by J. D. Robb
“Limo driver, crossbow, transpo station parking. Pricey LC, bayonet, amusement park. Luxury items, unusual weapons, semipublic places. He’s got a system, and right now he’s two for two.”
She stood up. “Officer—”
“Milway.”
“Milway, see if you can find out how she got here. Personal transpo, private, public. Round up entrance security. Let’s see if he jammed that, too. Talk to park employees, find out if anyone saw her. She’s a looker. If they noticed her, they may have noticed who she was with.”
She waited until the uniform stepped out. “How do you figure he got that through the scanners?” she asked, gesturing to the bayonet.
“The smartest way would be to have it on him, in a sheath or holder lined with magnetic fiber that would block the reading.”
Eve nodded, continued to study the body, the room. “An LC of that level has to have solid experience as well as skill and a clean bill. Her hair’s still perfect. Her dress, except for the blood, isn’t messed up. No bruises, no sign she tried to evade or fight. She didn’t see it coming. Didn’t get any kind of buzz he was off.”
“Neither did Houston,” Roarke pointed out. “A driver would be good at reading clients.”
“Should be. She comes in here with him. We’ll get the route from the glitches, the blips, whatever Gumm wants to call them, and then she ends up here. Must be gruesome when it’s running.”
“It’s meant to be.”
“People are fucked up,” she said half to herself. “Can you get them to turn on this sector? Just this sector. I want to see how it played.”
“Give me a moment.” He took out his ’link, stepped away.
“Sweepers dispatched, morgue team’s heading in.”
Nodding at Peabody, Eve considered. “She doesn’t have a memo book on her, but you can bet someone at her level has perfect records. She’ll have this guy listed. But he’d know that.”
“If it’s the same killer, you’re thinking he faked his ID again.”
“I’m thinking he’d cover himself, play the same pattern. If so, it means she didn’t know him. A first round. Wouldn’t she run him? Make sure she’s not dating a psycho—not that it did her any good. But wouldn’t she? I want to talk to Charles about that,” she said referring to their mutual friend, a retired LC.
“Charles might’ve known her,” Peabody added. “They would’ve run in the same circles, same social strata.”
She jumped as if her air skids were springs at the bloodcurdling scream.
“Nerves of steel,” Eve muttered while moans and stench and eerie light filled the chamber. She watched an anitron score another anitron’s face with a glowing poker.
“The torture methods in play are historically accurate,” Roarke told her. “The instruments are carefully crafted replicas of those used.”
“Yeah, seriously fucked up. Is there another entrance?”
“To the public, no. That one would channel the customers in here, through the maze of the place, then move them out again over there to the next sector.”
“Okay.” She moved to the entrance, ignoring cobwebs, skittering rats. “Is the smell authentic, too?”
“Or a close approximation.”
“And people pay for this.” She shook her head. “They come in here. Does it excite him, all the screams, the smell of blood and piss, the realism? I bet it does. He didn’t just decide to do it here, he planned it. Here in this replica of misery, cruelty, fear, despair. Maybe she’s playing the part, shivering, cringing, holding on to him. Or she’s going the other way, aroused, excited—whichever she thinks the client’s after.
“But they moved around.” She began to walk through. “Getting a closer look. Had to get to the kill zone. Shadows are deeper there. Maybe he maneuvers her, or she goes that way and plays into his hands. Up against the wall, braced against the wall, that’s how he did her. She thinks he wants a little sample of what’s coming, and he gets her against the wall so she doesn’t fall on anything, knock anything. Jamming the cameras, the sensors, but if she falls and knocks anything over, that could get through. He wants a little time to get out, get away. He leaves, the jamming stops. But she’s on the floor, in the shadows, and the show goes on.”
She walked over to a doorway that resembled the mouth of a cave. “Out here. Where does this go?”
“Here.” Roarke held out his PPC. “That’s the layout of this area. Depending on the route and timing of anyone ahead of you, the program would take you out into one of these three sectors. There are appropriately mocking signs here, here, here, for those who want to end their tour. This is where Gumm believes he exited.”
“Let’s have a look. Peabody, stay with the body, set up the sweepers when they’re on scene.”
“Ah, could we maybe lose the effects?”
“Coward.”
But Roarke winked at her, ordered them shut down.
The security lights illuminated a narrow corridor with torches on the walls. They followed its left fork into a wide cavern with what appeared to be a deep pool of water. On it sat a boat where men in dingy pirate garb were frozen in mid-sword fight. A couple of decaying corpses lay piled under jutting rocks. The topmost had a crow on its belly, beak buried in torn flesh.
“Nice.”
“You get what you pay for. When running there’s head severing, disemboweling, a bit of keel hauling, and the skeletal spirits of the damned. It’s fairly impressive.”
“I bet.” She studied the sign on an arched door fashioned to replicate planks.
IF THE PIRATE’S BLADE YOU FEAR,
TAKE THIS CHANCE TO ESCAPE FROM HERE.
