by J. D. Robb
The lady had furnished the place to suit herself, mixing the very old with the ultra-new, with the result an eclectic and surprisingly appealing style. Eve and Peabody sat on the thick cushions of a sofa done in murderous red while their hostess poured tea from a white pot scattered with pink rosebuds into distressingly delicate cups.
The tea and a plate of paper-thin cookies had been brought in by a smartly dressed woman with the build of a toothpick.
“We have met a time or two,” Jessica began.
“Yes, I remember.” Now that she had the face, Eve did remember. The woman was a trim and carefully turned-out eighty-something with short, softly waved hair of deep gold around a sharp-featured face. Her mouth, long and animated, was painted petal pink, and her eyes—thickly lashed—a deep river green.
“You wear Leonardo.”
“Only if he washes up first.”
Jessica giggled, an appealing sound of eternal youth. “One of my granddaughters is mad for his designs. Won’t wear anyone else. He suits her, as he does you. I believe people should always choose what suits them.”
When she passed Eve the tea, Eve had to resist commenting that coffee in a good, sturdy mug suited her.
“We appreciate you giving us your time, Ms. Charters.”
“Jessica, please.” She offered Peabody a cup and a flashing smile. “Indulge me just one moment. Could I ask, when the two of you interrogate—oh, wait, the term’s ‘interview’ these days—when you interview a suspect, do you ever rough them up?”
“We don’t have to,” Peabody told her. “The lieutenant scares confessions out of them.”
The giggle rang again. “What I wouldn’t give to watch that! I just love police dramas. I’m always trying to imagine myself the culprit, and how I’d stand up under interviews. I desperately wanted to kill my third husband, you see.”
“It’s a good impulse to resist,” Eve commented.
“Yes.” Jessica smiled her flower petal smile. “It would’ve been satisfying, but messy. Then again, divorce is rarely much tidier. Now, I’m wasting your time. How can I help you?”
“Stewart E. Pierpont.”
Jessica’s eyebrows quirked. “Yes, yes, I know that name. Has he done something murderous?”
“We’re very interested in speaking to him. We’re having a little trouble locating him.”
Though mild confusion was evident on Jessica’s face, her tone remained absolutely pleasant. “His address would be on file. I’ll have Lyle look it up for you.”
“The address he’s listed doesn’t jibe. Unless they’re taking tenants at the Royal Opera House or Carnegie Hall.”
“Really?” Jessica drew out the word, and now came a quick and avid light to her eyes. “Well, well, well. I should have known.”
“How and what should you have known?”
“A very odd duck, Mr. Pierpont. He’s attended a few galas and events over the years. Not particularly sociable and not at all philanthropic. I could never wheedle donations out of him, and I am the world record holder for wheedling.”
“Galas and events are by invitation, aren’t they?”
“Of course. It’s important to—Ah! I see. How did he receive invitations if his address is not his address? Give me one moment.”
She rose, crossed the polished tiles, the thick Turkish rug, and went out of the room.
“I like her.” Peabody helped herself to a cookie. “She kind of reminds me of my grandmother. Not the way she looks, or lives,” Peabody continued with a glance around the room. “But she’s got that snap to her. Not just that she knows what’s what, but like she’s always known.
“Hey, these cookies are mag. And so thin you can practically see through them.” She took another. “See-through food can’t have many calories. Eat one, or I’m going to feel like an oinker.”
Absently, Eve took a cookie. “He doesn’t donate to the Met. Goes to a function now and then, but doesn’t lay out any real bucks. Tickets cost, events cost, but he’s getting something out of those. There’s the control again. If you donate, you can’t direct, not precisely, where your scratch is going.”
She looked over as Jessica returned.
“The mystery’s solved, but remains mysterious. Lyle reports that our Mr. Pierpont requested all tickets, all correspondence, invitations, begging letters, and so on, be held for him at the box office.”
“Is that usual?” Eve asked.
