Creation in Death

  He cleansed her to Falstaff. It always put him in a happy mood—this music, this little chore. His partner needed to be absolutely clean before the work began. He particularly enjoyed washing her hair—all that lovely brown hair.

  He enjoyed the scents, of course—that hint of citrus, the feminine fragrance mixed with the smell of her fear.

  She wept as he washed her, blubbered a bit, which concerned him just a little. He preferred the screams, the curses, the prayers, the pleas, to incoherent weeping.

  But it was early days yet, he thought.

  The water he hosed her off with was icy, which turned the weeping to harsh gasps and small shrieks. That was better.

  “Well now, that was refreshing, wasn’t it? Bracing. You have excellent muscle tone, I must say. A strong, healthy body makes such a difference.”

  She was shivering now, violently, her teeth chattering, her lips pale blue. It might be interesting, he decided, to follow up the cold with heat.

  “Please,” she choked out when he turned away to study his tools. “What do you want? What do you want?”

  “Everything you can give me,” he replied. He chose his smallest torch, flicked on the flame, then narrowed it to the point of a pin.

  When he turned, when her eyes wheeled toward that flame, she rewarded him with those wild, wild screams.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  He moved to the base of the table, smiled in delight at the high, elegant arch of her feet.

  5

  SHE HATED MEDIA CONFERENCES, BUT NEARLY always hated the media liaison more. It was suggested, by same, that Eve might prep for fifteen minutes with the media coach, and make use of the provided enhancements in order to present a more pleasant image on screen.

  “Murder isn’t pleasant,” Eve snapped back as she strode toward the main doors of Cop Central.

  “No, of course not.” The liaison jogged to keep up. “But we’re going to avoid words like murder. The prepared statement—”

  “Isn’t going to be tasty when I stuff it down your throat. I’m not your mouthpiece, and this isn’t a political spin.”

  “No, but there are ways to be informative and tactful.”

  “Tact’s just bullshit with spit polish over it.”

  Eve pushed through the doors. Tibble had opted for the steps of Central not only to show the sturdy symbol of the building, but, Eve guessed, to insure the briefing would remain short.

  The March wind wasn’t being tactful.

  She stepped up to the podium, and waited for the noise level to drop off. She picked Nadine out immediately. The bright red coat stood out like a beacon.

  “I have a statement, then I’ll take a few brief questions. The body of a twenty-eight-year-old woman identified as Sarifina York was found early this morning in East River Park. It has been determined that Ms. York was most likely abducted last Monday evening, held against her will for several days. The method in which she was murdered and the evidence gathered so far indicates Ms. York was killed by the same individual who took the lives of four women in a fifteen-day period in this city, nine years ago.”

  That caused an eruption, and she ignored it. She stood still and silent while questions and demands were hurled out. Stood still and silent until they ceased.

  “The NYPSD has authorized and formed a task force. Its soul purpose will be to investigate this crime, and to apprehend and incarcerate the perpetrator. We will use every resource, every man-hour, and all the experience at our disposal to do so. Questions.”

  They flew like missiles. But the fact that there were so many allowed her to cherry pick.

  “How was she killed?” Eve repeated. “Ms. York was tortured over a period of days, and died as a result of blood loss. No, we do not have any suspects at this time, and yes, we are, and will continue to follow any and all leads.”

  She fielded a few more, grateful her time was nearly up. She noted Nadine tossed out no questions, and had in fact moved out of the pack to talk on her ’link.

  “You said she was tortured,” someone called out. “Can you give us details?”

  “I neither can nor will. Those details are confidential to this investigation. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t give them to you so you could broadcast her suffering and cause yet more pain for her family and friends. Her life was taken. And that’s more than enough for outrage.”

  She stepped back, turned, and walked through the doors of Central.

  It would take Nadine a few minutes to get up to Homicide and charm her way through any potential roadblocks to Eve’s office.

  Besides, Eve thought, she could wait. Just wait.

  First, Eve needed to speak to Roarke.

  She caught the scent as soon as she stepped into the conference room, and much preferred it to the olfactory bombardment at Scentual.

  Somebody, she thought, brought in gyros.

  She made her way over to Roarke’s workstation, noted he’d gone for the cold-cut sub. He paused in his work long enough to pick up half the sub, hand it to her. “Eat something.”

  She peered between the slabs of roll. “What is it?”

  “No substance in nature, I can promise you. That’s why I said eat something.”

  More to please him than out of appetite, she took a bite. “I need to talk to you.”

  “If you’re after some answers on this chore you gave me, you won’t get any as yet. There are, literally, countless homes, private residences, warehouses, and other potential structures in New York, the boroughs, into New Jersey, that have been owned by the same person or persons or organization for the last decade.”

  “How are you handling it?”

  “Dividing into sections—quadrants, you could say. Subdividing by types of structure, then by types of ownership. It’s bloody tedious work.”

  “You asked for it.”

  “So I did.” Watching her, he picked up a bottle of water, drank.

  “There’s something else. The lab’s identified the soap and shampoo used to wash down the vic.”

  “Quick work.”

  “Yeah, Dickhead’s got his teeth in it. He worked the case before.”

