and verticals like a jet-copter. Armored and blast proof. It was . . . sort
of a favor-slash-present from Roarke.”
“A present so you wouldn’t have to continually knock heads with Requisitions. I heard about the last wreck.”
Before she could stop herself, Eve hunched her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“No, but . . . And the favor so you’d be able to accept it, and he’d be able to feel you were as safe as possible.”
“I guess bull’s-eyes like that are why you have all the initials after your name.”
“That, and I like to think knowing you and Roarke fairly well. It’s an excellent favor-slash-present. Tell me, since we have a little time, is everyone ready for the wedding? We’re looking forward to it.”
“I guess, probably.” The word wedding had a little ember of guilt and unease burning in Eve’s gut. “I’m supposed to tag Louise—people tell me—and offer to do matron-of-honor stuff. I don’t know what that is. We did the shower thing, and the dress I’m supposed to wear’s being delivered today. What else is there?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“Shit.”
“I’d advise to contact Louise when you have a few free moments, and ask her if she needs anything. Very likely she won’t need anything but to talk or vent for a bit. She’s an efficient sort who knows what she wants and has certainly arranged it. But there are invariably little glitches and headaches at the last minute. All you really need to do is listen.”
Eve cut her gaze, full of cautious hope, toward Mira. “Really?”
“I’d give that an eighty-eight-point-three probability.”
Eve mulled it, relieved. “That’s decent.”
“I went by their new home last week, to take a look at Charles’s office. He’s nervous and excited, and has set up a very good area there. Of course I got a tour of the whole house. It’s coming along beautifully, I think. Urban, classic, eclectic—very them. They’re going to make a nice life there.”
“It’s good. They’re good. It’s all good. I just want to get through this wedding thing.”
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”
“No. Well, yeah.” Nervous about being nervous had Eve shifting in her seat. “What if the case is running hot, or I’m about to close it, or any of the shit that comes down on the job comes down on the day? What do you do? With Roarke, I don’t have to worry. He gets it. If I have to cancel something or I’m late, whatever, he gets it. He’s extremely frosty in that area. And I still feel guilty sometimes. But this is other. I get that this is, like, The Day. It’s major for Louise. I don’t want to screw it up.”