by J. D. Robb
“He said the same.”
Alone, she started down the list. It made her feel better, just to touch base, to repeat the need for caution. Better yet, everyone she contacted was in for the night.
Really, who wanted to go out in the bitter the night before New Year’s Eve?
That’s the night she had to worry about, she decided. When so many she knew and cared about would be out at some party, some shindig.
She didn’t think her killer would take someone in public. But what better time to get into a target’s empty place, lie in wait?
If she didn’t have the suspect in a cage by the eve, she’d set up some sort of surveillance on potential targets’ houses, apartments.
“But you’re going for somebody tonight, aren’t you? You missed last night. You have to make up for it. You had to run twice now, and once from your . . . bestie,” she muttered, thinking of Mavis’s term. “Hard on a girl’s self-esteem. You need a win, and you need it bad.”
Considering, Eve brought ID shots on screen.
Not Mavis, she decided, studying the official shot where Mavis had opted for a cotton-candy-pink poof of hair and electric green eyes. Low probability on Mavis and her family.
Same with Peabody and McNab, with Feeney—who looked as if he’d slept in the dung-brown suit and industrial-beige shirt. Too risky, at this point, to go for a cop, so she included all the cops in her division.
The Miras—now, that was a worry. She could count on Mira to be smart and careful, but she’d put an attempt on them in the high probability range. Even without the link to law enforcement—and she was sure the killer had one—anyone who’d read Nadine’s book or seen the vid would know she had a particular link, personal and professional, with Dr. Charlotte Mira.
She also had an embarrassing little crush on Dennis Mira, but nobody knew about that. Mira would, Eve corrected, and felt foolish. Mira always knew.
But look at the guy, with his incredibly kind eyes and mussed-up hair and that absent smile that said he was thinking about something else altogether.
She considered contacting Mira again, impressing on her—again—that the killer might ditch the delivery guise now, go for a straight break-in using the master.
But the master wouldn’t work, Eve reminded herself, and going over it all again edged over into nagging.
Nadine, same deal. High probability—the connection between her and Nadine was well known. Nadine Furst was nobody’s fool, Eve thought, and had top-notch security on her building and her apartment.
Still, the memory of Nadine’s abduction, of the previous attempt on her life two years before, flashed.
It would flash for Nadine, too, Eve decided. She’d take no chances.
Reo? Another concern. If the killer knew details of Eve’s life—personal and professional—she’d know details of Reo’s. The APA was smart, but she wasn’t . . . tough. Not physically.
Morris? A hell of a lot smarter than a killer. Security decent, she mused, but not as good as it could be.
Louise and Charles. Good security on their home, but each of them worked, patients, clients. Anyone could walk into Louise’s clinic, where the security sucked. Or book a session with Charles. High probability again, but not tonight, she determined. Smarter to try at the clinic, or to pose as a client for Charles. Daytime hit there, most likely.
Unless the killer lured Louise out of the house, medical emergency. The clinic or her mobile medical service.
Shit.
And there was Trina. Not exactly a friend, more of a personal thorn in the side, but a connection. One who posed for official ID as if she wore a flaming tower on her head—fiery red with hot gold tips.
“And she can be stupid,” Eve mused.
She’d barely closed a case she’d caught because Trina had done the stupid.
An e-mail blast, Eve decided. That wasn’t like nagging, it was just putting it all down so everyone had it right in front of them.
She settled down to it, tried to think of a way to write it out that didn’t seem like nagging.
While she did, the killer poured out her own thoughts in words.
I’m hurt. In my body, in my heart, in my soul. I’d nearly forgotten this kind of pain. Not the bruises, ones I discovered after I’d gotten home, tried to calm myself with a warm bath. I never felt them, but must have gotten them from hips and elbows while running through the crowd on the street, or from carts and counters in the restaurant.
She chased me, as if she were the hunter and I some sort of prey.
When I saw her in front of Mavis’s building, for one instant—here then gone—I thought, I actually thought: Oh, at last, we can talk face-to-face, we can sit down, have a drink, talk and talk about our partnership.
Finally, she’ll tell me what I mean to her, how important I am to her instead of it always, always, ALWAYS, being me who tells her.
But I knew, in the instant after that instant, it was never to be. What I saw on her face wasn’t appreciation, wasn’t friendship. It was feral. Hunter. Prey.
I’ve been a fool, letting myself believe she cared about me, respected me, appreciated all I’ve done for her.
She’s like all the rest. Worse than all the rest.
I balanced scales for her, I did what she secretly wanted to do—and I know she wanted those scales balanced—and when it came down to it, she cared more about Mavis than me.
What has that ridiculous woman ever done for Eve?
Could it be, and how I hate to think it, that Eve values fame and wealth more than justice? Look who she married—a man everyone knows broke countless laws in his lifetime, but has enough money, enough power, to keep justice at bay.
And Mavis, there’s fame and fortune—and another shady past.
Is this what drives Eve after all?
I can’t bear to believe that.
Yet now I wonder.
