The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  Nadine snarled audibly. “Hawley and Greenbalm. Come on, Dallas. Two women strangled. I’ve got that much. You’re primary on both. I hear there was sexual molestation. Will you confirm?”

  “The department will not confirm or deny at this time.”

  “Rape and sodomy.”

  “No comment.”

  “Damn it, why the hardball?”

  “I don’t have any breathing room right now. I’m trying to stop a killer, Nadine, and I just can’t be too worried about the ratings for Channel 75.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “I guess we are, and because of that when I’ve got something to give, you’ll get it.”

  Nadine’s eyes brightened. “First, exclusive?”

  “Don’t keep tying up my ’link.”

  “A one-on-one, Dallas. Let me set it up. I can be at Cop Central by one.”

  “No. I’ll let you know when and where, but I don’t have time for you today.” And time, Eve thought, was the biggest factor. No one she knew researched as fast or as deep as Nadine Furst. “You’re not seeing anybody in particular these days, are you, Nadine?”

  “Seeing anyone—as in dating or sleeping with? No, not in particular.”

  “Ever try one of those dating services?”

  “Please.” Nadine’s eyelashes fluttered as she lifted her hand to examine her manicure. “I think I can find my own men.”

  “Just a thought. I hear they’re popular.” Eve paused and watched Nadine’s eyes narrow and glitter. “You might want to give it a try.”

  “Yeah, I might do that. Thanks. Gotta run. I’m on in five.”

  “One thing. Do I have to buy you a Christmas present?”

  Nadine’s brows went up, her lips curved in a wide smile. “Absolutely.”

  “Damn, I was afraid of that.” Frowning, Eve broke transmission and steered into the garage at Cop Central.

  On the way to Whitney’s office, she snagged an energy bar and a tube of Extra-Zing Coke from a vending machine. She wolfed down the bar, chugged the soft drink, and as a result stepped into Whitney’s office feeling slightly ill.

  “Status, Lieutenant?”

  “I have McNab from EDD working with my aide at my home office, Commander. We have the lists from Personally Yours for each victim. We’re hoping to get a match. We’re still working on the jewelry he left with the victims, and have the brand and projected source for the enhancements he used.”

  He nodded. Whitney was a powerfully built man with a smooth, dark complexion and tired eyes. Through the window at his back, Eve could see the city—the constant flow of air traffic around the spears of buildings; people moving around offices behind other windows. She knew if you stepped up to that window, you could look down and see the street below. All the people rushing to or away. All the lives that needed protecting.

  As always she thought she preferred her cramped office and limited view.

  “Do you know how many tourists and out-of-state consumers come into the city in the weeks before Christmas?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The mayor gave me the estimated number this morning when he called to inform me the city couldn’t afford a serial killer scaring away holiday dollars.” His smile was thin and humorless. “He didn’t seem, at that point, to be overly concerned with residents of the city being raped and strangled, but with the distressing side effects such events could cause if the media plays the Santa killer angle.”

  “The media isn’t aware of that angle at this time.”

  “How long before it leaks?” Whitney leaned back, kept his eyes level and on Eve’s.

  “Maybe a couple of days. Channel 75 has already been tipped that they’re sexual homicides, but their data is patchy at this point.”

  “Let’s see if we can keep it that way. How long before he hits again?”

  “Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.” No way to stop it, she thought, and saw by Whitney’s face he understood.

  “The dating service is the only connection you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir. At this time. There’s no indication that the victims knew each other. They lived in different parts of the city, moved in widely different circles. They weren’t of a type, physically.”

  She paused, waiting, but Whitney said nothing. “I’m going to consult with Mira,” Eve continued. “But in my opinion he’s already established a pattern and a goal. He wants twelve on or before the end of the year. That’s less than two weeks, so he has to move quickly.”

  “So do you.”

  “Yes, sir. The source of his victims has to be Personally Yours. We’ve tagged the cosmetics used on the victims. Sources of purchase for them in the city are fairly limited. We have the pins he left at both sites.” Then she exhaled. “He knew we could trace the cosmetics; he left the pins deliberately. He feels secure that his tracks are covered. If we don’t find a match within the next twenty-four hours, our best defense might be the media.”

  “And tell them what? If you spot a fat man in a red suit, call a cop?” He pushed back from his desk. “Find a match, Lieutenant. I don’t want twelve bodies under my tree this Christmas.”

  Eve pulled out her communicator as she left Whitney’s office. “McNab, make me happy.”

  “I’m doing my best, Lieutenant.” He gestured with what appeared to be a slice of pineapple pizza. “I’ve pretty well eliminated the ex-husband of the first victim. He was at an arena ball match with three friends on the night of the murder. Peabody’s going to check on the three pals, but it looks solid. No transpo to New York was issued under his name. He hasn’t been to the east coast in over two years.”

  “One down,” Eve said as she hopped a glide. “Give me more.”

  “None of the names on Hawley’s list match any on Greenbalm’s, but I’m checking finger- and voiceprints to make sure nobody tried to pull a fast one there.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “And two on Hawley’s list look clear so far. Need to follow up, but they’re alibied. I’m just going into Greenbalm’s now.”

