by J. D. Robb
He pressed his lips together as if wrestling with a decision, then shrugged. “Yeah, it is. Sure it is. A big part of it. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but I figure you gotta know so if she messes up on this, you can handle it. Handle her.”
“She better handle herself. She’s going straight into this op when she’s done, and she won’t have the results. She better handle herself, and do the job.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets and gave Eve a cheeky grin. “See, you know just how to handle her.”
“Get out of here.”
She sat on the corner of the desk for a moment, to clear Peabody out of her head. It was one thing to be responsible for lives, for justice. But it was a hell of a kick in the ass to be told you had somebody’s psyche in your hands.
How the hell had it gotten there?
“Lieutenant?” Roarke stood in the doorway of their adjoining offices, watching her. “A minute of your time.”
“Yeah.” She rose to walk into the simulation of the Mitchell bedroom again, judging distances, angles, moves. “That’s about all I’ve got for you. We could take him on the street,” she said half to herself. “But Marsonini carried a blaster or stunner, so Renquist will have a blaster or stunner. If he gets to it, starts popping off heat . . . maybe some idiot civilian gets in the way. Potential hostage. Better do it inside. Contained and controlled inside. No place to run, no civilian targets. It should be cleaner inside.”
She looked over, shrugged when she realized she’d walked in and out of the holographic bedroom closet. “Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem. You’re worried because Peabody will be in the bed, in the open.”
“She can take care of herself.”
“So she can. But the fact that you’re worried should help you understand I’ve some concerns of my own. So I’m asking you to let me in on this operation.”
Deliberately she cocked her brow. “Asking? Me? Why don’t you just go to your good pal Jack, or your buddy Ryan?”
“One tries to learn by one’s mistakes.”
“Does one?”
“I want to be there for several reasons, and one is because it’s become personal for you. It’s trickier when it’s personal.”
She turned back. “End hologram program. Screens off.” There was cold coffee on her desk. She picked up the cup, put it down. Then found herself reaching for the little statue of the goddess Peabody’s mother had given her.
“It’s not the notes. They’re just irritating on a personal level, and helpful otherwise. It’s not the fact that he’s marked me as a future target. That goes with the territory. It’s not even that he’s a vicious, arrogant, sick son of a bitch. You get that all the time. It was watching Marlene Cox fighting to come back, and more than that, seeing her mother will her back. Sitting beside that hospital bed, reading to her, holding her hand, talking to her, believing—refusing not to believe because she loved her more than . . . Well, more than anything.”
She set the statue down again. “The way the mother looked at me, with this utter faith that I’d make it right. In my line, you’re almost always trying to make it right for the dead. But Marlene’s alive. So it’s personal. It got turned on me, and yeah, it’s trickier when it’s personal.”
“Can you use me?”
“Slick operator like you? Don’t see why not. I’ll give you a ride into Central. You can report to Feeney in EDD.”
Her first task at Central was to arrange for Pamela Renquist to be brought to an interview room. Renquist’s high-priced lawyers were already working on her release. Eve would consider herself lucky to hold the woman another twelve hours.
Pamela came in without her attorney, but wearing her own clothes rather than prison garb. Used her pull for her priority, Eve assumed and gestured to the table.
“I’ve agreed to speak with you, and alone, because I don’t want to give you the importance of my attorneys.” Pamela sat, brushed at her soft, silk pants. “I’ll be released shortly, and have already instructed my attorneys to initiate suit against you for harassment, false arrest and imprisonment, and slander.”
“Gosh, I’m in big trouble now. Tell me where he is, Pam, and we’ll end this without anyone else getting hurt.”
“First, I don’t appreciate your familiar form of address.”
“Gee, now you hurt my feelings.”
“Secondly,” Pamela continued in a voice iced as February, “my husband is in London on business, and when he returns he will use all his influence to destroy you.”
