Creation in Death

  “Yeah, and look how well that worked out for everybody.”

  “However,” Nadine continued, “we’re not here to debate that issue. The amazing Tessa—as both she and her producers recognized the value of a big, juicy case—ran a special on the murders there, and her part in the investigation. She claimed your guy was a master of death, and its servant.”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  “And. That death sought him, provided for him. A pale man,” Nadine said, shifting to read off her own comp screen. “A black soul. Death is housed in him as he is housed in it. Music soars as the blood runs. It plays for her—diva and divine—who sang for him. He seeks them out, flowers for his bouquet, his bouquet for her altar.”

  “Nadine, give me a—”

  “Wait, wait. A pale man,” she continued, “who bears the tree of life and lives by death. Tessa got a lot of play out of the program.”

  “Did I mention wacky Romanians?”

  “And here’s more wacky for you. Two days after the program aired, her body was found—throat slit—floating in the Danube.”

  “Too bad she didn’t see that one coming.”

  “Ha. The authorities deemed it a robbery-homicide. Her jewelry and purse were never found. But I wonder if those in charge of such things over there lack my sense of irony or your innate cynicism.”

  “How come you get the irony?” Eve complained. “I’ve got plenty of irony. Maybe, maybe she’s so busy looking through the crystal ball she doesn’t notice some guy who wants her baubles.”

  Just a little too much coincidence, Eve mused, to pass the bullshit barrier. “And maybe our guy took her out because something in the overdone woo-woo speak hit a little too close.”

  “It occurred to me,” Nadine agreed. “Doesn’t fit his pattern, but—”

  “He doesn’t give her the…status, we’ll say, he affords his chosen victims. She just annoyed him, so he took her out. You got a copy of the program she did?”

  “I do.”

  “Send me a copy. I’ll reach out to Romania again, see if they’ll get me the juice on her case. You got anything else?”

  “A lot of screaming tabloid headlines, screen and print. My busy bees will pick through them, see if there’s anything worth looking at twice.”

  “Let me know.”

  When she clicked off, Eve noted down: Pale man. Music. Tree of life. Death house.

  Then she went to snag Peabody.

  I think it’s getting warmer.” Peabody hunched her shoulders and tried to lever her body so the wild March wind didn’t blow straight into her marrow.

  “Are you standing on the same side of the equator as I am?”

  “No, really. I think it’s a couple of degrees up from yesterday. And seeing as it’s March, it’s practically April. So it’s almost summer if you think about it.”

  “The frigid wind has obviously damaged your brain.” Eve pulled out her badge for the security scanner on Cal Marshall’s building. “That being the case, I need to rethink the fact that I was about to tell you to take the lead on this guy.”

  “No! I can do it. It’s freezing, okay. The wind’s so freaking cold it’s drilling right through my corneas into my retinas. But it hasn’t yet entered the brain.”

  When they were cleared, Peabody stepped in, yanked off her earflap cap. “Do I have hat hair? You can’t effectively interview with hat hair.”

  “You have hair. Be satisfied with that.”

  “Hat hair,” Peabody muttered, raking her hands through it, shaking her head, fluffing and pushing as they got in the elevator.

  “Stop! Stop being a girl. Jesus, that’s annoying. If I had a partner without tits, there would be no hair obsessing.”

  “Baxter would combat hat hair before an interview.”

  Because it was inarguably true, Eve only scowled. “He doesn’t count.”

  “And there’s Miniki. He—”

  “Keep it up, and I’ll tie you down and shave you bald. You won’t ever suffer the pain and embarrassment of hat hair again.”

  Eve strode out of the elevator, followed the numbers to Cal Marshall’s apartment.

  “Do I still take the lead?” Peabody asked, meekly.

  Eve sent her a withering look, then knocked. When the door opened, she shifted slightly to the side so that Peabody had the front ground.

  “Mr. Marshall? I’m Detective Peabody. We spoke earlier. This is my partner, Lieutenant Dallas. May we come in?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Yeah.”

