by J. D. Robb
Roarke was far from stupid, she mused. He’d taken his time, covered his tracks. All she had to do now was to see that they stayed covered.
If she had one break first, one solid, tangible piece of evidence to indicate a conspiracy. Anything she could put in Whitney’s hand to help convince him to buy the rest.
She heard a shout from the next room and scowled, annoyed that she’d neglected to engage the sound control. But as she rose to do so, the excited voices on the other side of the door drew her through it.
“Okay, what’s the big fucking deal? Did you find a new way to play Space Marauders?”
“I found an echo.” McNab was nearly dancing as he continually slapped Roarke on the back. “I found a goddamn beautiful echo.”
“Take it to the Alps, pal, and you can have lots of echoes.”
“An electronic echo. The bastard’s good, but I’m better. He bounced the transmission from the core system right here in the house, but he didn’t send it from here. No indeed he didn’t, because I have a fucking-A echo.”
“Good job, Ian. Here’s another. See it?” Roarke pointed to a small needle gauge jury-rigged to the ’link. Eve saw nothing, but McNab hooted.
“Yeah, baby, that’s the way. I can work with this, you bet your ass I can.”
“Wait a minute.” Eve muscled between them before they could slap backs again. “Explain this in terms normal people can understand. No e-jabber.”
“Okay, try this.” McNab inched a hip onto her desk. He was wearing hearts in his ears today. A dozen tiny red hearts Eve tried not to focus on. “The last incoming from mystery boy you received. I tracked it all over the damn place, and into here. Every indication showed the transmission originated from this building.”
“I got that.”
“But we don’t want to believe that, so we open up the system for element scan. It’s like—Do you cook?”
Roarke only chuckled. Eve sneered. “Let’s be serious.”
“Okay, I was going to say like a recipe where you separate the eggs from the sugar and like that.”
“I’m not a moron, McNab, I can follow that.”
“Good, great. When we’re taking the elements for our cake and examining each one for, like, quality, maybe we see one’s off, just a tad off. Like the milk’s turned. So when we figure the milk’s turned we want to know why. Now we find there’s a leak in our refrigeration system. Just a tiny leak, microscopic, but enough to affect the quality, enough to let in germs. Your house system had a germ.”
“What does that have to do with echoes?”
“Ian.” Roarke held up a hand. “Before you whip up a four-course meal, let me explain this. Electronic signals leave a pattern,” he told Eve patiently. “And that pattern can be tracked and simulated. We’ve run the patterns for incomings on this unit for the last six weeks. We also ran patterns for outgoings from the main system for the same length of time. When doing so, and taking it through several levels, we discovered a shift in pattern on one incoming. The one that matters. An echo—or a shadow layered over the consistent pattern—which clearly indicates a different source.”
“You can prove the transmission didn’t originate from here?”
“Exactly.”
“Is this the kind of proof you can put into black and white and I can take to Whitney?”
“You betcha.” McNab beamed at her. “EDD’s used this kind of evidence in hundreds of cases. It’s standard. This one was buried deep and the pattern was nearly smooth. But we found her.”
“You found her,” Roarke corrected.
“I couldn’t have done it without your equipment and your help. I missed it twice.”
“You came through.”
“Before I toddle off,” Eve interrupted, “and leave you two boys to bask in the glow of mutual admiration, would you mind taking just a moment to distill this evidence into hard copy and disc for my pesky report?”
“Lieutenant.” Roarke laid a hand on McNab’s shoulder. “You’re embarrassing us with your praise and gratitude.”
“You want praise and gratitude?” On impulse, she grabbed Roarke’s face in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then—what the hell—she did the same to McNab. “I want the data within the hour,” she added as she strode out.
“Wow.” McNab pressed his lips together to hold on to the taste, then patted a hand on his heart. “The lieutenant has some great mouth.”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Ian, just when we’re beginning such a beautiful friendship.”
