by J. D. Robb
Both victim and killer always left something. An imprint, an echo. She knew how to look and listen for it.
They’d come in their fancy car, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter. Dressed warmly, dressed well. They hadn’t crept in, hadn’t attempted to blend.
Arrogance.
They hadn’t rushed, hadn’t worried.
Confidence.
Disgust. They would have felt it, mildly, as they drew the curtain back and the smell hit them. But doctors would be used to unpleasant odors, she imagined.
They wore masks. Surgical masks. And their hands would have been encased in gloves or Seal-It. For protection, for routine, for caution.
They’d used antiseptic. Sterilizing? Routine, she mused, just routine as it wouldn’t have mattered if the patient had suffered from any contamination.
They would have needed light. Something stronger and cleaner than the wavering glow from the candle stub or battery flash Snooks kept on one of his lopsided shelves.
In the doctor’s bag, she imagined. A high-powered minilamp. Microgoggles. Laser scalpel, and other tools of the trade.
Did he wake up then? she wondered. Did he surface from sleep for just a moment when the light flashed? Did he have time to think, wonder, fear before the pressure syringe punched flesh and sent him under?
Then it was all business. But that she couldn’t imagine. She knew nothing about the routine of doctors opening bodies. But she thought it would be just that. More routine.
Working quickly, competently, saying little.
How did it feel to hold a man’s heart in your hands?
Was that routine as well, or did it shoot a thrill of power, of accomplishment, of glory through the mind? She thought it would. Even if it was only for an instant, he or she felt like a god.
A god proud enough to take the time, to use his talents to do the job well.
And that’s what they had left behind, she thought. Pride, arrogance, and cool blood.
Her eyes were still narrowed in concentration when her communicator sounded. Laying the paper flowers aside, she reached for it.
“Dallas.”
Feeney’s mournful face swam on the miniscreen. “I found another one, Dallas. You better come in and have a look.”
chapter six
“Erin Spindler,” Feeney began, nodding toward the image on the view screen in one of the smaller conference rooms at Cop Central. “Mixed race female, age seventy-eight, licensed companion, retired. Last few years, she ran a small stable of LCs. All street workers. Got slapped regularly with citations. Let some of her ponies’ licenses lapse or didn’t bother with the regulation health checks. She got roused for running scams on johns a few times but slithered clear.”
Eve studied the image. A sharp, thin face, skin faded to yellow paste, eyes hard. Mouth flat with a downward, dissatisfied droop. “What section did she work?”
“Lower East Side. Started out uptown. Looks like she had some class if you go back fifty years. Started using, started sliding.” He moved his shoulders. “Had a taste for Jazz, and that doesn’t come cheap uptown. She went from appointment book whore to pickup by the time she hit forty.”
“When was she murdered?”
“Six weeks ago. One of the LCs found her in her flop down on Twelfth.”
“Was her heart taken?”
“Nope. Kidneys.” Feeney turned and brought straight data on-screen. “Her building didn’t have any security, so there’s no record of who went in and out. Investigator’s report is inconclusive as to whether she let the killer in or he bypassed her locks. No sign of struggle, no sexual assault, no apparent robbery. Victim was found in bed, minus the kidneys. Postmortem puts her dead for twelve hours before discovery.”
“What’s the status of the case?”
“Open.” Feeney paused. “And inactive.”
“What the hell do you mean, inactive?”
“Thought that would get you.” His mouth thinned as he brought up more data. “The primary—some dickhead named Rosswell attached to the one sixty-second—concluded the victim was killed by an irate john. It’s his decision that the nature of the case is unclosable and not worth the department’s time or efforts.”
“The one six-two? Same house as Bowers. Do they breed morons down there? Peabody,” she snapped, but her aide already had her ’link out.
“Yes sir, contacting Rosswell at the one six-two. I assume you’ll want him here as soon as possible for a consult.”