She preened for the cameras today, didn’t she? Looking through those cameras at me, into me. But not as a friend, not as a partner. But as someone who used my good work for her own gain. Who would destroy the only person, truly the only person, who held her best interest above all else.
Have I lost her? This pain in my heart, this drumming in my head, it feels like loss. It feels too familiar, too unspeakable.
I know what has to be done now. This very night.
She must lose. She must pay a price. Scales to balance.
Will we come closer to each other when she feels something of what I feel? Will she look at me, at last, and really see me?
I pray our bond can be repaired, and I pray she comes to understand our bond was forged and will only hold strong in death.
• • •
As Eve had done, the killer brought images onto her main screen. And studied them one by one.
Delia Peabody, Charlotte Mira, Nadine Furst, Mavis Freestone, Li Morris, Cher Reo, Charles Monroe, Louise DiMatto, Ryan Feeney, Ian McNab, Jamie Lingstrom, Lawrence Summerset. Roarke.
Friends, partners, mate.
Wasn’t it time Eve understood she only had one friend, one partner? And really, at the core, one mate? All of these, all, were distractions, obstacles to the only relationship that should matter.
Still, until now the indulgence of these distractions had been tolerated. Out of friendship, out of affection and an unselfish generosity.
But real friendship was truth, and Eve had to learn and accept truth. So one by one they would be eliminated.
Time to pick the first.
It only took calling up files to have data, already researched, already accumulated, scrolling. Habits, haunts, other connections, routines, and histories.
Eyes tinted the color of good whiskey, eyes the same shade as the ones in the countless photographs of Eve that covered the wall, read the data carefully.
Thos
e eyes were shrewd, intelligent, and crazed.
• • •
Eve had her feet up on the desk, the chair kicked back, and her eyes closed when Roarke came in. Galahad lay belly down on her desk, staring at her.
Not sleeping, he thought. Thinking.
Rather than interrupt whatever train she was riding, he moved into the kitchen, programmed fresh coffee, split the large slab of pie. And to reward the cat for being on guard, added a couple of mouse-shaped feline treats.
“Nadine or Mira,” Eve said, eyes still closed when he set the coffee down on her desk.
“As next target?”
“It’s what makes best sense, and Nadine edges out Mira if it’s a night hit. She lives alone. Might have company at any time, sure, but she’d watch for that. Especially watchful after Hastings.”
She opened her eyes now, watched as Galahad inhaled the little cat cookies as if they’d been air. Wisely, Roarke gave him a nudge off the desk before he set down the pie, or it might have met the same fate.
“You could maybe check my work here,” she told Roarke. “I’ve set up a search and match, NYPSD database. Cops, support staff, lab, morgue, all crime scene personnel, including the cleaners contracted to swipe down a crime scene after we clear it. If I don’t hit anything on this, I’ll expand to relatives of same. Could be. Thinking about running another on applicants to the Academy, forensics, morgue, and so on. We’ve gone through the most direct lines there. So using McNab and Yancy’s best guess, I’m trying it again.”
“Up,” he said, and switched places with her.
He studied the search, the parameters she’d programmed, the images, the language.
“This would do it.”
“Good, because it took me forever.”
“I’m going to refine it with what I’ve done. It doesn’t change much, but sharpens the edges a bit.”
He paused the search, input her new data, ordered a realignment as she sampled the pie.
“You have sharper images?”
“Mmmm.” He ordered them on screen while he restarted her search.
“Really?” Eve rolled her eyes as the first image scrolled on. He’d dressed the long-legged female with short mouse-brown hair in a sheer black lace bra and G-string, added a sassy, hip-shot stance.
“We make our own fun,” he told her, then swiveled in the chair. Before she realized his intent, he snagged her hips, pulled her onto his lap. “Now, while the changes are subtle, I was able to calculate those ratios, and all the other bits and business you don’t want to hear about. This is my most likely.”
“You honestly think this homicidal lunatic wears trashy underwear?”
“Truthfully, I don’t understand why women wear any other kind. However, whatever she wears under her clothes, I think this represents the best estimation, given all known data, on her body type, her general features, her coloring.”
“Hair and eyes can change on a whim. Mavis’s official ID—her latest one—has her with pink hair. She had blue hair tonight. Just as an example.”
“It’s rare anyone has Mavis’s fluid style. Your UNSUB may certainly change those things, but I’d say this is her natural coloring—or close.”
He kept one arm hooked lightly around Eve’s waist, took a forkful of pie with his free hand. “It is good pie. Maybe a bit shy of damn good, but good all the same. It’s possible her legs aren’t this long, but again, given the best guess. She’s tall—or tallish for a woman. Even considering lifts, she shouldn’t be under five-eight. She’s fast on her feet—kept ahead of you, and yes, darling, she had a strong lead, but you said she was fast. Most probably, long legs to go with the height. And again, fast, so unlikely she carries too much excess weight if any. Strong, likely good upper-body strength.”
Because it was right there, he kissed the nape of Eve’s neck. “She blends, would that be accurate?”
“I think yes. Not one to draw attention, very likely she keeps under the radar in her work. Smart—and maybe underappreciated, at least in her own mind.”
