by J. D. Robb
“Tall, short?”
“Ah, damn me.” He mopped at his sweaty face with the bandanna now. “Taller than me, but who the hell isn’t? I top out at five six. We were busy, and I wasn’t paying much attention. She was doing all the talking, like always. She asked me to put some peaches aside for her the next week. She was going to her daughter’s in Jersey Sunday next, whole family deal, and she wanted to take her some peaches ’cause her girl had a fondness for them.”
“She come in for them?”
“Sure, this past Friday. Five pounds. I put them in a little basket for her, let her take them home in it ’cause she’s a good customer.”
“The guy who went out with her, has he come back?”
“I haven’t seen him again. I don’t come in on Wednesdays, like to golf on Wednesdays, so he coulda come in and I wouldn’t know. But if he’d come back any other day, I’m here. You think that’s the guy? You think that’s the sick prick who killed Mrs. Gregg?”
“Just covering the ground, Mr. Vincenti. I appreciate the help.”
“You need any more, you need anything, you come see me. She was a jewel.”
“You think he might be the killer,” Peabody said as they walked the neighborhood, following the route Leah had outlined for them.
“I think he was being a smart-ass, introducing himself with the name Al—Albert DeSalvo, the method he planned to use for her murder. I think it would have been a very smart way to feel her out, coming to the market, putting on the baffled single-daddy routine. If he’d scoped out the area, looking for a woman, a single woman of her age group, spotted her, considered her while he was trolling, he’d have watched her routine, gotten her name, looked up her data, so he’d know she volunteered at a kid care place.”
He knew how to research, Eve thought. Knew how to take his time, get the data, digest it before he made a move.
“A woman does time in day care, voluntarily, she’s into kids, so he tells her he’s got a kid when he makes his first contact.”
She nodded as she spoke, as she studied the neighborhood. It was smart. It was simple. “Good place to make that contact is the market. Ask her for advice, give her a story about having a kid needing day care. Walk her part of the way home. Not all the way. He doesn’t have to, he knows where she lives. Just like he knows her plans for Sunday. Not the next Sunday, the following, so he can have plenty of time to watch her, get it all down, plan it out, enjoy the anticipation.”
She stopped on the corner, watched people walk by, most with the native New York stare that stopped well short of eye contact. Not a tourist sector, she acknowledged. People lived and worked here, went about their business.
“She’d have strolled, though,” Eve said aloud. “Strolled along with him, chatting, giving him what seemed like harmless little details of her life. Peaches for her daughter, but there wasn’t a basket of peaches in the apartment on Sunday. He took them. A nice edible souvenir to go with the ring. Walked out of her place after he did what he did, carrying a little basket of fruit. I bet he got a real kick out of that, really enjoyed taking a big juicy bite.”
Feet planted, she hooked her thumbs in her pockets, too intent on what she was seeing in her head to notice the quick and wary glances tossed her way when her stance revealed her weapon. “But that’s a mistake, a stupid, cocky mistake. People might not notice some guy walking out of an apartment building with a toolbox, but they might, just might, notice one walking out with a basket of peaches and a toolbox.”
She crossed the street, stood on the next corner, and judged the ground. “Glide-carts aren’t going to be up and running that early on a Sunday, not around here. But the newstands, the coffee shops, the delis, they would be. I want them canvassed. I want to know if anyone noticed a man in maintenance wear, carrying a toolbox and a friggin’ basket of peaches.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant, I just want to say it’s a real pleasure to watch you work.”
“What’re you angling for, Peabody?”
“No, seriously, it’s an education to watch you, see what you see, and how you see it. But now that you mention it, it’s pretty hot. Maybe we could, since they are up and running this time of day, get a drink from the glide-cart there. I’m doing a Wicked Witch of the West here.”
“A what?”
“You know . . . I’m melting.”
With a half-snort, Eve dug credits out of her pocket. “Get me a tube of Pepsi, and tell him if it’s not cold I’m going to come over there and hurt him.”
