"And knew someone would find her before the end of the day?"
"Yeah." Sipping coffee, she nodded. "Quicker gratification that way. More and more likely he called in the anonymous nine-one-one. Wanted Wooton found as soon as possible so the adulation and horror could begin."
"Which tells me he feels very safe."
"Very safe," Eve agreed. "Very superior. If Gregg hadn't had family or friends who were bound to check on her in a few hours, he'd have to wait to get the next kick, or risk another nine-one-one. So he targeted these women specifically, just as he's targeted the next:"
She sat, rubbed her eyes. "He'll imitate someone else. But it'll be someone who created a stir, and who 'left bodies where they could and would be found. We eliminate historic serial killers who buried, destroyed, or consumed their victims "
"Such a fun group, too."
"Oh yeah. He's not going to copy someone like Chef Jourard, that French guy in the twenties, this century."
"Kept his victims in a large freezer, didn't he?"
"Where he carved them up, cooked them up, and served them to unsuspecting patrons of his fancy bistro in Paris. Took them nearly two years to catch him."
"And he was famed for his sweetbreads."
She gave a quick shudder. "Anybody who eats internal organs of any species baffles me. And I'm off the track."
He trailed a hand down her arm. "Because you're tired."
"Maybe. He'll stay more straightforward, won't go for a play on someone like Jourard, or Dahmer, or that Russian maniac Ivan the Butcher. But people being what they are, he's got plenty of others to work with. He'll stick with women.''
She walked back to the board. "When you kill women the way he did these two, you've got a problem with them. But he's not connected to the actual victims. I'll go back and push the paper-the note. See if anyone on the list has a particular interest in celebrity killers."
"There's another you might want to speak with," Roarke suggested. "Thomas A. Breen. He's written what some consider the definitive book on twentieth-century serial killers, another on mass murderers throughout history. I've actually read some of his work, as the subject matter is of some interest to my wife."
"Green, Thomas A. I might've read some of his stuff. Sounds vaguely familiar."
"He lives here in the city. I looked up the particulars when you were at Central, as I thought you might want a word with him."
"Smart guy."
This time when she reached for the coffeepot, he laid a hand over hers to stop her. "Smart enough to know you've had over your quota of coffee for the day, and despite it you're starting to droop."
"I just want to run a couple of probabilities."
"Set them up then, and they can run while you're sleeping. You'll have the results in the morning."
She'd have argued, but she was too damn tired. Instead, she did as he suggested, and still her gaze was drawn back to the board. Back to Lois Gregg.
She could hear the way the woman's son, a grown man, had sobbed. She could see the utter devastation on his face when he'd pleaded with her to tell him what he. should do.
"Mom," he'd said, the way she imagined a child would. Though over thirty he'd said "Mom" with a little boy's helpless loss.
She knew Roarke had felt some of that same helplessness, that young boy's lost grief, when he'd learned the mother he'd never known had been murdered. Dead for three decades. Still he grieved.
And just that afternoon, a grown woman had studied her with suspicion and resentment over a relationship with her mother.
What was it that bound the child, so inexorably, with the mother? Was it blood, she wondered, as she stripped down for bed? Was it imprinted in the womb or something learned and developed after birth?
Killers of women, lust killers, were often bred due to their unhealthy feelings or relationships with a mother figure. Just as she supposed saints were bred from healthy ones. Or all the normality of the human race between the extremes.
Had this killer hated his mother? Abused or been abused by her? Was he killing her now?
And thinking of mothers, she slipped into sleep to dream of her own.
It was the hair, golden hair, so shiny and pretty, so long. and curly. She liked to touch it, though she knew she wasn't supposed to. She liked to pet it, as she'd seen a boy pet a puppy dog once.
Nobody was home, and it was all quiet, the way she liked it best. When they were gone, the mommy and.the daddy, nobody yelled or made scary noises or told her not to do everything she wanted to do.
Nobody slapped or hit.
She wasn't supposed to go into the room where thee mommy and daddy slept, or where the mommy sometimes - brought other daddies to play on the bed without their clothes.
But there were so many things in there. Like the long golden hair, or the bright red hair, and the bottles that smelled like flowers.
She tiptoed toward the dresser, a thin girl in jeans that bagged and a yellow. T-shirt that was stained with grape juice. Her ears were keen, as the ears of prey often were, and she listened carefully, prepared to dart out of the room at any moment.
Her fingers reached out and stroked the yellow curls of the wig. The pressure syringe tossed carelessly beside it didn't interest her. She knew the mommy took medicine every day, sometimes more than once a day.
Sometimes the medicine made her sleepy, sometimes it made her want to dance and dance. She was nicer when she wanted to dance; even though her laughing was scary, it was better than the yelling or the slapping.
