by J. D. Robb
“You said you thought you’d seen him in here before.”
“I’m pretty sure. Not long after I started working here, in the early part of the Christmas rush. Late October, maybe early November. At the skin counter again. He was wearing a coat and hat, but I really think it was the same man.”
“Did you wait on him?”
“No, it was Nina. But I remember, sure, I remember now because we bumped into each other behind the counter getting products for our clients and she said how this guy was buying the whole Artistry skin-care line—that’s who makes Youth. That’s a couple thousand, and a really good commission, so I took a peek thinking how I wished I’d snagged him instead of Nina.”
“But you hadn’t noticed him before or since.”
“No, ma’am.”
Eve took her through a few more questions, then asked to see Nina.
Nina’s memory wasn’t as keen as Letta’s. But when Eve moved from her to other clerks, she picked up just enough to be certain Yost dropped into Paradise once or twice a year.
“He’ll have other places, other cities,” she told Peabody when they were back in the car. “But on this same level. He won’t settle for less. Always cash, and he’ll know what he wants when he walks in. He pays attention to advertising, researches his products.”
“Watches a lot of screen.”
“Likely, but I’d bet this guy runs the product data on his computer. He wants a handle on the ingredients, the manufacturer’s record, the consumer endorsements. Let’s see what EDD can do about tracing that skin line backwards from last October when he made that purchase. He bought the whole ball of wax so that could mean he’d seen the ad, done the research, then decided to try it out. Artistry’s bound to have a site for consumer information and questions.”
She tried the luggage store next. None of the clerks recalled a man meeting Yost’s description buying the carry-on. But downtown, she hit gold, so to speak, with the silver wire.
The clerk had an excellent visual memory. Eve clued into this the moment she stepped up to the small display counter with its riot of loose stones, silver coils, and empty settings under the glass. The clerk’s eyes wheeled, his lips began to tremble. She heard his breath heave and initially feared a cardiac incident.
“Mrs. Roarke! Mrs. Roarke!”
His voice was heavily accented with what she thought might have been East Indian, but she was too busy wincing to worry about his origin.
“Dallas.” She slapped her badge on the countertop. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“We are honored. We are unworthy.” He began to shout something unintelligible to one of his associates. “Please, please. You will select anything you want in our humble establishment. As a gift. You like necklace? Bracelet? You like maybe earrings.”
“Information. Only information.”
“We take a picture. Yes? We see you many times on-screen, and hope for the day you might come into our unworthy shop.” He piped something else to the young man who scrambled over with a miniature holo-camera.
“Hold it, hold it. Just hold it!”
“Your famous husband is not with you today? You are shopping, yes, with your companion. We will give also a gift to your companion.”
“Yeah?” Delighted, Peabody edged closer.
“Shut up, Peabody. No, I am not shopping. This is police business. Police business.”
“We did not call for the police.” He turned to the younger man busily taking holo-shots, let out a series of quick high sounds. The response was rapid, and accompanied by a fierce head shake.
“No, we did not call for the police. We have no trouble here. You would like this necklace.” He pulled one out of a long shallow drawer under the counter. “Our gift to you. We design, we make. You will honor us to wear it.”
Under other circumstances, Eve would have been tempted to just punch him to shut him up. But his dark eyes were shining with hope, and his smile was as sweet as a cocker spaniel’s. “That’s very nice of you, but I’m not allowed to accept. I’m here on police business. If I accept your gift, it would cause trouble.”
“Trouble for you? No, no, we want to give you no trouble. Just a gift.”
“Thanks very much. Some other time. You could help me by looking at this picture. Do you recognize this man?”
Confusion and disappointment drenched his eyes. He continued to hold the necklace up as he looked at the photograph. “Yes, this is Mr. John Smith.”
“John Smith?”
“Yes, Mr. Smith, he is a hobby—has a hobby,” he corrected. “To make the wearable art. But he buys no stones that we suggest. Only the silver wire. Two feet in length. Very specific.”
“How often does he buy his wire?”
“Oh, he comes in two of the times. First it was cold outside. Before the Christmastime. Then in the last week, he comes again. But he does not have this hair on his head. I welcome him back to our store and ask if he would like now to look at stones or glass, but again he wants only the silver.”
“And he pays in cash?”
“Yes, both of the times in cash money.”
“How do you know his name?”
“I ask him name. Please to give me your name, sir, and will you tell me how you have heard of our humble establishment.”
“What was his answer?”
“He is John Smith and he has seen our business page on the Internet. Is this helpful to you, Mrs. Lieutenant Dallas Roarke?”
“Just Lieutenant, and yes, it’s helpful. What else can you tell me about him? Did he talk about his hobby?”
“He did not care to talk. He did not . . .” He closed his eyes, searching for a word. “Linger,” he said, beaming. “I say to my young brother that I do not see how Mr. Smith can have success with his hobby as he does not have interest in stones or glass or other metals. He does not look at the many designs we have on display. He does not wish to speak about his work. He is instead . . . very strict business ways. Business . . . like. That is correct?”
“Yeah.”
