The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  “Lieutenant. The chief is on his way.”

  “Yes, sir. The full team’s assembled and present. Dr. Mira, there are copies of your original profile in each packet, but if there’s anything you want to add verbally, feel free.”

  “I’d like to reread the original murder books.”

  “I’ll make them available. Sir, do you wish to speak?”

  “Lead it off, Dallas.” He stepped to the side as Tibble entered.

  The chief of police was a tall man and—Eve always thought—a contained one. Not an easy man to read, but she doubted he’d have climbed the ranks as he had if he’d been otherwise. He played politics—a necessary evil—but to her mind he found a way so that the department came out on top.

  Dark skin, dark eyes, dark suit—part of his presence, she decided. Along with a strong voice, and a strong will.

  “Chief Tibble.”

  “Lieutenant. I apologize if I delayed the briefing.”

  “No, sir, we’re on schedule. If you’re ready now.”

  He only nodded, then moved to the back of the room. He didn’t sit, but stood. An observer.

  Eve gave Peabody a nod, then walked to the front of the room. Behind her, the wall screen flashed on.

  “Sarifina York,” Eve began. “Age twenty-eight at TOD.”

  She was putting the victim first, Roarke realized. Putting that image, that name into the mind of every cop in the room. So that every cop in the room would think of her, remember her as they were buried in routine, in data, in the long hours and the frustrations.

  Just as they would remember what had been done to her as those next images came up.

  She went through them all, every victim. The names, the faces, the ages, the images of their suffering and death. It took a long time, but there were no interruptions, no signs of restlessness.

  “We believe all of these women, twenty-three women, were abducted, tortured, and murdered by one individual. We believe there are likely more than these twenty-three who have not been connected or reported, whose bodies may not have been found or who were not killed in the same manner. Earlier victims, we believe, before Corrine Dagby, when he decided on his particular method.”

  She paused, just a moment, to insure, Roarke understood, that all eyes, all attention focused on the image of that first victim.

  “The method deviates very little from vic to vic, as you’ll see in your copy of the case file from nine years ago. Copies of case files, in full, from murders attributed to the unsub will be forthcoming.”

  Her eyes scanned the room, and Roarke thought, saw everything.

  “His methodology is, initially, typical of a serial. We believe he stalks and selects his victims—all within a certain age group, race, gender, and coloring—learning their routines, habits. He knows where they live, where they work, where they shop, who they sleep with.”

  She paused again, shifting. Roarke saw the light slanting through the privacy screens on the window glint on her sidearm.

  “Twenty-three women, known. They were specific targets. No connection was found between any of the victims other than age and basic appearance. None of the victims ever reported a stalker, never mentioned to a friend, coworker, relative that she had been approached or troubled. In each case, the victim left a location and was not seen again until her body was discovered.

  “He must have private transportation of some kind, and using it takes the victim to a preplanned location. It, too, must be private as he takes—as with Sarifina York—several days to kill them. In all prior investigations, it was learned through timelines and forensics that he always selects and abducts his second victim before finishing with the first, and so selects and abducts the third before killing the second.”

  She outlined the investigator’s on-scene reports, the ME’s reports, taking them through the process of the torture, the method of death.

  Roarke heard the e-cop, Callendar, breathe out a soft “Jesus,” as Eve outlined the specifics.

  “Here, he may deviate slightly,” Eve continued, “adjusting his method to suit the specific victim. According to Dr. Mira’s profile, this is tailored to the victim’s stamina, tolerance for pain, will to live. He’s careful, he’s methodical, patient. Most likely a mature male of high intelligence. He lives alone, and has some steady method of income. Probably upper bracket. Though he selects females, there is no evidence he abuses them sexually.”

  “Small blessing,” Callendar murmured, and if Eve heard she gave no sign.

  “Sex, the control and power gained from them doesn’t interest him. They aren’t sexual beings. By carving the time spent on them into their torsos—postmortem—he labels them. The ring he puts on them is another kind of branding.

  “It’s ownership.” She glanced at Mira for confirmation.

  “Yes,” Mira agreed, and the lovely woman with the soft waves of sable hair spoke in her calm voice. “The killings are a ritual, though not specifically ritualistic in the standard sense. They are his ritual, from the selection and the stalking, through the abduction and the torture, the attention to detail, which includes the time elapsed, to the way he tends to them after death. The use of the rings indicates an intimacy and a proprietary interest. They belong to him. Most likely they represent a female who was important to him.”

  “He washes them, body, hair,” Eve continued. “While this removes most trace evidence, we were able to determine the brand of soap and shampoo on previous vics. It’s high end, indicating their presentation matters to him.”

  “Yes,” Mira agreed when Eve glanced at her again. “Very much.”

  “It matters, as does the dumping method. He lays them on a white sheet, habitually leaving them in a park or green area. Legs together, as you see—again, not a sexual pose—but arms spread.”

  “A kind of opening,” Mira commented. “Or embrace. Even acceptance of what was done.”