“The exit.” She tried the door. It opened into the bright lights and sounds of the park. “He’d be out and gone in two minutes, easily. With the heart jab, he shouldn’t have gotten any blood on him. Or if he did, it’s easily cleaned off before he leaves. Stroll right out. He could buy a fucking soy dog to celebrate. He’d look ordinary, forgettable. But she doesn’t, that’s the thing. She’s the type people notice, so maybe somebody noticed him, too.”
She shut the door. “I’m going to take another walk through. Maybe you could give Gumm and McNab a kick. I want whatever they’ve got, and we’ll see what EDD can do with it. And yeah,” she said before he could speak, “you’re on as expert consultant, civilian, if you want to be. I know this is your place, and you’re pissed.”
“Not entirely mine, but, yes, I’m pissed. It’s good security here,” he added, looking around, “but it’s a playground. Families, children, people looking for a bit of fun. I don’t suppose we were as stringent in that area as we might have been.”
“Nobody’s going to monitor an amusement spook house the way they do the UN. And he knew what he was doing, just how to do it.” She frowned. “I want a list of other investors, partners, whatever they are. The money people who’d know what went into this place. He has money, or he wants it. The kind that buys gold limos and expensive LCs.”
She went out the exit, circled around to the front. This time she wanted to retrace the killer’s route. She tagged McNab. “Guide me through this place, by the blips on the security.”
“Can do. Let me get a fix on your ’link.”
She followed his directions, winding through a vampire’s lair, a graveyard with zombies dragging themselves out of the ground. She could imagine the lighting, the sounds, the movements well enough.
What if the program had taken them another way? she wondered. He’d had alternatives set up. Other kill zones with easily accessed exits. And the vic had played along, doing what she’d been paid to do.
She stopped, narrowed her eyes. Paid. An LC in her league would get a hefty deposit. She needed to consult with Charles, get a solid opinion on the practice and procedure.
By the time she reached Peabody she had the route mapped in her head. “He probably made it here with her in under twenty. Probability’s high this was his first stop, and her last.”
“I did a run on her. She had over a dozen years in, not a single citation. Clean and regular health checks, paid her fees on time, worked her way up the chain. She’s diamond level, and if I remember what Charles said that means she earns about ten thousand for a four-hour date. She’s certified for male and female, groups, bondage, submissive or dominant. Name it, she’s licensed. There are only half a dozen LCs in the city at her level. Only one other female.”
“He wants or needs exclusive.” She turned as Officer Milway came back in.
“Lieutenant. She didn’t book transpo, but I checked for private going to her address tonight. There was a pickup for that address, her name, booked at twenty-two-thirty. Elegant Transportation. The driver, Wanda Fickle, dropped her off at the main entrance at twenty-three-ten. The car was ordered by and paid for by a Foster M. Urich. He’s got an address in the Village.”
“Good work.”
“Yes, sir. We’re asking around. We found a couple of people who think they saw her. With a male, but they’re vague and contradictory on the male. We’ll keep on it.”
“If you get anything solid there, I want to know ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
She pulled out her ’link. “I’ve got to go to the Village.”
“Take the car,” Roarke told her. “McNab and I will get ourselves and the discs into Central.”
Since suggesting he go home and get some sleep first would be a waste of time, she didn’t bother. “I’ll see you there.”
“Morgue’s in the house.” Peabody tucked away her communicator. “Sweepers right behind them.”
“Good, let’s get things wrapped here, and go see Foster M. Urich. Do a run.”
“Already on it. Forty-three, Caucasian male, recently divorced, one child—daughter, age eight. CEO of Intelicore. Minor bust for zoner at age twenty. Nothing else on his record.”
“What’s Intelicore?”
“Data gathering and storing services. Major player globally and off planet. Three generations in.”
“Interesting,” Eve murmured. “That’s another two for two.”
8
THE MINUTE SHE SPOTTED THE CAR PEABODY wiggled her hips and swung her arms in the air. “Hotdiggity damn!”
“Stop that.”
“It’s so pretty.” She settled for wiggling her shoulders. “It’s so sexy. It’s so frosty. It’s so Roarke.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be taking public transportation to the Village.”
“I’ll be good, I’ll be good. I’ll be especially good if we can have the top down. Can we? Please, please?”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.” Eve uncoded the locks.
“Not even close. It’s all smooth and shiny.” She purred as she stroked fingertips along the hood.
“Your ass’ll be all smooth and shiny when I’m finished kicking it. I’m putting the top down.” Eve’s snarl and pointed finger cut off Peabody’s squeal. It came out as more of a peep.
“Because it’s hot, and because the wind will blow away some of your idiocy.”
Eve turned the car on.
“Ooh, it sounds like a lion that’s just fed.”
“How do you know what a lion that’s just fed sounds like?”
“I watch nature shows on-screen sometimes to further my education.”
“Because you never know when we’re going to have to track a lion through Midtown.” She ordered the top down, and Peabody executed a quick seat wiggle.
“If you’re finished with your vehicular orgasms see if you can make any connections between Dudley and Intelicore.” Eve activated the GPS on her wrist unit, read in Urich’s address.
“We are so freaking high-tech!”
