Creation in Death

  Feeney brought in coffee, scuffing along in slippers Eve would bet a month’s pay were a Christmas gift.

  On the middle of the table was a strangely shaped vase in streaky colors of red and orange. Mrs. Feeney’s work, Eve determined. The wife had a penchant for hobbies and crafts, and was always making things. Often unidentifiable things.

  “Caught a case,” Eve began. “Vic is female, brunette, late twenties, found naked in East River Park.”

  “Yeah, I caught the report on screen.”

  “Found nude. She’d been tortured. Burns, bruising, cuts, punctures. Her wrists were slashed.”

  “Fuck.”

  Yeah, he had it already, Eve noted. “Vic was wearing a silver band on the third finger of her left hand.”

  “How long?” Feeney demanded. “How long did she last? What was the time he carved into her?”

  “Eighty-five hours, twelve minutes, thirty-eight seconds.”

  “Fuck,” he said again. “Motherfucker.” Feeney’s hand balled into a fist to rap, light and steady, on the table. “He’s not walking again, Dallas. He’s not walking away from us again. He’ll have number two already.”

  “Yeah.” Eve nodded. “I figure he’s got number two.”

  Feeney braced his elbows on the table, scooped his fingers through his hair. “We’ve got to go through everything we had nine years back, what data there is on him from the other times he went to work. Put a task force together now, at the get. We don’t wait for the second body to show up. You get anything from the scene?”

  “So far, just the body, the ring, the sheet. I’ll get you a copy of the records. Right now, I’m heading to the morgue to see what Morris can tell us. You’re going to need to get dressed, unless you’re wearing purple terry cloth to work these days.”

  He glanced down, shook his head. “If you saw the one the wife got me for Christmas, you’d understand why I’m still wearing this one.” He pushed to his feet. “Look, you go on, and I’ll meet you at the morgue. Going to need my own ride anyway.”

  “All right.”

  “Dallas.”

  In that moment, Roarke realized neither he nor Peabody existed. They simply weren’t a part of the reality between the other two.

  “We have to find what we missed,” Feeney said to Eve. “What everybody’s missed. There’s always something. One piece, one step, one thought. We can’t miss it this time.”

  “We won’t.”

  Roarke had been to the morgue before. He wondered if the white tiles through the tunnels of the place were meant to replace natural light. Or if they had merely been chosen as an acceptance of the stark.

  There were echoes throughout as well—the repeat and repeat of bootsteps as they walked. More silence, he supposed, as the staff would be on graveyard shift. So to speak.

  It was still shy of dawn, and he could see the long night was wearing on Peabody a bit, with a heaviness under her dark eyes. But not on Eve, not yet. The fatigue would rush up and choke her—it always did. But for now she was running on duty and purpose, and an underlying anger he wasn’t sure she recognized as vital fuel.

  Eve paused outside the double doors of an autopsy room. “Do you need to see her?” she asked him.

  “I do. I want to be of some help in this, and if I’m to be of any help, I need to understand. I’ve seen death before.”

  “Not like this.” She pushed through.

  Morris was inside. He’d changed, she noted, into gray sweats and black and silver skids she imagined he kept on the premises for working out. He sat, and continued to sit for a moment, in a steel chair drinking something thick and brown out of a tall glass.

  “Ah, company. Protein smoothy?”

  “So absolutely not,” Eve said.

  “Tastes marginally better than it looks. And does its job. Roarke, good to see you, even though.”

  “And you.”

  “Vic worked for Roarke,” Eve said.

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “I barely knew her. But…”

  “Yes, but…” Morris set the smoothy aside before he pushed to his feet. “I regret that we’ll all come to know her quite well now.”

  “She managed one of Roarke’s clubs. The Starlight down in Chelsea?”

  “Is that yours?” Morris smiled a little. “I took a friend there a few weeks ago. It’s an entertaining trip back to an intriguing time.”

  “Feeney’s on his way in.”

