Obsession in Death

  “I have a really good memory.”

  “You said deliveryman. Are you certain the individual was male?”

  “I . . . That’s inaccurate, Lieutenant. I assumed.” Distress clouded his eyes. “I didn’t accurately report.”

  “It’s okay. Did you see this person’s face?”

  “I saw a portion of the face. The individual was wearing brown pants, a brown coat and ski cap, wraparound sunshades, and a lighter brown scarf around the lower portion of the face. Also gloves. The individual carried a shipping box.”

  Deflated, Eve nodded. “Okay, Mason, good work.”

  “The individual removed the sunshades in order to—I believe—take a picture of the building across the street.”

  Eve held her breath. “Describe what you saw.”

  “The individual appeared to be mixed race. This I observed from the tone of the skin, which was like coffee regular. The cap was pulled to the eyebrows, but what I could see of the eyebrows were brown. Dark brown. I wasn’t close enough to see his eyes, or the color, I mean. When I approached, he put the shades back on. So I didn’t see the eyes. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you get any sense of the shape of the face?”

  On screen, Mason’s forehead creased in thought. “I would say on the narrow side. I would judge this person to be about five feet, ten inches in height and one hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Is this a person of interest, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, I’m very interested.”

  “I could go back and surveil.”

  “No, that’s a negative, Mason. I’d like you to work with a police artist. I’m going to send him to you. A Detective Yancy. You’ll be at the diner?”

  “I have deliveries, and I have dishes.”

  “I’m going to fix it, Mason. This is official police business. Make your delivery and go back. Just do your job, and I’ll send Detective Yancy to you. I’ll fix it with your boss.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Is this the bad guy?”

  “Yes, this is the bad guy. You’re helping me out. I’m going to talk to your boss now. Get your delivery done.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Mason Tobias, out.”

  On a half laugh for blind luck, Eve tagged the diner, and had a short, firm, no-bullshit talk with Mason’s boss. She made the tag to Yancy, gave him the particulars.

  Then she sat back, studied her board again.

  “Maybe a little break,” she muttered. “Just maybe.”

  She’d lucked out with Mason Tobias. He might’ve been a little dingy, but he had exceptional observation skills, a good eye for detail.

  And as Peabody had said, was puppy-dog earnest.

  Maybe she could get him in a mentoring program. If he kept going out on “patrol” he was going to end up hurt or dead.

  She zinged off a quick e-mail to the civilian liaison, then put Mason aside to work.

  She brought up the next batch of names, and taking Mira’s advice, ran them with the profile. She eliminated two, then one more out-of-towner when she checked the travel and employment.

  Two potentials, one in the city, the other in Hoboken—with employment in Midtown. Five minutes with a supervisor over the ’link eliminated Hoboken. He’d been in a meeting with the supervisor and two other software developers from four-thirty to just before six on the day of Bastwick’s murder—then had joined his coworkers for an after-work drink until after seven.

  That left a forty-year-old criminology instructor—and she liked that connection. Only five-eight, but he could’ve worn lifts. On the thin side at 148, but padding would take care of that. Brown eyes, mixed race.

  The syntax of his correspondence didn’t jibe with the written messages for her, but since everything else did—and it would get her the hell out in the field—she grabbed her coat.

  “Peabody, with me.”

  “LT.” Jenkinson started toward her as she swung on her coat. “We got ’em. Stupid fucks were riding the airboards. We’ve got two of them in separate interview rooms, sweating it, and the third . . .”

  He glanced over toward his desk.

  Eve saw the third slumped in a chair, wearing restraints and a sneer.

  “What is he? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “He’s twelve.”

  “Oh fuck me.”

  “What I said. Big for his age, and mean as a rattler. His older brother took him along, I figure like an initiation. We’ve got him here waiting on his grandmother—she’s custodial—and a child advocate. I took a six-inch sticker off that kid, boss. It had dried blood on it, and I’m damn sure it’s going to belong to one of those kids.”

