by J. D. Robb
He took her the wine, touched her cheek. “Then we’ll find the killer and Beata. And for now, we’ll keep the rest of it between you and me. Twenty-four hours. We’ll work it your way, and I’ll find someone who can undo what was done. If this isn’t resolved in twenty-four hours, we’ll work it my way.”
“That sounds like an ultimatum.”
“It most certainly is. You can waste time arguing, or you can get to work. I’m not going to share my wife with anyone for more than a day.”
“I’m not your possession either, pal.”
He smiled again. “But you belong to me. We can fight about it.” He shrugged, sipped his wine. “And you’ll have wasted part of your twenty-four. Still, it might fire you up, so I’m open to it.”
“Smug bastard.”
“Maybe you’d like to swear at me in Russian or Hungarian.”
“And you said I was mean. Twenty-four.” She took a slug of wine, considered how she’s push for more if she needed it. “Let’s look at the runs.”
Roarke ordered data on-screen, leaned a hip against the side of her desk. “Your prime suspect,” he began. “You had most of this, but the second-level run added a bit, and I extrapolated from your notes. Allie Madison’s apartment, where it’s verified Alexi Barin began the day, is an easy ten-minute walk to the alley—considerably less if a healthy, athletic man took it at a jog, even a run. It’s about the same from the restaurant where he had brunch. As is his own apartment,” Roarke added, ordering the map he’d generated on-screen. “These locations are clustered, more or less, in the general area.”
“So he could’ve slipped out, slipped away, put on a mask, sliced Szabo up, and gotten back. Which would involve knowing she’d be in the alley at that convenient moment, and wearing something for the blood spatter. Because you don’t hack somebody up the way she was hacked and walk away clean and fresh to take your alibi to brunch.”
She paced in front of the screen. “He could have set a meet with her, pinning the timing. Told her he had some information on Beata. It’s a lot of planning for an impulsive guy with a temper.”
“Something set him off at the brunch if we go with your TOD, or prior if we stay with science,” Roarke suggested. “He went to confront her, saw her in the alley—he’d have come from this direction, so he’d have passed the alley. He snaps, pulls the knife, goes in.”
“Why is he disguised?”
“She could have seen his face, Eve. The condition she was in when you found her? It’s not a stretch to believe she wasn’t lucid.”
“She didn’t see it. She saw the devil.” Eve paused a moment. “I know. It’s what I saw. I had . . . a moment in the alley. I know what she saw.”
“All right.”
Because she’d expected an argument, even yearned for one, she rounded on him. “I don’t know whether to be grateful or pissed off that you accept so easily.”
“Not as easy as it might seem, just easier than you. So if you say you saw what she saw, I know you did. The occult, on some level, is involved—even that’s logical.”
“If you’re a superstitious Irish guy.”
“If you’re currently able to curse in Hungarian and make goulash,” he countered—and shut her up. “It could be your suspect has some power of his own.”
“I’m not going there. Logic, facts, data. So while it’s possible Alexi slipped out, did the murder, it’s low on the logic and probability scale with the data we have at this time. Give me the guy Beata worked with. The one who walked out of the restaurant with her the night she was last seen.”
“David Ingall, twenty-two, single. He’s had two bumps. One for an airboard incident where he lost control and mowed down a group of pedestrians in Times Square, and another for manufacturing and using false ID—he was underage and got into a sex club before an undercover busted him. He dropped out of NYU and takes a couple of virtual courses a semester, lives in a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from the restaurant with two roommates. He’s worked at Goulash for three years.”
“Doesn’t sound particularly murderous.”
“In addition, the file from your Detective Lloyd has a statement from one of the roommates confirming his arrival home—and the drunken night of computer gaming that followed, on the night Beata Varga went missing.”
“Roommates make it harder for him to take Beata, hold her, unless they’re complicit.”
“The information on the roommates is as benign as this one.”
“Switch to the theater,” Eve decided. “Where she was understudying. What did Peabody get?”
She studied the data as it scrolled, listened to Roarke’s summaries. And paced.
None of them popped for her. Holding a woman against her will for an extended length of time required privacy, sound-proofing, supplies, and time.
Maybe she was wrong—maybe the old woman had been wrong—and the girl was dead. And the thought of that pierced her so deep, she shuddered.
“Eve—”
“No, it’s nothing. Keep going. I need to set up a murder board. I should’ve done it already.”
She pinned up her photos, let the information Roarke provided wind through while she arranged what she needed on the board.
“Work and the school,” Eve said. “Her most usual and regular spots other than her apartment. We focus there. She went out on auditions, and that’ll be another level if we bomb here. Work, school, her neighbors. Then the theater, then audition sites, shops, and so on.
“Let me see the map again.”
She moved closer to the screen. “She takes this route basically every day. Home to morning class. Then from class to work if she was scheduled. Back to class, back to work or an audition. Evening class three nights a week, and work again four nights.”
“A regular customer at the restaurant,” Roarke suggested. “Someone she waited on routinely. Wanted her, took her.”
She nodded. “Possible. Someone she knew is most probable. Someone who could lure her where he wanted her to go. Doesn’t make the ripples a forced abduction would. Had to have a place. Underground. A basement? A cellar?”
“The underground itself,” Roarke commented. “There are places under the streets no one would pay attention to a woman struggling, screaming, calling for help.”
“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 suspec
t, 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.”