Kindred in Death

  “Yeah. And the guy in the back, Carmine, he was at the game.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  She crossed to the potbelly, held up her badge. “Quick one. Who closed with you Saturday night, and at what time?”

  “Risso, he’s over there. We closed it up about six.”

  “When did you see him next?”

  “At his place, a couple hours later. We had a card game. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem. Thanks.”

  “He’s a good boy,” the man said as Eve started to turn away. “He comes in on time, does the work, and doesn’t complain. I gave him a raise last week ’cause he earned it.”

  Eve nodded. “He’s not in any trouble.”

  She walked back to Risso, handed him her card. “Cops come in giving you the fish eye, let me know.”

  He stared at the card. “Why?”

  “Because I asked a question and you gave me the right answer. Because you’re not your brother.”

  Eve walked out while he continued to stare at the card.

  “That was well done,” Mira told her.

  “Elimination. Just crossing the lines.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Eve shrugged and walked with Mira back to the car.

  11

  KARLENE ROBINS PUNCHED IN HER CODE, swiped her realty ID in the slot. She hummed to herself as security recognized both. A perfect day, she thought, shaking back her curling mane of glossy black hair. She had hopes to make it spectacular by closing the sale on the very frosty loft with her very young and well-heeled client.

  It was just what he was after. She could hardly believe her luck, and the timing. The property had fallen into her lap, just the night before, when the previous buyers broke contract.

  Their loss, and she really hoped her gain.

  She stepped inside the tiny lobby area, coded in for the elevator.

  The commission would be a whopper, and couldn’t come at a better time. She was getting married on Saturday, and thinking of it, she did a little spin into the elevator.

  She could close this deal, have all the paperwork in order in a snap, snap, snap. When she and Tony got back from their honeymoon, they’d go to settlement, she’d present the happy new loft owner with a big-ass gift basket full of fancy wines and eats—and most important—collect her big, beautiful commission.

  She scanned the little elevator car, nodded approval. Good security, smooth ride, privacy. And the openwork iron doors, she thought when she reached the loft, added that funky retro touch.

  They opened soundlessly into a high-ceilinged space with wide, wide windows and a double trio of skylights.

  The original wood floors—and how often did you find that—were stylishly distressed. The walls, neutral tones chosen to sell, were fully soundproofed. Kitchen, she mused, wandering through, totally up-to-date. Compact, shining appliances with the fun and funky zebra-striped counters configured for maximum use of space.

  The client probably wouldn’t cook for himself. He was from money, and currently trying to make a name for himself as an artist. He’d entertain though, and this was a fine space for that.

  Add two bedrooms—one that would stand in very well as studio space with more skylights, more windows—and southern exposure—and what she considered a dream bathroom with jet tub, jet shower, drying tube, smoked glass walls—and he’d never do better.

  The place said—no cheered, she corrected—it cheered young, fun, hip, and well-off.

  She fluffed her hair, turned to check herself out in the mirror. Appearance mattered. She’d dressed carefully, groomed carefully to suit the client and the location.

  He wanted SoHo, arty, a hot spot amid plenty of galleries, restaurants, clubs. And this was it. Karlene figured his real estate agent should reflect the same at a showing. She’d chosen the short black skirt, the high leopard-print heels, and the bold red top with its silver beading rather than a more sedate suit very deliberately.

  It transmitted young and frost—which she was, she thought with a laugh—but for some clients you wanted to project maturity, stability, sobriety.

  This guy was younger than she was.

  Must be nice, she thought as she glanced at her wrist unit, and continued to wander, to fluff some of the wildly patterned pillows on the furniture staged in the living area. Barely twenty-two and able to afford a prime SoHo loft.

  She and Tony had a nice place, she reminded herself. And with her eye for decorating and bargains she’d squeezed plenty of juice in it. But one day—and with commissions like this one—they’d be able to afford a big, sunny loft.

  She dug into her bag, took out the scent tube she’d chosen. In the kitchen again, she crouched to plug it into the air system. In moments, the loft would smell, subtly, of sugar cookies. A good choice, she felt, for a younger client.

  She crossed to the living area’s mood screen, switched it on to a lively, energetic mix of colors and shapes, then ordered the music system on—not too loud.

  “Set the tone,” she said, turning in a circle to take it all in, “make it home.”

  She considered opening the wall panel to display the security monitors, then decided against it. He was too young to worry overmuch there—and she’d make a point of showing him when they did the tour. Instead she walked to the wide front windows, stood looking out on what she hoped—for herself and her client—would soon be Drew Pittering’s neighborhood.

  Like the kitchen, the people walking below were up-to-date. Neo-Bohemian was the tone here, the pace. Artists displaying their wares on the sidewalk, people sipping coffee drinks and having intense conversations outside of cafés and bistros. Too-iced-to-care boutiques squeezed in beside edgy little galleries.

  It suited him so well. Commission aside, she worked hard to suit the client to the property, and vice versa. Before she hit thirty, she intended to have her own business. She’d already chosen the name. Urban Views.

  Four years left in her goal, she mused. And she just knew she’d make it.

  If Drew took the bite here, she’d be on her way.

