by J. D. Robb
Eve crouched down. “She wasn’t killed here, and she wasn’t wrapped in this cloth when she was brought here. He likes the stage clean. TOD, Morris.”
“Eleven this morning.”
“Eighty-five hours. So he took her sometime Monday, or earlier if he didn’t start the clock. Historically, he starts on the first very shortly after he makes the snatch.”
“Starting the clock when he begins to work on them,” Morris confirmed.
“Oh, shit. Oh, crap, I remember this.” Peabody sat back on her heels. Her cheeks were reddened by the wind, and her eyes had widened with memory. “The media tagged him The Groom.”
“Because of the ring,” Eve told her. “We let the ring leak.”
“It was, like, ten years ago.”
“Nine,” Eve corrected. “Nine years, two weeks, and…three days since we found the first body.”
“Copycat,” Peabody suggested.
“No, this is him. The message, the time—we didn’t let that leak to the media. We closed that data up tight. But we never closed the case. We never closed him. Four women in fifteen days. All brunettes, the youngest twenty-eight, the oldest thirty-three. All tortured, between a period of twenty-three and fifty-two hours.”
Eve looked at the carving again. “He’s gotten better at his work.”
Morris nodded as he made his study. “It appears the more superficial wounds were inflicted first, as before. I’ll confirm when I get her home.”
“Ligature marks, ankles, wrists—just above the slashes.” Eve lifted one of the hands. “She didn’t just lie there and take it, not from the looks of this. He used drugs on the others.”
“Yes, I’ll check.”
Eve remembered it all, every detail of it, and all the frustration and fury that rode with it. “He’ll have washed her, washed her clean—hair and body—with high-end products. Wrapped her up, probably in plastic, for transport. We never got so much as a speck of lint off any of the others. Bag the ring, Peabody. You take her, Morris.”
She straightened. “Officer Newkirk, I’m going to need a full and detailed written report, asap.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s your LT?”
“Grohman, sir. I’m out of the one-seven.”
“Your father still there?”
“He is, yes, sir.”
“Okay, Newkirk, get me that report. Peabody, check Missing Persons, see if the vic was reported. I need to contact the commander.”
By the time she exited the park, the wind had died down. Small mercy. The crowd of gawkers had thinned out, but the media hounds were more dogged. The only way to control the situation, she knew, was to meet it head on.
“I won’t answer questions.” She had to shout to be heard over the questions already being hurled at her. “I will make a brief statement. And if you keep shouting at me, you won’t get that either. Earlier this evening”—she continued through the shouts and the noise level dropped—“officers of the NYPSD discovered the body of a woman in East River Park.”
“Has she been identified?”
“How was she killed?”
Eve simply stared holes into the reporters who attempted to break rank. “Did you guys just drop into the city out of a puffy cloud, or are you just running your mouths to hear your own voice? As anyone with half a brain knows, the woman’s identity will not be given out until after notification of next of kin. Cause of death will be determined by the medical examiner. And anyone stupid enough to ask me if we have any leads is going to be blocked from receiving any ensuing data on this matter. Clear? Now stop wasting my time.”
She stalked off, and was halfway to her own vehicle when she spotted Roarke leaning against the hood. She’d completely forgotten about him.
“Why aren’t you home?”
“What? And miss the entertainment? Hello, Peabody.”
“Hey.” She managed to smile even though her cheeks felt like a couple of slabs of ice. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Nearly. I did wander off.” He opened the car door, took out a couple of insulated takeout cups. “To get you presents.”
“It’s coffee,” Peabody said, reverently. “It’s hot coffee.”
“Should thaw you out a bit. Bad?” he said to Eve.
“Very. Peabody, track down contact info on the vic’s next of kin.”
“York, Sarifina. On it.”
“I’ll get myself home,” Roarke began, then stopped. “What was that name?”
“York,” Eve repeated, “Sarifina.” Something sank in her belly. “You’re going to tell me you knew her.”
“Late twenties, attractive brunette?” He leaned back against the car again when Eve nodded. “I hired her a few months ago to manage a club in Chelsea. I can’t say I knew her other than I found her bright, energetic, capable. How did she die?”
Before she could answer, Peabody stepped back up. “Mother in Reno—that’s Nevada—father in Hawaii. Bet it’s warm there. She has a sister in the city. Murray Hill. And the Missing Person’s data came through. The sister reported her missing yesterday.”
“Let’s take the vic’s apartment first, then the club, then the next of kin.”
Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s arm. “You haven’t told me how she died.”
“Badly. This isn’t the place for the details. I can arrange for transpo for you or—”
“I’m going with you. She was one of mine,” he said before she could object. “I’m going with you.”
She didn’t argue. Not only would it waste time and energy, she understood. And since she had him, she’d use him.
“If an employee—especially one in a managerial position—didn’t show for work a few days running, would you be notified?”
“Not necessarily.” He did what he could to make himself comfortable in the back of the police issue. “And I certainly wouldn’t know her schedule off the top of my head, but I will find out about that. If she missed work, it’s likely someone covered for her, and—or—that her absence was reported to a supervisor in that particular arm of the Entertainment Division.”