  Morris shifted his gaze to Eve. “I see. It was the three of us over the first of them the last time. Do you remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Her name was Corrine, Corrine Dagby.”

  “Age twenty-nine,” Eve confirmed. “Sold shoes in a boutique downtown. Liked to party. She lasted twenty-six hours, ten minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”

  Morris nodded. “Do you remember what you said when we stood here then?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “I do. You said: ‘He’ll want more than that.’ And you were right. We learned he wanted more than that. Should we wait for Feeney?”

  “He’ll catch up.”

  “All right.” Morris crossed the room.

  Roarke looked over, then he stepped over.

  He’d seen death, bloody, vicious, violent, useless, and terrible death. But he saw, once more, Eve was right.

  He’d never seen the likes of this.

  3

  SO MANY WOUNDS, HE THOUGHT, AND ALL washed clean. Somehow it might have been less horrid if there had been blood. Blood would be proof, wouldn’t it, that life had once been there.

  But this…this woman he remembered as vital and brimming with energy looked like some poor doll, mangled and sliced by a vicious child.

  “Tidy work,” Eve stated, and had Roarke’s gaze whipping toward her.

  He started to speak, to let loose some of the horror he felt. But he saw her face, saw the anger was closer to the surface now however calm her voice. Saw, too, the pity. She had such pity inside her he often wondered how she could bear the weight of it.

  So he said nothing.

  “He’s very methodical.” Morris engaged the computer before offering Eve microgoggles. “You see these wounds on the limbs? Long, thin, shallow.”

  “Scalpel maybe, or the tip of a sharp blade.” Though the wounds were displayed, optimized, on screen, Eve leaned down to study them through the goggles. “Precise, too. Either she was drugged or he had her restrained in such a way she couldn’t struggle enough to make a difference.”

  “Which gets your vote?” Morris asked.

  “Restraints. What’s the fun if she’s out of it, can’t feel fully? Burns are small along here.” Eve turned the victim’s left arm. “Here in the bend of the elbow, precise again, but the skin’s charred some at the edges. Flame? Not a laser, but live fire?”

  “I would agree. Some of the other burns look like laser to me. And there, on the inner thigh where it’s mottled? Extreme cold.”

  “Yeah. The bruising—no laceration, no scraping. Smooth implement.”

  “Sap.” Roarke studied the bruising himself. “An old-fashioned sap would bruise like that. Leather’s effective if you can afford the cost. Filled with ordinary sand, it does its job.”

  “Again, agree. And we have the punctures,” Morris continued. “Which are in circular patterns here, here, here.” The screen flashed with close-ups of the back of the right hand, the heel of the left foot, the left buttocks. “Twenty minute punctures, in this precise pattern.”

  “Like needles,” Eve mused. “Some kind of tool…He could…” She curved her right hand, laid it on the heel of the body, pressed. “That’s new. We don’t have this wound pattern on record.”

  “He’s an inventive bastard,” Peabody added. “Morris, can I get a bottle of water?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “You need air,” Eve said without looking at her, “go get some.”

  “Just the water.”

  “This patter
n might be new,” Eve continued, “but the rest is consistent. More creative, maybe, a little more patient. You do what you do long enough, you get better at it. Longer, deeper wounds along the rib cage, over the breasts. Wider burn areas, deeper bruising up the calves.

  “Increases the pain, gradually. Wants it to last. Cuts and burns on her face. No bruising there. Sap her and she might lose consciousness. Don’t want that.”

  The doors swished open. Feeney walked in, came straight to the table. He looked down. “Ah, hell,” was all he said.

  “We’ve got one new wound type. Circular pattern of punctures. See what you think of it.”

  Eve bent close to the ruined face, her eyes behind the goggles unflinching. “No bruising here that would indicate he gagged her—or not tightly. Nothing that would mar the skin. He has to have a place, a very, very private place. So she can scream. Tox back?”