“Hey, here’s a flash for you: Your husband is in New York City, finalizing his preparation to kill a female accountant using the method of Enrico Marsonini, who was infamous for the rape and torture of his victims before he cut them to pieces. He always took a finger or toe with him, as a kind of door prize.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m disgusting.” Eve let out a baffled laugh. “You are some piece of work. To continue. Following the pattern of his latest mentor, Niles visited his intended victim in her home yesterday afternoon.”
Pamela curled her fingers, examined her manicure. “That’s preposterous.”
“You know it’s not. You know that your husband, the father of your child, the man you live with, is a psychopath. You’ve smelled the blood on him, haven’t you, Pam? You’ve seen what he is when you look at his face. You have a daughter. Isn’t it time for you to protect her?”
Pamela’s gaze flashed up, and a hint of rage eked through. “My daughter is none of your concern.”
“And apparently none of yours, either. I sent a child liaison officer to your home last evening. Rose, along with Sophia DiCarlo, has been taken into protective custody. The reason this is news to you is that you haven’t bothered contacting your daughter since you were brought in yesterday.”
“You had no right to remove my daughter from my home.”
“I do. But it was the liaison who opted to do so after speaking with her and her au pair, and other members of your staff. If you want your daughter back, it’s time to step away from the madman and stand with them against him. It’s time to shield your child.”
The rage, that tiny hint of emotion, was iced over again. “Lieutenant Dallas, my husband is an important man. Within a year, he will be named the new British Ambassador to Spain. It’s been promised to us. You will not besmirch his reputation or mine with your horrendous and ugly fantasies.”
“Go down with him then. It’s a nice bonus for me.” Eve rose, paused. “Eventually, he’d have done you, and your daughter. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. You’re not going to Spain, Pam, but wherever you end up, you’re going to have plenty of time to think about the fact that I saved your worthless life.”
She walked over, gave the steel-reinforced panel two hard thuds. “On the door,” she called, and walked away.
She was heading back to her office when she heard herself being hailed. Eve kept walking, and let Peabody catch up.
“Dallas. Sir. Lieutenant!”
“There’s paperwork in your cube. Deal with it. In my office in ten for a briefing. We head out in thirty.”
“Sir, I’ve already been informed about the op. McNab nipped over to meet me when I came out of exam.”
Good, Eve thought. Good for him. But she kept her cop scowl in place. “The fact that Detective Moron bypassed procedure does not negate the necessity for your briefing.”
“He wouldn’t have had to tell me if you had.”
It was the mutter that did it. Eve swung into Homicide. “My office. Now.”
“You put the thumb on Renquist last night.” Peabody trotted behind Eve. “I should have been called in for the search. You bypassed procedure.”
Eve shoved her door closed. “Are you questioning my methods or my authority, Officer?”
“Your methods, Lieutenant. Sort of. I mean, jeez. If he’d been home last night, you’d have him, and I’d’ve missed it. As your aide—”
“As my aide you do what you’re told when you’re told. If you’re dissatisfied with this arrangement, put it in writing and file it.”
“You worked the case last night without me. You held an op briefing this morning without me. The exam shouldn’t have taken priority over my involvement in this case.”
“I decide what takes priority. It’s done. If you have any more bitching and complaining to do about this matter, I repeat, do so in writing and file it through the proper channels.”
Peabody’s chin jutted up. “I have no wish to file a complaint, Lieutenant.”
“Your choice. Complete the paperwork on your desk. Meet me in the garage in twenty-five. You’ll be briefed en route.”
It was going to be a long day, Eve imagined, as she walked through Katie Mitchell’s loft, just as she’d walked through the hologram. And a long night.
Wherever Renquist had tucked himself, he’d done a good job of it.
Your move, she thought, and gulped down more coffee.
She’d thrown a net over every hotel in the sector, but she hadn’t found him. Even while she paced the loft, the search was widening.
She stepped up to the doorway of the office where Roarke and Feeney worked.
“Nothing,” Roarke said, sensing her. “It’s more likely he’s using a private residence. Short-term rental. We’re searching that area.”
