The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  “I shut down my ’link. Just wanted to board. It was all about boarding. Me and Bale went out to Colorado. Incommunicado Colorado. Big joke,” he said. “Shuttled back last night. Bale, he’s closer to the station, got home first. Zela left him a message. Zela talked to him. He called. I got home, and he…”

  “You and Sarifina were involved.”

  “We were…we were together until a couple of weeks ago.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “A couple of weeks…We broke up.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “She was always too busy. She was always…” He trailed off, lifted his gaze to Peabody’s. “I wanted more, okay? I wanted her more available, more interested in what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. It wasn’t working out, not the way I wanted it. So I said I was done with it. With her.”

  “You argued.”

  “Yeah. We both got pretty harsh. She said I was selfish, immature, self-involved. I said something like, ‘Right back at you.’ Shit, shit, shit. She’s dead. Bale said…I was snowboarding and trashing her to Bale. And she was dead. You think I hurt her? I wanted to hurt her. Here,” he said, thumping a fist to his heart. “I wanted her to feel crappy that I flipped her, you know? I wanted her to be lonely and miserable while I found somebody—lots of somebodies—who knew how to have a good time. Christ.”

  He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, my Christ.”

  “We don’t think you hurt her, Mr. Marshall. Before you broke up, did she stay here with you?”

  “Less and less. Things were disintegrating. We barely saw each other. Once or twice a week maybe.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone bothering her? Anyone that made her uncomfortable?”

  “We weren’t doing a lot of talking lately.” He said it quietly while he looked down at his hands. “I don’t remember her saying anything like that. She liked the old guys who came into the club. Especially the old guys. Smooth, she said. They got smooth with age, like whiskey or something. Some hit on her now and then, and she got a kick out of it. At least I didn’t get twisted about that. I thought it was funny.”

  “Anyone specifically?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention. I’m not into that retro crap. Bored me senseless, you know? She looked good though, when she dressed up for work? Man, she looked good.”

  Not much of a well to pump there,” Peabody commented as they rode down.

  “I don’t know. She liked older men, older men liked her. It’s high probability the killer is an older man.”

  “And?”

  “I bet he chatted her up somewhere along the line. A week or two before he grabbed her, he makes contact in the club. That’d be a big thrill for him, having a conversation, maybe a dance with his intended victim. A good way to get another sense of her, a gauge, a rhythm.”

  “Yeah.” Peabody hissed in her breath as they started outside. “And…If he did, and she saw him later—on the street, wherever he made the grab, she’d be friendly, at ease. It’s Mr. Smooth from Starlight.”

  “So, if he made contact with her…maybe he made contact with Gia Rossi.”

  “The fitness center.”

  “Place to start.”

  He knew how to blend. He knew how to make himself inconspicuous, so that eyes passed over him without notice. It was a skill he put to good use during the research phase of any project.

  He used it now as he watched her—Eve Dallas—stride out of the apartment building, down the street. Ground-eating strides. Loose and busy. Strong.

  He very much approved of strong women—physically and mentally.

  She’d been strong. The Eve of all the others. The mother. She’d been very strong, he remembered, but he believed this Eve—this last Eve—would be stronger than any who had come before.

  Not time for you yet, he thought as he watched her, watched the way she moved. Not quite time for this Eve. But when it was, oh…

  He believed she would be his finest work to date. A new level of excellence. And the pinnacle of all he’d accomplished.

  But for now, there was another who required his attention.

  He really should get home to her.

  The manager of BodyWorks was a six-foot Asian with a body like molded steel. He went by the name of Pi. He wore a black skin-suit and a small, trim goatee.

  “Like I told the other cops, it was just another day. Gia had her classes, her clients. I gave them the client list. Do you need—”

  “No, they have it. Thanks for cooperating.”

  He dropped down into a chair in his office, a glass box that allowed him to view all the areas on that level of the center. Outside it, people pumped, sweated, trotted, flexed, and twisted.