“I need a name on that.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Reported missing yesterday. Whoever was assigned to that case would have, or damn well should have, interviewed coworkers at the club, neighbors, friends. We need to connect to that, Peabody.”
“I’ll run it down.”
“Tell me,” Roarke repeated, “how she died.”
“Morris will determine cause of death.”
“Eve.”
She flipped a glance in the rearview mirror, met his eyes. “Okay, I can tell you how it went down or close to it. She was stalked. The killer would take all the time he needed to observe and note her habits, her routines, her mode of traveling, her vulnerabilities—i.e., when she would most likely be alone and accessible. When he was ready, he’d make the grab. Most likely off the street. He’d have his own vehicle for this purpose. He’d drug her and take her to his…”
They’d called it his workshop, Eve remembered.
“…to the location he’d prepared, most likely a private home. Once there he would either keep her drugged until he was ready, or—if she was the first—he’d begin.”
“The first?”
“That’s right. And when he was ready, he’d start the clock. He’d remove her clothes; he would bind her. His preferred method of binding is rope—a good hemp. It chafes during struggle. He would use four methods of torture—physically, we can’t speak to psychologically—which are heat, cold, sharp implements, and dull implements. He would employ these methods at increasing severity. He’d continue until, you could speculate, the victim no longer provides him with enough stimulation or pleasure or interest. Then he ends it by slitting their wrists and letting them bleed out. Postmortem, he carves into their torsos, the time—in hours, minutes, and seconds—they survived.”
There was a long moment of absolute silence. “How long?” Roarke aske
d.
“She was strong. He washes them afterward. Scrubs them down using a high-end soap and shampoo. We think he wraps them in plastic, then transports them to a location he’d have already scouted out and selected. He lays them out there, on a clean white cloth. He puts a silver band on their ring finger, left hand.”
“Aye.” Roarke murmured it as he stared out the window. “I remember some of this. I’ve heard some of this.”
“Between February eleventh and February twenty-sixth, 2051, he abducted, tortured, and killed four women in this manner. Then he stopped. Just stopped. Into the wind, into the fucking ether. I’d hoped into Hell.”
Roarke understood now why she’d been called in, off the roll, by the commander. “You worked these murders.”
“With Feeney. He was primary. I was a detective, just made second grade, and we worked it. We had a task force by the second murder. And we never got him.”
Four women, Eve thought, who had never gotten justice.
“He’s surfaced again, here and there,” she continued. “Two weeks, two and a half—four or five women. Then he goes under. A year, a year and a half. Now he’s come back to New York, where we think he started. Back to where he started, and this time, we’ll finish it.”
In his well-appointed living room, with the split of champagne he traditionally opened to celebrate the end of a successful project, the man the media had long ago dubbed The Groom settled down in front of his entertainment screen.
It was too early, he knew, most likely too early for any reports. It would be morning before his latest creation was discovered. But he couldn’t resist checking.
A few moments, just to see, he told himself, then he’d enjoy his champagne with some music. Puccini, perhaps, in honor of…he had to pause and think before he remembered her name. Sarifina, yes. Such a lovely name. Puccini for Sarifina. He really believed she’d responded to Puccini best.
He surfed the channels, and was rewarded almost immediately. Delighted, he sat up, crossed his ankles, and prepared to listen to his latest reviews.
Identification is not being released in order for the woman’s next of kin to be notified. While there is no confirmation at this time that the woman was murdered, the participation of Lieutenant Eve Dallas on the scene indicates foul play is being considered.
He applauded, lightly, when Eve’s face came on screen. “There you are,” he said. “Hello, again! So nice, so very nice to see old friends. And this time, this time we’re going to get to know each other so very much better.”
He lifted his glass, held it out in a toast. “I know you’re going to be my very finest work.”
2
SARIFINA’S APARTMENT WAS URBAN HIP. STRONG colors dominated in paint and fabric, with glossy black as counterpoint in tables, shelves. Sleek and vibrant, Eve thought. And low-maintenance, which made her think of a woman who didn’t have the time or the inclination to fuss.
Her bed was made, covered with a stoplight-red spread and boldly patterned pillows. In the closet was a collection of vintage gowns. Sleek again, simple, and still vibrant in color. Shoes Eve thought might be vintage as well were in clear protective boxes.
She took care of what was hers.
“Is this the sort of gear she’d wear at the club?” Eve asked Roarke.
“Yes, exactly. It’s retro—1940s theme. She’d be expected to mingle, to recognize and greet regulars, to table hop. And to look the part.”
“Guess she would have. Some more up-to-date street clothes, two business-type suits. We’ll tag her electronics,” she added glancing at the bedside ’link. “See if he contacted her. Not his usual style, but things change. Tag her ’links, her comp. Did she have an office at the club?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll tag the e-stuff there, too.” She pulled open a drawer on the little desk under the window. “No date book, no planner, no pocket ’link. She would have had them on her. Big-ass purse in the closet, and one of those—what do you call them—city bags. Go with the suit and the street clothes. A few evening bags. We’ll see if the sister knows what’s missing.”