  “Run the names on the cosmetics first.” She dragged a hand through her hair as she stepped off the glide and squeezed into an elevator. “I should be back within two hours.”

  She got off the elevator, crossed a small lobby area, and entered Mira’s offices. There was no one at the reception desk, and Mira’s door stood open. Poking her head in, Eve saw Mira reviewing a case file on video and nibbling on a thin sandwich.

  It wasn’t often she caught Mira unaware, Eve mused. Mira was a woman who saw almost everything. Too much, Eve often thought, when it came to herself.

  She wasn’t sure what had caused the bond to form between them. She respected Mira’s abilities—though they sometimes made her uncomfortable.

  Mira was a small, cleanly built woman with soft sable hair waving elegantly around a cool, attractive face. She habitually wore slim suits in quiet colors. Eve supposed that Mira represented all she, Eve, thought a lady should be: self-contained, quietly elegant, well spoken.

  Dealing with mental defectives, violent tendencies, and habitual perverts never seemed to ruffle Mira’s composure or her compassion. Her profiles of madmen and murderers were invaluable to the New York Police and Security Department.

  Eve hesitated at the door just long enough for Mira to sense her. The psychiatrist turned her head, and her blue eyes warmed when they met Eve’s.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Your assistant isn’t at her station.”

  “She’s at lunch. Come in, close the door. I was expecting you.”

  Eve glanced at the sandwich. “I’m cutting into your break.”

  “Cops and doctors. We take our breaks where we find them. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thanks.” The energy bar wasn’t sitting well in her stomach, which made her wonder just how long it had been since the vending machine had been serviced.

  Despite Eve’s refusal, Mira rose and ordered tea from the AutoChef.
It was a ritual Eve had learned to live with. She’d sip the faintly floral-tasting brew, but she didn’t have to like it.

  “I’ve reviewed the data you were able to transmit, and the copies of your case reports. I’ll have a complete and written profile for you tomorrow.”

  “What can you give me today?”

  “Probably little you haven’t gleaned for yourself.” Mira settled back in one of the blue scoop chairs similar to those in Simon’s salon.

  Eve’s face, she noted, was a bit too pale, a bit too thin. Mira hadn’t seen her since Eve’s return to duty, and her doctor’s eye diagnosed that the return had been rushed.

  But she kept that opinion to herself.

  “The person you’re looking for is likely a male between the ages of thirty and fifty-five,” she began. “He’s controlled, calculating, and organized. He enjoys the spotlight and feels he deserves to be the focus of attention. He may have had some aspirations toward acting or a connection to the field.”

  “He showed off for the camera, played to it.”

  “Exactly.” Mira nodded, pleased. “He employed costumes and props, and not just, in my opinion, as tools and disguises. But for the flair of it, and the irony. I wonder if he sees his cruelty as irony.”

  She took a breath, shifted her legs, and sipped at her tea. If she’d believed Eve would actually drink the cup she’d given her, Mira would have added some vitamins to it. “It’s possible. It’s a stage, a show. He enjoys that aspect very much. The preparation, the details. He’s a coward, but a careful one.”

  “They’re all cowards,” Eve stated and had Mira tilting her head.

  “Yes, you would see it that way, because to you the taking of a life is only justifiable in defense of another. For you murder is the ultimate cowardice. But in this case, I would say he recognizes his own fears. He drugs his victims quickly—not to save them pain but to prevent them from fighting, and perhaps overcoming him physically. He needs to set the stage. He puts them in bed, restrains them before cutting off their clothes. He doesn’t strip them in a rage, and he makes certain they’re bound before he goes to the next step. Now they’re helpless, now they’re his.”

  “Then he rapes them.”

  “Yes, when they’re bound. Naked and helpless. If they were free they would reject him. He knows this. He’s been rejected. But now he can do as he wishes. He needs them awake and aware for this so that they can see him, so they know he has the power, so they struggle but can’t escape.”

  The words, the images, had Eve’s already uneasy stomach pitching. Memories danced too close to the surface. “Rape’s always about power.”

  “Yes.” Because she understood Mira wanted to reach out and take Eve’s hand. And because she understood, she didn’t. “He strangles them because it’s personal, an extension of the sexual act. Hands to the throat. It’s intimate.”

  Mira smiled a little. “How much of this had you already concluded?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re confirming my take on him.”

  “All right then. The garland is trimming. Props again, show, irony. They’re gifts from himself to himself. The Christmas theme may have some personal meaning to him, or it may simply be the symbolism.”

  “What about the destruction of Marianna Hawley’s tree and ornaments?” When Mira only cocked a brow, Eve shrugged. “Breaking the symbol of the holiday in the tree, the eradication of purity in the angel ornaments.”

  “It would suit him.”

  “The pins and tattoos.”

  “He’s a romantic.”

  “A romantic?”

  “Yes, he’s very much the romantic. He brands them as his love, he leaves them a token, and he takes the time and the trouble to make them beautiful before he leaves them. Anything less than that would make them an unworthy gift.”

  “Did he know them?”

