by J. D. Robb
Two hundred six names remaining.
“Better. Much better. Print amended list.”
While her machine chewed and spit out data, Eve turned to her ’link and contacted EDD. “Feeney, I’ve got just over two hundred names. I need them checked out. Can you run them? See how many have left the city, how many got themselves matched or married, died in their sleep, are on vacation at Planet Disney?”
“Shoot them over.”
“Thanks.” She glanced up as she heard a stream of whistles and catcalls from the detective’s bull pen. “It’s a priority,” she told him and logged off just as a flushed and flustered Peabody walked in.
“Jesus, you’d think those morons hadn’t seen me out of uniform before. Henderson offered to leave his wife and kids for a weekend with me in Barbados.”
But, from the gleam in her eye, Peabody didn’t appear to be too displeased by the reaction.
Eve frowned. Her aide’s face was painted and polished, her hair fluffed. Her legs were showcased in a short, snug skirt and stiletto-heeled boots, both the color of ripe raspberries.
“How the hell do you walk in that getup?” Eve wanted to know.
“I practiced.”
Eve inhaled deeply, then blew out air. “Sit down, let’s go over the plan.”
“Okay, but it takes me a couple of minutes to get down in this skirt.” Cautious, Peabody braced a hand on the edge of the desk and began to lower her butt.
“You going to do squats or sit the hell down?”
“Just a second.” She sucked in air, winced a little. “Little tight in the waist,” she managed as she eased down.
“You should have thought of your internal organs before you poured yourself into that thing. You’ve got an hour before you’re due at Personally Yours. I want you to—”
“What the hell are you doing in that?” McNab stopped at the doorway, his eyes bugged out as they skimmed along Peabody’s legs.
“My job,” she said with a sniff.
“You’re just asking to get hit on. Dallas, make her wear something else.”
“I’m not a fashion consultant, McNab. And if I were”—Eve took the time to study his baggy red and white striped trousers and butter-yellow turtleneck—“I might have something to say about your wardrobe choices.”
At Peabody’s snicker, Eve narrowed her eyes. “Now, children, you may be aware that we’re working multiple homicides at this time. If you can’t be friends, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit your playground time this afternoon.”
Peabody immediately squared her shoulders, and though she slid a sneering look toward McNab, she was wise enough to say nothing.
“Peabody, I want you to convince Piper to stick with you through the consult. McNab, you take Rudy. Once you have the match lists, you’ll browse through the retail areas. Make yourselves obvious.”
“Do we have a budget for purchases?” McNab wanted to know, and at Eve’s bland stare, he shrugged and dipped his hands into the wide pockets of his trousers. “It’d make more of an impression if we bought some things. Chatted up the clerks.”
“You’ve got two hundred credits apiece departmental funds. Anything over, it’s your worry. McNab, we know Donnie Ray used the salon to buy enhancements for his mother. Make sure you spend time there.”
“He could use a month,” Peabody said under her breath, then folded her lips innocently when Eve scowled at her.
“Peabody, Hawley used credits in the salon and in Desirable Woman, lingerie place on the floor above. Check it out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll both need to contact as many names on your match lists as possible. Set up meets. I want this to start tonight. Arrangements are being made to use the Nova Club on Fifty-third. The earlier in the evening, the better to start. Try for the first meet at four—then book the rest an hour apart. Get in as many as you can. We don’t know if he hit last night. We may have gotten lucky. But he won’t wait.”
She glanced over at the photos again. “We’ll have cops inside. Feeney and I will be out on the street, in constant contact. You’ll both be wired. Neither of you are to leave with anyone. If you have to take a pee, you signal and one of the inside cops goes with you.”
“It isn’t his pattern to hit in a public place,” Peabody pointed out.
“I don’t take chances with my people. You follow the steps, no deviations, or you’re out. Get Feeney and me the match lists as soon as you have them. Any member of the staff at Personally Yours or in any of the outlets shows undo interest in you, you report. Questions?”
