by J. D. Robb
“What does that tell us?” Eve scanned the room. “It tells us one thing we didn’t know about him before.”
“He’s a coward,” Peabody said, and gave Eve a quick, inner glow of pride.
“Exactly. He doesn’t, as we believed, confront his victims, doesn’t risk a public struggle, even with the aid of a drug. He uses guile and lies, the lure of money or advancement or the achievement of a personal goal. He has to know them well enough to use what works, or has the greatest potential of working. He may have spent more time observing and stalking each vic than we previously supposed. And the more time he spent, the more chance there is that someone, somewhere, saw him with one or more of the victims.”
“We’ve been shooting blanks there,” Baxter reminded her.
“We go back, interview again, and ask about men the vics spent time with at work, who may have taken one of their classes or talked about doing so. A month ago, two months ago. He wouldn’t have been back since he abducted them. He’s done with them; he’s moved on from that stage. Who used to hang out at these locations, or frequent them who hasn’t been there in the last week for York, the last three days for Rossi.
“McNab, dig into Rossi’s comps, find me a new outside client. Roarke, names, addys, place of employment on everyone on your list who feels like she fits. Feeney, keep at the Urban War angle. Body identification, comments, commentaries, names of medics officially assigned, of volunteers where you can find them. I want photos, horror stories, war stories, editorials, every scrap you can dig up. Baxter, you and Trueheart hit the street. Jenkinson, you and Powell stay out there, find somebody whose memory can be jogged.
“Write it up, Peabody.”
“Yes, sir.”
She started out, and Feeney caught up with her. “Need a minute,” he said.
“Sure. Got something?”
“Your office.”
With an easy shrug, she kept going. “Heading back there. I want to go through the cases between the first and this one more carefully, start calling names on the original interview lists. We just need one break, one goddamn crack, and we can bust it. I know it.”
He said nothing as they wound through the bullpen, into her office. “Want coffee?” she asked, then frowned as he closed the door. “Problem?”
“How come you didn’t come to me with this?”
“With what?”
“This new theory.”
“Well, I—” Sincerely baffled, she shook her head. “I just did.”
“Bullshit. What you did was come out as primary, as team leader, you briefed and assigned. You didn’t run this by me. My case, you remember? It’s my case you were using out there.”
“It just popped. Something York’s boyfriend said clicked on a new angle for me. I started working it and—”
“You started working it,” he interrupted. “Going back over my case. A case where I was primary. I was in charge. I made the calls.”
Because the muscles in her belly were starting to twist, Eve took a long, steady breath. “Yeah, like I’m going to go back over the others. They’re all part of the same whole, and if this is an opening—”
“One I didn’t see?” His tired, baggy eyes were hard and bright now. “A call I didn’t make while the bodies were piling up?”
“No. Jesus, Feeney. Nobody’s saying that or thinking that. It just turned for me. You’re the one who taught me when it turns for you, you push. I’m pushing.”
“So.” He nodded slowly. “You remember who taught you anyway. Who made a cop out of you.”
Now her throat was drying up on her. “I remember. I was there, Feeney, from the beginning when you pulled me out of uniform. And I was there for this case. Right there, and it didn’t turn for us.”
“You owe me the respect of cluing me in when you’re going to pick my work apart. Instead you roll this out, roll it over me, and you push me off on some bullshit Urban Wars research. I lived and breathed this case, day and night.”
“I know it. I—”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dug it out since and lived and breathed it again,” he interrupted furiously. “So now you figure it’s turned for you and you can rip my work to pieces without so much as a heads-up.”
“That wasn’t my intent or my purpose. The investigation is my priority—”
“It’s fucking well mine.”
“Is it?” Temper and distress bubbled a nasty stew in her belly. “Fine, then, because I handled this the best I know how—fast. The faster we work it, the better Rossi’s chances are, and right now they’re about as good as a snowball’s in hell. Your work wasn’t the issue. Her life is.”
“Don’t tell me about her life.” He jabbed his finger in the air toward her. “Or York’s, or Dagby’s, or Congress’s, Waters’s, or Weitz’s. You think you’re the only one who knows their names?” Bitterness crackled in his tone. “Who carries the weight of them around? Don’t you stand there and lecture me about your priorities. Lieutenant.”
“You’ve made your viewpoint and your feelings on this matter clear. Captain. Now, as primary, I’m telling you, you need to back off. You need to take a break.”
“Fuck that.”
“Take an hour in the crib, or go home and crash until you can shake this off.”
“Or what? You’ll boot me off the investigation?”
“Don’t bring it down to that,” she said quietly. “Don’t put either of us there.”
“You put us here. You better think about that.” He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the glass shudder.
Eve’s breath whistled out as she braced a hand on her desk, as she lowered herself into her chair. Her legs felt like water, her gut like a storm inside a violent sea.
They’d had words before. It wasn’t possible to know someone, work with someone, especially under circumstances that were so often tense and harsh, and not have words. But these had been so biting and vicious, she felt as if her skin was flayed from them.
She wanted water—just a gallon or two—to ease the burning of her throat, but didn’t think she was steady enough to get up and get it.