  “Ah.”

  “He uses extremely high-end products. Very exclusive. Only one outlet in New York, two locations. It’s yours.”

  “Mine?” He sat back, eyes cold and hard on her face. “And so was the sheet he used.”

  “That’s right.” Now, simply because it was there and so was she, Eve took another bite of mystery-meat sub. “Someone less cynical might think coincidence, particularly since you manufacture or own big, fat chunks of everything.”

  “But you and I aren’t less cynical.”

  “No, and so I tagged Feeney and put you into the Missing Persons search he was running. You’re not going to like it.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Gia Rossi.” She picked up his water, took a gulp. “She’s a trainer and instructor at BodyWorks. Do you know her?”

  “No.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes a moment, then dropped them. “No, I don’t believe so. Were there any of these connects, any of these overlaps in the previous investigation to me or mine?”

  “No, not that I know of, and I started a check on the way back. He changed the products with this one. If you’re part of the reason, we need to figure out why. A competitor maybe, a former employee. We need to work that angle.”

  “When did he take the second one?”

  “She was reported missing yesterday. I don’t have the details yet—Feeney’s on it. I’ve got to go pull another chain now, but we’re going to dig into this. I know this is a kick in the ass, but it’s also a mistake. His mistake. There was nothing connecting the victims in any of the other cases. Now there is.”

  “Yes. Now there is.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go do this.”

  “Go on. I’ll stick with this for now.”

  She didn’t kiss him, though part of her wanted to, just to give comfort. Inst
ead she laid her hand over his, squeezed gently. Then left him.

  She started back toward her office and crossed paths with Baxter. “Got nothing,” he told her. “Reinterviewed the sister, went to the club, talked to the vic’s neighbors. Big zero.”

  “Ex?”

  “Out of town for the weekend. Neighbor said he went snowboarding out in Colorado.”

  “Why would anybody deliberately jump and flop around in the snow, on a mountain?” she wondered.

  “Beats me. I like summer sports, where the women are very, very scantily clad. Snow and ice? No skin.”

  “You’re such a pig, Baxter.”

  “And proud of it. Do you want me to run down the ex? The neighbor thought he knew where the guy was staying. He’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “We’ll hit him once he gets back. Check with Jenkinson. See how far he and Powell have gotten going down the list of people interviewed in the other cases. You and Trueheart can help them run through it. Media’s out with this now, which means by tomorrow we’ll be buried in looney leads. We’ll have to follow up on them, so let’s clear this first plate today.”

  Nadine was waiting, sitting in the visitor’s chair, legs crossed, examining her nails as she talked on her headset.

  “You have to reschedule or cancel,” she said. “No. No. We agreed in writing when I took this that if and when I had something hot, something I felt it was necessary to pursue personally, it would take precedence over everything else. That was the deal.”

  She looked over at Eve, rolled her clever green eyes. “That’s what assistants are for, and assistants to assistants. And as far as the piece, the reporter can reschedule. I know. I’m a goddamn reporter.”

  She yanked off the headset.

  “Heavy is the price of fame,” Eve said.

  “Tell me, but I wear it so very well. Can I have coffee?”

  Obligingly, Eve moved to the AutoChef. Her own system kept begging to sag. Coffee would put it back on alert. Nadine sat, saying nothing.

  She did wear fame well, Eve supposed. The streaky and stylish hair, the sharp features, the camera-ready suit. But Eve knew: Though Nadine might have her own show, though Now’s ratings were reputedly higher than a souped-up chemi-head, the woman was exactly what she’d claimed—a goddamn reporter.

  “Who were you talking to during the briefing?”

  “Who do you think?” Nadine countered.

  Eve turned, offered the coffee. “Your research people to give you the pertinent details of the case from nine years ago.”

  Nadine smiled, sipped. “Look who’s wearing her thinking cap today.”

  “Some of the details on that investigation leaked.”

  “Some,” Nadine agreed and the smile faded. “Some of the details on how the victims were tortured. I imagine there was a lot more, a lot worse, that didn’t leak.”

  “There was more. There was worse.”

  “You worked it.”

  “Feeney was primary, I was his partner.”

  “I wasn’t in New York nine years ago. I was fighting my way out of a second-rate network affiliate in South Philly. But I remember this case. I remember these murders. I bullied my way into doing a series of reports on them. That’s part of what got me out of South Philly hell.”

  “Small world.”

  Nadine nodded, sipped more coffee. “What do you want?”

  “You’ve got that research department at your fingertips now, being you’re a big shot.” Eve eased a hip down on the corner of her desk. “I want everything, anything you can dig up on the murders. All the murders. Here, Europe, Florida, South America.”

  Nadine blinked. “What? Where?”

  “I’m going to explain it all to you, off the record, then you can put your researchers and your own honed skills on the scent. He’s already got the second one, Nadine.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Can’t help her. Odds are slim we’ll track him fast enough to save her. I need to know everything I can know. Maybe we can save the one he’s hunting now.”