“She got a sister? Cousin? Maiden aunt?”
“Lieutenant Dallas is one of a kind.” Roarke watched the needle give another, barely discernable jerk. “Ian, let’s distill this data for her, then wouldn’t it be fun to see just how far we can follow this echo?”
McNab’s brow furrowed. “You want to try to track an echo this faint? Hell, Roarke, it takes days of man-hours and top equipment to track a solid one. I’ve never heard of anything below the scale of fifteen being tracked.”
“There’s always a first time.”
McNab’s eyes began to shine. “Yeah, the boys in EDD would bow to me if I pulled it off.”
“More than enough reason to push forward, I’d say.”
chapter twelve
Eve paced the reception area outside Mira’s office. What the hell was taking so long, she wondered, and checked her wrist unit once again. It was twelve-thirty. Summerset had been in testing for ninety minutes. Eve had until one to present her progress reports to her commander.
She needed Mira’s findings.
To help herself wait, she practiced her oral backup to her written reports. The words she would use, the tone she would take. She felt like a second-rate actor running lines backstage. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine.
The minute the door opened, she leaped at Summerset. “What’s the deal?”
His eyes were dark and hard in a pale face, his jaw clenched, his mouth thin. Humiliation rolled greasily in his stomach. “I’ve followed your orders, Lieutenant, and completed the required testing. I’ve sacrificed my privacy and my dignity. I hope that satisfies you.”
He stalked past her and through the outer doors.
“Screw it,” Eve muttered and walked straight into Mira’s office.
Mira smiled, sipped her tea. She’d had no trouble hearing Summerset’s bitter comments. “He’s a complicated man.”
“He’s an ass, but that’s irrelevant. Can you give me a bottom line?”
“It will take some time for me to review all the tests and complete my report.”
“I’ve got Whitney in twenty minutes. I’ll take anything you can give me.”
“A preliminary opinion then.” Mira poured another cup of tea, gesturing for Eve to sit. “He’s a man with little respect for the law, and a great deal of respect for order.”
Eve took the tea but didn’t drink. “Which means?”
“He’s most comfortable when things are in their place, and he’s somewhat obsessive about keeping them there. The law itself, the laws society makes mean little to him as they are variable, often poorly designed, and quite often fail. Aesthetics are also important to him—his surroundings, appearances—as he appreciates the order in beauty. He’s a creature of routine. This soothes him, this pattern, this stability. He arises at a certain hour and retires at a certain hour. His duties are clearly outlined and followed. Even his recreation, his free time is organized.”
“So, he’s a tight-ass. I already knew that.”
“His way of dealing with the horrors he witnessed during the Urban Wars, the poverty and despair he escaped from, and the loss of his only child is to create a certain acceptable pattern, then follow it. But . . . in unclinical terms, yes, he’s a tight-ass. However rigid he might be, however much he may sneer at the laws of society, he is one of the most nonviolent personalities I’ve encountered.”
“He’s given me a few bruises,” Eve muttered under her breath.
; “You disturb his need for order,” Mira said, not without sympathy. “But the fact is, true violence is abhorrent to him. It offends his very rigid sense of order and place. And it’s wasteful. He finds waste repellent. Again, I believe, because he saw far too much of it throughout his life. As I said, it will take a bit of time to review the tests, but I would say at this point it’s my opinion that someone of his personality structure is unlikely to have committed the crimes you’re investigating.”
For the first time in hours, Eve’s stomach unknotted. “This knocks him down the list. Way down. I appreciate you dealing with this so quickly.”
“I’m always happy to do a friend a favor, but after reading your data on this investigation, it’s a bit more than that. Eve, you’re dealing with a very dangerous, very canny, very determined and thorough killer. One who has had years to prepare, and be prepared. One who is both focused and unstable, and who has a massive and unstable ego. A sociopath with a holy mission, a sadist with skill. I’m afraid for you.”
“I’m closing in on him.”