So she sat until she got her wind back, until the tremor in her hands ceased. And with a headache raging from the base of her skull up to her crown, she called up the next file, prepared to make the next call.
She stuck with it for two hours solid, with translators when necessary. Needing air, she rose, muscled her window open. And just stood, breathing in the cold. A couple more hours, she thought. In a couple more, she’d finish with this step, run more probabilities, write up the report.
Organizing data and hunches, statements and hearsay, writing it all down in clear, factual language always helped you see it better, feel it better.
Feeney had taught her that, too.
Goddamn it.
When her communicator signaled, she wanted to ignore it. Just let it beep while she stood, breathing in the cold.
But she pulled it out. “Dallas.”
“I think I’ve got something.” The excitement in McNab’s voice cut through the fog in her brain.
“On my way.”
When she walked into the war room, she could almost see the ripple of energy and could see Feeney wasn’t there.
“Her home unit,” McNab began.
“Fell into your lap, Blondie,” Callendar commented.
“Was retrieved due to my exceptional e-skills, Tits.”
The way they grinned at each other spoke of teamwork and giddy pride.
“Save it,” Eve ordered. “What’ve you got?”
“I’ll put it on the wall screen. I found it under ‘Gravy.’ I’d been picking through docs labeled ‘PT,’ ‘PP,’ ‘Instruction,’ and well, anyway. I hit the more obvious, figuring gravy was like nutrition or, I dunno, recipes. What she means is extra—the gravy.”
“Private clients.”
“Yeah, like she couldn’t have doc’d it that way? So, she’s had a bunch. Works with som
eone until they don’t want anymore, or does monthly follow-ups. Before she starts she does this basic analysis—sort of like a proposal, I think. Tons of them in there. But this one…”
McNab tapped one of his fingers on the comp screen. “She created sixteen days ago, and she’s finessed and updated it here and there since. Up to the night before she poofed. She made a disc copy of it, which isn’t anywhere in her files.”
“Took it with her,” Eve concluded as she studied the wall screen. “Took the proposal to the client. TED.”
“His name, or the name he gave her. She has all her private clients listed by first name on the individualized programs she worked up.”
“Height, weight, body type, measurements, age.” Eve felt a little giddy herself. “Medical history, at least as he gave it to her. Goals, suggested equipment and training programs, nutrition program. Thorough. Boys and girls,” Eve announced. “We’ve got our first description. Unsub is five feet, six and a quarter inches, at a weight of a hundred and sixty-three pounds. A little paunchy, aren’t you, you son of a bitch? Age seventy-one. Carries some weight around the middle, according to these measurements.”
She kept her eyes on the screen. “Peabody, contact all officers in the field, relay this description. McNab, go through the comps from BodyWorks, find us Ted. Callendar, do a search on York’s electronics for this name, for any instruction program she might have written that includes body type, age. Anything that coordinates or adds to this data.”
She turned. “Roarke, give me anything you’ve got. You and I will start contacting the women on your list, find out if they’ve been contacted or approached by anyone requesting a home visit. Uniforms, back to canvass, making inquiries about a man of this description. Baxter, Trueheart, you’re back to the club, back to the fitness center. Jog somebody’s memory. I need a station, a d and c. We’ve got a hole. Let’s pull this bastard out of it.”
He sighed as he stepped back from his worktable. “You’re a disappointment to me Gia. I had such high hopes for you.”
He’d hoped the rousing chorus from Aida would snap her back, at least a bit, but she simply lay there, eyes open and fixed.
Not dead—her heart still beat, her lungs still worked. Catatonic. Which was, he admitted as he moved over to wash and sterilize his tools, interesting. He could slice and burn, gouge and snip without any reaction from her.
And that was the problem, of course. This was a partnership, and his current partner was very much absent from the performance.
“We’ll try again later,” he assured her. “I hate to see you fail this way. Physically you’re one of the best of all my girls, but it appears you lack the mental and emotional wherewithal.”
He glanced at the clock. “Only twenty-six hours. Yes, that’s quite a step back. I don’t believe you’ll be breaking Sarifina’s record.”
He replaced his tools, walked back to the table where his partner lay, bleeding from the fresh cuts, her torso mottled with bruising, crosshatched with thin slices.
“I’ll just leave the music on for you. See if it reaches inside that head of yours.” He tapped her temple. “We’ll see what we see, dear. But I’m expecting a guest shortly. Now, I don’t want you to think of her as a replacement, or even a successor.”
He leaned down, kissed her as yet unmarred cheek as kindly as a father might kiss a child. “You just rest awhile, then we’ll try again.”
It was time—time, time, time—to go upstairs. To cleanse and change. Later he would brew the tea, and set out the pretty cookies. Company was coming.
Company was such a treat!
He unlocked the laboratory door, relocked it behind him. In his office, he glanced at the wall screen, tsked at the image of Gia as she lay comatose. He was afraid he would have to end things very soon.
