Random in Death, page 22
“But he’s sweating on it, going over and over his steps. He won’t sleep well tonight, but I will.”
In fact, she thought, she could drift right off now.
“Are we still on for that weekend on the island as soon as?”
“As soon as,” he agreed, and drove through the gates.
“Gonna work the private school angle hard,” she muttered. “I’m going to know him when I see him. I really think I’ll know him. And maybe we’ll get a picture tomorrow. Yancy’s gold, so maybe.”
“Will he try again? Not with Kiki, with another.”
“He has to.” She slid out of the car. “Tonight was a failure. Scientific mind, right?”
As they walked into the house, Roarke slid an arm around her waist.
“Of the mad variety, I’d say.”
“I sucked at science, but even I know when an experiment or project hits a snag, you go over it step-by-step, maybe make some tweaks. Then you do it again.”
“Maybe he’ll take a few days to do that going over and tweaking.”
As they walked into the bedroom, she shook her head. “He’s still a teenage boy. They’re impatient. They want gratification, and they want it now. Add in the rest, the craving, the misogyny, the arrogance, all that?”
She stripped off her jacket, her weapon harness. Sat and thought about drumming up the energy to take off her boots.
When Roarke did it for her, she smiled.
“I could go for some hot, sweaty sex with you, but I don’t think I’ve got a round in me.”
“Happily, I’m not a teenage boy, and can wait for that gratification.”
“Appreciate it. And add to all I said, he’s already got the next time and place picked. He’s scoped it out, done his research, his calculations. He’s not going to let some stupid little bitch who couldn’t hold still for two seconds ruin all his work.”
Knowing her preference when she only wanted sleep, he handed her a nightshirt.
“Thanks. I’ll bang you like a marching band on the island.”
“A marching band?”
“They got drums, right? Lots of drums. Bang, boom, bang. And Jesus, McNab was right. The brain can sizzle.”
“In you go now.”
When she rolled into bed, the cat rolled, then padded his way up to turn a couple lazy circles before settling again.
“He’s awake now,” she murmured when Roarke slipped in beside her. “Staring at the ceiling, going over those steps, considering those tweaks. And under the fear, because it’s there, the fear, he aches. He aches like an addict jonesing for a hit. Because he missed, and instead of gratification, instead of release and pleasure, there’s that craving. Eating away.”
She curled herself against Roarke as the cat curled himself against her back.
“Sleep now.”
“Oh yeah,” she agreed, and dropped right out.
* * *
Someone else didn’t sleep, but lay, just as she’d imagined, staring at the ceiling. Aching in the dark.
He’d done everything right, everything according to plan.
All he’d found from the media flashes told him she’d been transported to a hospital. Not even her name, not that he gave a good damn about her name. But it was the one he’d chosen, the redhead. The media said an incident at the theater, the opening of the idiotic vid.
She’d die at the hospital then. Even the partial dose should take her down. They wouldn’t know why—just some trampy girl going down—so how could they treat her in time to counteract what he’d gotten into her?
Life support maybe, but brain-dead.
The jacket, that must’ve done it.
But no, he’d gotten the needle through. He’d felt it go into her. She’d screamed so loud! So fast!
As if he’d hacked her with a machete.
Neither of the others had reacted that way. A sting, yes, a quick prick. He wanted them to feel it or he’d have used a numbing agent. But she’d screamed, started to spin around the instant the needle went in.
He’d had to pull it out and run. No choice there.
It didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. For the next he’d make sure she had bare arms, like the first two sluts.
Maybe take a little more time picking her out. There’d be plenty of time. He’d already planned it so meticulously. The next step. How and where.
He knew just what he’d do to her, do with her, before he finished her.
So exciting, the anticipation, so fulfilling.
It would be his first time. Not hers, of course. They were all whores.
But it would be her last.
Chapter Sixteen
The next time Eve opened her eyes, Roarke sat, the cat sprawled across the lap of his perfect slate-gray suit, scanning something on a tablet.
On-screen, the usual indecipherable stock reports scrolled by on mute.
Light streamed in the sky window overhead and showed her a happy blue sky.
“How did it get to be morning again?”
“There you have that pesky rotation of the Earth. You didn’t sleep long, but you slept well.”
“I slept like a … I was going to say rock because people say that, but it’s stupid. Rocks don’t sleep.”
“But they’re usually very still and quiet.”
Mostly, she thought as she got up. Except for earthquakes, avalanches, mudslides, volcanos.
She hit the coffee first, then the shower.
When she came out, breakfast waited under warming domes, and Roarke had banished the cat.
Galahad stretched out in a sunny patch on the floor and eyed the warming domes with avarice.
“So what was it this morning? Buy, sell? Sell, buy?”
“Neither, as it happens, but a very satisfying progress report on a project in Kyoto, then some details on the beginnings of one in Sydney.”
“And they’re on opposite time because of the pesky rotation.”
“See there, you’re getting it.”
He removed the domes on what turned out to be frittatas. Colorful ones, she noted, sure to contain lots of healthy things.
