Glory in Death

  “My reputation isn’t at issue here. The investigation is.”

  Morse turned back to the camera. “At this hour, the investigation, headed by Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is at an apparent deadlock. Another murder has taken place less than a hundred yards from where I stand. A young woman, talented, beautiful, and full of promise has had her life sliced off by a violent sweep of a knife. Just as only one week ago, the respected and dedicated defender of justice, Cicely Towers had her life brought to an end. Perhaps the question is not when will the killer be caught, but what prominent woman will be next? This is C. J. Morse for Channel 75, reporting live from Central Park South.”

  He nodded to the camera operator before turning to beam at Eve. “See, if you’d cooperate, Dallas, I might be able to help you out with public opinion.”

  “Fuck you, Morse.”

  “Oh, well, maybe if you asked nice.” His grin never wavered when she grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Now, now, don’t touch unless you mean it.”

  She was a full head taller than he, and gave serious thought to pounding him into the sidewalk. “Here’s what I want to know, Morse. I want to know how a third-rate reporter ends up on a crime scene, with a crew, ten minutes after the primary.”

  He smoothed down the front of his shirt. “Sources, Lieutenant, which, as you know I’m under no obligation to share with you.” His smile dimmed into a sneer. “And at this stage, I’d say we’re talking third-rate primary. You’d have been better off hooking up with me instead of Nadine. That was a nasty turn you served, helping her bump me off the Towers story.”

  “Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear that, C. J., because I just plain hate your guts. It didn’t bother you at all, did it, to go back there, camera running, and broadcast pictures of that woman? You didn’t think about her right to a little dignity or the fact that someone who cared about her might not have been notified. Her family, for instance.”

  “Hey, you do your job, I do mine. You didn’t look too bothered poking at her.”

  “What time did you get the tip?” Eve asked briefly.

  He hesitated, stringing it out. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that. It came in on my private line at twelve thirty.”

  “From?”

  “Nope. I protect my sources. I called the station, drummed up a crew. Right, Sherry?”

  “Right.” The camera operator moved a shoulder. “The night desk sent us out to meet C. J. here. That’s show biz.”

  “I’m going to do whatever I can to confiscate your logs, Morse, to bring you in for questioning, to make your life hell.”

  “Oh, I hope you do.” His round face gleamed. “You’ll give me double my usual airtime and put my popularity quotient through the roof. And you know what’s going to be fun? The side story I’m going to work up on Roarke and his cozy relationship with Yvonne Metcalf.”

  Her stomach shuddered, but she kept her voice bland. “Watch your step there, C. J., Roarke’s not nearly as nice as I am. Keep your crew off scene,” she warned. “Put one toe on, and I confiscate your equipment.”

  She turned, and when she was far enough away, pulled out her communicator. She was going outside of procedure, risking a reprimand or worse. But it had to be done.

  She could tell when Roarke answered that he hadn’t yet been to bed.

  “Well, Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”

  “I’ve only got a minute. Tell me what your relationship was with Yvonne Metcalf.”

  He lifted a brow. “We’re friends, were close at one time.”

  “You were lovers.”

  “Yes, briefly. Why?”

  “Because she’s dead, Roarke.”

  His faint smile faded. “Oh Christ, how?”

  “She had her throat cut. Stay available.”

  “Is that an official request, Lieutenant?” he asked, and his voice was hard as rock.

  “It has to be. Roarke . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He ended the transmission.

  chapter eight

  Eve had no problem listing several connections between Cicely Towers and Yvonne Metcalf. Number one was murder. The method and the perpetrator. They had both been women in the public eye, well respected, and held in great affection. They were successful in their chosen fields and were dedicated to that field. They both had families who loved and who mourned.

  Yet they had worked and played in dramatically different social and professional circles. Yvonne’s friends had been artists, actors, and musicians, while Cicely had socialized with law enforcers, businesspeople, and politicians.