In his spotless white suit he sat at his desk to enter the most current data. She was simply not responding to any stimuli, he mused as he noted down her vital signs, the methods and music used in the last thirty minutes of their session. He’d believed the dry ice would bring her back, or the laser, the needles, the drugs he’d managed to secure.
But it was time to admit, to accept. Gia’s clock was running down.
Ah, well.
When his log was completed, he made his way through the basement labyrinth, past the storage drawers that were no longer in use, past the old work area where his grandfather had forged his art once upon a time.
Family traditions, he thought, were the bedrock of a civilized society. He eschewed the elevator for the stairs. Gia had been quite right, he thought. He would benefit from more regular exercise.
He’d let himself go just a little, he admitted as he patted his plump belly, during his last dormant stage. The wine, the food, the quiet contemplation, and of course, the medication. When this work period was finished, he would take a trip to a spa, concentrate on his physical and mental health. That would be just the ticket.
Perhaps he would travel off planet this time. He’d yet to explore anything beyond his own terra firma. It might be amusing, and certainly beneficial, to spend some time in Roarke’s extra-planetary playground, the Olympus Resort.
Doing so would be a kind of delicious topping after he’d completed his current goal.
Eve Dallas, Lieutenant, NYPSD. She would not disappoint as Gia had, he was sure. Still a few kinks to work out in securing her, he admitted. Yes, yes, that was true. But he would find the way.
He unlocked the steel-core basement door using code and key, stepped into the spacious and spotless kitchen. Relocked it.
He would spend some quality time the next day studying the data he’d accumulated on his final Eve. She wasn’t as predictable as the ones he usually selected. But then again, that was one of the elements that would make her so special.
He was looking forward to getting reacquainted with her, after so many years.
He moved through the lovely old house, glancing around to make certain all was in order. Past the formal dining room, where he always took his meals, and the library, where he would often sit and read or simply listen to music.
The parlor, his favorite, where he had a pretty little fire burning in the rose granite hearth, and Asian lilies, blushed with pink, rising glamorously out of a wide crystal vase.
There was a grand piano in the corner, and he could still see her there, creating, re-creating such beautiful music. He could see her trying to teach his unfortunately stubby fingers to master the keys.
He’d never mastered them, nor had his voice ever mastered the demands and beauty of the notes, but his love for music was deep and true.
The double doors across from the parlor were closed, were locked. As he’d kept them for many years now. Such business as had been done there was carried on in other places.
His home was his home. And hers, he thought. It would always be hers.
He went up the curve of stairs. He still used the room he’d had as a boy. He couldn’t bring himself to use the bedroom where his parents had slept. Where she had slept.
He kept it preserved. He kept it perfect, as she had once been.
Pausing, he studied her portrait, one painted while she had glowed, simply glowed, with the bloom of youth and vibrancy. She wore white—he believed she should always have worn it. For purity. If only she’d remained pure.
The gown swept down her body, that slim and strong body, and the glittery necklace, her symbol of life, lay around her neck. Swept up, her hair was like a crown, and indeed the very first time he’d seen her he’d thought her a princess.
She smiled down at him, so sweetly, so kindly, so lovingly.
Death had been his gift to her, he thought. And death was his homage to her through all the daughters he lay at her feet.
He kissed the silver ring he wore on his finger, one that matched the ring he’d had painted onto the portrait. Symbols of their eternal bond.
He removed his suit. Put the jacket, the vest, the trousers, the shirt in the bin
for cleaning. He showered, he always showered. Baths could be relaxing, might be soothing, but how unsanitary was it to lounge in your own dirt?
He scrubbed vigorously, using various brushes on his body, his nails, his feet, his hair. They, too, would be sanitized, then replaced monthly.
He used a drying tube. Towels were, in his opinion, as unsanitary as bathwater.
He cleaned his teeth, applied deodorant, creams.
In his robe he went back to the bedroom to peruse his closet. A dozen white suits, shirts ranged on one side. But he never greeted company in his work clothes.
He chose a dark gray suit, matching it with a pale gray shirt, a tone-on-tone gray tie. He dressed meticulously, carefully brushed his snow-white hair before adding the trim little beard and mustache.
Then he replaced the necklace—her necklace—that he’d removed before his shower.
The symbol of a tree with many branches gleamed in gold. The tree of life.
Satisfied with his appearance, he traveled down to the kitchen, moved through it to the garage where he kept his black sedan. It was a pleasant drive across town, with Verdi playing quietly.
He parked, as arranged, in a small, ill-tended lot three blocks from Your Affair, where his potential partner worked. If she was timely, she would be walking his way right now, she would be thinking about the opportunity he’d put in her hands.
Her steps would be quick, and she would be wearing the dark blue coat, the multicolored scarf.
He left the car, strolling in the direction of the store. He’d found her there, in the bakery section, and had been struck immediately by her looks, her grace, her skill.
Two months had passed since that first sighting. Soon, all the time, the work, the care he’d put into this selection would bear fruit.
He saw her from a block away, slowed his pace. He carried the two small shopping bags from nearby stores he’d brought along with him. He would be, to anyone glancing his way, just a man doing a little casual Sunday shopping.