by J. D. Robb
Took a hell of a knock, he thought now, but temper had been riper than pain. He’d seen that, too. Just as he’d seen her compassion for the distress and confusion of a scared little boy inside a man’s body.
And here she was, moments later, taking charge of the room, putting all that behind her.
It was hardly a wonder that it had been her, essentially from the first minute he’d seen her. That it would be her until his last breath. And very likely well beyond that.
She hadn’t worn her jacket for the briefing, he noted. She looked lean and not a little dangerous with her weapon strapped over her sweater. He’d seen her drape the diamond he’d once given her over her neck before she’d put on the sweater that morning.
The priceless Giant’s Tear and the police-issue. That combination, he thought, said something about their merging lives.
As he listened to her brisk update, he toyed with the gray button—her button—he always carried in his pocket.
“I expect to have a face within the next couple of hours,” she continued. “Until that time, these are the lines we pursue. Urban Wars connection. Captain Feeney?”
“Slow going there,” he said, “due to the lack of records. The Home Force did have documented billets and clinics in the city, and I’m working with those. But there were any number of unofficial locations used, and used temporarily. More that were destroyed or subsequently razed. I’ve interviewed and am set to interview individuals who were involved militarily, paramilitarily, or as civilians. I’m going to focus on body disposal.”
“Do you need more men?”
“I’ve got a couple I can put on it.”
“Do that. Knocking on doors. Newkirk, you and your team will recanvass this sector.” She turned, aiming her laser pointer to highlight a five-block area around the bakery where Ariel Greenfeld worked. “Every apartment, every business, every street LC, sidewalk sleeper, and panhandler. Somebody saw Greenfeld Sunday afternoon. Make them remember. Baxter, you and Trueheart take this sector around Greenfeld’s residence. He watched her. From the street, from another building, from a vehicle. In order to familiarize himself with her routine, he staked her out more than once. Jenkinson and Powell, recanvass the area of York’s and Rossi’s residences. Peabody and I will take the gym and the club.”
She paused, and Roarke could see her going through her mental checklist. “The real estate angle. Roarke.”
“There are a significant number of private residences,” he began, “and businesses with residences on site that have been owned and operated by the same individual or individuals for the time frame. Even reducing this search area to below Fiftieth in Manhattan, the number is considerable. I believe, if I cross with Feeney, do a search for private buildings that were in existence during the Urbans, whether as residences or otherwise, we’ll cut that down.”
“Good.” She thought a moment. “That’s good. Do that. Connecting cases. McNab.”
“It’s been like trying to pick the right flea off a gorilla.”
“My line,” Callendar muttered beside him, and he grinned.
“Her line, but I think we may have a good possible. First vic in Florida, housekeeper at a swank resort, last seen after leaving the Sunshine Casino at approximately oh-one-hundred. She habitually spent a few hours on her night off playing the poker slots. Going on the theory that her killer had made earlier contact, may have been known by her, I did a run on the resort’s register for the thirty days prior to her death. Investigators at that time took a pass through it after the second body was discovered, but as it appeared the vic had been grabbed outside the casino, focused their efforts there. But a copy of the register was in the case file. Tits here and I went though it.”
“And you got lucky,” Callendar mumbled.
“And I’m so good,” McNab said smoothly, “that I hit on a guest registered three weeks before the vic was snatched, with a four-day stay. Name of Cicero Edwards. Resort requires an address, to which Edwards listed one in London. I ran the name with said address and came up with zip. No Edwards, Cicero, at that address at that time. And better, the address was bogus. It’s the address for—”
“An opera house,” Eve said and had McNab’s pretty face moving into a pout.
“Wind, sails, sucked out,” he commented. “The Royal Opera House, to be exact. Leading your crack e-team to deduce this was our guy, and that our guy has a thing for fat women singing in really high voices.”
“I have information that may add further weight to that.” She encapsulated Nadine’s information. “Good work.” She nodded at McNab and Callendar. “Find more. Roarke, see if you can dig up any buildings that were used as opera houses or theaters that held operas during the Urbans. And—”
“He’ll have season tickets,” Roarke said. “If he’s a serious buff, and is able to afford the luxury, he’d indulge it. Box seats, most likely. Here at the Met, very likely at the Royal and other opera houses of repute.”
“We can work that,” she replied. “Dig, cross-check. He likes to vary his name. Punch on any variation of Edward.” She glanced at her wrist unit, cursed. “I’m late for the damn media. Get started.”
She turned, studied the name she’d added to the white board. Ariel Greenfeld.
“Let’s find her,” she said, and went out.
She got through the media without actually grinding her teeth down to nubs. She considered that progress. Whitney was waiting for her outside the briefing room.
“I’d hoped to make it to your morning briefing,” he told her. “I was detained.”
“We do have some new leads since my report. Sir, I’d like to check on Detective Yancy’s progress with the witness if I could update you on the way.”
He nodded, fell into step beside her.
“An opera lover,” he said when she’d brought him up to speed. “My wife enjoys the opera.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled a little. “I actually enjoy some opera myself. He may have gotten too clever with his fake addresses, using opera houses.”