  He was blond, tanned, fit, with eyes the blue of an arctic lake. They looked a little hollow now, a little dull, and his voice held the same tone. “About Sari. It’s about Sari.”

  “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “What? Yeah, we should sit.”

  Through an open door, Eve spotted the bed—made—with a large duffle tossed on it. There was a snowboard tipped against the wall. In the living area, a heavy ski coat was draped over a chair, the lift pass still clipped on it.

  On the molded black table in front of the dark blue gel sofa were several empty bottles of beer.

  Came in, Eve mused, tossed down his gear, checked his ’link messages. Got the word. Sat here and drank most of the night.

  “I heard. I got home and heard—” He rubbed at his eyes. “Um, Bale—he heard from Zela. She works with Sari at the club. She told him…he told me.”

  “It must’ve been a shock,” Peabody said. “That was the first you heard of her death? You didn’t have your pocket ’link, or see any reports while you were gone?”

  “I shut down my ’link. Just wanted to board. It was all about boarding. Me and Bale went out to Colorado. Incommunicado Colorado. Big joke,” he said. “Shuttled back last night. Bale, he’s closer to the station, got home first. Zela left him a message. Zela talked to him. He called. I got home, and he…”

  “You and Sarifina were involved.”

  “We were…we were together until a couple of weeks ago.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “A couple of weeks…We broke up.”

  “Why did you break up?”

  “She was always too busy. She was always…” He trailed off, lifted his gaze to Peabody’s. “I wanted more, okay? I wanted her more available, more interested in what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. It wasn’t working out, not the way I wanted it. So I said I was done with it. With her.”

  “You argued.”

  “Yeah. We both got pretty harsh. She said I was selfish, immature, self-involved. I said something like, ‘Right back at you.’ Shit, shit, shit. She’s dead. Bale said…I was snowboarding and trashing her to Bale. And she was dead. You think I hurt her? I wanted to hurt her. Here,” he said, thumping a fist to his heart. “I wanted her to feel crappy that I flipped her, you know? I wanted her to be lonely and miserable while I found somebody—lots of somebodies—who knew how to have a good time. Christ.”

  He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, my Christ.”

  “We don’t think you hurt her, Mr. Marshall. Before you broke up, did she stay here with you?”

  “Less and less. Things were disintegrating. We barely saw each other. Once or twice a week maybe.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone bothering her? Anyone that made her uncomfortable?”

  “We weren’t doing a lot of talking lately.” He said it quietly while he looked down at his hands. “I don’t remember her saying anything like that. She liked the old guys who came into the club. Especially the old guys. Smooth, she said. They got smooth with age, like whiskey or something. Some hit on her now and then, and she got a kick out of it. At least I didn’t get twisted about that. I thought it was funny.”

  “Anyone specifically?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention. I’m not into that retro crap. Bored me senseless, you know? She looked good though, when she dressed up for work? Man, she looked good.”

  Not much of a well to pump there,” Peabody commented as they rode down.

  “I don’t
know. She liked older men, older men liked her. It’s high probability the killer is an older man.”

  “And?”

  “I bet he chatted her up somewhere along the line. A week or two before he grabbed her, he makes contact in the club. That’d be a big thrill for him, having a conversation, maybe a dance with his intended victim. A good way to get another sense of her, a gauge, a rhythm.”

  “Yeah.” Peabody hissed in her breath as they started outside. “And…If he did, and she saw him later—on the street, wherever he made the grab, she’d be friendly, at ease. It’s Mr. Smooth from Starlight.”

  “So, if he made contact with her…maybe he made contact with Gia Rossi.”

  “The fitness center.”

  “Place to start.”

  He knew how to blend. He knew how to make himself inconspicuous, so that eyes passed over him without notice. It was a skill he put to good use during the research phase of any project.

  He used it now as he watched her—Eve Dallas—stride out of the apartment building, down the street. Ground-eating strides. Loose and busy. Strong.