She checked her wrist unit once more. There were hours yet, and she couldn’t risk going in and out of the building. She walked back to the kitchen, poked at Mitchell’s AutoChef.
“Restless?” Roarke said from behind her.
“I hate the waiting, doing nothing but going over and over it in my head. Makes me antsy.”
He leaned down to kiss the back of her head. “So does having a spat with Peabody.”
“Why do men always say women have spats? Men don’t have spats. It’s a stupid, weenie word.”
He rubbed her shoulders. Because they were like rock, he made a mental note to schedule a relaxation treatment for her. Whether she liked it or not. “Why don’t you ask her how the exam went?”
“She wants me to know, she’ll tell me.”
He leaned down closer, brushing his lips over her hair, then speaking directly into her ear. “She thinks she tanked it.”
“Shit.” Eve fisted her hands. “Shit, fuck, damn.” She swung to the freezer, sorted through it, and confiscated a quart of Strawberry Fields Frozen Dessert.
She found a spoon, stuck it in, then marched off toward the bedroom.
“There’s my girl,” Roarke murmured.
Peabody sat on the edge of the bed, studying the morning briefing on her PPC. She glanced up when Eve entered, nearly had her sulky look in place when she spotted the quart of ice cream.
“Here.” Eve shoved it into her hand. “Eat this and stop pouting. I need you at a hundred percent.”
“It’s just . . . I think I fucked up, really bad.”
“I don’t want you to think. You put it out of your mind, all the way. You have to be focused. You can’t afford to miss a move, miss a signal. In a few hours, you’re going to be lying in that bed, in the dark. When he comes in, his whole purpose will be to kill you. He’ll be wearing night-vision goggles. He likes to work in the dark. He’ll see you, but you won’t see him. Until we make the move, you won’t see him. So you can’t fuck that up, or you’re going to get hurt. You get hurt, you’ll really piss me off.”
“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” Peabody shoved in the strawberry ice cream. “I had myself all worked up. I’d kicked my own ass as many times as I could on the way back from the exam. I just needed to kick somebody else’s. And I started thinking, if you’d just called me in I wouldn’t have taken that stupid, goddamn exam.”
“You did take it. And tomorrow you’ll know the results. Now put it aside and do the job.”
“I will.” She held out a spoonful of ice cream to Eve.
Taking it, Eve sampled. “Christ. That’s just horrible.”
“I think it’s pretty good.” More cheerful, Peabody took the spoon back and dug in for more. “You’re just spoiled because you get the real thing now. Thanks for not being mad at me anymore.”
“Who says I’m not? If I liked you, I’d have sent somebody out for real ice cream instead of stealing a civilian’s frozen crap.”
Peabody just smiled, and licked the spoon.
Chapter 23
He’d be getting dressed now, Eve figured, as she looked out through the privacy-screened windows of Mitchell’s loft. It would be full dark soon. Marsonini had always had a long, leisurely meal, with two glasses of wine, before a kill. Always an upscale restaurant, booking a corner table.
He could spend two, even three hours over it. Savoring the food, sipping the wine. Ending with coffee and dessert. A man who enjoyed the finer things.
Renquist would appreciate that.
Eve could see him now, in her mind’s eye. Buttoning a perfectly white, bespoke shirt. Watching his own fingers in the mirror. It would be a good room, well appointed. He wouldn’t tolerate anything but the best—as Renquist or Marsonini.
A silk tie. Probably a silk tie. He’d like the way it felt in his fingers as he slipped it on, as he finessed the perfect knot.
He would take it off after his victim was subdued and restrained. Carefully hanging every article of clothing to avoid creasing. He wouldn’t want creases any more than bloodstains.
But for now, he’d enjoy the act of dressing well, of good material against his skin, and the anticipation of the food and wine, and what followed it.
She could see him, Renquist, turning himself into Marsonini. Grooming the long red hair that was his pride and his vanity. Would Renquist see Marsonini’s face in the mirror now? She imagined he would. The darker complexion, the less even features, the fuller mouth, the pale, pale eyes that would peer out from behind tinted shades. He would need to see it or the night wouldn’t have the same flavor.