“I want his sorry ass in my office within the hour. Good tag, Feeney, thanks. You get any others?”
“This was the only local that fit like crimes. I figured you’d want to move on it right away. I’ve got McNab running the rest.”
“Let him know I want a call if anything pops. Can you feed this data into my office and home units?”
“Already done.” With the faintest of grins, Feeney tugged on his ear. “I haven’t had much fun lately. Mind if I watch you ream Rosswell?”
“Not a bit. In fact, why don’t you help me?”
He let out a sigh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“We’ll do it in here. Peabody?”
“Rosswell will report in one hour, Lieutenant.” Struggling not to look smug, she pocketed her ’link. “I believe we could say he’s terrified of you.”
Eve’s smile was slow and grim. “He should be. I’ll be in my office; tag me when he gets here.”
Her ’link was ringing when she walked in. She answered absently as she hunted through her drawers for anything that might resemble food.
“Hello, Lieutenant.”
She blinked at the screen, then dropped into her chair to continue the search when she saw it was Roarke. “Somebody’s been stealing my candy again,” she complained.
“There’s no trusting cops.” When she only snorted, his eyes narrowed. “Come closer.”
“Hmm.” Damn it, she wanted her candy bar. “What?”
“Where did you get that?”
“Get what? Aha! Didn’t find this one, did you, you thieving bastard.” In triumph she plucked a Gooybar from under a stack of yellow sheets.
“Eve, how did you bruise your face?”
“My what?” She was already ripping it open, taking a bite. “Oh, this?” It was the annoyance, barely audible under that musical voice, that made her smile. “Playing pool with the guys. Got a little rough for a minute. Now there are a couple of cues that won’t ever be quite the same.”
Roarke ordered himself to relax the hands he’d fisted. He hated seeing marks on her. “You never mentioned you liked the game. We’ll have to have a match.”
“Anytime, pal. Anywhere.”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ll be late.”
“Oh.” It still jolted her that he so routinely let her know his whereabouts. “Got an appointment?”
“I’m already there. I’m in New L.A.—a little problem that required immediate personal attention. But I will be home tonight.”
She said nothing, knowing he’d wanted to assure her she wouldn’t be sleeping alone, where the nightmares would chase her. “Um, how’s the weather?”
“It’s lovely. Sunny and seventy.” He smiled at her. “I’ll pretend not to enjoy it since you’re not with me.”
“Do that. See you later.”
“Stay out of pool halls, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah.” She watched the screen go blank and wished she didn’t have this vague dissatisfaction that he wouldn’t be there when she went home. In less than a year, she’d gotten much too used to him being there.
Annoyed with herself, she engaged her computer. Her mood was distracted enough that she didn’t bother to smack it when it buzzed at her.
She called up the files from Snooks and Spindler, ordered both images on, split screen.
Used up, she thought. Self-abuse, neglect. It was there on both faces. But Snooks, well, there was a kind of pitiful sweetness in his face. As for Spindler, there was nothing s
weet about her. There was some twenty years between them in age. Different sex, different races, different backgrounds.
“Display crime scene photos, Spindler,” she ordered.
The room was a flop, small, crowded, with a single window the width of a spread hand in one wall. But, Eve noted, it was clean. Tidy.
Spindler lay on the bed, on faded sheets that were stained with blood. Her eyes were closed, her mouth lax. She was nude, and her body was no pretty picture. Eve could see that what appeared to be a nightgown was neatly folded and laid on the table beside the bed.
She might have been sleeping if not for the blood that stained the sheets.
They’d drugged her, Eve decided, then undressed her. Folded the gown. Tidy, organized, precise.
How had they chosen this one? she wondered. And why?
In the next shot, the crime scene team had turned the body. Dignity, modesty were cast aside as the camera zoomed in. Scrawny legs on a scrawny body. Sagging breasts, wrinkled skin. Spindler hadn’t put her profits into body maintenance, which was probably wise, Eve mused, as her investment would have been cut short.