  Cicely had been an organized career woman of impeccable taste who had guarded her privacy fiercely.

  Yvonne had been a cheerfully disorganized, borderline messy actor who courted the public eye.

  But someone had known them both well enough and felt strongly enough about both to kill them.

  The only name Eve found in Cicely’s tidy address book and Yvonne’s disordered one that matched was Roarke.

  For the third time in an hour, Eve ran the lists through her computer, pushing for a connection. A name that clicked with another name, an address, a profession, a personal interest. The few connections that came through were so loosely linked she could barely justify taking the next step toward the interview.

  But she would do it, because the alternative was Roarke.

  While the computer handled the short list, she took another pass through Yvonne’s electronic diary.

  “Why the hell didn’t the woman put in names?” Eve muttered. There were times, dates, occasionally initials, often little side notes or symbols of Yvonne’s mood.

  1:00—lunch at the Crown Room with B. C. Yippee! Don’t be late, Yvonne, and wear the green number with the short skirt. He likes prompt women with legs.

  Beauty day at Paradise. Thank God. 10:00. Should try to hit Fitness Palace at 8 for workout. Ugh.

  Fancy lunches, Eve mused. Pampering in the top salon in the city. Sweating a little in a luxury gym. Not a bad life, all in all. Who had wanted to end it?

  She flipped through to the day of the murder.

  8:00—Power breakfast—little blue suit with matching shoes. LOOK PROFESSIONAL FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, YVONNE!!

  11:00—P. P.’s office to discuss contract negotiations. Maybe sneak in some shopping first. SHOE SALE AT SAKS. Hot damn.

  Lunch—skip dessert. Maybe. Tell cutie he was wonderful in show. No penalty for lying to pals about their acting. God, wasn’t he awful?

  Call home.

  Hit Saks if you missed it earlier.

  5ish. Drinks. Stick with spring water, babe. You talk too much when you’re loose. Be bright, sparkle. Push Tune In. $$$***. Don’t forget photo layout in morning and stay away from that wine. Go home, take a nap.

  Midnight meeting. Could be hot stuff. Wear the red-and-white-striped number, and smile, smile, smile. Bygones are bygones, right? Never close that door. Small world, and so on. What a dumb ass.

  So she’d documented the meeting at midnight. Not who, not where, not what, but she’d wanted to be well dressed for it. Someone she’d known, had a history with. Bygones. A past problem with?

  Lover? Eve mused. She didn’t think so. Yvonne hadn’t put little hearts around the notation or told herself to be sexy, sexy, sexy. Eve thought she was beginning to understand the woman. Yvonne had been amused at herself, ready for fun, enjoying her lifestyle. And she’d been ambitious.

  Wouldn’t she have told herself to smile, smile, smile, for a career opportunity? A part, good press, a new script, an influential fan.

  What would she have said about Roarke? Eve wondered. Most likely she’d have noted him down with a big, bold-faced capital R. She would have put hearts around the date, or dollar signs, or smiles. As she had eighteen months before she died.

  Eve didn’t have to look at Yvonne’s previous diaries. She remembered perfectly the woman’s last notation on Roarke.

  Dinner with R—8:30. YUM-YUM. Wear the whit
e satin—matching teddy. Be prepared, might get lucky. The man’s body is awesome—wish I could figure out his head. Oh well, just think sexy and see what happens.

  Eve didn’t particularly want to know if Yvonne had gotten lucky. Obviously they’d been lovers—Roarke had said so himself. So why hadn’t she put down any more dates with him after the white satin?

  It was something, she supposed, she’d have to find out—for investigative purposes only.

  Meanwhile, she would make another trip to Yvonne’s apartment, try again to reconstruct the last day of her life. She had interviews to schedule. And, as Yvonne’s parents called her at least once a day, Eve knew she would have to talk with them again, steel herself against their horrible grief and disbelief.