  “Let me think.” Closing her eyes, Nadine sat back. She drank more coffee. “I’ve got a couple of smart people I can bully and bribe to keep the work and the results off the radar. I’m pretty damn smart myself, so that’s three.” Nodding, she sat up again. “You know I’d do this because I believe a life is worth more than a story. Marginally,” she said with a smile. “I’d do it because you and I are friends who also happen to respect each other to play it straight. No payback required.”

  “I know that. Just like you know I’m going to pay you back.”

  Nadine cocked a brow. “Being pretty damn smart, I’m not going to say no. A one-on-one exclusive with you.”

  “After he’s bagged, not before.”

  “Deal. A live appearance on Now.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  Nadine laughed. “By any member of your team you choose—with portions of that exclusive—and did I mention extensive—interview by you to run during the show. Recorded prior.”

  Eve thought it through. “I can work with that.”

  “Okay. To get details, I need details.” Nadine pulled out her recorder, cocked her head. “All right?”

  “All right.”

  There was something unnerving on some visceral level about working in a cop shop. It was an interesting experience, Roarke thought, but very, very strange for someone with his…colorful background.

  He’d worked with cops—in addition to his own—a number of times now, had had cops in his home professionally and socially. But working in a war room in the core of Cop Central for the best part of a day, well, that was a different kettle.

  They came and went, he noted. Clipping into the room, clipping out again, communicating for the most part in that cop speak that was oddly formal, as clipped as their footsteps and somehow colorful all at the same time.

  He was flanked by McNab whom he had great fondness for, and the dark, curvy, and sloe-eyed Callendar. They might sit, or stand and walk—almost dance—around as they worked. Slogging through data, searching for just one vital byte. Busy bees in their busy hive.

  As for colorful, well, excepting their captain, it appeared the e-division went for the flashy. McNab with his bright yellow jeans, the turquoise shirt with what appeared to be flying turtles winging across it. He had his long blond hair sleeked back in a tail and secured with a thick yellow band. On either side of his thin, pretty face, his earlobes were weighted down with a complex series of hoops and studs.

  Roarke wondered why, honestly, anyone would wish to have that many holes punched into his flesh.

  But the boy had a way about him, and was damn clever at this job.

  The girl, for she looked barely twenty, was an unknown. She had burnt honey skin, masses and masses of black curly hair pinned in a multitude of hanks with a neon rainbow of clips. Silver hoops he could have punched his fists through hung at her ears. She wore baggy, multipocketed pants in bleeding colors of lavender and pink with a snug green sweater that exclaimed E-GODS! across her rather impressive breasts.

  She had long, emerald-colored nails, and when she went to manual they clicked against the keys like mad castanets.

  She, like McNab, appeared to be tireless—brightly wrapped bundles of energy barely contained so that something on them constantly jiggled or bounced. A foot, a head, shoulders, ass.

  Fascinating.

  “Yo, Blondie-Boy,” she called out and McNab glanced over his shoulder.

  “You talking to me, D-Cup?”

  “You’re up. Liquid.”

  “Can do. You want?” he said to Roarke. “Something to drink.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Buzz or no buzz?”

  It took Roarke a moment to translate, and in that moment he felt very old. “Could use the buzz.”

  “On it.” As McNab bounced out of the room, Callendar sent Roarke a quick and pretty smile.

  “So, you’re like absolutely packed, right? D
oing the backstroke in the megawealth. What’s that like?”

  “Satisfying,” he decided.

  “Betcha.” With a push of her feet, she sent her chair skidding over so she could see his screen. “Wow. Multitudinous data with simo searches and cross. You got secondary recog going, too?”

  This, he could easily translate. “I do. Checking like names, anagrams, cross dates. Lay it down for a spread, go deep for ancestry and other potential connects.”

  “Smart. McNab said you were frosty in there. Serious mining.” She looked back at her own station. “All around.”

  She slid back to her work, and jiggling her shoulders to some internal tune, went back to the task at hand.

  Amused, he turned back to his own work, then stopped when Eve and Feeney came in.

  Gia Rossi, he thought, as the name, the idea of her that he’d made himself set aside, pushed once again into the forefront of his mind.

  His eyes met Eve’s, so he pushed back from the work to walk to her.

  “We need to update the team regarding Rossi,” Eve said. “Those in the field will be briefed via ’link. We need to factor your connection in.”

  “Understood.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Peabody came in, sent Roarke a quiet, sympathetic look. She crossed over to insert a new data disc.

  “We have an update,” Eve announced, and the clacking, the bouncing, the voices, and shuffling ceased. “We have reason to believe a woman reported as missing since Thursday night was abducted by our unsub. Rossi, Gia.”

  Peabody ordered the image and data on screen. “Age thirty-one, brown and brown, height five feet, five inches, one hundred and twenty-two pounds. She was last seen leaving her place of employment, a fitness center called BodyWorks on West Forty-sixth. Captain Feeney.”

  “Rossi’s ex-husband,” Feeney began, “one Riley, Jaymes, notified the police at oh-eight-hundred Friday morning. Per procedure, she wasn’t formally listed as missing until the twenty-four-hour time limit had passed. The subject did not return home as expected on Thursday night where she was scheduled to meet her ex who, according to his statement, was there to drop off the dog they had joint custody of.”