“Houses may be one of the keys, Commander. I don’t know much about opera, but I take it they deal with death a lot of the time. The psychic in Romania talked about his house of death. Psychics are often cryptic or their visions symbolic.”
“And we should consider he might have, or have had, some more direct connection with opera. A performer, or backer, a crew member, musician.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Phantom of the Opera. A story about a disfigured man who haunts an opera house, and kills,” Whitney explained. “His killing place may be a former opera house or theater.”
“We’re pursuing that. There are other areas we may pursue. I’d like to discuss them with you and Mira at some point, if those areas seem relevant.”
“We’ll work around you.”
He went with her to Yancy’s division. Eve wondered if he registered the fact that wherever he passed, cops came to attention…or if it was something he no longer noticed.
Eve saw first that Yancy was alone at his workstation, and second that his eyes were closed, and he was wearing a headset. Though she’d have preferred the commander had been elsewhere when she was forced to berate a detective, it didn’t stop her from giving Yancy’s desk chair a good, solid kick.
He jerked up. “Hey, watch where you’re—Lieutenant.” Annoyance cleared when he saw Eve, then shifted over into something closer to anxiety when he spotted Whitney. “Commander.”
He came out of the chair.
“Where the hell is my witness?” Eve demanded. “And just how often do you take a little nap on the department’s time?”
“I wasn’t napping. Sir. It’s a ten-minute meditation program,” he explained as he pulled off the headset. “Trina needed a break, so I suggested she go down to the Eatery or take a short walk around. At this point in the work, it’s easy to stop guiding and start directing. Meditating for a few minutes clears my head.”
“Y
our methods generally produce results,” Whitney commented. “But in this case, ten minutes is an indulgence we can’t afford.”
“Understood, sir, but, respectfully, I know when a wit needs a breather. She’s good.” Yancy glanced at Dallas. “She’s really good. She knows faces because it’s her business to evaluate them. She’s already given me more than most wits manage, and in my opinion, after this break she’s going to nail it solid. Take a look.”
He’d used both a sketch pad and the computer. Eve stepped around to get a closer look at both. “That’s good,” she agreed.
“It’ll be better. She keeps changing the eyes and the mouth, and that’s because she’s second-and third-guessing. She can’t pull out the eye color, but the shape? The shape of the eyes, the face, even the way the ears lie, she doesn’t deviate.”
The face was rounded, the ears lying neatly, and on the small side. The eyes were slightly hooded and held a pleasant expression. The mouth, a little thin on top, was curved in a hint of a smile. Short-necked, Eve noted, so that the head sat low on the shoulders.
All in all, it struck her as a bland, nondescript kind of face. The sort that would be easily overlooked. “Nothing stands out about him,” she commented. “Except his absolute ordinariness.”
“Exactly. And that makes it harder for the wit. Harder to remember details about somebody who doesn’t really have anything about him that catches the eye. She was more into how he dressed, how he spoke, how he smelled, that sort of thing. They made the impression. Took her a while to start building the face beyond that. But she’s good.”
“So are you,” Eve complimented. “Give me a copy of this for now. Get me the finished when you have it.”
“Some of these details are going to change.” Still, Yancy ordered a print. “I think the nose is going to be shorter, and—” He held up a hand as if signaling himself to stop. “And that’s why we needed a break from each other. I’m projecting.”
“This gives us a base. When you’re done with Trina, I’d like you to arrange for her to be taken back to my residence. She’s expected.”
“Will do.”
“Nice work, Detective.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
As they left, Whitney glanced at Eve. “Check with him in an hour. If there isn’t any change, we’ll release this image. We need it made public as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Contact me when you want to meet with me and Dr. Mira,” he added, then peeled off to go his own way.
Eve didn’t care how cold it was, it was good to be back on the street. She’d had enough, for the time being, of desk work and comp work and briefings. It was true enough she needed some thinking time, just her and her murder board, but right now, she needed to move.
“It’s hard to believe we’ve only been on this since Friday night.” Peabody hunched her shoulders as they walked to BodyWorks. “It feels like we’ve been working this one for a month.”
“Time’s relative.” Ariel Greenfeld, Eve thought, missing for approximately eighteen hours.
“McNab humped on this until nearly three this morning. I fizzled just past midnight, but he was revved. Something about e-juice, I guess. Of course, when he’s really humping the comp, he doesn’t have any left to, you know, hump yours truly. This is the longest we’ve gone since cohabbing not using the bed—or some other surface—for recreational purposes.”
“One day,” Eve said as she cast her eyes to heaven, “one fine day you’ll be able to go a full week without inserting an image of you and McNab having sex into my head.”
“Well, see, that’s what I’m worried about.” They passed into the lobby of the center, flashed badges on the way to the elevator. “You think maybe the bloom’s wearing off? That we’re losing the spark? It’s actually been since Wednesday night that we—”
“Go no further with that sentence.” Eve ordered the elevator to take them to the main gym. “You can’t go, what, four days without worrying about blooms and sparks?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Well, no,” Peabody decided, “because four days is basically a work week if you’re not a cop. If you and Roarke went a week, wouldn’t you wonder?”