While Peabody clomped off, Eve stood on the corner, her imagination running. He’d have left her here, she decided. Most likely here, a couple blocks short of the apartment. Had to part ways on a corner, makes the most sense. Probably told her he lived nearby, what he did for a living, little stories about his kid. Lies, all of them, if this was their man.
And every cell of the cop told her it was.
Southern, she thought. Had he told her he was from the South? Most likely. Used an accent, or had one. Used, she decided. Just another little flourish.
Peabody came back with the drinks, a scoop of fries, and a veggie kabob. “Got you the scoop, heavy on the salt, so you wouldn’t sneer at my kabob.”
“I can still sneer at a kabob. I’ll always sneer at veggies on a stick.” But she dug into the scoop. “We’ll head down this way, swing into the dress shop. Maybe he paid a visit there, too.”
There were two clerks on duty at the boutique and both began to weep openly the minute Eve mentioned Lois’s name. One of them went to the door, put up the Closed sign.
“I just can’t take it in. I keep expecting her to walk in and tell us it was some sort of horrible joke.” The tall clerk, with her greyhound’s lithe body, patted her companion’s back as the younger woman sobbed into her hands. “I was going to close the shop for the day, but I don’t know what we’d do with ourselves.”
“This your place?” Eve asked.
“Yes. Lois worked for me for ten years. She was great, with the staff, with the customers, with the stock. She could’ve run the place single-handedly if she’d wanted. I’m going to miss her so much.”
“She was like a mother to me.” The sobbing woman lifted her head. “I’m getting married in October, and she was helping me with so much of it. We were having the best time with all the plans, and now, now she won’t be there.”
“I know this is hard, but I need to ask you some questions.”
“We want to help. Don’t we, Addy?”
“Anything.” The woman got her sobbing under control. “Absolutely anything.”
Eve took them through the usual questions, wound her way around to the man Vincenti had described.
“I don’t remember anyone like that coming in recently. Addy?”
“No, at least not by himself. We get men who come in with their wives or girlfriends, and the occasional solo. But nobody like that in the past few weeks. No one Lois helped or talked to while I was working.”
“How about someone who came in, asked about her?”
“There was that man last week, no, the week before. Remember, Myra? He had on a totally mag suit, carried a Mark Cross briefcase.”
“Yes, I remember. He said Lois had helped him the month before on some gifts for his wife, and they were such a big hit he’d stopped by to thank her.”
“What did he look like?”
“Mmm. Late thirties, tall, nicely built, neat little goatee and wavy brown hair on the long side. He wore it tied back. He never took off his sunshades.”
“Pradas, Continental style.” Addy added. “I bought my fiancé a pair for his birthday. They cost a mint. He smelled like money, and had a clipped Yankee accent. Ivy League type, I thought. I tried to steer him to accessories because he looked like he could afford to drop a bundle, and we’ve got some terrific new handbags, but he wasn’t biting. Just said he’d hoped to give his thanks and regards to Mrs. Gregg. I said I was sorry she wasn’t working today, because she’d have appreciated tha
t. If he wanted to stop by again, he should shoot for Tuesday, Wednesday, or Saturday, and gave him her hours. Oh God.”
Her face went sheet-white. “Was that wrong?”
“No. This is just routine. Do you remember anything else?”
“No, he just said he’d try to come by again if he was in the area, and left. I just thought how nice that was, because customers don’t usually bother, and the men sure don’t.”
They followed Leah’s list and found that at every point there was someone who remembered a man, of subtly varied descriptions, who’d made some casual inquiry about Lois Gregg.
“He stalked her,” Eve said. “Gathering data, taking his time. Had a couple of weeks for it anyway. He was going to do Wooton first, and she was easy. All you have to do to pick an LC at her level is wander around and watch the stroll, zero in on one who fits your requirements. You don’t have to worry about getting her alone because that’s her job, but with Lois, it had to be in her place to fit the imitation. She had to be home, she had to be alone, and not expecting anyone.”