“I hope you are, because I believe he’s also closing in on you. Roarke may be his main target, but you stand between. He wants Roarke to bleed, and he wants him to suffer. Roarke’s death puts an end to the mission, and the mission is his life. But you, you’re his connection, his competitor, his audience. He has a black-and-white view of women. Chaste or whore.”
Eve let out a short laugh. “Well, I can figure where I stand.”
“No.” Disturbed, Mira shook her head. “It’s more complicated with you. He admires you. You challenge him. And you anger him. I don’t believe he’s able to slip you into either mold and that only makes him more focused on you.”
Her eyes glinted. “I want him focused on me.”
Mira held her hands up a moment to give herself time to gather her thoughts. “I need further study, but in a nutshell, his faith, his religion is catalyst—or excuse, if you prefer. He leaves the token—faith and luck—at every murder. He leaves the image of Mary as a symbol of her female power and her vulnerability. She’s his real god.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The Mother. The Virgin. The pure and the loving. But an authority figure nonetheless. She is the witness to his acts, the audience to his mission. At this point, I’d have to say it’s a woman who formed him. A strong and vital female figure of authority and love. He needs her approval, her guidance. He needs to please her. He needs her praise.”
“His mother,” Eve murmured. “Do you think she’s behind it all?”
“It’s possible. Or just as possible that he sees his current behavior as a kind of homage to her. Mother, sister, aunt, wife. A wife is unlikely,” she added with a faint shake of her head. “He’s probably sexually repressed. Impotent. His god is a vengeful one, who permits no carnal pleasures. If he’s using the statue to symbolize his own mother, he would view his conception as a miracle—immaculate—and see himself as invulnerable.”
“He said he was an angel. The angel of vengeance.”
“Yes, a soldier of his god, beyond the power of mortals. There is his ego again. What I am sure of is that there is a woman—or was a woman—whom he seeks to appease, and one he views as pure.”
For one sickening moment, Eve saw the image of Marlena in her mind. Golden hair, innocent eyes, and a snowy white dress. Pure, she thought. Virginal.
Wouldn’t Summerset always see his martyred daughter exactly that way?
“It could be a child,” she said quietly. “A lost child.”
“Marlena?” The compassion was ripe in the word. “It’s very unlikely, Eve. Does he mourn for her? Of course he does, and always will. But she isn’t a symbol to him. For Summerset, Marlena is his child, and one he didn’t protect. For your killer, this female figure is the protector—and the punisher. And you are another strong female figure of authority. He’s drawn to you, wants your admiration. And he may, at some point, be compelled to destroy you.”
“I hope you’re right.” Eve rose. “Because this is a game I want to finish face-to-face.”
Eve convinced herself she was prepared for Whitney. But she hadn’t been prepared to face both him and the chief of police and security. Tibble, his dark face unreadable, his hands clasped militarily behind his back, stood at the window in Whitney’s office. Whitney remained behind his desk. Their positioning indicated to Eve that it was Whitney’s show—until Tibble decided otherwise.
“Before you begin your report, Lieutenant, I’m informing you that a press conference is scheduled for four P.M. in the media information center at Police Tower.” Whitney inclined his head. “Your presence and participation are required.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It has come to our attention that a member of the press has received certain communications which attack your credibility as primary in this investigation, and which indicate that you, and therefore the department, are suppressing certain data germane to said investigation, data that would implicate your husband in multiple murders.”
“That is both insulting to me, the department, and my husband, and absurd.” Her heart hitched, but her voice stayed low and steady. “If these communications are deemed credible, why hasn’t the member of the press reported same?”
“The accusations are so far anonymous and unsubstantiated, and this particular member of the press deemed it in his best interest to pass this information along to Chief Tibble. It’s in your best interest, Lieutenant, to clear up this matter now, here.”
“Are you accusing me of suppressing evidence, Commander?”