Eve lifted her eyebrows as both of them shook their heads. “Then get started.”
She didn’t grin when Peabody levered herself, with some difficulty, out of the chair. But she wanted to. McNab rolled his eyes and showed his teeth as she marched by him and out of the office.
“She’s green,” he said to Eve.
“She’s good,” Eve countered.
“Maybe, but I’m keeping my eye on her.”
“I can see that,” Eve muttered as he strode out.
She turned back to the photos. They haunted her, those three faces. What had been done to them crawled inside her and refused to let go.
Too close, she reminded herself. Too focused on what and not enough on why.
She closed her eyes a moment, rubbed them as if to erase the images of her own memories.
Why these three? she asked herself again and moved closer to study the cheerfully smiling face of Marianna Hawley.
Office professional, she mused, trying out the same system that she’d used to select Mira’s scent. Reliable, old-fashioned, romantic. Pretty in a safe, comfortable sort of way. Close family ties. Interested in theater. A tidy woman who enjoyed pretty things around her.
Hooking her thumbs in her pocket, she turned her gaze to Sarabeth Greenbalm. The stripper. A loner who was careful with money and collected business cards. Reliable, too, in her chosen career. Lived sparely, horded her take-home pay and calculated her tips. No apparent hobbies, friends, or family connections.
And Donnie Ray, she mused, the boy who’d loved his mother and had blown sax. Lived like a pig and had a smile like an angel. Puffed a little Zoner but never missed a gig.
And suddenly she had it, staring at the three faces of victims who never met.
The theater.
“Oh yes! Computer, bring up Personally Yours, data on Hawley, Marianna; Greenbalm, Sarabeth; Michael, Donnie Ray. Tile on screen, highlight professions and hobbies/interests.”
Working . . . On screen, requested subjects. Hawley, Marianna, administrative assistant, Foster-Brinke. Hobbies and interests, theater. Member West Side Community Players. Other interests—
“Stop, continue next subject.”
Greenbalm, Sarabeth, dancer . . .
“Stop. And Donnie Ray, sax player.” She took a minute, letting it process in her own mind. “Computer, run probability scan on killer selecting current subjects due to mutual connection or interest in theater and entertainment.”
Working. . . . With current data, probability index is ninety-three point two percent.
“Good, damn good.” And huffing out a breath, she answered her communicator’s beep. “Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the couple at 341 West Eighteen, unit 3. Possible assault attempt. Probability incident linked to current homicide investigations, ninety-eight point eight percent.”
Eve was already up and snagging her jacket. “On my way, Dallas, out.”
“It was just weird.” The woman was tiny, as delicate as the fairies that danced on the tiny white glass tree centered in the wide window of the old rehabbed loft. “Jacko gets too up about things.”
“I know what I know. That flake was wrong, Cissy.”
Jacko scowled as he tightened his arm around the woman’s shoulder. He’d have made four of her, Eve thought. He had to be six-three and two-fifty. An arena ball player’s build, a face tough as mountain rock. Sca
rs dug in at the lantern jaw and over the right eyebrow.
She was pale as a moonbeam, he dark as midnight. His big hand swallowed hers.
The loft had been sectioned off into three main areas. Eve got a peek at the bedroom suite through the opening in wavy glass walls the color of peaches. The bed was enormous and unmade.
In the living area the long U-shaped sofa could have fit twenty people comfortably. Jacko took up space for three.
What she could see indicated easy money, feminine taste, and masculine comfort.
“Just tell me what happened.”
“We told the policeman last night.” Cissy smiled, but her eyes were shadowed with obvious annoyance. “Jacko insisted on calling them. It was just a silly prank.”
“Hell it was. Look.” He leaned forward, his tight scalp curls bobbing a bit. “This guy comes to the door, dressed like Santa Claus, carrying this big box all wrapped and ribboned. Does the ho-ho, merry Christmas deal.”
Anticipation curled in Eve’s gut, but she spoke coolly. “Who opened the door?”