  “Twelve,” Eve mumbled.

  She thought of Tiko—junior entrepreneur. Smart as they came and canny with it.

  He only had a grandmother, too. One who gave him room to be himself, and rules to live by. And a foundation that meant he’d never find himself in a cop shop with a bloodstained sticker in evidence.

  What made the difference, she wondered, between a kid who did things right, and one who killed for a board?

  “He won’t flip,” she said, studying the boy and his defiant, self-satisfied smirk. “He likes being here, thinks it makes him a man. Thinks he’ll cruise through juvie with a bad-ass rep.”

  “Lawyer, when he gets one, is going to clean him up, dress him like a kid, push the twelve-years-old, was-led-astray bullshit.”

  “Yeah, that’s how I’d play it. If that blood on his sticker turns out to be one of the vics’, you make sure the PA sees pictures of the boys they cut up—before and after. They may not be so ready to make a deal with that in front of them. They may not try him as an adult, but you take the shot.”

  “We’ll be doing that. The tagalong’s going to flip. Third guy,” Jenkinson explained. “Put on the tough, but he started shaking when we loaded him into interview. Got a sticker, wiped clean, but the lab’ll find trace, and a roll of Jump on him. He’ll flip. Brother of this one, he’ll hold tough. He’s already done five for assault with intent, and did his own stint in juvie prior. Third sticker on him and a shiny new wrist unit I bet he cut some other poor bastard for.”

  “Sweat them out, wrap them up. Good work, Jenkinson. Same to Reineke.”

  “I’ll tell him. He’s getting an ice pack. Kid there caught him with an elbow shot. We hadn’t had a pair of uniforms with us to help take them down, it would’ve been bloody.”

  He shrugged. “That’s the job.”

  “It is.”

  “The brothers—the dead boys? Memorial’s tomorrow morning.”

  “Take the time, go. That’s the job, too.”

  “Appreciate that, Dallas.”

  She signaled to the waiting Peabody, started out.

  “I heard they bagged the three who killed those kids.”

  “Yeah. Looks like they’ve got them cold.”

  As she turned to the elevators, a woman got off, looking lost, looking exhausted.

  From the shoes Eve pegged her as housekeeper or waitstaff, maybe a hospital employee—something that kept her on her feet most of the day.

  “Excuse me, miss? I’m looking for . . .” Her chin trembled; her eyes shone with tears. “The Homicide Division. Detective Jenkinson or Reen-eek.”

  “Reineke,” Eve corrected. “Straight down, on the left.”

  “Thank you.” She walked away, every step showing the weight she carried on her shoulders.

  Eve turned away, muscled onto a brutally crowded elevator.

  “How does that happen?” Peabody wondered. “A woman like that? You can tell she works hard. She’s well-spoken, polite. You figure she’s doing the best she can, trying to raise two boys when she’s already raised her own. And they do something so vicious, they kill another mother’s son for toys, and they’ll spend their lives, or a good part of it, in
cages for it.”

  “How does it happen?” Eve repeated. “Some people just like to kill. Sometimes it’s not any more complicated than that.”

  “It should be,” Peabody replied.

  Should be meant squat, Eve thought, and made herself stay on the elevator all the way down to the garage. And all the way down she had to push away the shattered look in the eyes of the grandmother of killers.

  • • •

  The criminology instructor turned out to be a bust, and the twenty-minute interview with him—and the grad student he’d been banging when they arrived—left Eve annoyed and with a real desire for an ass to kick.

  “So, that just happened,” Peabody observed when they stepped out from the shabby little townhouse where one Milton Whepp lived and banged grad students and worked on what he touted would be the book of the century. “He actually suggested we join him and that skinny brunette because sex enhanced critical thinking.”

  “He did. And the skinny brunette alibied him for last night. But check on the philosophy major who, allegedly, made up the threesome.”

  “He’s not even good-looking.”