“I’m just seeing if it works.” She shot out of the lot. Peabody let out a joyous, “Whee!”
“There’s just not enough wind.”
“You’re going ‘Whee,’ too. Inside.”
Maybe, Eve thought.
“If the killer isn’t Urich—and nothing’s that easy—then he has to look enough like him, or have made himself look enough like him to fool the vic. He could change his hair, add weight, take it off, do some face work, but there should be at least a surface resemblance. The killer’s probably Caucasian or looks it, likely in the neighborhood of five ten and a hundred seventy like Urich. Unless he’s just randomly hacking IDs for his kills, we’ll find a connection between Sweet and Urich.”
“He’s picking the top in their field for his victims,” Peabody said as she worked. “Sweet and Urich both work for important companies, and have important positions in them.”
“It’s more,” Eve said with a shake of her head. “When you think of the top companies, the wealthiest corporations, the biggest businesses, what comes to mind first?”
“Roarke.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s taken out two without crossing into Roarke’s businesses.”
“The amusement park.”
“Yeah, which Roarke has a piece of, and a part in. But it’s hard to pick a company without bumping into one of Roarke’s, and the killer didn’t go there for his cover either time. There’s going to be a connection between the men and/or their companies. It’s not random. Neither are the vics. They’re not personal, but they’re specific. We’ll run a search to see if there’s any connection between Houston and Crampton, but it’s going to be the men, the companies, not the victims.”
“I don’t find anything on this first round. None of the subsidiaries are connected or even in direct competition. They do have offices in some of the same cities, but that’s a stretch. They do each have long-running charitable foundations, but again, they veer off into different areas of interest and support.”
“It’s in there somewhere,” Eve noted.
Peabody put her head back, closed her eyes. “Maybe employees who crossed over, or interbusiness marriages, relations. So the killer has at least some data on both.”
“Possible.”
“Or somebody who knows and has a hard-on against Sweet and Urich.”
“A lot of trouble to go to, and pretty fucking extreme to take a punch at somebody. But we’ll be looking for connections between Sweet and Urich. The methods aren’t random either. They’re planned well in advance, so they’re deliberate. A bid for attention. He’s showing off. Send an alert to Mira’s office,” she said referring to the department’s top profiler and shrink. “I want a consult tomorrow. Send her the files so she can take a look.”
When she pulled up in front of the dignified old brownstone, she smiled at her wrist unit. “Bastard really works.”
She got out of the car, took a moment to study the townhouse, the neighborhood. “Nice spot. Quiet, established, monied but not flashy. Urich was married once and did it in a twelve-year stretch. He’s worked for the same company for close to twenty years. He sticks. Got a little garden going here that looks all tidy and organized. Everything all nice and settled.”
She passed through the short wrought-iron gate, to the walkway between a small, structured front garden, and up the stairs to the main door.
“Locks down at night.” She nodded toward the steady red light on the security pad before pressing the buzzer.
This residence is protected by Secure One, the computer informed her. The occupant does not accept solicitations. Please state your name and your business.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.” Eve held up her badge for the scanner. “NYPSD. We need to speak with Foster Urich.”
Your information will be relayed. Please wait.
Good security, Eve thought, but Urich kept it simple and straightforward.
It took several minutes, but the security light switched to green, and the door opened.
Urich stood in loose pants and T-shirt, his feet bare. His hair looked sleep tumbled and curled around a sharp-featured face. Fear lived in his eyes.
“Has something happened to Marilee? My daughter. Is my daughter—”
“We’re not here about you
r daughter, Mr. Urich.”
“She’s okay? Her mother—”
“We’re not here about your family.”
He closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them the fear died. “My daughter’s at camp. It’s her first time.” He let out a breath. “What’s this about? Jesus, it’s after three in the morning.”
“We’re sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we need to ask you some questions. Can we come in?”
“It’s the middle of the night. If I’m going to let you in, I want to know what this is about.”
“We’re investigating a homicide. Your name came up.”
“My—a murder? Who’s dead?”
“Ava Crampton.”
His face creased in puzzlement. “I don’t know anybody by that name. All right, come in. Let’s get this cleared up.”
The long entrance hall opened on the side to a living area with deep colors, oversized seating, a wide wall screen. On the table in front of a long high-backed couch sat two wineglasses and a bottle of red. A pair of high-heeled sandals sat under the table.
“Who’s Ava Crampton, and how did my name come up?”
“Are you alone, Mr. Urich?”
“I don’t see that’s any of your business.”
“If you’ve had company this evening, it may clear up some questions.”
He was blushing, Eve noted.
“I’m with a friend. I don’t like being interrogated about my personal life.”
“I don’t blame you, but Ava Crampton lost her personal life.”
“I’m sorry about that, but it has nothing to do with me. And I’d really like to know why you think it does.”
“Elegant Transportation took Ms. Crampton to Coney Island tonight.”
He looked both irritated and baffled. “Lieutenant Dallas, if you’re questioning everyone who routinely uses Elegant Transpo, you’re in for a really long night.”
“The reservation for the limo was in your name, and secured with your credit card.”