Imitation in Death

  “I’ll say.” She studied the split-screen images of a thin face with dark, deep-set eyes and an unsmiling mouth. The hair was brown in the younger, gray in the current, and in both cases pulled severely back. The lines that bracketed the no-nonsense mouth on the earlier image had dug themselves into disapproving grooves on the older woman.

  “I bet nobody called her Bobbie,” Eve commented. She started to struggle with the math, and could only be grateful Roarke had gotten there before her.

  “She took the job when Renquist was two, and held it until he was fourteen. He didn’t board at Stonebridge, but was a day student. Headed off to Eton at fourteen, and no longer required the services of a nanny. Roberta, don’t call me Bobbie, would have been twenty-eight when she took the position, and forty when she left it to take another position as private child-care provider. She’s now sixty-four and has recently retired. Never married, nor had any offspring of her own.”

  “She looks like she pinches,” Eve commented. “One of the providers at the state school was a pincher. She’s got all the credentials, but so did that bitch who decorated my arms with bruises when I was ten. Born in Boston, and went back there when she retired. Yeah, that’s a New England bedrock face, the kind that says shit like ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’ ”

  “She could be an unfortunate-looking woman with a heart of gold who keeps sugarplums in her pocket to pass out to rosy-cheeked children.”

  “Looks like a pincher,” Eve said again, and sat on the edge of the desk. “Financially solid. I bet she saved her pennies and didn’t squander them on sugarplums. What is a sugarplum, anyway?”

  He was thinking of Eve at ten, with bruises on her arms. “I’ll buy you some. You’ll like them.”

  “Odds are. I think we’ll chat, and see what she has to say about Renquist’s early childhood training. Let’s see the annoying Mr. Smith.”

  “Come sit on my lap.”

  She tried a severe look, but couldn’t come close to Roberta Gable’s expression. “There’ll be no hanky or panky during a work session.”

  “As there was hanky on the kitchen floor followed by panky in the shower, I think we can shelve that activity. Come sit on my lap.” He sent her a persuasive smile. “I’m lonely.”

  She did it, and tried not to soften too much when his lips brushed her hair.

  “Carmichael Smith,” he said, but he was still thinking of the child she’d been, at the mercy of the system she now stood for. And wanted, more than anything, to lavish her with everything she’d done without. Especially love.

  “Thirty-one, my ass. I bet he greased some palms to have that stat adjusted. Born in Savannah, but spent part of his childhood in England. No sibs, and his mother opted for professional parent status, right up until his eighteenth birthday. Sealed juvie record, here and abroad, which might be worth the hassle of breaking. Not rolling in as much dough as he should be, considering. Must have himself some high expenses or habits.

  “Parents divorced, father remarried and moved permanently to Devon. England, right?”

  “The last I checked, yes.”

  “No adult criminal, but I bet there’s something. Something paid off or expunged. Looks like he’s done some time in a couple of snazzy rehab facilities. Let’s have a closer look at the mother.”

  “Suzanne Smith. Age fifty-two. Young when he was born,” Roarke commented. “And the marriage took place nearly two years later. Attractive woman.”

  “Yeah, he looks like her some. Well, lookie here. Mommy had an LC license for a while. Street level. And she’s got herself a sheet.”

  Intrigued, Eve started to rise, but Roarke clamped his arms around her waist. “If you can’t see the screen from here, I can put the data on audio.”

  “Nothing wrong with my eyes. Looks like she did some grifting, and got caught with illegals, tried a little minor fraud. Pleaded them all down,” she added. “Never served time. Rolled on somebody, I bet. Held on to the license after she applied for PP status, but claimed no income. Just kept it off the books, that’s all. She was still turning. Why pay the fee if you’re not going to turn tricks? So, little Carmichael’s sex education was likely early and hands on.”

  She considered, put herself in the scenario. “Let me see his medicals,” she asked. “As far back as you can find.”

  “Am I smudging now?”

  She hesitated, but her instincts were humming. “Keep it to a minimum.”