“I did.” Cissy fluttered her hands. “My daddy lives in Wisconsin. He usually sends me something fun for Christmas if I can’t get out for the holidays. I can’t take the time this year, so I thought he’d arranged for Santa to drop in. I still think—”
“That guy wasn’t from your daddy,” Jacko said dampeningly. “She goes to let him in. I’m in the kitchen. I hear her laughing, and I hear this guy’s voice—”
“Jacko’s much too jealous for his own good. It hurts our relationship.”
“Bullshit, Cissy. You can’t tell a guy’s making you until he’s got his hand up your skirt. Jesus.” Obviously disgusted, Jacko hissed out a breath. “He’s moving in on her when I walk out.”
“Moving in?” Eve repeated while Cissy pouted.
“Yeah, I could see it. He’s moving in, got this big smile, this gleam in his eyes.”
“Twinkle,” Cissy muttered. “Santa’s eyes are supposed to twinkle for Lord’s sake, Jacko.”
“They sure as hell stopped twinkling when he saw me. He went statue, just stood there, gaping at me. Scared the ho-ho right out of him, I tell you. Then he takes off, like a fucking rabbit.”
“You yelled at him.”
“Not until after he started to run.” Jacko threw up his enormous hands in frustration. “Yeah, damn right I yelled then, and I took off after him. Would’ve had his ass, too, if Cissy hadn’t gotten in the way. But by the time I shook her off and got out to the street, he was gone.”
“Did the uniform who took the initial call take the security discs?”
“Yeah, he said it was routine.”
“That’s right. What did he sound like?”
“Sound like?” Cissy blinked.
“His voice. Tell me what his voice was like.”
“Um . . . It was jolly.”
“Jesus, Cissy, do you practice being stupid? It was put on,” Jacko said to Eve while Cissy, obviously insulted, sprang up and flounced—Eve could think of no other word for it—into the kitchen. “You know that fake cheer. Deep, rumbling. He said something like . . . ‘Have you been good little girl? I’ve got something for you. Only for you.’ Then I stepped out and he looked like he’d swallowed a live trout.”
“You didn’t recognize him?” Eve asked Cissy. “There was nothing about him, under the costume, under the makeup, that looked familiar? Nothing about his voice, the way he moved?”
“No.” She walked back in, rigidly ignoring Jacko and sipping from a glass filled with fizzy water. “But it was only a couple of minutes.”
“I’m going to have you review the discs, take a look at them when we enlarge and enhance. If there’s anything familiar, I want to know.”
“Isn’t this a lot of trouble for something so silly?”
“I don’t think so. How long have the two of you lived together?”
“On and off for a couple years.”
“A lot of off lately,” Jacko mumbled.
“If you weren’t so possessive, if you didn’t punch every man who looks at me sideways,” Cissy began.
“Cissy?” Eve held up a hand, hoping to forestall the domestic dispute. “What do you do for a living?”
“Me, I’m an actor—teach acting when I can’t land a part.”
There’s one, Eve mused.
“She’s terrific.” With obvious and shameless pride, Jacko grinned at Cissy. “She’s rehearsing for a play off-Broadway right now.”
“Way off,” Cissy said, but she moved back to Jacko with a smile and sat beside him again.
“It’s going to be a huge hit.” He kissed one of her pretty hands. “Cissy beat out twenty other women at the auditions. This one’s her big break.”
“I’ll be sure to watch for it. Cissy, have you used the services of Personally Yours?”
“Um . . .” Her gaze skidded away. “No.”
“Cissy.” Eve put all cop in her voice, in her eyes, and leaned forward. “Do you know the penalty for lying during an interview?”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, I don’t know what business it is of yours.”
“What’s Personally Yours?” Jacko wanted to know.
“A computer dating service.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Cissy! For Christ’s sake.” Furious, Jacko shoved off the couch, rattling knickknacks as he stomped around the living room. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We broke up!” All at once the little fairy managed to outshout the giant. “I was mad at you. I thought it would be fun. I thought it would teach you a lesson, you dummy. I’ve got a perfect right to see who I want when I want when we aren’t cohabitating.”