  “Yes, just before you came. There were small traces of a standard sedative in her bloodstream. Barely registered. She’d have been awake and aware at TOD.”

  “Same MO. Puts her to sleep when he’s busy with other business.”

  “There were traces, too, of water and protein in her system. The lab will confirm, but…”

  “He likes to give them enough nutrients to keep them going,” Feeney said.

  Eve nodded. “I remember. Then ends it this way.” She lifted the victim’s hand, turned the wrist up. “Crosshatches, but not too deep. She’ll bleed out, but it’ll take time. Adds to his clock.”

  “I expect, given the prior blood loss, trauma, two hours. Three at the most. She would have lost consciousness before the end of it.”

  “Any trace of what he used to wash her down?”

  “Yes. In the scalp wounds, and the punctures under the nails. I sent it to the lab.”

  “Send over some skin scrapings, some hair. I want to see what kind of water. City water? Suburbs?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “He’ll be starting on the second.” Feeney looked at Eve as she took off the goggles. “Probably has the third picked out.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to see the commander. For now, you tag a couple of your best men. I want them running and analyzing data as we get it, running probabilities. First on scene was Gil Newkirk’s son.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, you reach out to Newkirk, senior? He’s out of the one-seven, so’s his kid. I’m bringing the son in on the uniform end of the task force, if his lieutenant doesn’t have a problem with it.”

  “Who’s the LT?”

  “Grohman.”

  “I know him,” Feeney told her. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Good.” Eve checked the time, calculated. “Peabody, book us a conference room, and I want it for the duration. They give you any lip about it, toss them to Whitney. We’ll meet there for the first briefing at oh-nine-hundred.”

  As they headed out, Eve shot a look at Roarke. “I take it you want to stick for the briefing.”

  “You trust correctly.”

  “I’m going to need to clear that with Whitney.”

  “All right.”

  “Take the wheel. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She put the call through, unsurprised to find Whitney already at his desk. “Sir, we’re heading into Central now from the morgue. We’re booking a conference room.”

  “Locked in A,” Peabody said from the backseat.

  “Conference room A,” Eve relayed. “And I’m scheduling the first briefing at oh-nine-hundred.”

  “I’ll be there. So will Chief Tibble.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve brought in Captain Feeney as we worked together on the previous investigation. I’ve asked him for two additional e-men to run data. I would like to put Officer Newkirk on the uniform part of the task force as he was first on scene, and is the son of an officer who was involved in the previous investigation.”

  “I’ll clear that for you.”

  “Sir, Feeney’s on that. I want four additional men. Baxter, Trueheart, Jenkinson, and Powell. I’ll reassign whatever caseloads they’re currently carrying. I need them clear for this.”

  “It’s your call, Lieutenant, but Trueheart’s an aide, not a detective, and doesn’t have extensive experience.”

  “He’s tireless, sir, and has an excellent eye. Baxter’s given him some seasoning.”

  “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  “Thank you. I’ll need Dr. Mira to review and possibly update the profile, and could make use of an expert consultant, civilian.”

  Whitney said nothing for five long seconds. “You want to bring Roarke in on this, Dallas?”

  “The victim was an employee. The connection can clear some roads in the investigation and interviews. In addition, Commander, he has access to better equipment than the NYPSD. We may have use for it.”

  “Again, your call, your judgment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dawn was breaking as Roarke swung into the garage at Central. “We’re in the house, sir. I’ll be set up by nine hundred.”

  “I’ll contact Dr. Mira and the chief.”

  Eve sat for a moment when Roarke pulled into her slot. In the back, Peabody snored in quiet, almost ladylike snorts. “You know something about torture,” she said at length.

  “I do, yes.”

  “And you know people who know people.”

  “True.”

  “That’s what I want you to think about. And if you have a contact that can add to the data, I want you to use it. He has tools, and he has a workshop. It would be well set up, well equipped. I think he’d have e-toys, too. Monitor the vic’s pulse rate, maybe brain wave patterns. Cameras, audio. It seems to me he’d want to watch, and you can’t watch and work. Not when you’re that focused.”