  “Yes, I would say he did. Whether they knew him is another matter. But he knew them, he’d observed them. He’d chosen them and for the length of time he had them, they were his true love. He doesn’t mutilate,” she added, leaning forward. “He decorates, enhances. Artistically, perhaps even lovingly. But when he is finished, he is done. He sprays the body with disinfectant, erasing himself. He washes, scrubs, erasing them from him. And when he leaves, he is jubilant. He’s won. And it’s time to prepare for the next.”

  “Hawley and Greenbalm were nothing alike physically, nor in their lifestyles, their habits, or their work.”

  “But they had one thing in common,” Mira put in. “They were both, at one time, lonely enough, needy enough, interested enough, to pay for help in finding a companion.”

  “Their true love.” Eve set her untouched tea aside. “Thanks.”

  “I hope you’re well.” Aware that Eve was braced to rise and leave, Mira stalled. “Fully recovered from your injuries.”

  “I’m fine.”

  No, Mira thought, not quite fine. “You only took what, two or three weeks off to recover from serious injuries.”

  “I’m better off working.”

  “Yes, I know you think so.” Mira smiled again. “Are you ready for the holidays?”

  Eve didn’t squirm in her chair, but she wanted to. “I’ve picked up a couple of presents.”

  “It must be difficult finding something for Roarke.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find something perfect. No one knows him better than you.”

  “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.” And because it was in the back of her mind, she spoke without thinking. “He’s getting into all this Christmas stuff. Parties and trees. I just figured we’d hand each other something and be done with it.”

  “Neither of you have the memories of childhood everyone’s entitled to—of anticipation and wonder, of Christmas mornings with pretty boxes stacked under the tree. I’d say Roarke intends to start making those memories, for the two of you. Knowing him,” she added with a laugh, “they won’t be ordinary.”

  “I think he’s ordered a small forest of trees.”

  “Give yourself a chance at that anticipation and wonder, as a gift for both of you.”

  “With Roarke you don’t have a choice.” She did stand now. “I appreciate the time, Dr. Mira.”

  “One last thing, Eve.” Mira got to her feet as well. “He’s not dangerous at this point to anyone other than the person he’s focused on. He won’t kill indiscriminately or without purpose and planning. But I can’t say when that might change, or what might trigger a shift in pattern.”

  “I’ve got some thoughts on that. I’ll be in touch.”

  Peabody and McNab were bickering when she walked into her home office. They sat side by side at her workstation snarling at each other like a couple of bulldogs over the same bone.

  Ordinarily it might have amused Eve, but at the moment it was only one more irritation. “Break it up,” she snapped and had both of them shooting to attention with grim, resentful faces. “Report.”

  When they both began to talk at once, she seethed for approximately five seconds then bared her teeth. That shut both of them up. “Peabody?”

  Risking one smug sidelong glance at her nemesis, Peabody began. “We have three matches with the cosmetics. Two from Hawley’s list and one from Greenbalm’s. One from each bought the works, from skin care to lash dye. The second from Hawley’s purchased eye and brow pencils and two lip dyes. We got a hit on what was used on Greenbalm’s mouth. That’s Cupid’s Coral. All three purchased that shade.”

  “Problem.” McNab lifted a finger like an instructor halting an overzealous student. “Both Cupid Coral lip dye and Musk Brown lash enhancer are routinely given as samples. In fact,” he gestured to the counter where the samples Eve had been given were lined up, “you have both here.”

  “We can’t track every stupid sample,” Peabody said with a dangerous edge to her voice. “We have three names, and a place to start.”

  “The Fog Over London eye smudger used on H
awley is one of the pricier products and it isn’t given out as a sample. You only get it as a separate or when you buy the whole shot in the deluxe package. We follow the smudger, we’ll be closer to the mark.”

  “And maybe the son of a bitch lifted the smudger when he was buying the rest of the stuff.” Peabody turned on McNab. “You want to track every shoplifter in the city now?”

  “It’s the only product we can’t trace so far. So it’s the one we have to find.”

  They were nose to nose when Eve stepped forward and gave them both a shove. “The next one who speaks, I’m taking down. You’re both right. We interview the matches, and we look for the eye gunk. Peabody, get the names, go down to my vehicle, and wait for me.”

  Peabody didn’t have to speak, not when a ramrod-stiff spine and hot eyes could say volumes. The minute she stalked out, McNab shoved his hands in his pockets. But when he opened his mouth, he caught the warning glint Eve shot him, and closed it again.

  “You run Personally Yours again, client and personnel, find who on there bought that smudger, and see how many more of the products used on the victims you can match.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Say yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Good. While you’re at it, McNab, see if you can wiggle into Piper and Rudy’s credit account. Let’s find out what brand of enhancements they use.” She waited, brows still high. One thing McNab wasn’t was slow.

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “And stop pouting,” she ordered as she strode out.

  “Females,” McNab muttered under his breath, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spotted Roarke standing in the open doorway between the offices, grinning at him.

  “Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?” Roarke stepped in.

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  “Ah, but you’ll be a hero, won’t you, if you can match your product with the right name.” He strolled over, scanned the lists and documents that they both knew were official business, and none of his. “I find I have an hour or two free. Want some help?”

  “Well, I . . .” McNab glanced toward the door.