There was a mirror over the dresser and she could just see the top half of her own face if she strained up high on her toes. Her hair was ugly brown and straight and short. It wasn't pretty like the mommy's play hair.
Unable to resist, she put the wig over her own hair. It fell all the way to her waist and made her feel pretty, made her feel happy.
There were all sorts of toys on the dresser, for painting faces with color. Once when the mommy had been in a good mood, she'd painted her lips and cheeks and said she'd looked like a little doll.
If she looked like a doll, maybe the mommy and daddy would like her better. They wouldn't yell and hit, and she could go outside and play.
Humming to herself, she painted on lip dye, rubbing her lips together as she'd seen the mommy do. She brushed on cheek color and clumsily fit her feet inside the high-heeled shoes that were in front of the dresser. She teetered on them, but was able to see even more of her face.
"Like a little doll," she said, pleased with the golden curls and the smears of color.
She began to use more, with enthusiasm, and was so intent on the game, on the fun, she failed to listen. "You stupid little bitch!"
The scream had her stumbling back, tripping out of the shoes. She- was already falling when the hand slapped across her face.
It hurt where she banged her elbow, but even as the tears spurted out in response, the- mommy was grabbing her by her sore arm and yanking her to her feet.
"I told you never to come in here. I told you never to touch my things."
The mommy's hands were.white, so white, and painted red on the nails like they were bleeding.
She used one to slap, and it stung the little painted cheek.
The girl opened her mouth to wail as the hand raised up to strike again.
"Goddamn it, Stel." The daddy burst in, grabbing the mommy, shoving her away and onto the bed, "The soundproofing in here's next to nothing. You want to bring the fucking social workers down on us again?"
"The little shit's been into my things." The mommy jumped off the bed, curling those bloody fingertips into claws. "Look at the mess she made! I'm sick and tired of having to clean up after her and listening to her whine.
On the floor, curled up tight with her arms over her head, the child struggled not to make a sound. Not any sound at all so they'd forget she was there, so she'd be invisible.
"I never wanted the brat in the first place." There was a bite in the mommy's voic
e, like sharp teeth snapping. The child imagined them snapping down on her fingers, her toes. Terror made her mewl like a cornered kitten and press her hands to her ears to block the sound.
"Having her was your idea. You deal with her."
"I'll deal with her." He scooped the child up, and though she feared him, feared him on a deep and instinctual level, at the moment she feared the mommy more with her words that bit and her white hands that slapped.
So she curled-herself into him, and shuddered when he stroked a hand over the wig that had fallen over her eyes, and down her back, over her rump.
"Have a hit, Stella," he said. "You'll feel better. I get this deal through, we'll buy a droid to look after the kid."
"Yeah, right. About the same time we'll have that big house and the fleet of fancy cars and all the other shit you promised me. The only thing I got out of you so far, Rich, is that whiny brat."
"An investment in the future. She's going to pay off for us one day. Aren't you, little girl? Have a hit, Stella," he said again as he started out of the room with the child on his hip. "I'll clean the kid up."
The last thing the child saw as he left the room with her was the mommy's face. And the eyes, brown eyes painted golden the lids that were, like the words, full of teeth and hate.
Eve woke, not with the strangled panic of the nightmares that plagued her, but with a kind of cold, dull shock. The room was dark, and she realized she'd rolled herself to the far edge of the bed, as if she'd needed privacy for the dream.
Shaken, vaguely ill, she rolled back, curled herself against Roarke. His, arm came around her, drawing her in. Circled in his warmth, she pretended to sleep again.
'She said nothing to Roarke of the dream the next morning. Didn't know if she should, or could.
She wanted to lock- it away, but she felt it pushing at her as she went through her morning routine.
It was a relief that Roarke had a morning full of meetings and she could slip, around him and out of the house with little conversation.
He read her too well and too easily-a talent that was both a wonder and an irritation to her-and she wasn't ready to explore what she'd remembered.
Her mother was a whore and a junkie, and had never wanted the child she'd made. More than not wanted. Had :despised and abhorred.
What difference did it make? Eve asked herself as she drove downtown. Her father had been a monster. Was it any worse to know her mother had been the same? It changed nothing.
She parked at Central, made her way up to her office. With every step inside the busy hive of Central, she felt more herself. The weight of her weapon comforted her, as did the knowledge that her badge was in her pocket.
Roarke had called them 'her symbols once, and so they were. Symbols of who and what she was.
She walked through the bull pen where the morning shift was settling in. She detoured by Peabody's cube just as her aide was knocking back the last of a glide-cart coffee.
"Thomas A. Breen," Eve began, and rattled off an -East Village address. "Contact him, set up a meeting ASAP. We'll go to him."