“Close-up of injury,” she ordered, and the picture shifted. They had opened her, the slices narrower than Eve had imagined. Nearly delicate. And though no one had bothered to close her back up, they had used what she now knew was surgical freeze-coat to stop the flow of blood.
Routine again, she concluded. Pride. Didn’t surgeons often allow an underling to close for them? The big, important work had already been done, so why not let someone less prominent do a little sewing?
She would ask someone, but she thought she’d seen that on-screen in videos.
“Computer, analyze surgical procedure on both subjects. Run probability scan thereafter. What probability percentage that both procedures were performed by the same person?”
Working . . . analysis will require approximately ten minutes.
“Fine.” She rose, walked to her window to watch the air traffic sputter. The sky had gone the color of bruises. She could see one of the minicopters wavering as it tried to compensate for a gust of wind.
It would snow or sleet before the end of shift, she thought. The drive home would be hideous.
She thought of Roarke, three thousand miles away, with palm trees and blue skies.
She thought of those nameless lost souls struggling to find a little heat around an ugly fire in a rusted barrel and where they would be tonight when the snows came and the wind howled down the streets like a mad thing.
Absently, she pressed her fingers to the window, felt the chill on her skin.
And it came to her, sharp as a slap, a memory long buried with other memories of the girl she had been. Thin, hollow-eyed, and trapped in one of the endless horrid rooms where the windows were cracked and the heat broken so that the wind screamed and screamed against the damaged glass and shook the walls and burst over her skin like fists of ice.
Cold, so cold. So hungry. So afraid. Sitting in the dark, alone in the dark. All the while knowing he would come back. He always came back. And when he did, he might not be drunk enough to just fall on the bed and leave her be.
He might not leave her huddled behind the single ratty chair that smelled of smoke and sweat where she tried to hide from him and the brittle cold.
She fell asleep shivering, watching her breath form and fade in the dark.
But when he got home, he wasn’t drunk enough, and she couldn’t hide from him or the bitterness.
“Chicago.” The word burst out of her, like a poison that burned the throat, and she came back to herself with both hands fisted hard against her heart.
And she was shivering, shivering again as she had in that freezing room during another winter.
Where had that come from? she asked herself as she fought to even her breathing, to swallow back the sickness that had gushed into her throat. How did she know it was Chicago? Why was she so sure?
And what did it matter? Furious now, she rapped one of her fists lightly, rhythmically against the window. It was done, it was over.
It had to be over.
Analysis complete. . . . Beginning probability ratio . . .
She closed her eyes a moment, rubbed her hands hard over her dry lips. This, she reminded herself, was what mattered. What she was now, what she did now. The job, the justice, the answers.
But her head was throbbing when she turned back to her computer, sat in her chair.
Probability ratio complete. Probability that the procedures on both subjects were done by the same person is 97.8%.
“Okay,” Eve said softly. “Okay. He did them both. Now, how many more?”
Insufficient data to compute . . .
“I wasn’t asking you, asshole.” She spoke absently, then, leaning forward, forgot her queasy stomach, her aching head as she began to pick her way through data.
She’d worked through the bulk of it when Peabody knocked briskly and stuck her head in the door. “Rosswell’s here.”
“Great. Good.”
There was a gleam in Eve’s eyes as she rose that had Peabody feeling a stir of pity for Rosswell, and—she was human, after all—a ripple of anticipation for the show about to start. She was careful to hide both reactions as she followed Eve to the conference room.
Rosswell was fat and bald. A detective’s salary would have covered standard body maintenance if he was too lazy or stupid to exercise. It would have covered elementary hair replacement treatment if he had any vanity. But self-image couldn’t compete with Rosswell’s deep and passionate love of gambling.
This love was very one-sided. Gambling didn’t love Rosswell back. It punished him, laughed at him. It beat him over the head with his own inadequacies in the area. But he couldn’t stay away.