  She didn’t mind the fourteen- and sixteen-hour days. In fact, at this stage of her life she welcomed them.

  Four days after Yvonne Metcalf’s murder, Eve was running on empty. She had questioned over three dozen people extensively, exhaustively. Not only had she been unable to discover a single viable motive, she’d found no one who hadn’t adored the victim.

  There wasn’t a hint of an obsessed fan. Yvonne’s mail had been mountainous, and Feeney and his computer were still scanning the correspondence. But among the first section, there had been no threats, veiled or overt, no weird or unsavory offers or suggestions.

  There had been a hefty percentage of marriage proposals and other propositions. Eve culled them out with little hope or enthusiasm. There was still a chance that someone who had written to Yvonne had written or contacted Cicely. As time passed, the chance became a long shot.

  Eve did what was expected in unsolved multiple homicides, what departmental procedure called for at this stage of an investigation. She made an appointment with the shrink.

  While she waited, Eve struggled with her mixed feelings for Dr. Mira. The woman was brilliant, insightful, quietly efficient, and compassionate.

  Those were the precise reasons Eve dragged her feet. She had to remind herself again that she hadn’t come to Mira for personal reasons or because the department was sending her for therapy. She wasn’t going through Testing, they weren’t going to discuss her thoughts, her feelings—or her memory.

  They were going to dissect the mind of a killer.

  Still, she had to concentrate on keeping her heart rate level, her hands still and dry. When she was gestured into Mira’s office, Eve told herself her legs were shaky because she was tired, nothing more.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” Mira’s pale blue eyes skimmed over Eve’s face, noted the fatigue. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

  “No problem.” Though she would have preferred standing, Eve took the blue scoop chair beside Mira’s. “I appreciate you getting to the case so quickly.”

  “We all do our jobs as best we can,” Mira said in her soothing voice. “And I had a great deal of respect and affection for Cicely Towers.”

  “You knew her?”

  “We were contemporaries, and she consulted me on many cases. I often testified for the prosecution—as well as the defense,” she added, smiling a little. “But you knew that.”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “I also admired Yvonne Metcalf’s talent. She brought a lot of happiness to the world. She’ll be missed.”

  “Someone isn’t going to miss either of them.”

  “True enough.” In her smooth, graceful way, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. “I realize you might be a bit pressed for time, but I work better with a little stimulation. And you look as though you could use some.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Recognizing the tightly controlled hostility in the tone, Mira only lifted a brow. “Overworked, as usual. It happens to those who are particularly good at their jobs.” She handed Eve a cup of tea in one of the pretty china cups. “Now, I’ve read over your reports, the evidence you’ve gathered, and your theories. My psychiatric profile,” she said, tapping a sealed disc on the table between them.

  “You’ve completed it.” Eve didn’t trouble to mask the irritation. “You could have transmitted the data and saved me a trip.”

  “I could have, but I preferred to discuss this with you, face to face. Eve, you’re dealing with something, someone, very dangerous.”

  “I think I picked up on that, Doctor. Two women have had their throats slashed.”

  “Two women, thus far,” Mira said quietly and sat back. “I’m very much afraid there will be more. And soon.”

  Because she believed the same, Eve ignored the quick chill that sprinted up her spine. “Why?”

  “It was so easy, you see. And so simple. A job well done. There’s a satisfaction in that. There’s also the attention factor. Whoever accomplished the murders can now sit back in his or her home and watch the show. The reports, the editorials, the grieving, the services, the public arena of the investigation.”

  She paused to savor her tea. “You have your theory, Eve. You’re here so that I can corroborate it or argue against it.”

  “I have several theories.”

  “Only one you believe in.” Mira smiled her wise smile, aware that it made Eve bristle. “Fame. What else did these two women have in common but their public prominence? They didn’t share the same social circle or professional one. Knew few of the same people, even on a casual level. They didn’t patronize the same shops, health centers, or cosmetic experts. What they did share was fame, public interest, and a kind of power.”

