by J. D. Robb
“I’m going to be working that angle, but nobody I’ve interviewed so far has any kind of facial deformity. You can’t hide something like that. If it’s a medical condition . . . I’m waiting for Louise to tag me back. Maybe she’d have some ideas on that. Or Mira. I need to walk this through with Mira.”
When they stepped back into the bullpen, Peabody hailed her. “Not much to add from Slice or the twenty-four/seven or the diner. I’m writing it up. Hey, Roarke. Lucky I brought back a personal pie. Maybe Dallas will share with you.”
Eve picked up the takeout, passed it to Roarke. “Maybe she will. Did you see anybody like this?” She offered Peabody the sketch.
“Whoa. Seriously?”
“Yancy thinks the wit’s solid, and as I talked to her myself, I agree.”
“Part demon, part monster, part human. He’s like a mutant.”
“He’s like somebody in costume,” Eve corrected. “Start running down this look. Theaters, costume outlets. See if you can find anything that fits.” She started to dig out money for the pizza.
“You got the last one,” Peabody told her.
“I probably did. And let’s see if we can find anyone connected to the center or Get Straight who’s involved in theater or theatrical makeup. Costume parties,” she added. “Places like the Center have fund-raisers like that, right? Where they make people dress up like idiots, then squeeze them for donations.”
“I doubt they think of it in quite those terms,” Roarke considered. “But, yes.”
“We’ll look at that. If you get anything close to a hit,” she told Peabody, “let me know.”
She went back in her office with Roarke. “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing at the take-out box. “I want to try to get a meet with Mira.”
She sat and began chipping away at the scales of the dragon at Mira’s gates. “Ten minutes,” Eve insisted. “I’ve got three DBs.”
“And Dr. Mira has a full schedule today.”
“Ten minutes,” Eve said again. “For this.” She angled so her ’link captured the murder board.
“In thirty minutes,” the admin told her. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Sampling the pizza, Roarke wandered over to her board. “You know, you could contact Mira directly.”
“Yeah, but it’s not right. Channels are channels for a reason, even when they’re annoying.”
“I suppose. You’ve discounted this being done by someone from their past? An addict, a dealer.”
“Not discounted.” She tried the pizza herself. “But the probability’s low any of them knew someone back then who had the skill to surgically remove body parts. I think he was on something when he did—the frenzy, the strength and endurance, then laughing and dancing. So even flying he had skill, a steady hand. Add to it, Darnell’s been out of that for nearly four months and wouldn’t be tough to track down. If she’d known something that threatened someone with this skill, wouldn’t he have dealt with her before? For four months she’s been immersed in the Center and the program. It’s somebody attached to that.”
“I can’t fault your logic. I rarely can.”
Her ’link signaled. “Dallas.”
“Dallas, I was in surgery.” Louise, still in scrubs, mask dangling, came on screen. “I just heard. I can’t quite believe it.”
“You knew them.”
“Yes. I’m actually Jen Darnell’s physician of record. I do her monthly exams. Did,” she corrected. “I’d see her often when I did a rotation at either the Center or Get Straight. And Coby, too, in the last few months. I met Wil recently. He hasn’t been in the program as long.”
“How well do you know Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood?”
“Very well. They were in Haiti helping to set up a new clinic when Charles and I got married or they’d have been at the wedding.”
“Eton Billingsly.”
Louise’s pretty face pruned. “He’s an excellent therapist and a complete jerk.”
“I need to talk to you about this.”
“I’ve got another surgery scheduled. It’s minor, but they’re already prepping the patient.”
“Have her and Charles meet us for drinks,” Roarke suggested and got a blank look from Eve.
“Here.” He simply nudged her aside. “Hello, Louise.”
“Roarke. I didn’t realize you were there.”
“Why don’t you and Charles meet us for drinks after work? You and Eve can discuss what needs to be discussed.”
“Yes, I think that would work.”
While Roarke set it up, Eve turned back to her board. She liked Louise and Charles, but wasn’t sure how she felt about her interview with a source turning into a social hour.
What the hell.
“Find somewhere to meet up near the crime scene,” Eve said, and gave Roarke the address. “I want to go back over it.”
“There.” Roarke turned away from the ’link when he’d finished. “Now you can talk to Louise, revisit your crime scene, and have a little time with friends. Interlude on West Eleventh, between Sixth and Seventh. At five, or as close as you can make it.”
He skimmed a fingertip down the dent in her chin. “It’s efficient.”
“I guess it is.”
“I’ve got a meeting shortly, so I’ll see you there.” Leaning down, he brushed his lips over hers. “Take care of my cop,” he told her, then left.
It should have weirded her out, Eve mused, sharing pizza and good-bye kisses, making dates for drinks in her office. It did, she admitted, but not as much as expected. Her gaze landed on the bakery box, narrowed.
She said, “Hmmm,” and, picking it up, walked out. She ignored the noses that came up sniffing as she passed through the bullpen, and caught a glide to Mira’s office.
The admin, busy on her comp, glanced up with a stern frown. “You’re early.”
“Then I’m not late.” Eve set the box on the desk. “Thanks for clearing time for me.”