Now the jacket. Something in light gray, maybe, perhaps with a faint pinstripe. A good summer suit for a man of discriminating tastes. Then the lightest splash of cologne.
He would check his briefcase. Take a long breath to draw in the scent of the leather. Would he take out all of his tools? Probably. He would run his hands along the lengths of rope. Thin, strong rope that would leave painful grooves in his victim’s flesh.
He loved the thought of their pain. Then the ball gag. He preferred the humiliation of that over cloth. The condoms, for his own safety and protection. The thin cigars and slim gold lighter. He enjoyed a good smoke nearly as much as burning those tiny circles into his victim’s skin and watching the agony scream in their eyes. The little antique bottle he’d filled with alcohol, to pour over the wounds for that extra panache.
A retractable bat, honed steel. Strong enough to break bones, shatter cartilage. And phallic enough to suit another purpose should he be in the mood.
Blades, of course. Smooth ones, jagged ones, in case he found the woman’s kitchen knives under par.
His music discs, the night-vision goggles, the hand blaster or the ministunner, his paper-thin clear gloves. He detested the texture and scent of Seal-It or any of its clones.
His own towel. White, Egyptian cotton, and his own fresh cake of unscented soap for washing up after the job was done.
And lastly, the security codes, cloned the day before during his visit to the loft. The jammer that would disengage the cameras so that he could stroll into the building without leaving a trace.
All neatly packed now, and locked into the elegant case.
One last look in the mirror, a full-length to show himself the entire effect. It had to be perfect. A flick of the finger over a lapel to remove a minute speck of lint.
Then he would stroll out the door, to begin his evening out.
“Where were you?” Roarke asked when her eyes changed, when her shoulders relaxed.
“With him.” She looked over, saw he held two mugs of coffee. �
�Thanks,” she said, taking one.
“And where is he?”
“Heading out to dinner. Soup to nuts. He’ll pay cash. He always pays cash. He’ll linger over it until nearly midnight, then he’ll take a long walk. Marsonini didn’t drive, and rarely took cabs. He’ll walk here, juicing himself up, block by block.”
“How did they catch him?” He knew, but he wanted Eve to say it, to talk it out.
“His intended victim lived in a loft, not so different than this. Makes sense. One of her friends had a major fight with her boyfriend, and came over to cry on Lisel’s—that was her name—came over to cry on her shoulder or whatever women do.”
“Eat strawberry ice cream.”
“Shut up. So the friend finally cried it out and bunked on the sofa. It was the music that woke her up. She hadn’t heard him come in—apparently they’d killed a bottle of cheap wine or brew. Something. Marsonini hadn’t spotted her sleeping there, which was a break. So the friend goes toward the bedroom to see about the music. Lisel was already bound, gagged, with a broken kneecap. Marsonini was naked. His back was to the doorway. He was climbing onto the bed, getting ready to rape Lisel.”
She knew what had been in the victim’s head, swimming over the pain. She knew that the awful terror of what was to come was worse, so much worse than pain.
“The friend kept her head,” Eve continued. “She ran back to the living room, called nine-one-one, then hurried back to the bedroom, picked up this bat he’d used to break Lisel’s kneecap, and she whaled on him. Fractured his skull, broke his jaw, his nose, his elbow. By the time the cops got there, Marsonini was unconscious and in a sorry state. She’d untied Lisel, covered her up, and was holding a knife to the bastard’s throat, hoping—she said in her statement—he’d come around so she could stick it in his gullet.”
“I’d say it stuck in his gullet that a woman stopped him.”
Her lips quirked a little, because she understood. “I’m counting on it. He died in prison two years later when an unidentified inmate or guard castrated him and left him lying in his own cage. Bled to death.”
She breathed deep, found it had helped to talk it through. “I’m going to make the rounds. You’ve got two hours to stretch your legs around here, then we tuck in. And we wait.”