  He very much approved of strong women—physically and mentally.

  She’d been strong. The Eve of all the others. The mother. She’d been very strong, he remembered, but he believed this Eve—this last Eve—would be stronger than any who had come before.

  Not time for you yet, he thought as he watched her, watched the way she moved. Not quite time for this Eve. But when it was, oh…

  He believed she would be his finest work to date. A new level of excellence. And the pinnacle of all he’d accomplished.

  But for now, there was another who required his attention.

  He really should get home to her.

  The manager of BodyWorks was a six-foot Asian with a body like molded steel. He went by the name of Pi. He wore a black skin-suit and a small, trim goatee.

  “Like I told the other cops, it was just another day. Gia had her classes, her clients. I gave them the client list. Do you need—”

  “No, they have it. Thanks for cooperating.”

  He dropped down into a chair in his office, a glass box that allowed him to view all the areas on that level of the center. Outside it, people pumped, sweated, trotted, flexed, and twisted.

  “We’re pals, you know? I can’t get through the idea something may have happened to her. But I’m telling you, she can take care of herself. That’s what I think. She’s tough.”

  “Anybody ask for her specifically in the last few weeks?” Eve asked him.

  “Yeah, like I told the other guys. She’d get referrals from clients. Word of mouth. She’s good at what she does, gets results, but doesn’t drill sergeant the client into it.”

  “How about older guys, say over sixty?”

  “Sure. Sure. Fitness isn’t just for kids, you know. She has some clients like that, and we get them in for classes. She runs a tai chi class twice a week, a yoga class every other morning geared for the over-sixty group. Twice a week she has classes geared for the centennials.”

  “She pick up anybody new in any of those in the last few weeks?”

  “Like I told the others, if you’re a member you don’t have to sign up for any of the classes. You just come in, take whichever you want.”

  “How about anybody who joined in, say, the last thirty days. Male, over fifty, let’s say.”

  “I can get you that. But you don’t have to have joined at this location. If you hold a membership from any of our clubs—that’s global—you just key in.”

  “You have a record of who’s keyed in? You keep track of how your members use the facilities, how often they use them, who pays the fee for a trainer?”

  “Sure. Sure. That kind of data goes straight to the main offices. But I can—”

  “I can get that,” Eve told him. “No problem. Did she take outside clients?”

  “That’s against policy,” he began.

  “We’re not worried about policy, Pi. She’s not going to get jammed up if she pulled in some extra on the side. We want to find her.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe she did.” He puffed out his cheeks, blew out the air. “Somebody’s willing to pay you stiff for going to their house for an hour a couple times a week, it’s hard to flip it. We’re pals, but I’m management. She knows I know, and like that, but we don’t talk about it. Not really.”

  “How about a sense, since you were pals, if she took on a private client recently?”

  He puffed out his cheeks again. “She sprang for Knicks tickets—courtside. We’re going to the game next week. My birthday. Son of a bitch.” He smoothed his hands over his shaved head. “Pretty much out of her range. She joked, said she’d hit a little jackpot. I figured she’d gotten a side fee, a couple of them maybe.”

  “When did she get the tickets?”

  “A few weeks ago. Look, you need to find her, okay? You just need to find her.”

  8

  OUTSIDE, EVE WALKED THE ROUTE GIA HABITUALLY took to the subway. The woman was a New Yorker, Eve mused. Which meant she’d move along at a brisk pace, and though her radar would be on, she’d be inside her own thoughts.

  Might be a window-shopper, Eve thought. Might stop and study a display, even go inside a shop. But…

  “Baxter and Trueheart checked out the stores and markets along the route,” she said to Peabody. “Nobody remembers seeing her that day. Some clerks recognized her picture. Previous visits. But not on the day she poofed.”

  “She didn’t make it to the station.”

  “No. Maybe she wasn’t going to the station.” Eve turned, sidestepping toward the buildings as New York bustled by. “Had extra dough, enough for a pair of courtsides. She takes an outside client. Maybe the client’s address is within walking distance. Or he provided cab fare or transportation.”