Stern turned suspicious as the woman lifted the lid of the box a fraction, then more as she peered in. “Cookies? You brought me cookies?”
“They’re good. I had one. Is she free now?”
Still eyeing Eve, she tapped her earpiece. “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Of course. You can go right in.”
“Thanks.”
“Are these a thank-you or a bribe?” the admin asked as Eve moved to the door.
“They’re chocolate chip.” Pleased with herself, Eve stepped into the calm of Mira’s office.
Mira smiled from behind her desk. Maybe it was a shrink thing, Eve considered, thinking of Arianna. The warm looks, the pretty, feminine suits, perfect blend of color and jewelry.
“I know you don’t have much time.”
“Enough, I hope. Have a seat.” As Eve took one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs, Mira came around the desk, took the one facing. “I looked over the data, the crime-scene photos. My first question is, how sure are you there’s only one killer?”
“Very. We have a wit who saw him at the rear of the building, where he broke in. She worked with Detective Yancy.” Eve took out the sketch, offered it.
“Well.” In her placid way, Mira studied the sketch. “Now I have to ask, how good is your witness?”
“Again, I have to say very. I figure he geared himself up for it, added the drama. The wit says he danced in the streetlight, laughed his ugly ass off. My sense of the scene is frenzied glee. He had to be on something because killing three people that dead takes endurance.”
“I agree.” Mira tucked a lock of sable-colored hair behind her ear as she continued to study the sketch. “Theatrical, confident, organized. He knew where to break in, came prepared, and was able to kill, with extreme violence, three people, alone, and in a relatively short amount of time. Endurance, yes, and rage.”
She shifted, met Eve’s eyes with her own quiet blue ones. “I agree with your assessment that he has some sort of medical training. The amputations were skillfully done. I
believe he’ll keep these trophies, these symbols. His victims are no longer able to see, hear, or speak of him.”
“But they had, prior to their deaths.”
“Almost certainly. They knew each other. Dancing, laughing, so yes, he enjoyed himself. He can celebrate—and in the light, perhaps hoping he’d be seen. Spotlighting after his success.
“He envied their friendship,” Mira continued. “Their bond, and their happiness. He won’t make friends easily, won’t feel that bond. He most likely lives alone, feels underappreciated at his work. He’s skilled. The elaborate disguise tells me he wants to be noticed, and doesn’t feel he is, not enough. Nothing is enough. He wants what others have—friends, family, community—and at the same time feels superior to them. He’s better than they are. ‘Take out the trash,’ he wrote, in their blood. That’s what he made them. And it amused him. He’s a series of contradictions, Eve. Two people—perhaps more—in one. You have a violent sociopath under the influence of a strong illegal. He’s both controlled and out of control, canny and reckless. He has a god complex battling with low self-esteem, a bitter envy, and has found satisfaction and personal delight in killing.”
“He’ll do it again.”
“As soon as he can.”
“This face. Under the makeup or the mask, whatever it is, could he have a deformity? The jaw’s extreme.”
“Yes, I see that, but a deformity such as this? He’d be in constant pain. It would be all but impossible for him to eat. His speech would be garbled. As someone with medical training, and connections, he would certainly have had this repaired.”
“A recent injury, accident?”
“Possibly,” Mira considered. “But again, I can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be treated. If, for some reason, he refused to have it treated and is dosing himself with painkillers and other drugs, it might explain the frenzy, the duality in his profile. But why would anyone endure the pain of this, the social stigma? And it contradicts, again, his confidence, his need to be seen as superior.”
“It must be faked. Peabody’s running down costume shops, theaters.” Eve paused a moment, changed angles. “Do you know Justin Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood?”
“Yes. Arianna’s an excellent therapist. A bright, compassionate woman. She and her parents have done a great deal, not only in research and application on addictions and rehabilitation, but they built their Center with the purpose of treating the whole person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. They turned a personal tragedy into a great gift.”
“And Rosenthall?”
“Very skilled, remarkably gifted. More intense than Arianna, I’d say. It seems to me—though I don’t see or socialize with them often—she’s softened that intensity. Before Arianna, he was much more of a loner, and rarely stepped away from his work. Not unlike someone else,” Mira said with a smile. “With her, he remains skilled, gifted, dedicated to his work, but he’s happier. And not capable of murdering three people like this.”
“Everyone’s capable,” Eve stated.
“Yes, you’re right. All of us are capable under certain circumstances of extreme and violent behavior. We control it, channel it—in some cases medicate it. Justin’s a doctor, dedicated to healing, a scientist and man of reason. The person who did this rejects reason and humanity. He’s given himself a monster’s face. Humanity means little to him.”
“Okay. How about Eton Billingsly?”
“A skilled therapist, and an enormous pain in the ass.”
Eve had to grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call anybody a pain in the ass.”
“I don’t like him so it’s hard to be objective. He’s a pompous snob who sees himself as perfect. He’s rude, annoying, and full of himself.”
“A god complex?”
Mira’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I’d say. You wonder if he’s capable. I don’t know him well enough. He’s skilled—he has an MD, and would have done some time with a scalpel before he focused on his specialty.”
“Hypno-voodoo.”