  “Maybe he bangs like a fully charged turbo hammer.” Her head currently was. “Either way, up close and personal he doesn’t fit. He’s a horndog, not a killer. He’s just looking for sex wherever he can get it, and considers himself an intellectual and an expert on crime.”

  “Well, he is loosely basing the central character of his book of the century on you.”

  It would’ve creeped her out if Eve believed the horndog would stop banging grad students long enough to actually write an entire book.

  “Which explains some of the obsession in the correspondence.”

  “That,” Peabody put in, “and he figures once the two of you bang it out, he’ll be your new expert consultant, civilian, you’ll ditch Roarke and bring along a nice fat settlement so the two of you can live in the lap while you solve crime. That was my take.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Was there anything more exhausting than having complete strangers build fantasies and scenarios around you?

  “Take it home, Peabody. Check on the last of the threesome—and the people he claimed to be with at Bastwick’s time of death.”

  “The people he joined on what he called an emotional, intellectual, and physical exploration? I call that an orgy.”

  “Who wouldn’t? I’m going to work from home. Here.” Eve dug in her pocket, pushed credits on Peabody. “Take a cab.”

  “What? The subway’s only a couple blocks.”

  “Take a cab. It’s cold. And I’m not spending my fat settlement on that horndog, so you benefit.”

  “Lucky me. Thanks.”

  Eve started for the car. “If you have any orgies with McNab, do it early and get some sleep. We’re going to have another tomorrow. There’ll be another.”

  “We could get lucky.”

  Eve glanced up toward the windows of the asshole she’d just interviewed. “Not so far.”

  When Eve arrived home she sat in the car a moment, studying the holiday decorations—trees and candles in the windows, lights strung, greenery swagged.

  Considering it, she carted file bags into the house.

  “Should I assume an impending apocalypse,” Summerset wondered, “as you’re home early and show no signs of injury?”

  Eve eyed him narrowly as she shrugged out of her coat. “Should I assume you have a pulse as the cadaver I just visited shows more signs of life than you? When do they come to take this stuff down?” she asked, gesturing wide to indicate the decorations.

  “Traditionally on Twelfth Night.”

  “When the hell is that?”

  “January fifth. The company will begin and complete the removal while you and Roarke are scheduled to be away.”

  “Okay.” So no chance the killer could come in posing as one of the crew while she wasn’t around, because she wasn’t going anywhere until she had him.

  She remembered the surprise on Christmas Eve, and the blueprints Roarke showed her. “When does work on the dojo start?”

  “Right after the holiday.”

  “January second.” Might have to hold off on that, which was too damn bad, but she didn’t want anyone in the house she didn’t know. “Mix up your routine,” she told him as she started up the stairs. “Your out-of-the-house routine. The shopping, the visiting gravesites, haunting houses with the other ghouls—whatever it is you do. Mix it up for the next few days.”

  “I have a scheduled haunting tonight, but it can be postponed.”

  “Good, do that.” She glanced back. “Seriously. And . . .” She thought of Nadine, nearly smiled. “Watch your six.”

  She went straight to her office, updated her board, set up for reviewing the discs from Nadine, from Mason, intended to update her book with the details of her interview with the horndog.

  But the headache plagued her, and her own face staring back from the board brought on a simmering fury she couldn’t seem to bank.

  “Screw it. Screw it for one hour.”

  She detoured to the bedroom, where the cat made himself comfortable on the bed. He rolled over, stretched, yawned, then watched her with mild interest as she stripped down, pulled on shorts and a tank, dug out running shoes.

  She sat on the side of the bed to put them on. Galahad stirred himself to belly over, bump his head to her hip.

  “Crap mood. All crap. Gonna work it off.” She gave him a long stroke, poked a finger in his pudgy belly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get in a workout, pal.”

  Rising, she went to the elevator, headed down to the gym.

  The dojo would open from it, through soundproofed pocket doors. All natural materials, she thought now, in a clean and simple space—one for serious practice. Full holo function included.