  He was running a little late, she realized. But then, client was king. She took a breath, then pulled out her ’link. She was going to be optimistic, think positive—and make reservations for her and Tony at their favorite restaurant to celebrate the sale.

  It wasn’t jinxing it, she told herself. It was anticipating it. Visualizing it. Tonight, they were going to drink champagne and toast the future.

  Once done, she ran back through her appointment book to make certain she had the rest of her week—her last week as a single woman—in order. Final fitting, final consult with the caterer and planner, the full day of spa and salon treatments for herself and her wedding party.

  Check, check, check.

  When her ’link beeped, she checked the display and had one moment of concern. “Please don’t be calling to cancel,” she muttered, then answered with a cheerful tone. “Hello, Drew! I’m standing here looking out your front window. It’s a very frosty view.”

  “Sorry, sorry, I’m running late. I got caught up with the work and lost track. But I’m nearly there. Heading down the block now.”

  “That’s mag.” Relief had her barely resisting a dance. “I’ll clear you in so you can come right up. You have the address.”

  “Right here. I love this neighborhood, Karlene. It’s just what I want.”

  “Wait until you see the space.” She walked over to shut down security for him. “I swear, if you don’t snap this up, I’m buying it myself.”

  “Just tell me nobody else is looking at it yet. I’ve got a good feeling.”

  “I contacted you first, as promised. Nobody’s due to see it until tomorrow as I told you. We’ve got a jump on it.”

  “Perfect. I’m on my way up. Hey, love the elevator. Ten seconds.”

  She laughed, closed the ’link. And greeted him with a stunning smile.

  “Really sorry I kept you waiting,??
? he said as he came in. “But I brought a makeup gift.” He offered her one of the two go-cups of coffee he had in a takeout bag.

  “You’re forgiven.” She toasted him with the cup. “Where should we start?”

  “Let me just stand here a minute.” He shifted the bag on his shoulder, looked around the open living area. “This is . . . look at the light in here.”

  “That’s what made me think of you, straight off. So much natural light. Tailor-made for an artist. You could use this whole space for your work. But if you actually wanted to use it for living, for entertaining, the second bedroom has the same exposure, and skylights.”

  “Privacy screens? I don’t like to feel anyone watching me while I work.”

  “Of course.” She held up a finger. “Computer, engage privacy screens, all windows.”

  With a quiet hum, the clear screens lowered. “As you can see, they’re top-grade. They don’t affect the light. You can darken them if you want to cut the sun.”

  “Perfect.” He smiled at her. Young, charming, attractive. “Absolutely perfect. How’s the coffee?”

  “The same.” She took another sip. “To move to location for a minute, you’ve got it all. Restaurants, galleries, clubs—and mag coffee shops as you’ve already discovered.”

  “It’s where I want to be.” He stepped away from the elevators, wandering now behind the screened windows.

  “The furniture’s staged to give you a feeling, an idea of one use of the space. The fact is, Drew, you could do anything with this area. Work, play, a combination. I know you said you didn’t cook, but you have to see the kitchen. It’s perfect, ultra and efficient. Maybe a girlfriend would enjoy using it.”

  He grinned, wagged his finger.

  “I know, no girls right now,” she said with a laugh. “Art first. But artists can entertain like minds, right? And have to eat. You can zap leftover takeout, stock the AutoChef, and there’s a built-in D and C—for checking out takeout spots, deliveries, menus.”

  “Now that works for me.”

  “Oh, and the security system. You can take a look at the camera zones.”

  He waved that off. “Let’s see the rest first.”

  “We’ll take the master bedroom then. It’s staged, too, so you’ll have an idea how it could be used. And the advantage of being on the top floor? Skylights there, too.”

  She took a few steps, weaved a little.

  “Okay?”

  “Wow. A little light-headed.”

  Concern shone in his eyes. “Why don’t we sit down a while?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m good. Just putting in a lot of late hours, trying to get everything done.”

  “Right. Big day Saturday.”

  “The biggest. And since we’re taking off on Monday for Honeymoon-Extraordinaire, I want to get everything cleaned up. Just need another jolt.” She took a deep swallow of coffee.

  “There’s a little half bath off the second bedroom—or what I see as your studio. That would be handy for you, but the master? It’s ro cking-A.”

  She walked in, then swayed as her knees buckled.

  “Hey, hey.” He took her arm, her weight, walked her toward the bed. “Let’s sit down.”

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She all but floated down to the bed. “I feel . . . wrong. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  “I don’t really think so. Here, finish this up.” He held the coffee to her lips, poured it down her throat as her eyes glazed.

  “Wait.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to take my time. We’ve got all day.”

  His face blurred, but for an instant, the look of it, his teeth bared in a horrible smile, she felt fear. She felt fear, then nothing.

  Since he’d sealed up in the elevator, he opened his bag for the cord.

  “Safety first,” he murmured, and bound her hands behind her back.

  As the sellers had provided very nice high-end sheets, he used them to secure her legs by the ankles to the bright silver knobs of the footboard.

  He took out the rest of his tools before he stripped, and stowed his neatly folded clothes in the bag.

