by J. D. Robb
“So you knew both of the victims.”
“I did. I also know you—it’s Flake, isn’t it? And you . . .” She glanced left and farther back. “Newton. And there’s Jackson over there. I know a lot of people. Some of them are reporters, some are lawyers, some are criminals. Some are law enforcement.”
“Didn’t the messages indicate the killings had been done on your behalf?”
She started to go with the scripted version, more or less, she’d gone over with Kyung. Changed her mind on the spot.
“Your information is inaccurate. And at this point in the investigation I will not discuss specifics. I will not speculate in the media as to the killer’s motivations. What I can and will say is this. Two people are dead through the deliberate and callous act of another. This is an open and active investigation, and as primary of that investigation, I will use the full resources of the NYPSD in the pursuit of the person who took their lives. It’s my job to identify and apprehend the person responsible, and to turn this person over to the courts so they can mete out justice.
“I’m going to do my job.”
She stepped back from the podium and, ignoring the questions shouted in her wake, walked away.
“That’s it,” she told Kyung.
“Not quite what we had discussed, but it worked well enough. I’ll deal with the rest.”
She nodded, then stopped. “The information was inaccurate. He—or she—didn’t kill on my behalf. I’m the excuse, and that’s a different thing.”
And that, she told herself, was what she had to remember, because if he had a third target in his sights, she didn’t have enough to stop him.
She went straight to Mira’s office, prepared to battle the dragon at the gates to get ten minutes inside. When Mira’s tight-assed admin held up a finger, Eve bared her teeth, ready to attack.
“Give me a moment to let her know you’re here. She has another consult in fifteen minutes, so you’ll have to make it quick.”
Surprised, and just a little disappointed they wouldn’t go a round, Eve shifted back off the balls of her feet. “I can make it quick.”
“Doctor?” the admin said after tapping her earpiece. “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Yes, of course. Go right in,” she told Eve.
“Okay.” Eve stepped to the door, glanced over. “Why?”
“Because my instructions are, for the duration of your current investigation, to admit you unless the doctor is in session or in a consult.”
“Okay,” Eve said again, and opened the door to Mira’s domain.
Tasteful, as Mira was, tidy and somehow female. The blue scoop chairs offered color and comfort, a few family photographs the personal. Though the window was—always—privacy screened, the winter sun trickled in light. More light beamed from some sort of fancy lamp over an array of flowering plants spilling from stone-gray pots along the windowsill.
“That’s new,” Eve commented.
“Yes. My daughter’s Christmas gift. She made the pots, started the plants from cuttings.”
“She make the light, too?”
“Actually, my son-in-law did. They’re a clever pair. Tea? I’d guess you’ve had more than enough coffee already today.”
“There is no more than enough, and your admin warned me to be quick.”
“I have fifteen minutes, so we’ll have tea. Sit down.”
“I’m too revved. I think there may be a pattern—chronological.”
Mira nodded as she walked over—cherry-red heels today with a winter-white suit and a triple chain of tiny red stones.
How did anyone think in the morning about matching a necklace with their shoes? How did anyone have a necklace that matched their shoes? Did they buy the shoes first or the necklace, or was it just random?
She could ask, Eve considered, but the answer would probably baffle her as much as the question.
“Your last meeting with Ledo came after your first with Bastwick,” Mira began. “But then Bastwick’s attempts to discredit you in the media, with the Barrow appeal, were more recent. Still . . .” Mira programmed tea for both, handed Eve the delicate cup and saucer, took one of the scoop chairs. “Ledo would have been the easier kill.”
“The way he was done could’ve been done almost any night.” Uneasy with the china, Eve gave up and sat. “Bastwick required more planning, closer timing. So why not take Ledo first? But she just mouthed off—he dinged me. So that’s a possible escalation.”
“True.”
“And it’s not enough of a pattern either way. I know it. I’m reaching. Logically, Ledo should have been the first—easier, kill first—but it may be he needed or wanted to take Bastwick over the holiday week. Lighter work schedule for her. Maybe for him.
“I can’t figure it,” Eve admitted. “The killer thinks he’s in my head, but he’s not. He’s in his own. I have to get there.”
Mira sipped tea, crossed her pretty legs. They might have been discussing the weather—or how to match shoes with jewelry. “What does he want?”
“He wants to kill—that’s the core.”
“Yes. Killings this carefully planned and executed, for no known material gain or defense of self-interest, indicate desire.”
“He tells himself it’s for me—to please me, to . . . avenge me in a way I can’t do myself because of the rules I have to follow. He’s telling me he doesn’t have those rules, or is willing to break them. So he’s able to do what I can’t—to balance the scales with people he perceives have offended me and the badge, and who he believes circumvent or break the law.
“But those are excuses. People make up all kinds of bullshit excuses to kill.”