  He gave her hip a little pat, signaling her up so he could work. While he did, she poured the last of the coffee.

  “Standard exams and inoculations as an infant,” Roarke said. “He appeared to become accident-prone at about two.”

  “Yeah, I see.” She scanned the various reports, from various doctors, different health centers. Stitches, minor fractures, one fairly serious burn. Dislocated shoulder, a broken finger.

  “She knocked him around,” Eve noted. “The abuse continued after the divorce, and right up until he hit the teen years and probably got too big for her to risk it. So it was the mother, the female authority figure. She moved around enough to get away with it. Relocating here and there in the States, doing some time in England. And look at her earned income, Roarke, as opposed to her assets.”

  “The first is all but nil, while the second is very comfortable.”

  “Yeah. I’d say she’s still sucking on her little boy. Guy’s bound to resent that sort of thing. Maybe enough to kill.”

  Chapter 13

  Eve had very rational reasons for starting her shift in her home office. It was quiet. Of course anything compared to the division at Central—including an Arena Ball match—was quiet.

  She needed more thinking time. She wanted to set up a murder board here as well, so she could stare at it and study it whenever she was in the room.

  And, the number-one reason for loitering there rather than heading straight downtown was the expected arrival of Summerset. She intended to be well away before noon, but she wanted to brood, just awhile, over the fact that once she left the house today, he would have reclaimed the field upon her return.

  So she set up her board, sat, put her feet up on her desk. And drinking coffee, studied it.

  There were crime-scene photos—the Chinatown alley, the Gregg bedroom. There were maps, and the notes left on-scene. Victim photos, before and after. With them, she pinned copies of the original crime scenes these were based on. Whitechapel and Boston, and two of those victims that most closely matched hers.

  He’d studied those, too, she thought. Stared at those old photographs, read those old reports.

  He’d be studying others now. Refreshing himself, preparing for the next act.

  She had the lab reports, the ME’s, the sweepers’. She had statements from witnesses, next of kin, suspects, neighbors. She had the timelines. She had her own notes, her own reports, and now a mountain of background data on those who remained on her shortlist.

  She would go over them all again, and she would do more leg work, more interviews. She’d dig deeper, wider. But he would beat her to the next. Her gut told her he’d beat her in the short run, and someone else would die before she caught up.

  He’d made mistakes. She sipped coffee and stared at the board. The notes were a mistake. That was pride and a kind of glee. He had a need not only to toot his own horn, but to do it with a flourish. Notice me! See how smart I am, see what excellent taste I have.

  But the paper could be traced, could give her a list of names to pursue.

  The basket of peaches was another. That was arrogance. I can walk right out of here, leaving the brutalized dead behind, and eat a nice ripe peach.

  There might be other mistakes. She would pick everything apart until she found them. He would make other mistakes, because however smart he was, he was cocky.

  She looked toward the open door when she heard the sound of footfalls, and her forehead creased.

  “Hey,” she said, as Feeney walked in. The neatly pressed shirt told h
er his wife had handed it to him out of the closet. The broken-in shoes said he’d gotten away from her before Mrs. Feeney could nag him into putting on a less disreputable pair.

  He’d probably combed his hair, but it was already frizzing out in its usual wiry thatch of ginger and silver. There was a little nick on his chin because he claimed a man couldn’t shave proper unless he used an actual razor.

  “Got your message,” he said.

  “It was late, that’s why I dumped it to voice mail. I didn’t mean for you to come around this morning, go out of your way.”

  “It’s only out of my way if there aren’t any danishes back there.”

  “Probably are. If not there, somewhere else.”

  Taking that as invitation, he walked back to the kitchen. She could hear him scanning the menu, giving a grunt of approval as he found something that pleased him, calling it up.

  He came back in with a pastry and an enormous mug of coffee. “So,” he said, and sat, studying the board as she had. “He’s two for two.”