Eve wasn’t sure this had ever been an issue. She only shook her head and stepped off the elevator.
“So you and Roarke haven’t gotten snuggly since we caught this?”
Eve stopped, turned. Stared. “Detective Peabody, are you actually standing there asking me if I’ve had sex in the last few days?”
“Well. Yes.”
“Pull yourself together, Peabody.”
“You have!” Peabody trotted after Eve. “I knew it. I knew it! You’re practically working around the clock, and you still get laid. And we’re younger. I mean, not that you’re old,” Peabody said quickly when Eve shifted very cool eyes in her direction. “You’re young and fit, the picture of youth and vitality. I’m just going to stop talking now.”
“That would be best.” Eve went straight to the manager’s office.
Pi got up from his desk. “You have news.”
“We’re pursuing a number of leads. We’d like to talk to the staff again, and make inquiries among some of your members.”
“Whatever you need.”
Though Yancy had a little time left on his clock, Eve drew out the sketch. “Take a look at this, tell me if you know this man, or have seen him.”
Pi took the sketch, studied it carefully. “He doesn’t look familiar. We have a lot of members, a lot of them casual, others who are transient, using this facility while they’re in town for business or pleasure. I know a lot of the regulars on sight, but I don’t recognize him.”
He lowered this sketch. “Is this the man who has Gia?”
“At this time, he’s a person of interest.”
They spent an hour at it, without a single hit. As they stepped outside, Eve’s ’link signaled. “Dallas.”
“Yancy. Got it. Good as it’s going to get.”
“Show me.”
He flipped the image on screen. Eve saw it was a bit more defined than the sketch she was carrying. The eyebrows were slightly higher, the mouth less sharply shaped. And the nose was, in fact, a little shorter. “Good. Let’s get it out. Notify Whitney, and tell him I requested Nadine Furst get a five-minute bump over the rest of the media.”
“Got that.”
“Good work, Yancy.”
“He looks like somebody’s nice, comfortable grandfather,” Peabody commented. “The kind that passes out peppermint candy to all the kids. I don’t know why that makes it worse.”
Safe, Trina had said. She’d said he looked safe. “He’s going to see himself on screen. He’ll see it at some point in the next few hours, the next day. And he’ll know we’re closer than we’ve ever been before.”
“That worries you.” Peabody nodded. “He might kill Rossi and Greenfeld out of panic and preservation, and go under again.”
“He might. But we’ve got to air the image. If he’s targeted another woman, if he’s contacted her, and she sees it, it’s not only going to save her life, it may lead us right to his door. No choice. Got no choice.”
But she thought of Rossi. Eighty-six hours missing, and counting.
Considering the sketch she had was closer than most, Eve used it while they talked to other businesses, to residences, to a couple of panhandlers and the glide-cart operators on the corners.
“He’s, like, invisible.” Peabody rubbed her chilled hands together as they headed toward the club. “We know he’s been around there, been inside the gym, but nobody sees him.”
“Nobody pays attention to him and maybe that’s part of his pathology. He’s been ignored or overlooked. This is his way of being important. The women he takes, tortures, kills, they won’t forget him.”
“Yeah, but dead.”
“Not the point. They see him. When you give somebody pain, when you restrain them, hold them captive and isolated, hurt them, you’re
their world.” It had been that way for her, she remembered. Her father had been the world, the terrifying and brutal world the first eight years of her life.
His face, his voice, every detail of him was exact and indelible in her mind. In her nightmares.
“He’s the last thing they see,” she added. “That must give him a hell of a rush.”
Inside Starlight it was colored lights and dreamy music. Couples circled the dance floor while Zela, in a waist-cinching red suit Eve had to assume was retro, stood on the sidelines.
“Very smooth, Mr. Harrow. Ms. Yo, relax your shoulders. That’s the way.”
“Dance class,” Peabody said as Zela continued to call out instructions or encouragement. “They’re pretty good. Oops,” she added when one of the men wearing a natty bow tie stepped on his partner’s foot. “Kinda cute, too.”
“Adorable, especially considering one of them might dance on home after class and torture his latest brunette.”
“You think…one of them.” Peabody eyed Natty Bow Tie suspiciously.
“No. He’s done with this place. He’s never been known to fish from the same pool twice. But I’m damn sure he fox-trotted or whatever on that floor within the last few weeks.”
“Why do they call it a fox-trot?” Peabody wondered. “Foxes do trot, but it doesn’t look like dancing.”
“I’ll put an investigative team right on that. Let’s go.”
They headed down the silver stairs, catching Zela’s eye. She nodded, then applauded when the music ended. “That was terrific! Now that you’re warmed up, Loni’s going to take you through the rhumba.”
Zela gestured Eve and Peabody over to the bar while the young redhead led Natty Bow Tie to the center of the floor. The redhead beamed enthusiastically. “All right! Positions, everyone.”
There was a single bartender. He wore black-tie, and set a glass of bubbly water with a slice of lemon in front of Zela without asking her preference. “What can I get you, ladies?”
“Could I have a virgin cherry foam?” Peabody asked before Eve could glare at her.