“What’s the deal you’ve got with spinach? Do you own the world’s supply of it?”
He poured her another cup of coffee. “You’re a slender woman who all too often works herself into the ground and neglects eating during her workday. Iron matters. There’s bacon in there as well.”
She swore she saw Galahad’s ears twitch at the word bacon.
Since she shared that affection, she sampled. “Got a little heat on it. Not bad.”
Since she also had a dish of summer berries, she couldn’t really complain.
“I’m wearing black today, so no comments. They’re having Jenna Harbough’s memorial, and unless I’m about to tackle this bastard, we need to monitor.”
“Do you think he’ll be there?”
“I don’t. He’s done with her. She served her purpose. But if I’m wrong about that, and he shows … I think I’ll know him. I know that sounds—”
“As if you think you’ll know him. And I believe you will,” Roarke added.
“I will. If I see him at the memorial today, I think I’ll know him. If I see him in the school stuff, I think I’ll know him.”
As she ate, she considered. “He’s worn a wig—either because he thinks it helps him blend or for the disguise. Both. Plus, the style hides his face. Under it? His hair might be the same color, or close, but the style’s not. His is conservatively cut, short, neat, parted on the side, ruler straight.”
“That’s very specific.”
“It goes with the shoes, the clothes. He gets it cut at a high-end barber shop. Maybe a salon, but I lean toward the barber.”
“Because salons give off at least a whiff of the feminine, and he wouldn’t tolerate that.”
“Exactly.”
“Not as many of those as private schools, but.”
“Yeah, but. Plenty of them. But it’s an angle.” One that needed following. “And besides the hair, it’s going to be the eyes. His eyes, they’re going to be wrong. And I’ll know it.”
Reaching over, she gave the black silk of his hair a tug. “Who does this?”
“In the last couple of years, Trina. She’ll come to me.”
“I bet.” And thinking of the hard-ass stylist, Eve shoved her fingers through her own hair.
It was fine, just fine.
“And I bet she doesn’t bitch at you when she does.”
He smiled. “About what?”
“‘Didn’t I tell you to use that face gunk? You’ve only got one face! You’re a dead cop, you oughta know skin’s alive. You gotta feed it. Your hair needed a trim two weeks ago.’ Then she slathers that sheep cum all over my hair.”
He nearly choked on his frittata. “Sheep cum?”
“It looks like sheep cum.”
“This begs the question,” he decided. “Have you ever encountered the cum of sheep?”
“Not so far, but if I do, it’ll look just like what Trina slathers all over my hair.” After her last bite, she wagged her fork at him. “Your family has sheep. I bet they’d back me up on it.”
“Well then, that will be quite the conversation starter over Thanksgiving dinner when they visit. I’ll make a note.”
“They’ll back me up,” she insisted. “Anyway, he doesn’t go to Trina. Her place doesn’t approach the bomb zone area of conservative.”
She pushed up. “Black.”
And went into her closet.
Roarke stacked the plates under the domes, then pointed at the cat. “Knock these off again, and there’ll be no treats for you later. Mark my words.”
“He’s a cat, Roarke,” Eve called out. “Do you figure cats understand the concept of later?”
“This one best learn to.”
Black made it easy—or easier, considering her myriad choices. She slapped it all together, including boots, lightweight despite their good, thick soles.
In case she got the chance to chase the bastard down and tackle him.
When she came out to strap on her weapon harness, Roarke gave her a long look.
“No comments,” she reminded him.
“Even if I say you look respectful, for the memorial, while still looking formidable and utterly in charge?”
She swung on her jacket. “Okay, those comments are admissible. I’m heading straight in,” she said as she grabbed her pocket items. “I want to be there before Whitney contacts me, orders me up to his office.”
“You’re expecting that?”
“Two murders, one attempt in three days. He’s going to bring up inviting the feds to assist. He has to.”
“And your response?”
“Oh, hell no. But with more respect and diplomacy. I want to dig into the schools, hard and deep. Plus I want to look over the security feed from the theater, start the barber shop angle. Nag the crap out of the lab on the door prints. I still need to go through Arlie Dillon’s room, and hopefully follow up with Kiki Rosenburg.”
“So a full day of work before you start.”
“If he doesn’t hit again tonight, he will tomorrow. And if he hits again, kills again, and slides away, we’ll have to call in the feds. We’ll need them.”
“You’re all but breathing down his neck now, so my bet remains on you.” He cupped her chin, tapped his thumb in its shallow dent before he kissed her.
“Tag me, will you, before you make that tackle. I’d like to be there if I can manage it. And see you take care of my cop.”
“Affirmative to both. He’s going for it,” she added as she walked out.
When Roarke glanced back, the cat stopped his oh-so-casual walk toward the table. He turned, sat, shot up a leg, and began to wash diligently.
“Mind your step, mate, or we’ll think about replacing you with a nice, obedient hound.”
At the word hound, Galahad sent one searing look over his shoulder.
“Consider that,” Roarke advised.