  “Yeah, and I’m batting zero. Clipped the ball a couple times, but it keeps curving foul. Once he hits again, the media’s going to pick up the scent, and we’ll have a holy mess on our hands: ‘Deadly Mimic Stalking New York.’ ‘Chameleon Killer Baffles Police.’ They love that shit.”

  Feeney scratched his cheek, ate more pastry. “Public does, too. Sick bastards.”

  “I’ve got a lot of data, a lot of angles. Thing is, I pull one line and six more drop down. I can push Whitney for more manpower, but you know how it goes. I keep it low profile, and the budget only stretches so far. Once it breaks and people start screaming, politics come into play and I can stretch it further.”

  “EDD’s got more manpower, more funds,” he finished.

  “I’ve got no direct need for EDD on this. The research and runs are standard stuff, nothing fancy. I’ve got no ’links or security to probe. But . . .”

  “My boys can always use the practice.” Feeney called his detectives and drones ‘boys,’ no matter how their skin was shaped.

  “I’d appreciate it. It would free me up for interviews and fieldwork. I started thinking last night: This guy, he’s careful and he’s precise. Look at the vic photos—the old ones, and his. Positioning, basic build and coloring of the vics, method of death. Everything. They’re good copies, careful copies. So how do you get so good?”

  Feeney polished off the danish, gulped coffee. “You practice. I’ll run that myself, through IRCCA, see if we get a pop.”

  “It won’t be exact,” she said, grateful. “I’ve got a hit on the first, and it’s not exact. But when I did the run I was only looking for the one style. Now we’ve got two styles, and the potential for others. He’s too careful for an exact match—he might do it that way, but he’d change it after. Wouldn’t leave the scene precisely as he intended to leave the ones he’d make public.”

  “Doesn’t want to show off until he’s got it down to a science,” Feeney said with a nod.

  “Yeah. Any that were exact, he’d get rid of the bodies. Bury them, dump them. But he’s not a kid. Not twenty. He’s mature, and he didn’t start killing with Wooton. He’s been at this awhile.”

  “I’ll work both styles, and whatever else you think he might go for.”

  “Everybody on my shortlist, but one I haven’t pinned yet,” she said, thinking of Breen, “travels. The States, Europe especially. They get around, and they get around well. First-class. If he’s on that shortlist, the world’s been his fucking playground.”

  “Send me the files.”

  “Thanks. I should tell you, there are some sensitive names on my list. We’ve got a diplomat, a well-known entertainer, a writer making a name for himself, and an asshole entertainment broker who’s hooked up with a top-name actress. There’ve already been complaints of police harassment and blah blah. There’ll be more.”

  He grinned. “Now this sounds like fun.” He pushed to his feet, set his empty cup aside, and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get started.”

  Once Feeney left, she organized the files, sent them to his unit in EDD, noted the action in a memo to the commander. She ran another spurt of probabilities, toyed with some simulations, but they were really no more than an exercise to let her mind work.

  By the time she was done, the computer and she agreed on a list of prototypes her killer might emulate next.

  She eliminated any who had worked with a partner or targeted males. Any who concealed or destroyed the bodies. And highlighted any whose notoriety had outlived them.

  She was just beginning to wonder where Peabody was when one of the domestic droids came to her door.

  The droids always spooked her. Roarke rarely used them, and she rarely saw them in the house. She would have withstood any manner of hideous torture before admitting she actually preferred the flesh-and-blood Summerset to the automated staff.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Lieutenant Dallas.”

  The droid was female, with a husky voice. The dignified black uniform did nothing to disguise the fact she’d been built to rival a porn star.

  Eve figured she didn’t have to be a trained investigator to deduce her amused husband had activated this one purposefully, just so she could compare the big-titted blonde to the bony-assed Summerset.

  She’d have to pay him back for this one, eventually.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There is a visitor at the gate. A Ms. Pepper Franklin who wishes to speak with you. Are you available?”

  “Sure. She’s saving me a trip. Is she alone?”

  “She has arrived in a private car, with driver. But she has no companion.”