  “We’re pals, you know? I can’t get through the idea something may have happened to her. But I’m telling you, she can take care of herself. That’s what I think. She’s tough.”

  “Anybody ask for her specifically in the last few weeks?” Eve asked him.

  “Yeah, like I told the other guys. She’d get referrals from clients. Word of mouth. She’s good at what she does, gets results, but doesn’t drill sergeant the client into it.”

  “How about older guys, say over sixty?”

  “Sure. Sure. Fitness isn’t just for kids, you know. She has some clients like that, and we get them in for classes. She runs a tai chi class twice a week, a yoga class every other morning geared for the over-sixty group. Twice a week she has classes geared for the centennials.”

  “She pick up anybody new in any of those in the last few weeks?”

  “Like I told the others, if you’re a member you don’t have to sign up for any of the classes. You just come in, take whichever you want.”

  “How about anybody who joined in, say, the last thirty days. Male, over fifty, let’s say.”

  “I can get you that. But you don’t have to have joined at this location. If you hold a membership from any of our clubs—that’s global—you just key in.”

  “You have a record of who’s keyed in? You keep track of how your members use the facilities, how often they use them, who pays the fee for a trainer?”

  “Sure. Sure. That kind of data goes straight to the main offices. But I can—”

  “I can get that,” Eve told him. “No problem. Did she take outside clients?”

  “That’s against policy,” he began.

  “We’re not worried about policy, Pi. She’s not going to get jammed up if she pulled in some extra on the side. We want to find her.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe she did.” He puffed out his cheeks, blew out the air. “Somebody’s willing to pay you stiff for going to their house for an hour a couple times a week, it’s hard to flip it. We’re pals, but I’m management. She knows I know, and like that, but we don’t talk about it. Not really.”

  “How about a sense, since you were pals, if she took on a private client recently?”

  He puffed out his cheeks again. “She sprang for Knicks tickets—courtside. We’re going to the game next week. My birthday. Son of a bitch.” He smoothed his hands over his shaved head. “Pretty much out of her range. She joked, said she’d hit a little jackpot. I figured she’d gotten a side fee, a couple of them maybe.”

  “When did she get the tickets?”

  “A few weeks ago. Look, you need to find her, okay? You just need to find her.”

  8

  OUTSIDE, EVE WALKED THE ROUTE GIA HABITUALLY took to the subway. The woman was a New Yorker, Eve mused. Which meant she’d move along at a brisk pace, and though her radar would be on, she’d be inside her own thoughts.

  Might be a window-shopper, Eve thought. Might stop and study a display, even go inside a shop. But…

  “Baxter and Trueheart checked out the stores and markets along the route,” she said to Peabody. “Nobody remembers seeing her that day. Some clerks recognized her picture. Previous visits. But not on the day she poofed.”

  “She didn’t make it to the station.”

  “N
o. Maybe she wasn’t going to the station.” Eve turned, sidestepping toward the buildings as New York bustled by. “Had extra dough, enough for a pair of courtsides. She takes an outside client. Maybe the client’s address is within walking distance. Or he provided cab fare or transportation.”

  And considering this, she factored in Baxter’s point about the potential age difference, and the fact that Gia Rossi had been a trainer, in peak physical condition.

  “Maybe she walked right into it. Maybe she walked right into his nest.”

  “He doesn’t grab her. He just opens the door.”

  “Slick,” Eve said softly. “Yeah, that would be slick. Contact Newkirk. I want him and the other uniforms canvassing this area. All directions, five blocks.” Eve headed toward the car. “I want her picture shown to every clerk, waitperson, sidewalk sleeper, doorman, and droid. Get McNab,” she added as she climbed behind the wheel. “I want him to send her picture to every cab company and private transpo service. Bus companies, air trams. Hit them all. Then the Transit Authority. Check the run for that night on other stations. She didn’t use her pass, but maybe she took a ride anyway.”

  Peabody was already relaying to Newkirk.

