Random in Death, page 18
And quiet, she thought as she pulled up. Already the quiet after so much noise, such relentless movement.
She dragged herself out of the car, through the rain, and into the house, where Summerset and Galahad waited.
“You’ve had a long, wet day, Lieutenant.”
She had nothing, so kept walking.
“Was there another? After last night?”
She glanced back as both the man and the cat watched her. “No. But there will be.”
“She may be wet,” Summerset told the cat, “but she’s wrung herself dry. Go on now, go see to her. Roarke will be a little while yet.”
In the bedroom, she dragged off her damp jacket and considered it done. As she had the day before, she dropped facedown on the bed.
Thirty minutes, she told herself, and went out.
She didn’t feel the cat leap onto the bed, or spread himself over her ass to guard her.
When Roarke came in a half hour later, Summerset waited.
“She’s upstairs. Exhausted.”
“Small wonder.”
“You’re a bit fagged yourself. How was Philadelphia?”
“Dry, so there’s something. And all’s in place.”
“That’s good. After last night, I anticipated considerable fatigue. I made fresh pasta and meatballs.”
“That will be very welcome, on both our counts. She’s closer.”
Understanding, Roarke laid a hand on Summerset’s arm. “I had a brief update, and she’s closer.”
“Go tend to your wife.” Summerset gave the hand on his shoulder a brief pat. “There’s cherry pie for later.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“It kept my mind occupied.”
“She’ll find him.”
“She will, and you’ll help her.”
“As I can.”
Roarke walked up, made his way to the bedroom.
Galahad blinked his eyes open but maintained his perch.
“We’ll both see to her now, won’t we?”
He sat on the side of the bed, skimmed a hand lightly over her hair.
He took off his suit jacket, his tie, his shoes. Then lay down beside her. After setting his mental clock for ten minutes, he dropped into sleep with her.
Chapter Thirteen
She woke with a groan followed by a muttered curse.
“There she is.”
At his voice, she turned her head enough to see Roarke—jeans and a tee—sitting on the sofa with his feet up, his PPC in his hand.
“Is there a half ton of cat on my ass?”
“There is indeed. I can’t decide if he’s there to guard you from any and all intruders or just keep you down until you got some sleep.”
Reaching back, she scratched Galahad’s head before rolling him off.
“You’ve been home awhile,” she began, then checked the time. “Shit! It was supposed to be twenty minutes, thirty at the outside. I was out for over an hour.”
“And benefited from it. Hungry?”
She sat up, scrubbed her hands over her face. “I had a nosh earlier. I guess a lot earlier.”
“A nosh?”
“Jewish deli, slice of babka. It was really good. I could eat, but—”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“I’d say that was hitting below the belt, but it’s dead-on.”
“There’s cherry pie.”
She had a weakness for all things pie.
“Looking out for me, pal?”
“Whenever I can, but this one’s Summerset. He made it all today. He heard about the second girl. Cooking keeps his mind occupied.”
She nodded, slid out of bed. “Murder does that with mine.”
“We’ll set up in your office. Have a meal, a glass of Chianti, and you’ll tell me.”
She started to nod again, then remembered and dug a hand in her pocket. As he rose, she held out the cash she’d pulled.
He looked at it, at her, with eyes suddenly and dangerously cool.
“Why in bloody hell would you want to start a row?”
“I don’t. I’ve got too much to do to fight. So just listen, okay? Listen,” she insisted. “I know we’ve been here before, and mostly resolved things. I get you think it’s insulting, especially since you buy all my damn clothes, and whatever goes into the spaghetti I’m about to eat. But that’s just not it.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s on me. Completely on me, and I hate that I can’t at least shove a part of it on you. We could schedule a fight then, when I had more time, and”—she had to admit it—“I’d like that a hell of a lot better.”
“Should I check my book?” he asked, all too politely.
Her hackles—whatever the hell they were—went up hard when he used that tone on her.
But.
“No, because, fuck it, it’s on me. I’ve gotten careless, and that makes me feel stupid and, well, careless. I didn’t run short before you. Maybe skimmed close to it, but I paid more attention. I had to. Okay, I’ve got to sort this out so I can pay the rent, and get some crap coffee, like that. Now I don’t pay attention. Not enough. I forget to pay attention.”
“You don’t need to.”
“But I do. I do need to. Do you want me to feel stupid?”
He only lifted his eyebrow. “It would seem that’s in your hands, not mine.”
“Oh, fucking fuck.” Turning away, she tried counting to ten. Made it to five. “This money thing makes me feel stupid, and makes you feel insulted. Which would be in your hands, ace.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, felt the gray button he carried.
A cheap suit, loose threads, and she’d given him a talisman he carried everywhere.
“I suppose it is. Regardless, it should be somewhere in your Marriage Rules, that what we have, we share. The good and the bad of it.”
“It’s probably in there,” she muttered. Maybe she’d put an asterisk on that line to remove money from it—and that, she admitted, was on her, too.
“I just need to pay you back. It doesn’t mean anything to you, a few hundred. But it does to me, especially since I damn well know I’m going to get comfortable and careless again. Then I’ll feel stupid, and annoyed with both of us, when you peel off a few hundred and hand it to me like I’m…”
“My wife?”