“He had to have plenty of time,” Peabody pointed out. “Had to be able to hit the market on Friday, the boutique, the day care, the fitness center—all on weekdays, all during regular work hours. Doesn’t sound like he’s a nine-to-fiver.”
“No, and if we go back to our own list, anyone on it so far has the flexibility.”
She’d tugged Baxter and Trueheart out to do the neighborhood canvass, and was hoping to get a call any minute telling her they’d found someone who’d seen the killer with his souvenir basket of peaches.
Meanwhile, she had to keep it moving. He’d killed twice, and she was certain he’d already selected his next victim.
She left Peabody to do the deeper runs on Breen and his wife, and headed out to beg or bribe a short consult with Mira.
She had to wait, and pace the outer office, and ask herself, yet again, who their deadly mimic might imitate next.
So far he’d picked two notorious and deceased killers, and she was willing to bet he’d stick to pattern. No one, she thought, who was still among the living. The Ripper had never been caught, DeSalvo had died in prison. So capture and incarceration were okay. That left the field pretty wide, even excluding anyone who’d destroyed or hidden or consumed their victims.
Her communicator beeped as she was staring holes through Mira’s door and willing it to open.
“Dallas.”
“Baxter. I think we’ve got one for you, Dallas. A witness from the neighboring building who was heading out to church and saw a guy in a city maintenance uniform—or so she believes—walking out of the vic’s building carrying a toolbox and a plastic fruit basket.”
“Time right?”
“It’s dead on. Our witness knew Gregg. She insists on coming downtown and talking to the primary personally.”
“Bring her on.”
“We’re heading back. I’ll meet you in the break room.”
“My office—”
“Break room,” he insisted. “Some of us haven’t eaten our lunch as yet.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and heard the click of Mira’s door. “Fine. I’m in a meeting. I’ll be there as soon as I’m clear.”
Before Mira’s assistant could repeat the fact that the doctor had only a scant ten minutes free, Mira was stepping out, gesturing Eve inside.
“I’m glad you found the time to come in. I’ve read all the available data.”
“I have more,” Eve told her.
“I need something cold. Cool enough in here,” Mira said as she went to the minifridge. “But just knowing what it’s like outside makes me feel hot. Mind over matter.”
She took out a container of juice, poured two glasses. “I know you live on caffeine, in one form or another, but this is better for you.”
“Thanks. The two vics are distinct types. Very distinct.”
“Yes.” Mira sat.
“The first, a recovering junkie LC, busted down to street level. A lifer, with no friends, family, or support group, though it appears her own choice. He wasn’t concerned about who she was, but what she was. A street whore, working the dingier section of Chinatown. But the second was a who and what.”
“Tell me about the second.”
“A single woman, living alone in a nice neighborhood. A woman who’d raised her family and kept close ties with them. Active in her community, friendly, well-liked by everyone. More well-liked than I think he understood, because he doesn’t get that.”
“He has no strong feelings for anyone, but himself, so he doesn’t relate to those who do. Doesn’t understand the circle.” Mira nodded. “It was her situation—living alone, age, neighborhood, and the fact that she would be found quickly. That’s what drew him to her.”
“But it was a mistake, because she had impact on everyone she was associated with. People liked her, loved her, and they’re not just willing to cooperate with the police, they’re eager to. She isn’t going to be forgotten like Wooton, not ever. Everyone I’ve spoken to had something specific to say about her, something personal and positive. It’s like what I imagine people would say about you when you . . .” She caught herself, coughed, but it was too late. “Jesus, that sounded creepy. I meant—”
“It didn’t.” Mira cocked her head and quite simply beamed. “What a nice thing to hear. Why do you say it?”