“Think again, honey.” He swung back, black eyes glinting.
“See, see?” Cissy jabbed a finger at him as she appealed to Eve. All the flirty softness in her eyes had turned to flint. “This is what I put up with.”
“Calm down, both of you. Sit,” Eve ordered. “When did you have your consult, Cissy?”
“About six weeks ago,” she mumbled. “I went out with a couple of guys—”
“What guys?” Jacko demanded.
“A couple of guys,” she repeated, ignoring him. “Then Jacko came back around. He brought me flowers. Pansies. I caved. But I’m rethinking that decision.”
“That decision might have saved your life,” said Eve.
“What do you mean?” Instinctively Cissy cringed into Jacko. His arm came back around her.
“The incident last night matches the pattern of a series of homicides. In the other cases, the victims lived alone.” Eve glanced at Jacko. “Lucky for you, you don’t.”
“Oh God, but . . . Jacko.”
“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. I’m here.” He all but folded her into his lap as he stared at Eve. “I knew that guy was off. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what I can. Then I need both of you to come down to Cop Central, review the disc, make another report, and tell me everything you can remember, Cissy, about your experience at Personally Yours.”
“The witnesses are giving the investigation their full cooperation.” Eve stood in Commander Whitney’s office. Too wired to sit, she barely resisted pacing as she gave him her report.
“The woman’s shaken, can’t give us much to go on. The man’s holding it together. Nothing about the perpetrator is familiar to either. I’ve interviewed both of the matches Cissy Peterman dated. Both are alibied for at least one of the murders. I think they’re clear on this.”
Lips pursed, Whitney nodded and began to scan the hard copy of Eve’s report. “Jacko Gonzales? The Jacko Gonzales? Number twenty-six with the Brawlers?”
“He plays professional arena ball, yes, sir.”
“Well, hell.” Whitney’s faced creased in one of his rare smiles. “I’ll say he plays. He’s a killer out there. Scored three goals his last game and took out two defensive blocks.”
He cleared his throat as Eve only watched him. “My
grandson’s a big fan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Too bad Gonzalez didn’t get his hands on this guy. He wouldn’t be walking, I promise you.”
“I got that impression, Commander.”
“Ms. Peterman’s a fortunate woman.”
“Yes, sir. The next one might not be. This threw him off schedule. He’s bound to hit again. Tonight. I ran this by Dr. Mira. Her opinion is he’ll be angry, emotionally distraught. To me that means he might be sloppy as well. McNab and Peabody have three meets each set up for tonight. Everything’s in place there. I have their lists and reports.”
She hesitated, then decided to speak her mind. “Commander, what we’re doing tonight is a necessary step. But he’s going to be out there while we’re on this surveillance. He’s going to move.”
“Unless you’ve got a crystal ball, Dallas, you’ve got to take the steps.”
“I’ve got a probability list of victims down to just over two hundred. I think I’ve found another connection, the theater, that can carve that number down. I’m hoping with the new data Feeney can get us a short list of probables. The potential victims need to be protected.”
“How?” Whitney spread his hands. “You know as well as I do the department can’t spare that many officers.”
“But if he fines it down—”
“If he quarters it, I can’t spare them.”
“One of those people is going to die tonight.” She stepped forward. “They need to be warned. If we go to the media, put out an alert, whoever he’s targeted might not open the damn door.”
“If we go to the media,” Whitney said coolly, “we start a panic. How many street-corner Santas ringing their bells for charity get assaulted as a result? Or killed. You can’t play trade the victim here, Dallas. And,” he added before she could speak, “if we go to the media, we risk scaring him off. He goes under, we might never find him. Three people are dead, and they deserve better.”
He was right, but knowing it didn’t ease her gut. “If Feeney fines down the list to a workable number, we can contact each name. I’ll put together a team to make the calls.”
“It’ll leak, Lieutenant, and we’ll be back to panic.”