“He is polite. Once the ’link in his pocket rings, but he does not answer while he is doing business. I ask if the wire he purchased in the winter worked well for him, if he was satisfied. He tells me only that it did the job. Then he smiles, and I hope he is not your friend, because I do not like his smile at that time. I sell him the wire and am glad he leaves. I have offended you.”
“No. You interest me. Peabody, do we have a card?”
“Yes, sir.” Peabody rooted one of Eve’s cards out of her own pocket.
“I’d appreciate you contacting me if he comes in again. I don’t want you to alert or alarm him in any way, or tell him anyone’s asked about him. If he comes in, you or your brother should go into the back, away from him, and contact me.”
The clerk nodded. “He is a bad man?”
“A very bad man.”
“This is my thinking when he smiles. I tell my cousin of it, and he agrees.”
Eve shot a look at the young man still wielding the camera. “I thought he was your brother.”
“My cousin in London where we have another humble shop. He is agreeing with me when we discover that Mr. John Smith has purchased silver from him also.”
“In London?” Eve laid a hand on his wrist. “How does your cousin know it’s the same man?”
“Silver wire, three lengths of two feet. But Mr. Smith has hair on his head there the color of sand. And hair also on his lip, but we think it is the same man.”
Eve pulled out her memo book. “Give me the name and address of the shop in London. Your cousin’s name.” She noted it down. “Do you have any other humble shops?”
“We have ten humble shops.”
“I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”
His eyes lit up like jewels. “This would be my very great honor.”
“I’ll want the locations of all of your shops. I’d appreciate it if you would contact your relatives in each and ask if there have been othe
r purchases of silver wire in two-foot lengths. I’m going to send each shop a picture of this man. I want to be contacted if he should go into any of the shops.”
“This I can arrange for you, Mrs. Lieutenant Dallas Roarke.” He turned to his brother, had a brief exchange. “My brother will get this information for you, and I will personally call my cousins.”
“Tell them either I or my aide will contact them.”
“They will stand beside themselves with pleasure at this.” He took the disc his brother brought out, handed it to Eve with some ceremony. “Will you please also take our business card for your famous husband? Perhaps he will consider visiting our humble establishment.”
“Sure. Thanks for the help.”
He walked her to the door, opened it for her, bowed her out, watched her, with eyes shining with delight, cross the sidewalk to her car.
“Tag Feeney,” Eve ordered when she was behind the wheel. “Have him run like crimes in and around London.”
“It would be my honor, Mrs. Lieutenant Dallas Roarke.” At Eve’s burning look, Peabody only grinned. “Sorry. I just had to do it once. I’m over it.”
“If we’ve finished laughing uproariously, tell Feeney if no like crimes pop to take a hard look at missing persons. I don’t think all the bodies have turned up. He does the job,” she said half to herself as Peabody called into EDD. “If his client wants someone to disappear, permanently, he disappears them. But the murder itself would still follow pattern. He’s a creature of habit. We follow the pattern.”
“Feeney’s on it,” Peabody announced. “What’s the next step?”
“Yours is to contact the cousins. I’m going to track down Mira. I want an NYPSD profile on this guy. The Feebs aren’t the only ones who can generate paperwork.”
• • •
“You’ve already done most of my work.”
Dr. Mira lowered her computer screen and turned to where Eve stood, hands in back pockets, eyes on the view beyond the window. “You seem to know this man very well, on very short acquaintance. And the FBI profilers are very thorough.”
“You can give me more.”
“I’m flattered you think so.” Mira rose, programmed her AutoChef for tea, then wandered away from it. She wore a simple suit of dusky blue, and her rich brown hair waved back to flatter her soft and pretty face. Her fingers twisted the long gold chain around her neck.
“He’s a sociopath, and is probably intelligent and self-aware enough to know it. It may be a point of pride. Pride is one of the engines that drives him. He considers himself a businessman, the top in his chosen field. And choose it, he did. He enjoys fine things. He may not be aware that the rape adds to his satisfaction. It’s just another way of erasing his victim. Male or female matters not at all. It isn’t sex, of course, it’s debasement.”
Mira glanced at her wrist unit, her ’link, then into space. “More efficient would be the simple garroting, but he most often beats and rapes. These are part of the whole to him, like a man testing the color and bouquet of a good wine before drinking.”
“He enjoys his work.”
“Oh, yes,” Mira confirmed. “Very much. But it is, in his mind, very much work. It’s unlikely he ever kills indiscriminately or for personal motives. He’s a professional, and expects to be paid and paid well. The silver wire is his calling card, an advertisement if you will to potential customers.”
“He hides nothing. The wire, his face, makes no attempt to conceal DNA. Yet he does wear moderate disguises.”
“My belief would be he wears those disguises to amuse himself. To add a bit of adventure. Partly vanity.” She wandered the office, her movements restless and out of character.
“He would enjoy fussing with himself, viewing the results before heading out to work. The way another man might select a new shirt for a day at the office. You, the law, don’t worry him in the least. He’s evaded the legal system for years. I would say, at most, you amuse him.”
“He won’t be laughing for long.”
Eve glanced back over her shoulder, saw Mira look down at her wrist unit yet again, frown. She’d forgotten the tea, too, and that was a first as far as Eve knew. “Everything okay?”