  “Whatever you need from me.”

  She nodded, then turned and shoved Peabody’s knee.

  “Huh? What?” Peabody jerked upright, blinked. “I was thinking.”

  “Yeah, I always drool and snore when I’m lost in thought.”

  “Drool?” Mortified, Peabody wiped at her mouth. “I wasn’t drooling.”

  “You’ve got one hour in the crib.”

  “No, I’m okay.” Peabody climbed out, blinked her eyes wide as if to show she was alert. “Just nodded off for a minute.”

  “An hour.” Eve strode toward the elevator. “Take it, then report to the conference room. I’ll need you to help me set up.”

  “You don’t have to get pissed just because I dropped out for a couple minutes.”

  “If I was pissed I’d be kicking your ass instead of giving you an hour down. And you don’t want to argue with me when I’m jonesing for coffee. Take the hour. You’re going to need it.”

  When the doors opened, Eve stepped off with Roarke, then turned, jabbed a finger at Peabody’s sulky face. “That hour starts now.”

  Roarke waited until the doors closed. “You could use an hour yourself.”

  “I could use coffee more.”

  “And food.”

  She slid her eyes up to his. “If you start nagging me about eating and sleeping, I’m booting you off my team.”

  “If I didn’t nag you about eating and sleeping, you’d do precious little of either. What’s in your office AutoChef?”

  “Coffee,” she said, and yearned for it.

  “I’ll meet you there shortly.” When he turned and headed in the opposite direction, she only scowled after him.

  Still, if he was off doing whatever, it would be easier for her to write her initial report, call in the members of her team.

  She passed through the bullpen. It was nearly change of shift. In her office, she went straight for the coffee, then stood where she was and drank the first half of the first cup.

  There hadn’t been real coffee to wake up her blood the first time around, she remembered. Instead of a cramped office, she’d had a cramped desk in the bullpen. She hadn’t been in charge then; Feeney had. She knew that was weigh
ing on him, knew he was remembering all the steps, all the fizzled leads, the dead ends. All the bodies.

  It needed to be remembered. It all needed to be remembered, so it didn’t happen again.

  She sat at her desk, shot out transmissions to Baxter and to Jenkinson, with orders for them to notify their respective aides and partners, and report.

  She mercilessly dumped their caseloads on other detectives.

  There would, she knew, be some extensive bitching and moaning in the bullpen, very shortly.

  She ordered up the cold-case files from nine years before—including Mira’s initial profile—sent out the request for the files and reports on the other cases, yet unsolved, that matched the MO.

  She contacted the lab and pushed for any and all results, left a clipped voice mail for the chief lab tech, Dick Berenski.

  And with a second cup of coffee on her desk, began to write her report.

  She was fine-tuning it when Roarke came in. He set an insulated bowl on her desk, handed her a toss-away spoon. “Eat.”

  Cautious, Eve pried up the lid of the bowl and peeked. “Damn it. If you were going to go to the trouble to get food, why did you get oatmeal?”

  “Because it’s good for you.” He sat in her single visitor chair with his own bowl. “Are you aware that the Eatery here serves nothing that could be considered remotely palatable?”

  “The eggs aren’t that bad. If you put a lot of salt on them.”

  Roarke simply angled his head. “You put a lot of salt on everything, but it doesn’t make it palatable.”

  Because it was there, she spooned up some oatmeal. It would fill the hole. “Cop food’s what you get around here.” She ate, frowned. As oatmeal went, it wasn’t completely disgusting. “And this isn’t cop food.”

  “No. I got it from the deli around the corner.”

  For a moment, her face rivaled Peabody’s for full sulk. “They have bagels there, and danishes.”

  “So they do.” He smiled at her. “You’ll do better with the oatmeal.”