“I’d assume she either disguises her attributes or has a slim body type. Serious curves draw attention. Those attracted to women notice serious curves. As you believe she’s unattached and likely lives alone, a more curvaceous body would draw attention.”
“She’d get hit on,” Eve concluded.
“Playing the odds. Young, single female, add curvy. Going to the least common denominator? Impressive breasts impress.”
“Tits aren’t the only reason women get hit on or draw attention.”
“No indeed, but they rank high. She’s unlikely to be visually compelling. A pleasant enough face, most likely. As real beauty or someone overtly unattractive also draws attention. So . . . Computer, display image two.”
Acknowledged. Displaying image two.
“Okay.” Eve nodded, would have pushed up if Roarke hadn’t held her in place.
The same body, face, coloring, hair, but wearing a dull gray suit, a little drab, a little dowdy, Eve supposed. And the sassy woman in the trashy underwear became ordinary.
“You wouldn’t look twice at her on the street,” Eve stated. “She’d blend into the scenery.”
“And now. Computer, display image three.”
Acknowledged. Displaying image three.
This time the image wore a bulky brown jacket, brown trousers, ski cap, boots.
“Yes!” Again, she started to push up, and again he kept her snuggled on his lap. “Come on. I’ve got to move.”
“Don’t I get a reward?”
She craned around, looked into those wild, amused eyes. “You got pie.”
“The pie’s nice, but the work, if I say so myself, is superior.”
She couldn’t argue, so she clamped her hands on his face, covered his mouth with hers, let some of the excitement of having a face—a strong potential—fire up the kiss.
“That’s more like it,” Roarke decided, and let her go.
“I’m going to send this to the wits, and to everyone on the list of potential targets. Ordinary sort of face, nothing stands out especially, but if it’s close, if it is, and you had this in your head, you’d recognize her.”
She turned to him. “Can you do a side-by-side, put the shades, the scarf on her? This image, just those additions.”
“Of course.”
In seconds, he had the dual images, split screen.
“It feels right, feels close.”
She closed her eyes, froze the moment when she’d looked across the street—the distance, the big bus lumbering away from the stop.
Take the bus away, all the vehicles, she ordered herself. Just her. Just you, just her, facing each other. She fixed the moment in her mind, one isolated instant, then opened her eyes.
“The face is broader—still narrow, but not quite this narrow. Can you . . .” She trailed off as he was already making the adjustment. “Not that much, a little . . . Yeah, that’s better. Long legs, right on that. The coat today was down at her knees, but there was some length between the coat and the boots.”
She closed her eyes again, tried to bring it back. The chase, tried to edit out all the people, the noise, the movement.
“She kept the box under her arm. Can’t say what was in it, can’t judge the weight, but she kept it tucked in, like a running back with the ball heading toward the goal. Shoving with the other hand,” Eve added, making the motion herself. “Pushing, shoving, elbow jabbing, but never slowing down. Focused. Okay.”
She opened her eyes again, turned. “She knew that restaurant. Goddamn it, that wasn’t just luck. She was hauling her ass right there, knows the neighborhood, knew she could jump in there, make that end run toward the kitchen and out. She’s been in there before.”
“Scoping out Mavis’s area?”
“That, sure, that. But she’s b
een in that place, knew the setup. No need to know that to scope out Mavis. We’ll get the image over there, show the owners, the staff. Maybe somebody knows her.”
She came back for her coffee.
“You lived there,” Roarke pointed out. “In that building, only a couple blocks away from that restaurant.”
“It wasn’t there, not with those people when I . . . She’s tuned into me. That’s my old neighborhood. I got that place because it was close enough to Central to make it smooth. Not a long haul to the morgue, to the lab.”
“Why wouldn’t she do the same?” Roarke proposed. “If she works in any of those facilities, or wishes she did, if she’s obsessed with you, why not live in the same area you did? Walk the same sidewalks, eat and drink and shop where you did.”
“She could’ve run into the Chinese place, but it has a different setup—it’s narrow and it doesn’t have that little alley off the back like the bar. She had enough of a lead to keep going, and yeah, yeah, get across the next intersection, maybe gain some distance if I got hung up with the traffic again. But she swung around that corner, never hesitated. She aimed for it.”
She sat on the desk. “Plug it in, will you? You’re faster. Narrow the search. Let’s see if we can find somebody who meets this basic description who lives within a six-block radius of my old building.”
“It’s a lot of ground,” he told her as he made the adjustments. “And unlikely to get quick results.”
“Results works well enough for now. I’m going to use the auxiliary, get the image out.”
“Take your pie,” he suggested.
Some risks were worth taking. It was a matter of principle.
The delivery-person gear that had served so well wouldn’t do now. But with some adjustments, the same ploy would work.
The peacoat—ordinary, simple. Not quite as bulky as the brown, and a bit shorter, but it would serve. The navy cap with earflaps and bill, pulled low, but with just a little hair from the short wig straggling out beneath it—a dull dark brown bought months before, and with cash. Still, it paid to seal it, and to remember to take care before removing it during the real work.