“It’s not.” Jessica sat, picked up her tea. “In fact, it’s very unusual. But we try to accommodate our patrons, even those we have to squeeze funds out of.”
“When was the last time you saw or spoke with him?”
“Let me see. Oh, yes, he attended our winter gala. Second Saturday in December. I remember I tried, again, to convince him to join the Guild. It’s a hefty membership fee, but has lovely benefits. He’s the type who enjoys the opera, who knows and appreciates it, but isn’t interested in funding. Tight-fisted. I’ve seen him come or go to performances over time. Always on foot. Doesn’t even spring for a car. And always alone.”
“Did he ever speak to you at all about his personal life?”
“Let me think.” Crossing her legs, she swung one foot back and forth. “Drawing on the personal is an essential tool of the wheedle. A longtime widower, travels a great deal. He claims to have attended performances in all the great opera houses of the world. Prefers Italian operas. Oh!”
She held up a finger, closed her eyes just a moment as if to pull together a thought. “I remember, some years ago, pumping him a bit—as he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, I thought I might slide that membership fee out of him. I had him discussing whether true appreciation for art and music is inherent or learned. He told me he’d learned his appreciation from his mother when he was a boy. I said that was, arguably, inherent. But no, he said, though she had been the only mother he’d known, she had been his father’s second wife. She had been a soprano.”
“A performer.”
“I asked him just that. What did he say? It was a bit odd. She had been, but circumstances had denied her, and time had run out. I’m sure that’s what he said. I asked him what had happened, but he excused himself and abruptly walked away.”
“Would Lyle know when Pierpont last picked up anything from the box office?”
“He would, and I asked him, anticipating you. Just last week.”
“How does he pay?”
“Cash, Lyle tells me. Always, and yes, that’s unusual. But we don’t quibble about eccentricities. He always wears black-tie to the theater, which is also a bit eccentric, I suppose. So do his guests.”
“You said he’s always alone.”
“Yes. I meant whenever he gives his performance ticket to a guest.” An obliging hostess, she lifted the pot to pour more tea into Peabody’s cup. “I’ve occasionally seen other men in his box. In fact, there was a guest in his seat at the opening of Rigoletto last week.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Ah, black and white. That’s how I thought of him, actually. Black-tie—very formal—white hair, white skin. I remember wondering if he might be a relation of Mr. Pierpont. There was a resemblance, or it seemed to me there was. I didn’t see him before or after the performance, or at intermission. Or I didn’t notice.”
“Can you dig up the names of those who have been in the same box with Pierpont?”
“There never is anyone when Pierpont or one of his guests attend.” Jessica smiled as she held out the plate of cookies. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”
Buys up the other tickets in the box,” Eve said when they were in the car. “Doesn’t want anyone else nearby, disturbing him, or getting too close.”
“We’ll stake out the opera.” Peabody pulled out her book to key in some notes. “Maybe he’ll need another fix.”
“Yeah, we’ll set that up. His stepmother. That’s who the women represent. That’s whose picture he carries in his wallet. Idealizes and demonizes her at the sam
e time.”
“You sound like Mira.”
“It’s what plays. He kills her, again and again—probably re-creating her actual death. Then he washes her, lays her on white linen. Her time ran out, so he sees that time runs out for the ones he picks to represent her. That’s the core of it, with the cross in the Urbans. She clocked out in the Urbans, and I’m betting on the date he’s used for his fake wife in the Pierpont data.”
“The wife thing—the wedding band. His stepmother, but also his fantasy woman,” Peabody theorized. “His bride. He doesn’t rape her, that would shatter the fantasy. Not sexual, but romantic. Pathologically romantic.”
“Now who’s Mira? We start searching for women of her description who died on or about the date in the Pierpont data.”
“A lot of deaths weren’t recorded during the Urbans.”
“Hers will be.” Eve whipped the wheel to change lanes and shoehorn herself into a minute opening in the clog of traffic. “He’d have seen to it. It would’ve been here in New York. New York’s the beginning and the end for him. We find her, and she’ll lead us to him.”