“I’m requesting that you confirm or deny at this time.”
“I deny, at this time, and any time, that I have or would suppress evidence that would lead to the apprehension of a criminal or the closing of a case. And I take personal offense at the question.”
“Offense so noted,” Whitney said mildly. “Sit down, Dallas.”
She didn’t comply, but stepped forward. “My record should stand for something. Over ten years of service should outweigh an anonymous accusation tossed to a hungry reporter.”
“So noted, Dallas,” Whitney repeated. “Now—”
“I’m not finished, sir. I’d like to have my say here.”
He sat back, and though she kept her eyes on his she knew Tibble had yet to move. “Very well, Lieutenant, have your say.”
“I’m very aware that my personal life, my marriage, is the source of speculation and interest in the department and with the public. I can live with that. I’m also aware that my husband’s businesses, and his style of conducting his businesses, are also the source of speculation and interest. I have no particular problem with that. But I resent very much that my reputation and my husband’s character should be questioned this way. From the media, Commander, it’s to be expected, but not from my superior officer. Not from any member of the department I’ve served to the best of my ability. I want you to take note, Commander, that turning in my badge would be like cutting off my arm. But if it comes down to a choice between the job and my marriage, then I lose the arm.”
“No one is asking you to make a choice, Lieutenant, and I will offer my personal apologies for any offense given by this situation.”
“Personally, I hate chicken-shit anonymous sources.” Tibble spoke for the first time, his gaze steady on Eve’s face. “And I’d like to see you maintain that just-under-simmer righteous anger for the press conference when this matter comes up, Lieutenant. It will play very well on screen. Now I, for one, would like to hear the progress of your investigation.”
The anger helped her forget fear and nerves. She fell into rhythm, comfortable with the cop speak, the formality and the slang of it. She offered the names of the six men responsible for Marlena’s murder, handed out hard copy of data on them, and proposed her theory.
“The caller stated that revenge was the name of his game. Therefore it’s my belief that, acting alone or with a partner or partners, this individual is avenging
the murder of one or more of these men. The connection’s there. Marlena to Summerset, Summerset to Roarke. I’ve run the names and their cases through the ICCA.”
She said that briskly, as though it was no more than routine. And her stomach jumped like a pond of frogs on speeders. “There is no evidence to link their murders to one individual. They were killed at different times over a three-year period, with different methods and in different geographical areas. The six men, however, were all linked to the same gambling organization based in Dublin, and that organization was investigated for illegal activities no less than twelve times by local authorities and the ICCA. Data supports that the men were killed individually and for separate motives, likely perpetrated by rivals or associates.”
“Then where’s the connection to the deaths of Brennen, Conroy, and O’Leary?”
“In the killer’s mind. Dr. Mira is working on the profile, which I believe will support my suppositions. If you take it from his angle, Marlena was killed by these men as an example to Roarke, to discourage him from infringing on their territory.”
“That wasn’t the conclusion of the investigating officer.”
“No, sir, but the investigating officer was a wrong cop, known to associate with this organization. He was in their pocket. Marlena was no more than a child.” Eve slid two photos out of her bag, one still taken from each of the hologram images. “This is what was done to her. And the investigating officer spent precisely four and a half man-hours on closing her case and ruling it death by misadventure.”
Whitney stared down at the stills, and his eyes went grim. “Misadventure, my ass. It’s obviously a torture murder.”
“One defenseless girl brutalized by six men. And they got away with it clean. Men who can do that to a child are men who could brag about it. I believe those close to them knew, and when they were killed, one by one, at least one person decided Roarke and Summerset were responsible.”
Tibble turned the still of Marlena’s body facedown. He’d been away from the streets long enough to know he’d be haunted by that image. “And you don’t believe that, Lieutenant? You want us to believe that those six deaths were unrelated, but that our current madman believes otherwise. And you want us to believe he’s killing now, framing Summerset, and all to exact revenge on Roarke?”