“They do, yes, but he believes. His messages are a kind of manifesto, a letter of intent. So, for him, they’re reasons, not excuses. Unselfish ones. Even righteous ones. Victim one worked to defend those accused of crimes, and certainly some who were guilty of those crimes. Victim two regularly and consistently broke the law.”
“That could be another pattern. Defending the accused with Bastwick, committing nonviolent crimes with Ledo. The next target could be someone who committed a violent crime. Someone I didn’t take down, or who’s been released since. Someone who didn’t go down for the full shot, did a deal.”
“Your instinct is to identify the next target, protect that person. But Eve, there’s no way of knowing. Age, race, gender, social status, employment. None of these things apply, none matter to this person.”
“I’ve got to work it because he’s not going to wait. It’s going so well for him. And now I’ve paid attention publicly.”
“Yes, I watched. You refused to confirm the messages had been addressed to you.”
“I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.”
“And by refusing to acknowledge or confirm that data, you kept the focus—as much as you were able—on the victims and the crimes. But he wants that confirmation, your acknowledgment not only of what he’s done, but of the feelings he wrote to you. He craves a signal from you he can interpret as approval. Which you can’t give, or it tells him he’s doing what he wants to believe he’s doing.”
“He’s not going to get it, and for as long as I can hold back the information, I will.”
Mira nodded, sipped. “You also made it clear you’d do your job.”
“And I will. Wouldn’t he expect that of me? If I didn’t, wouldn’t that knock a few inches off my pedestal?”
Mira smiled. “Yes. He expects you to pursue him—that’s exciting, isn’t it? And it shows not only his confidence in his abilities, but his deep belief that you’ll pursue primarily to find him, meet with him, cement the relationship. But he’d want that meeting to be on his terms. He leaves only the message. How do you find him through his words?”
“Working on it.”
“I’ll continue to send you best possibil
ities, but I think you’re looking for someone too careful, too organized to have used a name, left an easy way to track. It’s more likely any communication with you was anonymous, or with some sort of code name, and sent from a blocked location, or through a dummy account.”
“Yeah, I lean there. We need to check, follow through, but I lean there. I’ve got people doing cross-checks, and we may be able to narrow it down. Lab rats are analyzing the handwriting, but I don’t expect much there. I’m going to run an analysis of the words. The messages against the correspondence. Until it’s narrowed some, that would take from now to a few years after the world ends. But I hope to start it tonight.”
She hesitated a moment—but this was Mira. “I’ve brought Nadine in. What I’ve told her is off the record, and she won’t blur that line.”
“No, she won’t, and she’ll dig. But I thought she was out of the country. Nevis, isn’t it?”
“Was. She’s back. Hot story.”
“Hot story, good friend. If she’s willing to share her correspondence with me, I can add it to my analysis.”
“I’ll give that a push.”
“I’ll send you more, and you may be able to eliminate some of those potentials through the profile. Your UNSUB lives alone, or if with parents, roommates, any sort of cohab, spends a great deal of time closed off from them. While capable of holding down a job or building a career, this person isn’t capable of maintaining strong or genuine relationships. Casual friends, perhaps, but more colleagues, coworkers with little if any social interaction.”
“Law enforcement,” Eve said. “I think he’s connected, somehow.”
“He’s conflicted. His idealization of you means he respects—and respect is paramount to him—the law, the badge. At the same time he believes the rules governing the law, society, must be circumvented in order for justice to truly be served, for the law to truly be upheld.”
Mira set her teacup aside, leaned forward a little. “He’s organized, Eve. He’s meticulous and efficient, intelligent, with low self-esteem coupled with a hero complex. And I’d agree, a deep interest, perhaps experience, in police work, in the justice system—with that equally deep distrust in the capabilities of both.”
“Cops burn out,” Eve considered. “So do prosecutors, social workers, crime scene techs—anybody who deals with what we deal with and sees sometimes, too often, the system doesn’t come through.”
“It’s likely the system failed him at some point, or his work within that system hasn’t been enough to bring about perfect justice. His perfection. You’re more than a symbol, Eve, remember that. You’re the flesh-and-blood ideal restrained only by the rules of that system. You need him. When he realizes you don’t feel that need—and he will—he’ll seek to punish instead of avenge.
“You’ll go from angel to demon, and quickly.”
“Can’t be soon enough.” Eve rose.
“You wouldn’t be the first target.”
Eve nodded, though it made her sick inside. “I’m going to handle that, if it comes to that. We catch him first, it won’t. You and Mr. Mira have to take precautions.”
“Yes, we’re aware.”
“You could do me a solid.”
“Of course.”
“Get a driver—until this is done. A driver who knows how to handle himself. Herself. Whichever. You don’t want to go down into the garage here unattended. He could work here. He could be a cop or support staff. And you don’t want to get out of your car here or at home and have someone go at you. It would take that off my head.”
“All right. Dennis and I have already talked about some of this, and I use a service sometimes anyway.”
