by J. D. Robb
“Take your woody and your idiot brain out of my office. She’s screwing somebody on the side.”
“Did I say she wasn’t?” He smiled, sipped again, and wiggled his eyebrows at Eve over the rim. “She just ain’t driving a stick.”
“She’s . . . Oh. Well, well, well, this is interesting.” She lowered to the corner of her desk, thought it through. “Not just a side dish, a girl side dish. That has to be a real pisser for a guy.”
“And the dish was prime. Tall, lanky, black, and beautiful. The kind you just want to start slurping on from the toes up. Waste from my point of view—two superior examples of the species, and they’re sliding all over each other. Of course, thinking about them sliding all over each other is entertaining. I had a good time with that, and have to thank you for the duty.”
“You’re a sick perv.”
“And proud of it.”
“Do you think you could defer your lesbian fantasies until you give me a report?”
“I’ve already had the fantasies, and plan to have them again, but I can postpone the next act. Your girl left the office, twelve forty-five, and caught a cab. Proceeded uptown to the Silby Hotel on Park. Went straight into the lobby, where her date was waiting. Hot side dish later identified as Serena Unger through detective’s charm, skill, and the fifty he passed the desk clerk.”
“Fifty? Shit, Baxter.”
“Hey, classy joint, classy bribe. Unger had preregistered. Both subjects proceeded to an elevator, which was, to the detective’s great joy, glass-sided. In this way he was able to use his keen observation techniques to watch them exchange a big, sloppy wet one on the way up to the fourteenth floor. They entered room 1405, where they remained, engaged in activities the detective was sadly unable to witness, until fourteen hundred. At which time Julietta Gates exited the room, and the hotel, procuring another cab. She returned to her place of employment with what the detective believed was a satisfied smile on her face.”
“You run Unger?”
“Had Trueheart do it while we waited for the lunchtime quickie to run its course. She’s a fashion designer. Thirty-two, single. No criminal. Currently employed with Mirandi’s second label arm. They’re New York–based.”
“Question: Your woman cheats on you with another woman. Better or worse than her diddling with a guy?”
“Oh, worse. Bad enough she’s playing you, but she’s doing it without a dick, which means she doesn’t think too much of your equipment. It’s a guy, you can maybe rationalize it some. You know, he took advantage of her, or she had a moment of weakness.”
“Took advantage of her.” Eve snorted. “Men are really sad and simple.”
“Please, a boy needs his illusions. Anyway, it’s another skirt, she had to go looking, and she had to go looking for something you don’t have. Makes you a double loser.”
“Yeah, that’s how I see it. It’s going to give you a real hard-on against women. So to speak. We’re going to want to find out how long Julietta’s been going girl-on-girl.”
He set the empty mug down and linked his hands in a gesture of prayer. “Please, please, please, let me do it. I never get the fun stuff.”
“I need subtle on this.”
“My middle name.”
“I thought your middle name was Hornydog.”
“That’s my first middle name,” he said with some dignity. “Come on, Dallas, how about it?”
“Play ring-around-a-rosie with Unger. Talk to the staff at the hotel and keep the bribes to a minimum. Budget’s not going to stretch if you keep slapping down fifties. Talk to her neighbors. Sniff around her place of employment. She’s going to get wind of it, so keep the reason for the look-see quiet. Subtle, Baxter, seriously. I’ve got to do an out-of-town. If I get lucky, I’ll be back in tomorrow. If not, it may take another day.”
“You can leave this in my very capable hands. Oh, and I won’t put in for the fifty,” he said as he started out. “It was worth the price of the ticket.”
He’d handle it, she thought. She couldn’t be in Boston, New L.A., and poking around Serena Unger in New York at the same time. Baxter could work that angle, Feeney the like-crimes area, and she’d pursue other potential leads.
It appeared she’d put together a team without intending to.
Now, she thought, she was about to add another member. And it would be her turn to play it subtle.
She didn’t expect to get through to Roarke on the first try, but the great god of meetings must have decided to cut her a break. His admin passed her on to him, with the polite comment that he’d just returned from a business lunch.
“So what’d you eat?” she asked when he came on.
“Chef’s salad. How about you?”
“I’m getting something in a minute. You got any business in Boston?”
“I could have. Why?”
“I’ve got to make a run up there, maybe out to the West Coast. Check out some things. I don’t want to take Peabody. She’s got the exam day after tomorrow. She needs to stay here, plus I can’t be a hundred percent I’ll be back on time for her to make it. Thought you might want to tag along.”
“I might. When?”
“ASAP.”
“This wouldn’t be a maneuver to avoid Summerset’s return?”
“No, but it’s a handy side benny. Look, you want to go or not?”
“I have to do some shuffling.” He angled away, and she saw him dance his fingers over a small keyboard. “I need . . . two hours will do it.”
“That works for me.” Now came the tricky part. “I’ll meet you at the Newark transpo center, say seventeen hundred. We’ll grab a shuttle there.”
“Public transpo? And at five o’clock? I don’t think so.”
She just loved the way he sneered. “Timing can’t be helped,” she began.
“Accommodations can. We’ll take one of my shuttles.”