“Hmm. Oh, yes, everything’s fine.”
“You seem a little distracted.”
“I suppose I am. My daughter-in-law’s in labor. I’m waiting for word. Baby’s tend to take their own sweet time while the rest of us wait.”
“I guess.” Because Mira gave her desk ’link a worried look, Eve went to the AutoChef, retrieved the tea.
“Thank you. That’s the second time in an hour I’ve forgotten I’ve made tea. I’ll write your profile, Eve. It’ll help keep my mind occupied. But I don’t think it’ll add much to what you already know.”
“Why Roarke? Can you tell me that?”
Her own concerns, Mira realized, had blinded her to the fact that Eve was worried on a personal level. Now Mira sat, waited for Eve to do the same. “Not beyond what I imagine you already suspect. He’s rich, powerful, has enemies. Professional and personal rivals. He has a background with a great many holes, officially. There may be people hiding in those holes who wish to cause him difficulties. I’m sure you’ve discussed it with him.”
“Yeah, but it’s not getting me anywhere. If someone had tried a frame, tried to set up a murder so he’d look like a suspect, or have some direct involvement, I could see it. Go after one of his business rivals, somebody high profile. Hit someone who’s given him grief or causing him trouble. But a chambermaid at one of his hotels? What’s the damn point?”
Mira laid a hand over Eve’s. “It has both of you concerned and troubled. Perhaps that was point enough.”
“To take a life for it? Yost, all right. To him it’s a job. But there has to be more in it for the client. Yost bought four lengths. That’s too many for backup on Darlene French, Dr. Mira. He’s still on the clock.”
“I’ll continue to study the data. Run an analysis. I wish I could do more.”
Her desk ’link beeped, and she was out of the chair like a woman on springs. “Excuse me.”
Eve was surprised to see the dignified Mira scramble around the desk.
“Yes? Oh, Anthony, is—”
“It’s a boy. Eight pounds, five ounces, twenty-one perfect inches.”
“Oh. Oh.” Mira’s eyes swam as she lowered herself into a chair. “Deborah?”
“She’s great. She’s fine. They’re beautiful. Have a look.”
Eve shifted, angling her head enough so that she could see a dark-haired man hold up a wriggling, red, squalling baby.
“Say hello to Matthew James Mira, Grandma.”
“Hello, Matthew. He has your nose, Anthony. He’s gorgeous. I’ll come by to see you all as soon as I can. I can’t wait to hold him. Have you called your father?”
“He’s next.”
“We’ll be over tonight.” She ran a finger over the screen as if stroking the baby’s head. “Tell Deborah we love her. And we’re so proud of her.”
“Hey, how about me?”
“And you.” She kissed her fingertips, laid them on the screen. “I’ll see you all soon.”
“I’ll call Dad. You have a good cry.”
“I will.” She dug out a handkerchief even as she ended transmission. “Sorry. A new grandchild.”
“Congratulations, he looked . . .” Like a red, wrinkled fish with limbs, Eve thought, but figured that wasn’t the thing people wanted to hear at such moments. “. . . healthy.”
“Yes.” Mira sighed, dabbed at her eyes. “There’s nothing like a new life coming into the world to remind us why we’re here. The hope and the possibilities.”
Eight pounds, was all Eve could think. It must be like passing an arena ball with limbs. She got to her feet. “You’ll want to get out of here. I’ll just—”
Her communicator signaled. “Dallas.”
“Sir.” Peabody’s face, sober and stern, filled the little screen. “We have
another homicide, same MO. Private residence in this case. Upper East Side.”
“Meet me in the garage. I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir. I ran the address through. The residence is owned by Elite Real Estate, a Roarke Industries division.”
chapter eight
It was a lovely brownstone in a neighborhood known for its high rents, swank restaurants, and fancy, specialized markets. Sumptuous white flowers shimmered on long pink stems in a trio of slim stone pots on the front steps.
A few blocks south, and those pots would have been lucky to stay put and intact overnight.
But here, people lived comfortably, privately, and didn’t stoop to vandalizing their neighbors’ homes. Security was ensured by the addition, at residents’ expense, of private droids who patrolled on foot in snappy navy blue uniforms. This precaution tended to keep the riff and raff from outside the area from sneaking in and soiling the sidewalks.
Jonah Talbot had enjoyed that comfortable security in his two-story home where he had lived alone. And there he had died, but it hadn’t been comfortable.
Eve stood over him. He’d been a well-built male in his early thirties. He’d been beaten, as had Darlene French, primarily around the face. There was additional bruising around the kidney area and the ribs. He wore only a gray T-shirt. The matching athletic shorts were tossed into a corner. He’d been sodomized.
His killer had left him facedown, with the silver wire crossed at the back of his neck, curled up into loops at the edges.
“Looks like he was working at home. Did you run his data yet?”
“Yes, sir, it’s coming through now.”
Eve took the gauge out of her field kit to establish time of death.
“Jonah Talbot,” Peabody read off. “Male, single, age thirty-three. Vice president and deputy publisher, Starline Incorporated. Residing this address since November 2057. Parents divorced, one sibling, one half-sibling through mother, no children.”