She tried one more careful breath. “Your stupid, careless wife.”
“You’re neither of those things. Hardheaded, hard-assed come to mind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched on that one.”
“Difficult to disagree.”
“I need to pay you back so it’s not such a big stupid deal every time, for both of us. It’s just a loan, not a ‘Here, dumbass who can’t keep enough cash in her pocket to pay for a slice of babka, let me peel off a few from the wad in the pocket of my zillion-dollar suit.’
“And it makes me feel more of a dumbass when I put the damn cash in the pocket of pants I not only didn’t have to buy, I didn’t have to think about buying. So I need to pay you back. That’s it.”
“Let me say this first. I enjoy filling your closet the way you never will. You shouldn’t begrudge me my small pleasures.”
“Only you would call that acreage of clothes in there small. And I’m standing here wearing stuff you put in there. I’m grateful for it.”
She stopped, shoved at her hair.
“Shit, I probably should’ve said that sometime along the way, probably a few dozen times. I am grateful you like what I hate, and I don’t have to carve out time for something I hate, like shopping.”
“I don’t need thanks,” he began, but she shook her head.
“Yes, you do. It’s not you paying for them, because, Jesus Christ, I don’t want to think about what you paid for these boots. It’s embarrassing. Even a little horrifying. Or it would be if I thought about it, so I try not to. It’s not the money. It’s the time and thought. I’m grateful for it.”
“Darling Eve.” He sighed it out, and his eyes had gone warm again. “You intrigue me, constantly. I know who you are, what you are, how you think, how you feel, and still, you intrigue me. Constantly.”
He took a step toward her, cupped her face in his hands before brushing his lips to her.
“Take the money back, okay? I pulled enough.”
“We’ll make a deal, shall we? When you run short because you’ve been busy hunting a killer, or standing over the dead, you’ll tell me. No bloody shite about it. Then you’ll graciously accept a loan.”
“A loan I could accept. The graciously might be a tough reach.”
“Graciously,” he repeated. “Then, when you’ve had time to deal with it, I’ll graciously accept repayment.”
“No bloody shite about it?”
“None.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.” She held out a hand to shake on it. “Give me a little spread on the exact level of graciously.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “I’ll grade on the curve.”
“Did we just avoid a big, ugly fight?”
“I’d say we cut short a spat.”
“Spat’s a stupid word for actual adult people. We had a pissing match. Done now. Let’s eat.”
“Intrigued,” Roarke repeated as they walked out. “Constantly.”
* * *
She needed to do her updates, and had, by her mental schedule, fallen behind.
But he’d been right. The hour down had done its job.
The abbreviated pissing match hadn’t hurt, she realized. That cleared the air like the nap had cleared her head.
Now she’d let the spaghetti and meatballs, a little wine, do the rest before she tackled it all again.
Besides, she shared that food and wine with the most excellent sounding board she knew. Something else to be grateful for.
While they ate, she started off with the morgue, shifted to the lab, wound back to the follow-up with Jake that she hadn’t relayed to him.
“I know a lot of talented people don’t hit, but I think she would have. She had the talent, the focus, and a hell of a lot of determination. He took that from her, erased her, her potential.”
“Do you think that’s part of it?” Roarke asked. “Erasing her potential?”
“Not specifically. He didn’t know her. It wasn’t, for him, who she was, but what. Attractive teenage girl. Her parents gave me the green to give Jake a copy of the demo. I figured it’s going to make him feel worse, because he’ll hear that potential.”
She shrugged. “Anyway.”
“A very busy morning for you.”
“Oh, and not over. Consult with Mira, slice of babka.”
“That must have been brilliant babka.”
“Gotta say yeah. EDD hit—can’t really see him, but we ID’d the group he merged with, which took us to the deli and the babka. One of the wits got a glance at him. Caucasian male, teenage male. But that’s it unless something else shakes loose from the memory of that quick glance.”
“It’s more than you had.”
“A lot more.” She wound some pasta, had a moment to wonder what exactly went into noodles to make them close to the perfect food.
“Back to Mira,” she said, and ate. “I can sum up her profile and my own conclusions. We’re looking for a horny teenage boy who can’t get laid, so hates what he lusts for. Which is not only sex but attention, validation of his superiority. He has knowledge, skills, and certainly interest in chemistry and drugs, must have access to equipment. He’s a loner, the kind of kid nobody notices—except academically.”
She stabbed a meatball. “He’s going to shine there. Whoever’s in charge of him dresses him like a doofus.”
“Is that a brand name?”
She laughed, enjoyed the bite of meatball. “Clerk at L&W didn’t remember him enough to give us a description, but she remembered his clothes because you don’t see kids come in there wearing dress shirts and dress pants and tasseled loafers. Alan Stubens—she noticed the shoes when he took them off to try the Kick Its.”
“Small wonder.” Roarke handed her a slice of bread from the basket. “That’s as big a step down as I can imagine.”