Which was exactly what she’d expected him to say. Thank God. The last thing she wanted was to squeeze on to a commuter sweatbox and deal with the inevitable delays and poor hygiene. But she knew how to play the game, and gave him an obligatory scowl.
“Look, pal, this is police business. You’re just along for the ride, and possible out-of-town nookie.”
“All nookie is appreciated, but the method of transpo’s a deal breaker. I’ll pick you up when I arrange things here. And if you argue, you’ll just put me behind.” He checked his wrist unit. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.” And clicked off.
That, she thought, went perfectly.
Shortly after five she was seated comfortably in Roarke’s private shuttle, nibbling on strawberries and studying her notes in the fragrant cool. As rides went, it beat the hell out of the public sardine cans.
“You can go along for the interview with Roberta Gable,” she told Roarke. “But then I have to ditch you. I talked to the primary with Boston PD, and he’ll take a meet with me, but he’s cranky about it. I bring a civilian along, he’s going to get crankier.”
“I believe I can find something to occupy me.” He was working manually at one of the onboard computers and didn’t glance up.
“Figure you will, and I also figure that the shuffling you did had to be fast and furious. Thanks.”
“I expect to be paid in out-of-town nookie at the first opportunity.”
“You’re a cheap date, Roarke.”
He smiled, but kept on working. “We’ll see about that. Oh, and by the way, your token protest about taking my shuttle lacked a certain panache. You might put a little more effort into it next time.”
She bit down on a strawberry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And was saved from further comment by the beep of her ’link. “Dallas.”
“Hey, kid, got a couple bumps. Figured you’d want to know while you were in transit.” Feeney’s droopy eyes narrowed. “You eating strawberries?”
“Maybe.” She swallowed guiltily. “I missed lunch. So what? Give.”
“First one’s messy, maybe too messy to be our guy. Mutilated body of an LC, female, twenty-eight, fished out of the river. The Seine. That’s gay Paree. Three years ago June. Cut to pieces, with liver and kidneys missing. Throat cut, and a number of defensive wounds on forearms. She was in the river too long for them to recover any trace evidence, had there been any. Investigation dead-ended, and the case remains open.”
“Any suspects?”
“Investigator pushed on the last john on her books, but it didn’t pan out. Did a press on her coordinator, too, who’s got a known for roughing up his employees, but that fizzled out, too.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Two years ago, London, Ripper-style murder in Whitechapel sector. Junked up LC who slipped through the tox screenings. She was thirty-six, had two female roommates of the same occupation. They tried to finger her on-again, off-again boyfriend for it, but he was alibied tight. Looks clear to me.”
“How’d he do her?”
“Slit her throat. Went for her works again, and said works were not recovered on the scene. He also cut her up. Slashes over the breasts, palms of both hands. Investigator puts it down to lust kill. But the ME’s got an interesting note here, and looking it over, I lean toward him. Says the slashes on breasts and palms were like an afterthought. No passion to them. You got one witness says he saw the vic head off with a guy dressed in a black cape and a fancy hat. Since the witness was trashed on Zoner, the investigator didn’t put much faith in his statement.”
“It fits,” Eve told him. “You know, it fits. He dressed like DeSalvo did for the strangulations, in handyman garb. Why wouldn’t he costume himself up for the Ripper? Thanks, Feeney. Shoot the files to my office unit, copy to my home unit. I’m hoping to be back within twenty-four hours.”
“Done. I’m going to take this search off planet. It’s got me hooked now.”
She sat back, stared up at the ceiling.
“Are we going to London and Paris?” Roarke asked her.
“I don’t think I can risk the time, or the energy it’d take to hack through the international red tape. I’ll try to tie it in, talking to the primaries via ’link.”
“If you change your mind, it wouldn’t take more than one extra day.”
She’d like to see where he’d been, where he’d done some of his early work. But she shook her head. “He’s in New York. I need to be in New York. He’s been practicing a long time,” she said half to herself. “Honing his talents. That’s why he can afford to kill close together now. All the prep work, all the research, all the details are in place. He doesn’t have to wait because he’s waited long enough.”
“Practiced or not, the speed is going to make him sloppy,” Roarke stated. “He may be meticulous, he may have honed his talents, but he’s moving too fast for caution.”
“I think you’re right about that. And when he messes up, we’ll get him. When we get him, when I get him in the box and break him down, we’re going to find out there were more. Other bodies, hidden or destroyed, until he got better. Until he could leave them to be found, with some pride. But his early mistakes, he doesn’t want to be embarrassed by them. That’s the emotional reason. The other’s more practical. He didn’t want to leave too many like crimes on the books, draw attention until he was ready to make his splash.”
“I’ve done some research of my own.” Roarke swiveled the workstation aside. “For fifteen months between March of 2012 and May of 2013, a man named Peter Brent murdered seven police officers in the city of Chicago. Brent, unable to pass the psych screen to become a member of the CPSD, joined a fringe paramilitary group where he learned how to handle what would be his weapon of choice, a long-range blaster, already banned for civilians at that time.”
“I know about Brent. He liked rooftops. He’d hunker down on a roof, wait for a cop to come into range, and take him out with a head shot. It took a fifty-man task force more than a year to bring him down.”