  “Which the killer envied.”

  “I would say exactly that. Resented as well and wished, by killing them, to bask in the reflected attention. The murders themselves were both vicious and uncommonly clean. Their faces weren’t marred, nor their bodies. One quick slice across the throat, according to the ME, from the front. Face to face. A blade is a personal weapon, an extension of the hand. It isn’t distant like a laser, or aloof like poison. Your murderer wanted the feel of killing, the sight of blood, the smell of it. The full experience that makes him or her one who appreciates having control, following through on a plan.”

  “You don’t believe it was a hired hit.”

  “There’s always that possibility, Eve, but I’m more inclined to see the killer as an active participant rather than a hireling. Then there are the souvenirs.”

  “Towers’s umbrella.”

  “And Metcalf’s right shoe. You’ve managed to keep that out of the press.”

  “Barely.” Eve scowled over the memory of Morse and his crew invading the murder scene. “A pro wouldn’t have taken a souvenir, and the killings were too well thought out to have been planned by a street hit.”

  “I agree. You have an organized mind, an ambitious one. Your murderer is enjoying his work, which is why there’ll be another.”

  “Or hers,” Eve put in. “The envy factor can be leaned toward a female. These two women were what she wanted to be. Beautiful, successful, admired, famous, strong. It’s often the weak who kill.”

  “Yes, quite often. No, it isn’t possible to determine gender from the data we have at this point, only to access the probability factor that the killer targets females who have reached a high level of public attention.”

  “What am I supposed to do about that, Dr. Mira? Put a security beeper on every prominent, well-known, or successful woman in the city? Including yourself?”

  “Odd, I was thinking more about you.”

  “Me?” Eve jiggled the tea she hadn’t touched, then set it on the table with a snap. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve become a familiar face, Eve. For your work, certainly, and most particularly since the case last winter. You’re very respected in your field. And,” she continued before Eve could interrupt, “you also have one more important connection to both victims. All of you have had a relationship with Roarke.”

  Eve knew her blood drained from her face. That wasn’t something she could control. But she could keep her voice level and hard. “Roarke had a business part
nership, a relatively minor one, with Towers. With Metcalf, the intimate side of their relationship has been over for quite some time.”

  “Yet you feel the need to defend him to me.”

  “I’m not defending him,” Eve snapped. “I’m stating facts. Roarke’s more than capable of defending himself.”

  “Undoubtedly. He’s a strong, vital, and clever man. Still, you worry for him.”

  “In your professional opinion, is Roarke the killer?”

  “Absolutely not. I have no doubt that were I to analyze him, I would find his killer instinct well developed.” The fact was, Mira would have loved the opportunity to study Roarke’s mind. “But his motive would have to be very defined. Great love or great hate. I doubt there is much else that would push him over the line. Relax, Eve,” Mira said quietly. “You’re not in love with a murderer.”

  “I’m not in love with anyone. And my personal feelings aren’t at issue here.”

  “On the contrary, the investigator’s state of mind is always an issue. And, if I’m required to give my opinion on yours, I’ll have to say I found you near exhaustion, emotionally torn, and deeply troubled.”

  Eve picked up the profile disc and rose. “Then it’s fortunate you’re not going to be required to give your opinion. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment. But at what cost to yourself?”

  “The cost would be higher if I didn’t do it. I’m going to find who killed these women. Then it’ll be up to someone like Cicely Towers to put them away.” Eve tucked the disk in her bag. “There’s a connection you left out, Dr. Mira. Something these two women had in common.” Eve’s eyes were hard and cold. “Family. Both of them had close family that was a large and important part of their lives. I’d say that lets me out as a possible target. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps. Have you been thinking of your family, Eve?”

  “Don’t play with me.”

  “You mentioned it,” Mira pointed out. “You’re always careful in what you say to me, so I must assume family is on your mind.”