  And still it would boast its own little meditation garden with miniature fountain. And a tidy little area behind bamboo screens for a friggie, AutoChef, sink, and so on.

  Roarke did nothing half-assed, she considered, and thought it would be too damn bad if she didn’t bag her quarry, and the project had to be put off until she did.

  Too personal, damn it. All of it, too personal, and bleeding over into her home.

  Yeah, she needed to sweat out the mood.

  She opted for the halo tread. Her usual choice here would be the beach. Nothing like running on sand with sea breezes. But now she programmed it for urban streets, with obstacles, pumped up the difficulty.

  She set out on a hard run, strides ringing with the virtual sound of boot heels on sidewalk. Dodging pedestrians, catching whiffs of cart dogs and a busted recycler. Weaving through vehicular traffic across an intersection where a pair of street thieves snagged the carelessly swinging purse of a woman in an I New York shirt. Kicking up more speed, she tackled the nearest street thief, whipped on restraints before charging after his partner.

  New elements, she thought, pleased with the challenge. Roarke had been fiddling, adding some elements and upgrades. When she engaged in hand-to-hand with the second thief, she knew he’d fiddled with the programming with her in mind.

  And no, he did nothing half-assed.

  Thirty minutes down, and she’d topped out her heart rate, had broken a good sweat—and had a couple of virtual street thieves in custody.

  She switched to hand weights, worked her oiled muscles with curls, flies, squats, lunges, kickbacks, presses, pushing through three sets.

  The headache settled into a dull throb at the back of her skull, an improvement, but she couldn’t shake the mood.

  The killer made a kind of victim of her, as well as a motive. She wouldn’t tolerate it, couldn’t. Yet even now he might be moving on the next target, and there was nothing she could do.

  She set the weights back on the rack. She knew what sh
e wanted—had wanted all along. But now she was pumped and sweaty and pissed. And ready.

  She moved on to the sparring droid, studying it—a new one—as she laced on light gloves.

  Bigger than the last one, she noted, heftier. And with a face designed to appear as if it had taken years of punches. Crooked nose, scars around the eyes, a mouth that sneered even when turned off.

  Roarke again, she mused, and had to appreciate his style.

  She turned it on.

  “Activated. Select program.”

  “You got a name?”

  “They call me Crusher,” he responded in a voice that sounded like he gargled gravel.

  “What ya got, Crusher?”

  “I’m programmed for boxing, kung fu, karate, street fighting, tae kwon do, wrestling—”

  “Bring it,” Eve ordered. “All of it.”

  He punched first, a straight jab to the face. She barely dodged it, and even the air displacement near her ear was impressive.

  She bounced back on her toes, set. Smiled fiercely. “Okay, then.”

  • • •

  Roarke stepped into the house wanting nothing more than a glass of wine and a quiet hour. Getting a late start had crowded the rest of his day, and a quick, unplanned trip to one of his plants in Trenton had stolen more time.

  Not that he minded. If he wanted less to do he could sell holdings instead of acquiring more.

  “Where’s your feline companion?” he asked Summerset.

  “I believe he’s upstairs with the lieutenant.”

  Roarke lifted an eyebrow as he took off his coat. “Eve’s home?”

  “And has been for nearly an hour now. Uninjured,” Summerset added before Roarke could ask. “Concerned, apparently, about my routine outside the house, and—as I mentioned before—about those who may come into it.”

  “You saw the media conference?”

  “I did.” Taking Roarke’s coat, Summerset hung it in the closet hidden in the foyer wall—where he’d already hung Eve’s. “Adding her concern to that, I assume she’s pursuing someone who’s drawn her in on a more personal level.”

  “He—or she—leaves messages, to Eve, at the crime scenes. She had a loose connection to both victims.” Roarke glanced upstairs as he spoke. “The killer claims to be her friend, and bringing true justice to those who’ve shown her disrespect.”