  Left Fortney at home, Eve thought. “Let her in.”

  “Shall I bring her up?”

  “No, show her into the—what is it—the front parlor.”

  “Would you care for refreshments?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  When the droid backed out of the room, Eve drummed her fingers for a moment. She glanced at the door that adjoined her home office with Roarke’s. Probably just as well he was off doing what he did all day. It would keep the social portion of this visit to a minimum.

  Deliberately, she strapped on her weapon harness, left the jacket where she’d hung it over the back of her chair. A not-so-subtle way, Eve decided, to let Pepper know she was on the job.

  Then she finished off her coffee, sat and hummed for another couple of minutes.

  When she went down to the parlor, Pepper was waiting.

  The actress was dressed in perfect summer style: a breezy white blouse over a thin blue tank that matched the cropped pants. She’d added heeled sandals that made Eve’s arches ache and had bundled her masses of gilt hair in some complicated up-do.

  Eve caught her scent, something cool and floral, as she crossed the room.

  “I appreciate you seeing me.” Pepper flashed her professional smile. “And so early in the day.”

  “I’m Homicide. My day starts when yours ends.” At Pepper’s blank look, Eve shrugged. “Sorry. Little cop joke. What can I do for you?”

  “I take it Roarke’s not home?”

  “No. If you want to see him, you might be able to catch him in Midtown.”

  “No. No, actually, I’d hoped to catch you alone. Could we sit?”

  “Sure.” Eve gestured to a chair, took one of her own.

  Pepper rested her hands on the arms of the deep chair, sighed as she scanned the room. “This remains the most incredible home I’ve ever seen. Such wonderful style, but then it would have to be, since it’s Roarke’s.”

  “Keeps the rain off.”

  Pepper laughed. “It’s been some time since I’ve been here, but I recall a formidable manservant rather than the splashy domestic droid who let me in.”

  “Summerset. He’s on vacation. He’ll be back later today.” Unless he’s captured by desperados and held for ransom. Or falls
madly in love with a young nudist and moves to Borneo.

  “Summerset. Yes, of course.”

  “You’re not here to see him either.”

  “No.” Pepper nodded. “My motive for coming is a woman-to-woman thing. I know you saw Leo again yesterday. He was very upset by it, feels hounded, and that you have some sort of personal grudge against him.”

  “I don’t have a personal grudge against him. Even if he’s a killer, it wouldn’t be personal. It’s my job to hound people.”

  “Maybe it is. But the fact is there is a personal connection here. Through me. Through Roarke. I wanted to address that frankly with you.”

  “Go ahead,” Eve invited.

  Pepper sat a bit straighter in her chair, folded her hands neatly in her lap. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that Roarke and I had a relationship at one time. I can certainly understand how you might feel uncomfortable or irritated by this. But it was several years ago, before he met you. I’d hate for any annoyance or resentment, however understandable it might be, to influence your attitude toward Leo.”

  Eve let the silence hang for a moment. “Let me see if I have this straight. You’re wondering if because you and Roarke rolled around naked a few years ago, I’m personally pissed off, and because I’m pissed off about it, I’m giving the guy you’re currently rolling around naked with a rough time.”

  Pepper opened her mouth, shut it again, then delicately cleared her throat before speaking. “In a nutshell.”

  “Let me ease your mind on this score, Ms. Franklin. If I were to get personally pissed off about every woman Roarke banged, I’d spend my life in a perpetual state of annoyance. You were one of many.” Eve lifted her left hand, tapped her wedding ring with her thumbnail. “I’m the only. You don’t worry me.”

  For a moment, Pepper did nothing but stare. Then she blinked, very slowly. And the corners of her mouth twitched. “That’s very . . . sensible, Lieutenant. And a very clever way to slap me back at the same time.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  “But, in any case—”

  “There is no other case. Roarke and I were grown-ups when we met. What happened before doesn’t mean dick to me. And if I let petty jealousies interfere with or influence my work, I wouldn’t deserve my badge. I deserve my badge.”