“The driver has to have training,” Eve insisted. “And you know about answering the door for a delivery, but Mr. Mira can be a little forgetful.”
“Not when it’s important.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She started for the door. “It’ll probably be tonight. The next. I’m not going to be able to stop it.”
“You’re not responsible, Eve.”
“No. A couple of airboards weren’t responsible for two kids getting sliced up on their way home from the boarding park. But they were a motive. This isn’t any different. Get the driver,” she added, and left.
She wanted to be out in the field, doing something active. Intimidating somebody, maybe kicking some ass. Instead she closed herself in her office again with her board, her notes, and the coffee Mira thought she’d already had too much of.
While she thought of the killer, the killer thought of her.
• • •
I finally have an hour to myself. I’ve watched Eve’s media conference three times. She looked so good, sounded so tough. She really gave those asshole reporters the business! It’s just amazing the way she can cut them down without raising her voice. I’ve never been able to do that, never been able to put anybody in their place. Someone always puts me in what they wanted to be my place.
Until now.
But why did she say it was inaccurate? Why didn’t she answer that question truthfully, tell everyone I’d written to her? I’d killed on her behalf, and she wouldn’t give me credit.
That’s really upsetting. It hurts my feelings. Can’t she see that?
I thought this would be the time—just the right time—for her to talk about me, a little. Really, all she had to say was yes, there were messages left for me at the scene.
She didn’t have to give the content, just the acknowledgment, the feeling. I kept looking for some signal from her. Something. Anything.
There were a couple times I felt she was looking right at me, like she was trying to say something just to me. I’ll watch again, maybe I missed it. Maybe I’m letting myself get upset over nothing.
When she said she’d do her job? Maybe that was it. Like a warning to me she’d have to come after me. There’s no question of that, it’s who she is, it’s what makes her the amazing person she is. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been so careful. No one will be able to say she didn’t do all she could do, more than anyone else could do.
Could she have been telling me to keep being careful? I hope that was it. I have to believe that was it.
If it is, it’s almost like we’ve talked, at last. One day we will, in person. Just the two of us. We’ll have some wine. We’ll open the bottle I bought especially—the same kind she was drinking in that picture I found of her, the one taken when she went to Italy.
With him.
She won’t need him once we’re finally able to be together, work together. We’ll talk and talk and talk, about everything, share everything.
She won’t need anyone but me. I hope she’s starting to understand that now. I have to show her so she understands.
I know I have to wait, I know there’s more work to be done first, but I hope it’s soon.
Maybe after tonight. Maybe after one more. I’m really looking forward to this one—doing it for her, and for myself. It’s like discovering I have an innate talent for playing the violin or painting watercolors.
I have an innate talent for execution.
There will be one fewer disrespectful asshole in the world after tonight. As Eve would say, he can bite me.
But the dead don’t bite.
• • •
She spent a long time studying both messages. Key words: JUSTICE, RESPECT, FRIENDS. Words most repeated—or emphasized in the lab rat’s analysis—in the longer, second message: RESPECT, DISRESPECT, SOCIETY, FRIEND, JUSTICE.
She’d look for repetition and emphasis on those words when she ran the correspondence. If the killer had a message, these words made up an important part of it.
He’d have used them before.
She took another look at Mason. Despite the alibi, he had a connection to the cops. But with or without the alibi, she admitted, he just didn’t
fit. Not only didn’t fit her own instincts, but didn’t fit the profile.
He was smarter than he appeared, and as she skimmed his files, admitted he was organized. But he wasn’t careful, didn’t live alone or close himself off.
She found a disc labeled “Ledo,” another labeled “The Square.”
She ran Ledo’s first, waded through Mason’s stiff and formal version of a police report, then backtracked, zeroed in.
Observed deliveryman traveling west on foot, pausing outside subject’s building before continuing on. Then observed same deliveryman cross over to south side of the street, traveling on foot, east. This individual appeared unable to find the address, took out a ’link, but—in my opinion—took a photograph with said ’link.
As I am a public servant and know this area well, I approached the deliveryman, called out to same. I said: Can I help you find an address?
The individual turned away, shaking his head, and continued east with more haste.
I went back to my surveillance of the subject’s building.
“You saw him.”
Eve turned to her ’link, pulled up the contact information.
Mason’s earnest face filled her screen. “This is Mason Tobias. I can only talk for a minute because I’m working and not allowed personal communications.”
“I’ll fix it, Mason. It’s Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I’m on a walking delivery, so I can talk for a minute.”
“Great. Mason, I’m reading your reports, and—”
He lit up like a candle. “You are? You’re reading them yourself?”
“Yeah, and I’m reading the one you filed on December fifteenth while surveilling Ledo’s building.”
“That was before you told me not to, to observe from inside.”
“Right, before that. You report seeing a deliveryman, one who appeared unable to locate an address. Do you remember that?”