  “She went to him,” Eve said before she swung out into traffic. “That’s what I think. She went right to him.”

  Following the hunch, she contacted Zela at home.

  “Yes?” Obviously half asleep, Zela stifled a yawn. “Lieutenant? What—”

  “Did Sarifina ever give private lessons?”

  “Private lessons? I’m sorry, I’m a little foggy.”

  “Dance lessons. Did she ever give private dance lessons?”

  “Now and again, sure. People want to be able to do the moves for special occasions. Weddings, bar or bat mitzvahs, reunions. That sort of thing.”

  “At the club, or at the client’s home?”

  “Generally at the club. Mornings when we’re closed.”

  “Generally,” Eve pressed, “but there were exceptions.”

  “Give me a second.” Zela moved as she spoke, and Eve heard the beep of an AutoChef. “I worked until nearly three last night, then took a pill. I haven’t been sleeping well since…I need to clear my head.”

  “Zela.” Impatience ground through Eve’s voice. “I need to know if Sarifina went to clients’ homes.”

  “Every once in a while, particularly for the older clients. Or the kids. Sometimes parents want their kids to learn. Or an older couple wants to swing it a little—for an occasion, or a cruise. But usually, we do that sort of thing here, through the club.”

  “Had she taken on any personal clients in the last few weeks?”

  “Just let me think, okay? Let me think.” Zela gulped down what Eve assumed was coffee. “She may have. She was an easy touch, you know? Liked to do favors for people. We didn’t check that kind of thing off with each other all the time. But if it was through the club, I mean if she was going to instruct someone here, she’d have noted in down. The club gets a cut of the fee, and Sari was religious about keeping good records on that.”

  “No cut if she went to them?”

  “Well, that’s a gray area. Like I said, she liked to do favors. She might go give someone an hour or two, cutting her rate, doing it off the books. On her own time, before or after work, on her day off. What’s the harm?”

  What’s the harm? Eve thought as she clicked off.

  “We figured he grabbed them off the street. But they went to him. These two, at least, my money says they went right to him. How’d they get there?”

  “York’s image has been out since yesterday. Weekend, though,” Peabody added. “If she took a cab, the driver might not have paid any attention, or might not have seen the reports on her yet.”

  “No. No. We have to run it down, but that would be sloppy, and he isn’t sloppy. Why take a chance like that? Leave a record, a possible wit? Cab driver dumps the vic right at his door? Doesn’t play.”

  “Well, the same thing applies to private transpo.”

  “Not if he’s providing it. Personally. We check anyway, we check all the transits. All the pickups in the area the vics were last seen.”

  Man hours, wasted hours, Eve thought. And still it had to be done. “He’s not going to chance something like that. Lures them in, that’s what he does. Nice, harmless guy, nice older gentleman who wants to learn to tango, wants to get fit. There’s a nice, sweet fee for the personal service. Provides transportation for them.”

  “Nobody sees them on the street because they’re not on the street that long.” Peabody nodded as the theory solidified for her. “They come out of work, get into a waiting vehicle. Nobody’s going to notice. But…”

  “But?”

  “How can he be sure they’re not going to tell somebody? What I mean is, neither of these women seems stupid. How could he be sure they’re not going to tell a friend, a coworker, they’ve got this private gig. Here’s where I’m going to be, and with whom.”

  Eve pulled over in front of Gia Rossi’s apartment building, then just sat, tapping her fingers on the wheel. “Good point. We know they didn’t tell anyone, or anyone who’s passed on that information. So the why, the how can he be sure. Gotta play the percentages.” She got out, drawing her master to deal with the door. “First he’s going to give them a bogus name and address. Now, if they’re smart, or concerned in any way, they’re going to check that out, make sure it’s legit. Not hard to pull that off if you’ve got enough money and know-how. But that’s another area for EDD to look into.”

  They stepped inside the three-story walk-up, where Rossi’s apartment was on ground level. “Next, think of his profile. Intelligent, mature, controlled.”