  He studied Karlene as he finished off his own, undoctored coffee, decided she looked peaceful. That wouldn’t last long.

  The loft was soundproofed, he’d verified that. Just as he’d verified that the other two tenants in the building were at work.

  Naked, he walked over to the controls to change the music to some hard, grinding thrash, bumped up the volume a bit. Satisfied, he went back to the main security controls, checked the cameras, checked all locks.

  Later, he thought, when he’d sufficiently . . . softened her up, she’d give him her security number. She’d beg to give it to him. He’d log her out, shut down the cameras, and upload the virus.

  But before that, well before that, he’d give her pain, and give her fear. And he’d talk to her, intimately, about her bitch of a mother. And why Jaynie Robins was responsible for her daughter’s ugly death.

  He set the doctored go-cup—a ploy as he’d purchased the actual coffee blocks uptown, then transferred it—on the kitchen counter.

  He went back to the bedroom, checked his to-do list to make certain he’d forgotten nothing.

  When she moaned, stirred, he smiled.

  Time to go to work.

  Eve strode into the Homicide bullpen with a purpose. Several conversations stopped. Baxter got to his feet.

  “LT—”

  “Ten minutes, conference room, full briefing.” She kept going, straight into her office. She needed five of those ten to clear her head, organize her thoughts. She got coffee, turned to check the incoming on her comp.

  “Media, media, media. Screw that. Talk to the liaison.” She brought up the list—Peach Lapkoff moved fast—and skimmed the performances, the dates.

  “Computer, start search. Victims of rape/murder through suffocation and/or strangulation within penal system. On and off planet, including halfway houses, home detention, local, federal, global. Add factor of connection to MacMasters, Captain Jonah, as part of investigative, administrative, or arresting team.”

  Acknowledged . . . length of search?

  Brother, son, lover. Could be any. Could be none. “Twenty-five years.”

  Warning . . . Search for data of this nature twenty years or more will delay results.

  “Then you’d better get started. Command given.”

  Acknowledged . . . Working . . .

  “Computer, send results, year by year, to both my office and home units.”

  Warning . . . Extracting data by year will delay results.

  “Can’t be helped. Command given.”

  She topped off her coffee and left for the conference room while the computer worked.

  She’d hoped Peabody would be back so she could palm off the setup on her partner. Instead, she loaded the data in the room comp, began updating the board.

  She muscled out a second board and began to write.

  Crime mirrors previous event?

  Connection—MacMasters to killer—killer to person unknown killed by same MO. Search in progress.

  UNSUB—organized, focused, ability to acclimate.

  She continued, listed the salients of Mira’s profile.

  Two wits with possible sightings of UNSUB currently working with Detective Yancy.

  Columbia connection. Student and staff files accessed.

  Shoes ID’d by wit, Columbia sweatshirt, long shots.

  Attendance with vic, Columbia public performances and/or lectures, long shot.

  She was still writing when Baxter and Trueheart came in.

  “Report.”

  “Neighborhood canvass, zip. If we get a sketch, I think we’d have better luck. We hit her known haunts, got zip there. Kids in and out, who pays attention? Plenty who recognized her, but nobody who put her with a guy who matches what we know.”

  He passed to Trueheart. “Well, we didn’t really do any better with the canvass of the area
your wit states she spotted them. We had a couple people who thought maybe they’d seen her, but wouldn’t commit. We had one who thought he’d seen her and with a boy around twenty. But he couldn’t give us any more than that. Not even coloring, build, clothing. Just maybe. We have his name and data, when we get the sketch.”

  “We’ve started going through MacMasters’s cases, working from current back,” Baxter added. “Anything that even squeaks, we’re ru nning.”

  “Split it, work from each end and meet in the middle,” Eve ordered. “We’re stalled on the more currents, so let’s start hitting further back, all the way back and working forward.”

  “Back to files from about a quarter century ago?” Baxter rubbed his nose. “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right.” She glanced over when Peabody came in carrying a large box. Trueheart hurried over to take it from her.

  “My boy’s a real gentleman,” Baxter commented.

  “More than the cops on the elevator when I had to squeeze in with that sucker. Have to be fifty playbills,” Peabody continued. “And programs and posters. Saw where you were going and went through her things, added show and concert tees and other memorabilia.”

  “Good. I got the list from Dr. Lapkoff, detailing performances and lectures at the university since April. Odds are if the vic attended, the killer went with her. We match the paraphernalia to the list.”

  She turned to the murder board where she’d put up a map. “Red pins show the three locations we know they were together. The park, the Second Avenue location, and her home. We’re going to keep digging until we add more.”

  She checked her wrist unit. “Where the hell is EDD?”

  “I tagged McNab on my way in. He said they’d be here.” Peabody scanned the conference table. “No food, no beverage. Anybody want? Stupid question,” she said before anyone answered. “Be right back.”

  “Well, while your refreshments are being arranged,” Eve began, breaking off when Feeney and McNab walked in. “Nice you could make it.”

  Feeney shot a finger at her. “Neck-deep. Gonna need a transfusion for the blood I lost leaking out of my freaking eyes.”

  He sat, circled his neck. Eve heard the pops and cracks from across the room.