“A pint of soy milk in the fridge,” Peabody reported as she entered. “Expired Wednesday. Some leftover Chinese, which by my gauge has been in there near to a week. Found a memo cube.”
Peabody held it up. “Shopping list—market stuff and a few other things. Also a fridge photo of her and a guy, but it wasn’t on the fridge. It was facedown in the kitchen drawer, which says recently ex-boyfriend to me.”
“All right, let’s bag and tag.” Eve glanced at her wrist unit. It was nearly one in the morning. If they started to knock on doors and woke up neighbors at this hour, it would only piss people off.
Pissed people were less willing to talk to cops.
“We’ll hit the club next.”
With Roarke’s fondness for old vids, particularly the moody black-and-whites produced in the middle of the last century, Eve knew something about the fashions and music, the cadence of the 1940s. At least as depicted in the Hollywood of that day.
Walking into Starlight at two in the morning, she felt she now also knew what it might be like to take a spin in a time machine.
The club was a wide and sparkling space divided into three levels. Each was accessed by a short set of wide, white stairs. And each, even at this hour, was filled with people who sat at white-clothed tables or silver-cushioned booths.
The waitstaff, men in formal white suits, women in short, full-skirted black dresses, moved from table to table serving drinks from trays. The patrons were decked out in black tie, retro suits, sleek gowns of the type that had been in Sarifina’s closet, or elaborate and frothy ones.
Elegance and sophistication were the bywords, and Eve was mildly surprised to see tables of people in their twenties, straight through to those who had, no doubt, celebrated their centennial.
Music pumped out from the band on the glossy black stage. Or maybe “orchestra” was the term, she thought, as there were at least twenty of them with strings, horns, a piano, drums. And the swinging beat had couples massing over what was the centerpiece of the club. The dance floor.
Black and silver, the large pattern of squares gleamed and sparkled under the shimmering lights of slowly revolving mirror balls.
“This is, like, ultimately uptown,” Peabody commented. “Extreme.”
“Everything old is new again,” Roarke said, scanning the club. “You’ll want the assistant manager here, a Zela Wood.”
“You have all your employees’ names at the tips of your fingers?” Eve asked.
“No, actually. I looked up the file. Name, schedule, ID photo. And…” He zeroed in. “Ah, yes, that would be Zela.”
Eve followed his direction. The striking woman wore pale gold that glowed against skin the color of good, strong coffee. Her hair was worn in long, loose waves that tumbled around her shoulders, down her back. She covered a lot of ground quickly, Eve noted, and still managed to glide as if she had all the time in the world.
It was obvious she’d seen and recognized the big boss as her eyes—nearly the same color as her dress—were fixed on him. Her fingers skimmed the silver rail as she climbed the steps toward him.
“Ms. Wood.”
“How lovely.” She offered him a hand and a dazzling smile. “I’ll have a table arranged right away for you and your party.”
“We don’t want a table.” Eve drew Zela’s eyes to hers. “Let’s see your office.”
“Of course,” Zela said without missing a beat. “If you’ll just come with me.”
“My wife,” Roarke said and got an automatic scowl from Eve, “Lieutenant Dallas, and her partner, Detective Peabody. We need to talk, Zela.”
“Yes, all right.” Her voice remained as smooth as the cream that might be poured in that strong, black coffee. But worry came into her eyes.
She led the way past the coat check, the silver doors of rest rooms, then used a code to access a private elevator.
&nbs
p; Moments later, they stepped out into the twenty-first century.
The room was simply and efficiently furnished, and reflected business. All business. Wall screens displayed the club, various areas—which included the kitchen, wine cellar, and liquor storage area. The desk held a multi-link, a computer, and a tray of disc files.
“Can I offer you anything to drink?” Zela began.
“No, thanks. You know Sarifina York?”
“Yes, of course.” The worry deepened. “Is something wrong?”
“When did you last see her?”
“Monday. We have our Monday teas geared toward our older patrons. Sarifina runs those, she has such a knack for it. She’s on from one to seven on Mondays, and I take the evening shift. She left about eight, a little before eight, I think. I asked because she didn’t show on Wednesday.”
Zela glanced at Roarke, pushed at her hair. “Tuesdays are her night off, but she didn’t come in Wednesday. I covered. I just thought…”
Zela began to fiddle with the necklace she wore, running her fingers over the sparkling, clear stones. “She had a breakup with the man she’s been seeing, and she was down about it. I thought they might have picked things up again.”
“Has she missed work without notice before?” Eve asked.
“No.”
“Are you saying that to cover?”
“No. No. Sari’s never missed.” Now Zela’s gaze latched onto Roarke’s face. “Never missed, and that’s why I covered for her initially. She loves working here, and she’s wonderful at her job.”
“I understand and appreciate that you’d cover a night for a friend and coworker, Zela,” Roarke told her.
“Thank you. When she didn’t show Thursday, and I couldn’t reach her, well, I’m not sure if I was annoyed or worried. A combination of both, really, so I contacted her sister. Sari had her sister listed as contact person. I didn’t contact your office, sir. I didn’t want to get her in trouble.”
Zela’s breath trembled as she drew it in. “But she is in trouble, isn’t she? You’re here because she’s in trouble.”