* * *
Maybe it was a gift from the universe, or maybe she’d fallen into the perfect window, but traffic streamed right along all the way downtown.
She pulled into the garage at Central a solid twenty minutes ahead of shift. Time, she thought as she strode to the elevator, to do her updates, write up a report from the attack on Kiki Rosenburg. Maybe start a city-wide search on the upscale barbers.
Her luck held as she rode up to Homicide with barely any stops and starts, shuffle-ons, shuffle-offs.
In her office, she hit the coffee before setting up the barber search on auto. She updated her board and book while it ran, and considered the next logical steps in the day.
The incoming from the commander’s office told her what that first step would be.
She had the full complement of detectives in the bullpen when she walked out. And Jenkinson’s tie.
She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought they called the color fuchsia. If fuchsia was irradiated. White fuchsia-eyed rabbits hopped over it.
She imagined they had really sharp, pointed teeth under their sly smiles.
They made her wonder why she always felt compelled to look.
“Peabody, check on Rosenburg, contact her parents and Arlie Dillon’s mother. Find out when it’s convenient for us to take a look at their rooms.
“Detective Sergeant Rabbit.”
Jenkinson grinned at her. “Yes, boss.”
“Are you clear?”
“Just tying up some paperwork.”
“Good.” She took out her PPC. “I’ve got a list of upscale barbers. You and Reineke can start checking them out. Looking for a Caucasian male, about sixteen. You have the current description of the subject. Hair color unknown. It’s a wig,” she said when he frowned at her.
“Well, shit. Sure it is.”
“Conservative cut. It’s probably regular, say once a month. He may or may not be accompanied by a parent or guardian. Polite, well-mannered, well-dressed.”
“We’ve got it, Loo.”
“I’m with Whitney.”
“We got it,” Jenkinson said as she walked out. “Don’t let him push the feds in yet.”
And yet another reason she’d wanted him to take the promotion to DS.
This time she took the glides to give herself the time and room to think.
She glanced at her ’link, read the brief text from Peabody.
Before you get to Whitney, Kiki’s condition’s good. Scheduled for tests this morning, and should be released before noon.
Roger that.
Outside Whitney’s office, his admin gestured Eve straight in.
He sat at his desk, his gray suit shades lighter than Roarke’s, the shoulders in it as broad as a fullback’s. A mug of coffee steamed at his elbow.
His wide dark face had more lines than it had when she’d made rank, and his close-cropped black hair more threads of white.
But somehow they added dignity to power.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant. Coffee?”
“No, sir, thank you.”
“Can’t blame you. Do you have a status on the third victim?”
“They’re hoping to release her before noon. We’ll interview her again, as she saw him, and might remember more details. We have other witnesses from the theater, Commander, and Yancy will work with them.”
“Yes, I skimmed your report. As of now, after two murders and one attempted, we don’t have a full description, much less an identification.”
“No, sir. However—”
“Three’s the magic number, Dallas. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Convince me why we shouldn’t pick up the magic wand and bring in the FBI. I know you. It’s not about power or pecking order, it’s not about who gets the collar and credit. We can request Special Agent Teasdale. You’ve worked well with her in the past.”
“Yes, sir, and it may come to that. I don’t want to bring in federal investigators at this time, take time to read them in, agree on tactics and strategies, because we’re close.
“He’s made mistakes, starting with the first murder. They’re our advantage, Commander, and more so since he doesn’t realize or understand he’s made them. As simple as the shoes,” she began, and ran through it, point by point.
“If anyone can finesse more details from the wits,” Eve finished, “it’s Yancy.”
“We agree there. Private schools, barbers, the shoes. Good angles, logical.” On a pause, he sipped his coffee. “Time-consuming to pursue.”
“Commander, we’re close. We’ve systematically narrowed the gap and will narrow it more today. I know him. I’ve got everything but his face and his name, and we’re close there. Teasdale’s good, she’s solid, but she doesn’t know him. By the time she does, we’ll have him.”
His eyes, always direct, held hers. “All of that’s based largely on your instincts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve never had a cop under my command with better ones.”
He rose, walked to the windows where the city he protected and served carried on its daily business.
“I’ll give the lab time with the prints, and you time to follow up on these angles. Forty-eight hours. If he kills another girl, that time ends immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does your gut tell you, Dallas? Will he try again tonight?”
“Yes, sir, I believe he’ll need to.”
Still watching the city, Whitney nodded. “My gut says the same, so you have that time. You have it because the feds can’t do more than you and your team within that window. And you have the momentum.”
He turned back. “Wrap him up, Lieutenant.”
She headed back down, using her ’link to push on the prints, then tagged Feeney.
“Whatever you need, kid,” he said before she could speak.
“I’ve got a long list of private schools, and criteria I’m looking for. If I could send you part of that list.”
“Send it. McNab says the kid from last night’s okay.”
“She is. Whitney gave us forty-eight before bringing in the feds.”
“Yeah.” Feeney sighed, scratched his chin. “That had to be coming.”