"Yes, sir. Rough night?" At Eve's silent stare Peabody shrugged. "Don't look like you got much sleep, that's all. Neither did I. Cramming for the exam. It's coming up soon."
"You want regular eight straights, you don't pick up the badge. Set up the interview. Then we're doing follow-ups on the list, starting with Fortney." She started to walk away, then turned back. "You can overstudy, you know."
"I know, but I was really blowing the sims. I nailed two last night. That's the first time I felt like I had a handle." -
"Good." Eve stuck her thumbs in her pockets, drummed her fingers. "Good," she repeated and headed to her office to nag the lab for updates on Gregg.
The bickering with Dickhead put her in a cheerier mood as she read over the ME's reports.
Morris was going with surgical grade on the weapons used on Wooton. Her tox screen confirmed that her system was clear of chemicals.
Since she wasn't using, spending time trying to find her former dealer wasn't priority.
The canvasses of Chinatown and the surrounding areas had come up zero, one more time.
"No trace of semen with Gregg," Eve told Peabody as they headed to the Village. "ME findings indicate she was raped and sodomized, with the broomstick only. No prints on-scene other than hers, family members, and two neighbors who're clear. Hair fibers, man-made. Dickhead thinks wig and mustache, but isn't ready to commit."
"So we think he wore a disguise."
"In case he was seen around the neighborhood. He had to keep tabs on her, a few weeks, I'd say. Solidify her Sunday routine. How'd he pick her, though? Out of a fucking hat? How does he target this particular LC, this particular woman?'
.Maybe there's some connection. A place they shopped, ate, did business. A doctor, a bank."
"Possible, and it's a good line for you to tug. I'm more inclined to think -it was the area first. Neighborhood. Select the setting, then the character, then put on your play."
"Speaking of neighborhoods, this is really nice." Peabody gazed out at shady sidewalks, large old houses, pretty urban gardens planted in window boxes or pots. "I could go for this. one day. You know, when I settle down, start thinking family and stuff. You ever think about that? Kids and all."
Eve thought of the hate-filled eyes, staring at her out of a-dream. "No."
"Tons of time and all. I figure maybe to think about it in six, eight years anyway. Definitely going to be taking McNab on a long test drive before I commit to more than cohabbing. Hey, your eye didn't twitch."
"Because I'm not listening to you."
"Are, too," Peabody muttered when Eve pulled to the curb. "He's been really great working with me for the exam. It makes a difference having somebody rooting for me. He really wants it for me because I want it. That's... well, that's just solid."
"McNab's a moron the majority of the time, but he's_ in love with you."
"Dallas!" Peabody shifted in her seat so sharply her cap tipped over one eye. "You said the 'L' word and 'McNab' in the same sentence. Voluntarily."
"Just shut up."
"Happy to." With a happy smile, she squared her cap. "I'm just going to savor, in silence."
They walked three houses down to a three-story home that Eve imagined had once been a multifamily dwelling. Writing about killers was obviously profitable if Breen could afford something this up-market.
She went up a short flight of flagstoned steps to the main entrance, noted the full security system that must have made the man confident enough to keep the etched glass panes on either side of the front door.
There was a wife as well, she knew from her quick background check, and a two-year-old boy.
Breen collected partial professional father pay from the government as primary at-home parent while his wife earned a substantial salary as a VP and managing editor of a fashion rag called Outre.
A nice, tidy setup, Eve mused, as she rang the bell and held up her badge for scan. I
Breen answered the door himself with his son sitting astride his shoulders. The boy was holding on to Breen's blond hair like the reins on a horse.
"Go, ride!" the boy shouted and kicked his feet.
"Only this far, partner." Breen hooked his hands around the boy's ankles, either to anchor him, Eve thought, or to stop the busy little heels from digging holes in his armpits. "Lieutenant Dallas?"
"That's right. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Mr. Breen.
"No problem. Always happy to talk to the cops, and I've followed your work. I'm hoping to do a book on New York murders eventually, and figure you'll be one of my prime sources."
"You'll have to talk to public relations at Central about that. Can we come in?"
"Oh yeah, sure. Sorry."
He stepped back. He was in his thirties, of strong, medium build. From the definition in his arms, Eve doubted he sat at a computer all day. He had a good face, handsome without being soft.
Breen laughed, flipped the child off his shoulders in a rapid and smooth move that had the kid squealing in delight. "Jed here's a little bloodthirsty. Runs in the family. I'm just going to set him up with the druid, then we can talk."
"No droid!" The kid's face went from angelic to mutinous in a heartbeat. "Stay with Daddy!"
"Just for a little while, champ; then we'll go out to the park." He tickled the boy into giggles as he charged up the steps with him.
J D Robb - Dallas 17 - Imitation in Death Page 13