  She used the master again to break the seal Baxter had activated, and uncode the locks. “We know he travels, so we’re looking at someone who’s likely sophisticated, and I’m just going to bet charming. He knows his victims.”

  When they stepped in, Eve paused to look around the cramped living area. Big wall screen, she noted, small couch, a couple of chairs, tables holding decorative bits and pieces. Tossed socks, shoes—mostly of the athletic variety. The electronics had already been taken in.

  “Knows what they like,” she continued, “what appeals to them. Plays that. Gets familiar with them face-to-face, dropping into their respective clubs, chatting them up. But not too much, not so anyone pays particular attention. He blends, and he blends. Mr. Smooth, Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Harmless.”

  She walked over to the window, studied the street, the sidewalk, the neighboring buildings. “He gains their trust. Maybe he talks about his wife or his daughter, something that paints a picture in their heads. Normality. Takes time, sure, but he likes to take time. Then he brings up the private work—or smarter, he maneuvers them into mentioning it or suggesting it.”

  She turned, walked into the tiny, equally cramped bedroom. “Then he’s got them. She’s got privacy screens, but they’re old and cheap. Right equipment, you could watch her in here. You know when she gets up, how long it takes her to get ready for work, what time she leaves, her route. Bet you keep it all documented. Scientific, that’s what it is. I wonder how many he’s picked, watched, documented, and rejected. How many women are alive because they didn’t quite fit his precise requirements.”

  “Creepy.”

  “Yeah.” Dipping her hands into her pockets, Eve rocked back on her heels. “Maybe he’s always worked this way, or worked this way before. The prior personal contact, the maneuvering the target to go to him. We’ll go back over the old cases with that angle. And we’ll look at the projected targets in this one with that in mind.”

  “Dallas? What are we looking for here? I mean, here in her place.”

  “Her. Gia Rossi. He knows the pieces of her, or thinks he does. Let’s see what we find.”

  It was what they didn’t find that added weight to Eve’s theory. However cramped and messy the living space, Gia Rossi kept her exercise and music discs meticulously o
rganized.

  “Two slots empty in her workout disc tree, three empty in her music disc tree. The way she’s got them alphabetized, I’m guessing cardio and yoga on the fitness end. We’ll check the personal effects Baxter took from her gym locker.”

  “She’s got a lot of personal equipment. Hand weights, ankle and wrist weights, mats, medicine balls, running track.” Peabody gestured inside the closet that Rossi had outfitted for equipment storage. “I’m guessing some’s missing. Lightest and heaviest ankle weights, light and heavy resistance ropes.”

  “Light for him, heavy for her. Takes some basic equipment, some music, the demo vids. You ever work with a PT?”

  “No.” Peabody flexed her butt muscles, wondering if that was the way to reduce the square footage of her ass. “You?”

  “No, but I’m betting a good one would outline a program for a client—something specifically created for his body type, age, weight, goals, and so on. If she did it here, EDD can find it. Let’s go.”

  Roarke walked into a war room full of chatter of both the human and electronic varieties. Cops on ’links, on headsets, on comps. Cops sitting, pacing, dancing.

  But his cop was nowhere to be seen.

  He crossed paths with McNab, who was outfitted in silver jeans and a casual Sunday sweatshirt of searing orange. “Is the lieutenant in the house?”

  “In the field. Heading in, though. Working some fresh angles. You want?”

  “I want.”

  Tapping the toes of his silver airboots, McNab swiveled in his chair. “Just covered all public and private transpo with pictures of York and Rossi. Dallas is working the idea that our guy provided transpo.”

  “And they just hopped in?”

  “Yeah. Need liquid. Walk and talk.”

  McNab filled Roarke in as he headed out to Vending, debated his choices, and opted for an orange fizzy—perhaps to match his shirt.

  “A home lesson or consultation,” Roarke mused. “Interesting, and it would eliminate the risk of any sort of public abduction. Still, the method has its own risks and problems.”