Understanding, she leaned forward, laid her hands on Roarke’s. “Brent didn’t kill women, he killed cops. Didn’t matter to him as long as they had the uniform he couldn’t wear. He doesn’t fit the profile for the prototype.”
“Five of the seven dead cops were female officers. As was the chief of police who he tried, and failed, to assassinate. Don’t hose me, Lieutenant,” he said calmly enough. “You’ve thought of Brent, and you’ve run a probability just as I have. You know there’s an eighty-eight point six probability factor that he will emulate Brent, and target you.”
“He’s not going to go for me,” she insisted. Not yet, she thought. Not quite yet. “He needs me to pursue, so he feels more important, more successful, more satisfied. Taking me out wouldn’t give him the same rush.”
“So he’s saving you for his final act.”
There was no point in dissembling, not with Roarke. “I figure he may have that for a long-range goal. But I can promise you, he won’t get there.”
He took her hand, linked fingers. “I’m holding you to that promise.”
Chapter 16
She’d decided to hang on to Roarke for her interview with Roberta Gable. He would, she considered, provide another set of impressions. The former child-care professional had agreed to speak with Eve as long as the interview lasted no longer than twenty minutes.
“She wasn’t particularly gracious about it,” Eve told him as they approached the small apartment complex where Gable made her home. “Especially when I said we’d be here around six-thirty. She eats promptly at seven, and I was told I’d have to respect that.”
“People of a certain age tend to develop routines.”
“And she called me Miss Dallas. Repeatedly.”
Companionably, Roarke swung an arm around her shoulders. “You already hate her.”
“I do. I really do. But the job’s the job. No snuggling on the job,” she added.
“I keep forgetting that.” Still he gave her a friendly squeeze before removing his arm.
Eve stepped up to the security grid, gave her name, displayed her badge, stated her business. She was cleared so quickly she assumed Gable had been waiting for her.
“I’m going to intro you as my associate,” she said as they walked into the tiny foyer. One look at his gorgeous face, the elegant suit, and the shoes that probably cost more than Gable’s monthly rent had Eve sighing. “And unless she’s blind and senile, she won’t buy it, but we’ll try to brush by that.”
“It shows a definite bias to assume that cops can’t be well dressed.”
“Your shirt lists for more than my weapon,” she chided. “So once in, you keep it buttoned, the lip as well as the shirt, and look firm and stern.”
“And I was counting on shooting you quiet, adoring looks.”
“Burst that bubble. Second floor.” They took the steps, turned into a short hall with two doors on either side.
The absolute silence told her the building had excellent soundproofing, or everyone in the place was dead.
Eve pressed the buzzer beside 2B.
“Miss Dallas?”
At the sound of the voice through the speaker, Roarke firmed his lips against a grin and stared dutifully at the door.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Gable.”
“I want to see your identification. Hold it up to the peep.”
After Eve complied there was a long silence. “It appears to be in order. There’s a man with you. You didn’t indicate there would be a man with you.”
“My associate, Ms. Gable. May we come in, please? I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”
“Very well.”
There was another stretch during which Eve assumed various locks were being turned. Roberta Gable opened the door, and scowled.
Her identification photo was, if anything, flattering. Her thin face had the sort of hard edges Eve judged came from not only avoiding any of the softer areas of life but disparaging them. The grooves around her mouth indicated that the scowl wa
s a regular feature. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it gave Eve a headache just to look at it.
She was dressed in gray, like her hair—a crisp shirt and skirt that hung on her bony body. Her shoes were black and thick soled, with laces tied in very precise knots.
“I know you,” she said to Roarke, and sucked in so much air her nostrils flared visibly. “You are not a police officer.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Civilian consultants are often utilized by the police department,” Eve put in. “If you have any questions about this procedure, you can call my commanding officer in New York. We can wait outside until you verify.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She stepped back until they entered the living area. It was ruthlessly clean, and spartan. None of the frilly business Eve generally expected from older women living alone was in evidence.
No pillows or dust-catchers, no framed photos or flowers. There was a single sofa, a single chair, two tables, two lamps. It was as soulless, and just as welcoming, as a cage in a high-security prison.
One would not, she was sure, hear the dulcet sounds of a Carmichael Smith CD within these walls. That, at least, was one small mercy.
“You may sit, on the sofa. I will not offer refreshments this close to mealtime.”
She took the chair, sat with her back straight as a poker, her feet flat on the floor with her knees pressed so tightly together they might have been glued. She folded her hands in her lap.
“You indicated you wished to speak to me regarding one of my former charges, but refused to give me a name. I find that quite rude, Miss Dallas.”
“I find murder quite rude, and that’s what I’m investigating.”
“There is no need for sass. If you can’t conduct yourself with respect, this interview is over.”
“Respect’s a two-way street. My name is Lieutenant Dallas.”
Gable’s mouth folded in, but she inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Very well. Lieutenant Dallas. I assume since you’ve attained that rank you have some aptitude for your profession, and some sense. If you’ll explain, succinctly, why you’ve come to speak to me, we can conclude this matter and get back to our business.”