She wished to hell and back she hadn’t, but she was stuck now. “It’s just”—she downed the juice like medicine, in one huge gulp—“I—ah—interviewed Gregg’s daughter-in-law earlier, and it reminded me, that’s all, of the way your daughter talked about you. There was this real bright . . . connection. A total bond. And I got that same sort of thing from the guy at her market, the people she worked with, everybody. She left her mark. So do you. It’s that he wasn’t considering, the way people would rally for her. Stand for her.”
“You’re right. He’d have expected the event itself to be the big story. Meaning he’d be the story. She, beyond her convenience for him, was incidental. Though the first victim made her living through sex, and the second was sexually brutalized, the killings aren’t a sexual act but a rage against sex. Against women. And this act makes him powerful, and makes them nothing.”
“He stalked Gregg,” Eve said and led Mira through it.
“He’s very careful. Meticulous in his way despite the fact that both killings were messy. His preparation is precise, as his imitations are. Each time he succeeds, he proves not only that he’s more powerful, more important than the women he kills, but more than the men he emulates. He doesn’t have to stick with a pattern—or so he tells himself because, of course, there is a pattern. He believes himself capable of any sort of murder, and the getting away with it. The outwitting you—the female he’s chosen, deliberately chosen, to play against. He beats you, a woman, and proves you’re less than him every time he leaves you a note.”
“The notes, they’re not his voice. It doesn’t fit with everything else you’re saying. They’re broad and jokey. He’s not.”
“Another disguise,” Mira agreed. “Another persona.”
“He’s making himself sound different in them, the way he made himself sound different to the people he spoke with when stalking Gregg. Mr. Versatility again.”
“It’s important to him that he not be pegged, labeled, pigeonholed. It’s very likely that he was, just that, during his upbringing, and by the female authority figure. He may maintain the illusion of the image she forced on him, but it’s not how he sees himself. It is the mother he kills, Eve. The mother as whore with Wooton, and now the mother as nurturer with Lois Gregg. Whoever he mimics next, the victim will be, in his mind, another form of mother.”
“I’ve run probabilities, but even if I narrow down who he’ll copy, I don’t know how that leads me to the next victim before he gets to her.”
“He’ll need some time to prepare, to assume the new face, the new method.”
“Not much,” Eve
replied. “He won’t need much, because he’s already worked it all out. He didn’t start this last week.”
“Quite true. It began years ago. Some of his need would have manifested in childhood. The typical route of tormenting or killing small animals, secret bullying, sexual dysfunction. If his family or caregivers knew and were concerned, there may have been some therapy or counseling.”
“And if they didn’t?”
“If they did, or didn’t, we know his needs and his acts escalated. From the profile and your witness statements this man is in his mid to late thirties. He didn’t begin to kill at this age, didn’t begin with Jacie Wooton. There’ll be others. You’ll find them,” Mira said, “and they’ll create a path to him.”
“Yes, I’ll find them. Thanks.” Eve rose. “I know you were squeezed, and I’ve got a witness heading in.” She started to speak again, then changed gears. “And thanks for the invitation for Sunday. Sorry I had to duck out the way I did.”
“It was lovely to have you both there while you were.” Mira got to her feet as well. “I hope you’ll tell me what’s on your mind. There was a time you wouldn’t have—or wouldn’t have let me see there was something troubling you. I thought we were past that now.”
“My ten minutes are up.”
“Eve.” With that quiet word, Mira laid a hand on hers.
“I had a dream.” The words came out fast, as if they’d been waiting to be disgorged. “Sort of a dream. About my mother.”
“Sit.” Mira stepped to her desk, buzzed her assistant. “I’ll need another few minutes here,” she said and clicked off before her assistant could respond.
“I don’t want to hold you up. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a nightmare. Exactly.”
“You’ve had no real memory of your mother up until this.”
“No. You know. Just one time before, I remembered hearing her voice, yelling at him, bitching about me. But I saw her this time. I saw her face. I have her eyes. Fuck it.”
She sat now, just dropping down and pressing the heels of her hands against those eyes. “Why is that? Goddamn it.”