  “While he follows the traditional path of the signature serial killer to this point, he then deviates. Full timeline up, Peabody,” Eve ordered, then turned when it flashed on screen. “He does not escalate in violence, the time between killings doesn’t appreciatively narrow. He spends two to three weeks at his work, then he stops. In a year, or two, he cycles again, in another location. His signature has been identified in New York, in Wales, in Florida, in Romania, in Bolivia, and now again in New York.

  “Twenty-three women, nine years, four countries. The arrogant son of a bitch is back here, and here’s where it stops.”

  And here, Roarke noted, was the fierceness she’d held back during the relaying of data, of names and methods and evidence. Here was the hint of the anger, of the avenger.

  “Right now, there’s a woman between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-three. She has brown hair, light skin, a medium to slender build, and she’s already been taken. We find him. We get her back.

  “I’m going to give you your individual assignments. If you have any questions, any problems, wait until I’m done. But I’m going to tell you one more thing. We’re going to nail him. We’re going to nail him here, in New York, with a case so tight he’ll feel it choking him every hour of every day of every year he spends in a cage.”

  Not just anger, Roarke noted, but pride. And she was pushing that anger and pride into them so they’d work until they dropped.

  She was magnificent.

  “He doesn’t walk, run, fly, or crawl out of this city,” Eve told them. “He doesn’t slither out in court because one of us gave his lawyer an opening the size of a flea’s ass.

  “He pays, we’re going to make goddamn sure he pays for every one of these twenty-three women.”

  4

  AS EVE WRAPPED UP, TIBBLE WALKED TO THE front of the room. Automatically, she stopped, stepped to the side to give him the floor.

  “This team will have the full resources of the NYPSD at its disposal. Any necessary overtime will be cleared. If the primary determines more manpower is needed, and the commander agrees, that
manpower will be assigned. All leave, other than hardship and medical, is canceled for this team until this case is closed.”

  He paused, gauging the reactions, and obviously satisfied with them, continued. “I have every confidence that each and every member of this team will work his or her respective ass off until this son of a bitch is identified, apprehended, and locked in a cage for the rest of his unnatural life. You’re not only the ones who’ll stop him, but who’ll build a case that will lock that cage. I don’t want any fuckups here, and trust Lieutenant Dallas to flay you bloody if you come close to fucking up.”

  Since he looked directly at her as he made the statement, Eve simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “The media will pounce like wolves. A Code Blue status has been considered, and rejected. The public requires protection and should be made aware that a specific type of female is being targeted. However, they will be made aware by one voice, and one voice only, which represents this task force, and, in fact, this department. Lieutenant Dallas will be that voice. Understood?” he said, looking directly at her again.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, with considerably less enthusiasm.

  “The rest of you will not comment, will not engage reporters, will not so much as give them the current time and temperature should they ask. You will refer them to the lieutenant. There will be no leaks unless they are departmentally sanctioned leaks. If there are, and the source of that leak is discovered—and it damn well will be—that individual can expect to be transferred to Records in the Bowery.

  “Shut him down. Shut him down hard, clean, and fast. Lieutenant.”

  “Sir. All right, you all know your primary assignments. Let’s get to work.”

  Tibble signaled to Eve as feet and chairs shuffled. “Media conference, noon.” He held up a finger as if anticipating her reaction. “You’ll make a statement—short, to the point. You’ll answer questions for five minutes. No longer. These things are necessary, Lieutenant.”

  “Understood, sir. Chief, we held back the numbers carved into the victims in the previous investigations.”

  “Continue to do so. Copy me on all reports, requests, and requisitions.” He looked over at the boards, at the faces. “What does he see when he looks at them?” Tibble asked.

  “Potential.” Eve spoke without thinking.

  “Potential?” Tibble repeated, shifting his gaze to hers.

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I think he sees. Respectfully, sir, I need to get started.”

  “Yes. Yes. Dismissed.”

  She walked over to Feeney. “This space work okay for the e-end of things?”

  “It’ll do. We’re bringing down the equipment we need. It’ll be set up inside of thirty. He comes back, he comes back here, you gotta wonder does he use the same place he did before? Does he have a place? Maybe even lives here when he’s not working.”

  “Private home, untenanted warehouse. Lots of that in the city, the outlying boroughs,” Eve speculated. “Bastard could be working across the river in Jersey, then using New York as a dump site. But if it is the same place—and he strikes me as a creature of habit, right?—then it narrows it some. We check ownership of buildings that fit the bill for ones in the same name for the last nine years. Ten,” she corrected. “Give him some prep time.”

  “Narrows it some.” Feeney pulled on his nose. “Like looking for an ant hill in the desert. We’ll work it.”

  “You okay with taking the Missing Persons search?”

  He blew out a breath, dipped his hands into his saggy pockets. “Are you going to ask me if I’m okay with every assignment or step in this?”

  Eve moved her shoulders, and her hands found her own pockets. “It feels weird.”

  “I’ve run the e-end of your cases and ops before this.”

  “It’s not like that, Feeney.” She waited until their eyes locked, until she was certain they understood each other. “We both know this one’s different. So if it bugs you, I want to know.”