Eve heard the internal clock in her head ticking, ticking, ticking away the time. And thought of Ariel Greenfeld.
She didn’t know it was possible to experience such pain, to survive it. Even when he stopped—she’d thought he would never stop—her body burned and bled.
She’d wept and she’d screamed. In some part of Ariel’s mind, she’d understood he’d enjoyed that. He’d been entertained by her helpless shrieks, wild sobs, and desperate struggles.
She lay now, shivering in shock while voices twined through the air in a language she didn’t understand. Italian? she wondered, fighting to focus, to stay conscious. It was probably Italian. He’d played music while he’d hurt her, and her screams had cut through the voices then as his nasty little knives had cut through her flesh.
Ariel imagined using them on him. She’d never been violent. In fact, she’d been a pitiful failure in the basic defense classes she’d taken with a couple friends. Weakfeld, they’d called her, she remembered. And they’d all laughed because they’d never believed, not really, that any of them would ever have to use the punches and kicks they’d tried to learn.
She was a baker, that’s all. She liked to cook and create cakes and cookies and pastries that made people smile. She was a good person, wasn’t she? She couldn’t remember ever hurting anyone.
Maybe she’d toked a little Zoner in her teens, and that was wrong. Technically. But she hadn’t caused anyone any harm.
But she found the idea of causing him harm dulled the pain. When she imagined herself breaking free, grabbing one of the knives and just plunging it into his soft belly, she didn’t feel so cold.
She didn’t want to die this way, this horrible way. Someone would come, she told herself. She had to hold on, had to survive until someone came and saved her.
But when he came back, everything inside her cringed. Tears flooded her throat and her eyes so that even her whimpers were drowned.
“That was a nice break, wasn’t it?” he said in that hideously pleasant voice. “But we have to get back to work. Now then, let’s see. What’s it to be?”
“Mr. Gaines?” Don’t scream, she ordered herself. Don’t beg. He likes that.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Why did you pick me?”
“You have a pleasing face and lovely hair. Good muscle tone in your arms and legs.” He picked up a small torch. She had to bite back a moan as he turned it on with a low hiss, narrowed the flame to a pinpoint.
“Is that all? I mean, did I do anything?”
“Do?” he said absently.
“Did I do something to upset you, or make you mad at me?”
“Not at all.” He turned, smiled kindly as the narrow flame hissed.
“It’s just, Mr. Gaines, I know you’re going to hurt me. I can’t stop you. But can you tell me why? I just want to understand why you’re going to hurt me.”
“Isn’t this interesting?” He cocked his head and studied her. “She asks, always she asks why. But she screams it. She doesn’t ever ask so politely.”
“She only wants to understand.”
“Well. Well, well, well.” He turned the torch off, and Ariel’s chest heaved with relief. “This is different. I enjoy variety. She was lovely, you know.”
“Was she?” Ariel moistened her lips as he pulled up a stool and sat so he could speak face-to-face. How could he look so ordinary? she wondered. How could he look so nice, and be so vicious?
“You’re very pretty, but she was almost exquisite. And when she sang, she was glorious.”
“What…what did she sing?”
“Soprano. She had a multiple voice.”
“I…I don’t know what that means.”
“Her brilliance was so bright. She was allegra—those high, clear notes seeming to simply lift out of her. And the color, the texture of lirica with the intensity and depth of the drammatica. Her range…”
Moisture sheened his eyes as he pressed his fingers to his lips, kissed the tips. “I could, and did, listen to her for hours. She would accompany herself on the piano when at home. She tried to teach me, but…” He smiled wistfully as he held up his hands. “I had no talent for music, only a vast appreciation for it.”
If he was talking he wasn’t hurting her, Ariel thought. She had to keep him talking. “Is it opera? I don’t know anything about opera.”
“You think it’s stuffy, boring, old-fashioned.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” she said carefully. “I’ve just never really listened to it before. She sang opera?” Questions, Ariel thought desperately. Ask questions so he’ll spend time answering. “And—and was a soprano? With, um, multiple voice like—like ranges?”