So he lived in little more than a flop a block from his station house—and a two-minute walk from the nearest gaming dive. When he was lucky enough to beat the odds, his winnings were funneled back to cover previous losses. He was constantly dodging and making deals with the spine crackers.
Eve had some of these details from the data she’d just scanned. What she saw waiting in the conference room was a washed-up cop, one who’d lost his edge and was simply cruising his way toward his pension.
He didn’t rise when she came in but continued to slouch at the conference table. To establish dominance, Eve merely stared at him silently until he flushed and got to his feet.
And Peabody was right, she noted. Under the show of carelessness, there was a glint of fear in his eyes.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
“That’s right, Rosswell.” She invited him to sit by jabbing a finger at the chair. Once again, she said nothing. Silence had a way of scraping the nerves raw. And raw nerves had a way of stuttering out the truth.
“Ah . . .” His eyes, a cloudy hazel in a doughy face, shifted from her to Feeney to Peabody, then back. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”
“It’s about half-assed police work.” When he blinked, Eve sat on the edge of the table. It kept her head above him, forcing him to tip his back to look up at her. “The Spindler case—your case, Rosswell. Tell me about it.”
“Spindler?” Face blank, he lifted his shoulders. “Jesus, Lieutenant, I got a lot of cases. Who remembers names?”
A good cop remembers, she thought. “Erin Spindler, retired LC. Maybe this’ll jog your memory. She was missing some internal organs.”
“Oh, sure.” He brightened right up. “She bought it in bed. Kinda seems funny since she got bought there plenty.” When no one cracked up at his irony, he cleared his throat. “It was pretty straight, Lieutenant. She ragged on her ponies and their johns all the time. Had a rep for it. Kept herself whacked on street Jazz most of the time. Nobody had a good word to say about her, I can tell you. Nobody shed a tear. Figures one of her girls or one of the customers got fed up and did her. What’s the deal?” he asked, lifting his shoulders again. “No big loss to society.”
“You’re stupid,
Rosswell, and while that annoys me, I have to figure maybe you were born stupid. But you’ve got a badge, so that means you can’t be careless, and you sure as hell can’t decide a case isn’t worth your time. Your investigation in this matter was a joke, your report pathetic, and your conclusions asinine.”
“Hey, I did my job.”
“The hell you did.” Eve engaged the computer, shot an image on-screen. The neat slice in Spindler’s flesh dominated. “You’re telling me a street pony did that? Why the hell isn’t she raking in seven figures a year at a health center? A john, maybe, but Spindler didn’t work the johns. How did he get to her? Why? Why the hell did he take her kidneys?”
“I don’t know what’s in some lunatic killer’s mind, for Christ’s sake.”
“That’s why I’m going to see to it you’re not working Homicide after today.”
“Wait just a damn minute.” He was on his feet, eyeball to eyeball with her. Peabody gave Feeney a quick glance to gauge his reaction and saw his thin, wicked grin. “You got no cause to go to my boss on this and make trouble for me. I followed the book on this case.”
“Then your book’s missing a few pages.” Her voice was calm, deadly calm. “You didn’t pursue organ replacement or disbursement centers. You didn’t do a run on surgeons, you never attempted contact with black market sources on illegal organ transfer.”
“Why the hell would I?” His toes bumped hers as he leaned forward. “Some sicko cut her open and took some souvenirs. Case closed. Who the hell gives a shit about some worn-out whore?”
“I do. And if you’re not out of my face in five seconds, I’ll write you up.”
It took him three, with teeth grinding audibly, but he shifted away. “I did the job,” he said, with the words bitten off sharp as darts. “You got no cause to poke into my caseload and give me grief.”
“You did a crappy job, Rosswell. And when one of your cases crosses one of mine, and I see just how crappy a job you did, I’ve got plenty of cause. I’ve got a sidewalk sleeper missing a heart. My probability scan tells me the same one who opened him up did Spindler.”