Mira let out a quick, exasperated laugh. “I know you’re suspicious of the technique, but it’s valid, and can be very effective. Billingsly certainly wants to be noticed and rewarded and praised. But . . .” She studied the sketch again. “It’s very difficult for me to envision a man like him deliberately making himself hideous. He’s also vain.”
“Something to think about, though. I appreciate the time.”
“I’m happy to give it. Tell me how you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been back long. How’s your arm?”
Eve started to dismiss it, then settled on the truth. “A little sore in the morning, and by the end of the day. Mostly good, though.”
“That’s to be expected with that kind of injury. Nightmares?”
“No. Maybe just being back in New York’s enough. At least right now. Isaac McQueen’s back in a cage where he belongs. That doesn’t suck. I’m not thinking about my mother, what happened there,” she said before Mira could ask. “Not yet. It’s done, and right now I’m okay with it.”
“When and if it’s not, you’ll talk to me?”
“I know I can. That’s a pretty big start, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
Eve got up, started for the door. “Is she like you?” she asked. “Arianna Whitwood?”
“Like me?”
“That’s the sense I got from her. She made me think of you. Not just because she’s an attractive female shrink. It was . . . I don’t know, a sense. If she is like you, then she’s got no part in this. And thinking that, I hope to hell Justin Rosenthall doesn’t, because you believe she loves him. I hope he’s clear.”
“So do I.”
“I’ll let you know,” Eve said, and left.
SIX
Eve glanced over at Peabody as she walked back into the bullpen, got a shake of the head.
So no luck, yet, on masks or makeup. She went into her office, got coffee, then sat at her desk, put her boots up, and studied the board.
Everybody liked Rosenthall; nobody liked Billingsly. Instinct dictated a push on Billingsly—and she intended to listen. But she’d give a little push on the good doctor as well.
Arianna Whitwood. Beautiful, rich, smart, dedicated, caring. The good daughter, and again, the good doctor.
Didn’t that make an interesting triangle? Billingsly wanted her—and didn’t bother to (ha-ha) disguise it. Rosenthall had her.
And what did that have to do with the three vics?
They were Arianna’s. Her patients, her investment, her success—at least so far. Rosenthall’s, too.
Maybe Arianna had given them too much time, attention, made too big an investment. A man could resent that. She sometimes wondered why Roarke didn’t resent all the time, the attention, the investment she put into the job.
But there weren’t a lot of Roarkes in the world.
Maybe the three vics—or any one of them—overheard Arianna and the good doctor going at it over her work, that time and attention again. Hey, bitch, what about me? Shouldn’t I be the center of your world? Maybe he’d lost his temper. Couldn’t have the gossip mills grinding that one.
And no, just not enough for that kind of slaughter.
Maybe the vics, or one of them, overheard the two doctorsin-love arguing because Rosenthall was sampling product. Experimenting. That’s what you did in a lab. You experimented. Maybe he’d developed a problem of his own during those experiments. Now that, combined with being found out, could lead to bloody, vicious murder. Could be Arianna didn’t know. Can’t have her find out he’s become what he’s supposed to cure.
That could play.
Or, onto Billingsly. He pushed himself on his beautiful associate, and again one or all of them saw the incident. Possible.
Or the annoying doctor fooled around with a patient, maybe—hmm—maybe tried a move on Darnell. Rejected, humiliated, worried she’d tell Arianna. He’d lose any cha
nce with the woman he wanted, and his license to practice.
That could play, too.
But none of it played very well. Maybe she just needed to fine-tune a little.
For now, she read over Peabody’s notes on her interviews at Slice and the twenty-four/seven, the diner hangout. Nothing buzzing there, Eve thought, but continued as Peabody had started or completed a number of deeper runs on the players in those arenas.
Rising, Eve got another cup of coffee, then started deeper runs of her own on Rosenthall, Billingsly, Arianna, Marti Frank, Ken Dickerson, and Pachai Gupta.
Gupta came from some wealth, and an upper-class social strata, and she considered the fact that his parents, also doctors, had worked with Rosenthall years before.
Now Gupta had the plum position of the renowned doctor’s lab assistant on a major project. Couldn’t something like that make a career?
How would Gupta’s upper-class parents feel about him pining for a recovering addict? Possibly he wanted to keep that on the down low, and possibly Darnell wanted to go public.
Possibly.
Both Marti Frank and Ken Dickerson came from the ordinary, and in Dickerson’s case the rough, with his dead addict of an abusive father. Both had excelled in school, she noted. Frank top of her class in college—on a full scholarship. Dickerson third—accelerated path. He’d graduated high school at sixteen, college—again on scholarships—at nineteen, and straight into medical school.
And they were both still on scholarships, she noted, in the intern program at the Center.
She brought the lab setup back into her head. Working together on the project, she mused, but they’d seemed very separate, hadn’t they? With Rosenthall center. Neither Dickerson nor Frank had gone to Gupta when he’d broken down.
So not friends—not especially.
Competitors? Didn’t you have to have a competitive streak to come in first in your class, or in the top tier with acceleration?
And was it interesting, she wondered, or frustrating to learn that all six of them had sufficient medical training to have performed the amputations?