  And considering this, she factored in Baxter’s point about the potential age difference, and the fact that Gia Rossi had been a trainer, in peak physical condition.

  “Maybe she walked right into it. Maybe she walked right into his nest.”

  “He doesn’t grab her. He just opens the door.”

  “Slick,” Eve said softly. “Yeah, that would be slick. Contact Newkirk. I want him and the other uniforms canvassing this area. All directions, five blocks.” Eve headed toward the car. “I want her picture shown to every clerk, waitperson, sidewalk sleeper, doorman, and droid. Get McNab,” she added as she climbed behind the wheel. “I want him to send her picture to every cab company and private transpo service. Bus companies, air trams. Hit them all. Then the Transit Authority. Check the run for that night on other stations. She didn’t use her pass, but maybe she took a ride anyway.”

  Peabody was already relaying to Newkirk.

  “She went to him,” Eve said before she swung out into traffic. “That’s what I think. She went right to him.”

  Following the hunch, she contacted Zela at home.

  “Yes?” Obviously half asleep, Zela stifled a yawn. “Lieutenant? What—”

  “Did Sarifina ever give private lessons?”

  “Private lessons? I’m sorry, I’m a little foggy.”

  “Dance lessons. Did she ever give private dance lessons?”

  “Now and again, sure. People want to be able to do the moves for special occasions. Weddings, bar or bat mitzvahs, reunions. That sort of thing.”

  “At the club, or at the client’s home?”

  “Generally at the club. Mornings when we’re closed.”

  “Generally,” Eve pressed, “but there were exceptions.”

  “Give me a second.” Zela moved as she spoke, and Eve heard the beep of an AutoChef. “I worked until nearly three last night, then took a pill. I haven’t been sleeping well since…I need to clear my head.”

  “Zela.” Impatience ground through Eve’s voice. “I need to know if Sarifina went to clients’ homes.”

  “Every once in a while, particularly for the older clients. Or the kids. Sometimes parents want their
kids to learn. Or an older couple wants to swing it a little—for an occasion, or a cruise. But usually, we do that sort of thing here, through the club.”

  “Had she taken on any personal clients in the last few weeks?”

  “Just let me think, okay? Let me think.” Zela gulped down what Eve assumed was coffee. “She may have. She was an easy touch, you know? Liked to do favors for people. We didn’t check that kind of thing off with each other all the time. But if it was through the club, I mean if she was going to instruct someone here, she’d have noted in down. The club gets a cut of the fee, and Sari was religious about keeping good records on that.”

  “No cut if she went to them?”

  “Well, that’s a gray area. Like I said, she liked to do favors. She might go give someone an hour or two, cutting her rate, doing it off the books. On her own time, before or after work, on her day off. What’s the harm?”

  What’s the harm? Eve thought as she clicked off.

  “We figured he grabbed them off the street. But they went to him. These two, at least, my money says they went right to him. How’d they get there?”

  “York’s image has been out since yesterday. Weekend, though,” Peabody added. “If she took a cab, the driver might not have paid any attention, or might not have seen the reports on her yet.”

  “No. No. We have to run it down, but that would be sloppy, and he isn’t sloppy. Why take a chance like that? Leave a record, a possible wit? Cab driver dumps the vic right at his door? Doesn’t play.”

  “Well, the same thing applies to private transpo.”

  “Not if he’s providing it. Personally. We check anyway, we check all the transits. All the pickups in the area the vics were last seen.”

  Man hours, wasted hours, Eve thought. And still it had to be done. “He’s not going to chance something like that. Lures them in, that’s what he does. Nice, harmless guy, nice older gentleman who wants to learn to tango, wants to get fit. There’s a nice, sweet fee for the personal service. Provides transportation for them.”

  “Nobody sees them on the street because they’re not on the street that long.” Peabody nodded as the theory solidified for her. “They come out of work, get into a waiting vehicle. Nobody’s going to notice. But…”