  He glanced around the room as uniforms and team members carried in equipment and tables. Then cocked his head, gesturing Eve to a corner of the room with him.

  “It bugs me, but not like you mean. It burns my ass that we didn’t get this guy, that he slipped out and on my watch.”

  “I worked it with you, and we had a team on it. It’s on all of us.”

  His eyes, baggy as a hound’s, met hers. “You know better. You know how it is.”

  She did, of course she did. He’d taught her the responsibility and weight of command. “Yeah.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “Yeah, I know.”

  “This time it’s on you. You’re going to take some hits because we both know there’s going to be another name, another face on the board before we get him. You’ll live with that; can’t do anything else but live with it. It bugs me,” he repeated. “It would bug me a hell of a lot more if anyone else was standing as primary on this. We clear?”

  “Yeah, we’re clear.”

  “I’ll start the Missing Person’s run.” He cocked his head toward Roarke. “Our civilian would be a good one to handle the real estate search.”

  “He would. Why don’t you get him on that? I’m going to swing over to the lab, bribe and/or threaten Dickhead to push on reports.” She glanced over, saw that Roarke was already working with McNab to set up data and communication centers. “I’m just going to have a word with the civilian first.”

  She crossed to Roarke, tapped his shoulder. He’d tied his hair back as he often did before getting down to serious e-business, and still wore the sweater and jeans he’d put on—had it only been that morning?—when they’d left the house for the crime scene.

  She realized he looked more like a member of the team than the emperor of the business world.

  “Need a minute,” she told him, then stepped a few feet away.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Feeney’s got work for you. He’ll fill you in. I’m heading out with Peabody. I just want…look, don’t go buying stuff.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and the amusement showed clearly on his face. “Such as?”

  “E-toys, new furniture, catered lunches, dancing girls. Whatever,” she said with a distracted wave of her hand. “You’re not here to supply the NYPSD.”

  “What if I get hungry, then feel the urge to dance?”

  “Suppress it.” She gave him a little poke in the chest that he interpreted—correctly—as both affection and warning. “And don’t expect me to kiss you good-bye, hello, and like that when we’re on the clock. It makes us look—”

  “Married?” At her stony stare he grinned. “Very well, Lieutenant, I’ll try my best to suppress all my urges.”

  Fat chance of that, she thought, but had to be satisfied. “Peabody,” she called out, “with me.”

  On the way out, Peabody hit Vending for a Diet Pepsi for herself, a regular tube for Eve. “Gotta keep the caffeine pumping. I’ve never been on something like this, not when you catch a case and a few hours later you’ve got a task force, a war room, and a pep talk from the chief.”

  “We work the case.”

  “Well, it’s this case, and the ones from nine years ago, and even the ones between that went down elsewhere. That’s a lot of balls in the air.”

  “It’s all one,” Eve said as they got into the car. “One case with a lot of pieces.”

  “Arms,” Peabody said after a minute. “It’s more like arms. It’s like an octopus.”

  “The case is an octopus.”

  “It’s got all these tentacles, all these arms, but there’s only one head. You get the head, you get it all.”

  “Okay,” Eve decided, “that’s not bad. The case is an octopus.”

  “And say, okay, maybe you can’t get to the head, not at first, but you get a good hold on one of those tentacles, then—”

  “I get it, Peabody.” Because she now had an image of a giant octopus swimming in her head, Eve was relieved when her dash ’lin
k signaled. “Dallas.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “Nadine.” Eve let her glance shift down to the screen where Nadine Furst, a very hot property in media circles, beamed out at her.

  “Media conference, you as the department’s spokesperson—I know you love that one.”

  “I’m primary.”

  “I got that.” On screen, Nadine’s cat eyes were sharp and searching. “But what gives this one enough juice? A dead woman in the park, identity yet to be given.”

  “We’ll give her name at the conference.”

  “Give me a hint. Celebrity?”

  “No hints.”

  “Come on, be a pal.”

  The trouble was, they were pals. Moreover, Nadine could be trusted. And at the moment, Nadine had plenty of juice of her own. She could, Eve mused, be useful.

  “You’re going to want to come to the media conference, Nadine.”

  “I’ve got a conflict. Just—”

  “You’re going to want to be there, and when it wraps, you’re going to want to find your way to my office.”

  “Offering me a one-on-one after a media announcement takes off the shine, Dallas.”

  “You’re not getting a one-on-one. Just you, just me. No camera. You’re going to want to do this, Nadine.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “That was smart,” Peabody said when Eve clicked off. “That was really smart. Bring her in, bargain, and get her resources and contacts.”

  “She’ll keep a lid on what I ask her to keep a lid on,” Eve agreed. “And she’s the perfect funnel for any departmentally sanctioned leaks.” She parked, rolled her shoulders. “Let’s go harass Dickhead.”

  Dick Berenski had earned his nickname. Not only did he have a head like an egg covered with slick black hair, his personality was oilier than a tin of sardines. He was slippery, sleazy, and not just open to bribes—he expected them.

  But despite being a dickhead, he ran a top-flight lab and knew his business as well as he knew the exact location of the dimples on the ass of this month’s centerfold.