“Indeed, yes, indeed, that’s very good. I have many of her recordings. I don’t play them here.” He glanced around the room. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I’d love to hear her sing. I’d love to hear her multiple voice.”
“Would you?” His eyes turned sly. “Aren’t you clever? She was clever, too.” He rose now, picked up the torch.
“Wait! Wait! Couldn’t I hear her sing? Maybe I’d understand if I could hear her sing? Who was she? Who was—Oh, God, God, please!” She tried to shrink away from the tip of the flame he traced, almost teasingly, along her arm.
“We’ll have to chat later. We really must get to work.”
Eve went directly to Feeney when she reached Central. “Female brunettes between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-three who died on this date in New York. We need names, last known addresses, cause of death.”
“Records around that time are sketchy,” he told her. “A lot of deaths went unrecorded, a lot of people were unidentified, or misidentified.”
“Dig. She’s what’s going to open locks on this. I’m going to check with Yancy, see if he’s got any sort of an image on the wallet photo.”
To give Yancy more time, she went first to Whitney and asked for more men to form a stakeout team at the Met.
“Done. I need you for a media briefing at noon.”
“Commander—”
“If you think I don’t know how pressed and pressured you are, you’re mistaken.” And he looked just as irritated as she did. “Thirty minutes. I’ll cut it off at thirty, but unless you’re on your way to arrest this son of a bitch, I need you there. We have to hold back the flood.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Confirm the new and salient you fed Nadine this morning, and the twenty-four-hour shifts. I want you to express confidence that Ariel Greenfeld will be found alive.”
“I will, Commander. I believe she will be.”
“Let them see you do. Dismissed. Oh, Lieutenant, if I learn you’ve stepped foot outside this building without your vest or your wires, I’ll skin you. Personally.”
“Understood.”
It was a little annoying to realize he’d sensed she was con
sidering forgetting the vest. She hated the damn thing. But she had to respect a man who knew his subordinates.
She strode into Yancy’s section and saw him working with Baxter’s peach. He caught Eve’s eye before she wound her way through the stations. He rose, smiled, and said something to the witness before heading Eve off.
“I think we’re making progress here. She’s got him nailed, but she only got a quick look at the photo. We’re working on it, Dallas. You’ve got to give me more time, more room.”
“Can you give me him?”
“Already sent it to your office unit. Subtle differences in the facial structure from Trina’s image, different hair, eyebrows. My eye says same guy.”
“Your eye’s good enough for me. When you get the woman’s image, send it to me, and to Feeney. Make it work, Yancy. This one could be the money shot.”
By the time Eve reached her own division, Peabody was heading out of the war room. “Tried Morris, as ordered. He’s on his way here with the tox results. Jenkinson and Powell reported in. They’re at the spa boutique. There’s a clerk who thinks maybe she saw our guy in there sometime.”
“There’s a fresh image on my unit. Send it to them, have them show it around the store and the salon.”
“Got it.”
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
Both she and Peabody turned. Ariel’s hungover neighbor, Eve realized. “Erik, right?”
“Yeah. I have to talk to you. I have to find out what’s going on. That woman, Gia Rossi, she’s dead. Ariel…”
“I’ll take him,” Peabody told Eve.
“No, I got it. Get the image to Jenkinson. Let’s sit down, Erik.” She didn’t have time to take him to the lounge, didn’t have the heart to boot him out. Instead, she led him to one of the benches outside her own bullpen.
“You’re worried and you’re upset,” Eve began.
“Worried? Upset? I’m scared out of my goddamn mind. He’s got her. That maniac has Ariel. They said he tortures them. He’s hurting her, and we’re just sitting here.”
“No, we’re not. Every cop assigned to this case is working it.”
“She’s not a case!” His voice rose, threatened to crack. “Goddamn it, she’s a human being. She’s Ariel.”