“From the scuff marks we got the approximate size and the brand he wore at the club. From the clerk we’ve got his size—six and a half—and the brand he wore into the store. So far, we haven’t hit on where he got the pricey ones.”
“He could’ve sold the Stubens and bought at least three decent kicks or sneaks, add in the baggies, and he’d still have cab fare.”
“So he didn’t want to risk whoever’s in charge asking him ‘Where’s your loafers?’ Mostly? I think he didn’t know any better. He’s not in the club, the normie club, much less the chill club. He doesn’t know L&W is Losers and Wheezes.”
“And what, Lieutenant, does that tell you?”
“He goes to a fancy-pants private school or he’s homeschooled with fancy-pants private tutors. Maybe a combo. Whoever’s in charge of him doesn’t see who he is. They only see what he wants them to see. He knows how to present himself to them—that’s easy. Smart, quiet, polite, well-dressed.”
“Trustworthy,” Roarke added.
“That’s key, yeah. So they’re not poking around in his stuff, demanding what he did when he went out. He can run his experiments, hell, maybe grow his own poppies.
“He’s got plenty of time to himself,” Eve murmured. “Plenty of time on his own. Nobody says, ‘Hey, let’s go grab a slice after school,’ or ‘Let’s party at my house.’”
“I’d have been lost without my mates as a boy.”
“You were getting your ass kicked daily. We both know how that feels. He’s not abused, not technically neglected. He’s just not seen. He’s cerebral, not athletic. Not that athletes can’t have good brains, but he’s short for his age. Maybe puny. Not chunky—kids notice that, too, so I think the wit would’ve said porky white kid, or something like that.”
“He had to use his feet to boost up to the window.”
Eve gestured with her fork. “Exactly. No core. He had to use his feet, enough pressure with them, to leave the marks on the wall.”
“There was cruelty in the entire thing, but an extra flourish of cruelty in the roofie and bacteria. Your sexual elements. If you’re right, and you no doubt are, and he’s particularly bright, knowledgeable, he added those for spite. He’d know the police lab would analyze the formula he used.”
“Making his point. The cops are scratching their heads, the media’s in an uproar.” Eve gestured up with her hand. “Everybody’s paying attention now.”
“He doesn’t think you’ll find him.”
After eating the last bite, Eve set down her fork. “No?”
“He’s so much smarter than you, than anyone with a badge. Cops are just low-paid public servants, after all. When they catch criminals, it’s only because the criminals are even less bright than they are.
“Add the arrogance of youth, Eve, to the rest. And all that testosterone. The only way he can satisfy his needs is using his own hand. These girls who don’t see him, don’t want him? They’re idiots who’d rather spread their legs for the barely literate jock because he can throw a football, or the bad boy in cheap boots and fake leather sneaking smokes in the loo.”
Fascinated, Eve leaned back. “Keep going.”
“You were a teenage girl. Would you have seen his type?”
“I did my best not to see anybody too close. You look too close, they look back. I didn’t even consider banging anybody until I was in the Academy.”
He blinked at her. “I don’t believe you’ve mentioned that before.”
“Not worth mentioning. But I’m not a good judge of what a typical teenage girl thinks about sex. And this is about him, and you seem to have an interesting take.”
“I knew his type back then. Not the murderous, but those who felt entitled to what wasn’t coming their way. You’re a bit obsessed with sex at that age—well, more than a bit.”
After picking up his wine, he leaned back.
“But there’s a lightness to it, an excitement, a wonder the first time you have a girl’s breast in your hand that doesn’t lessen with the next time. But for this type, the obsession darkens and hardens.”
“And the girls are to blame.”
“Of course. Who else? They’re frigid or teases or ballbusters, and their very lack of any respect only solidifies the resentment. What they want is subjugation, as the female’s inferior, a vessel for their use. So they hate and demean. But under all that, I think, is fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“The female, and their mystery, their otherness, and most of all, their power. I think, don’t you, that some of those who start out like this, when and if they find a woman, they become abusers. Because the fear’s always there, under it all. And the need,” he added, “to prove they’re in charge.”
“Yeah, some of them, but I’ve never wound it around just this way. I’m giving you some of your ‘intrigued.’ So you knew some of the type.”
“I don’t recall any being particularly bright, as this one.”
“You wouldn’t have had any trouble getting a girl’s tit in your hand.”
He smiled, sipped his wine. “And still a wonder.”
“How old were you when you got lucky?”
“You’d ask such a question when I’m trying to help you catch a murderer?”
“Satisfy my curiosity.”
He drank more wine, and she saw what rarely showed on his face. Discomfort.
“Well, I didn’t know my age as an exact thing.”
“Ballpark it.”
“Round about fifteen, I suppose. Give or take.”
“For the tit or the whole bang?”
He smiled again. “Well now, one thing leads to another, doesn’t it now? And if that’s of any use, the type we’re talking of tended, in my experience, to hang together. Feed each other’s resentments. There are all manner of places in life, online, that feed that same resentment and attitude.”
“He wouldn’t join a group. Online, possibly, but I see him as more of a lurker. He doesn’t participate. As much as he wants attention, he’s too smart to go online and brag about what he’s done, is doing.”
