“Son of a bitch used some new virus. Nothing like we’ve seen before. I’ve got men working on identifying it, piecing together the elements.”
“New viruses pop up every day,” Eve said. “Comps are supposed to be shielded anyway. CompuGuard’s supposedly on that.”
“They’re busy trying to regulate, screwing around with privacy issues, unregistered. The new shit crops up every few weeks, really good new shit every year or two. This is really good new shit.”
Eve considered. “How long would it take you to come up with really good new shit?”
He put on a sober face. “I’m an officer of the law.”
“Yeah, and?”
He shrugged. “Depends on how much time I’ve got to work it, how much damage I want to do.”
“Something like this?” McNab put in. “You’d have to have a good hundred-fifty dedicated hours in it. More if you’re a hobbyist and not cued in. Plus you’d have to do it shielded. CompuGuard’s got spotters. They don’t catch everything, that’s for frigging sure, but if they slap you, you’re slapped hard.”
She started to speak, but he anticipated her. “We started a run on CG’s known infractions and fines. The trouble is they don’t like to share, so we have to get an official go every time we hit a flag.”
She thought of Roarke’s skills, and his unregistered equipment. There, she considered, she might be willing to blur the line if necessary.
She turned back to the board, wrote: New comp virus, possible e-education or employment.
“Yeah.” Feeney nodded. “It’s an angle.”
“Mira’s profile, which I’ll cover, includes his having employment, or an income source. It includes education, skill, focus. All required for e-work.”
“Bet your ass,” McNab agreed, then grinned as Peabody came in hauling another box. “Hey, She-Body, let me give you a hand.”
“See, my guy’s a gentleman, too.” Peabody added a flutter of eyelashes.
“He scented food,” Baxter said.
“Sandwiches, soy chips, Energy bars.” Peabody snagged a sandwich herself. “Water, fizzies, Pepsi.”
“Brain drain,” Jamie said, “need fizzy.”
“Current.” Eve grabbed a tube of Pepsi, cracked it, then briefed the team on the morning’s progress and avenues.
“Method as mirror.” Feeney shoved the last of the mystery meat and processed cheese in his mouth. “That’s a good one. He didn’t take her out that way for the hell of it.”
“On the other hand, using a blade, bat, pipe, something of that nature,” McNab speculated. “It’s messier.”
“He had drugs. ODing her’s not messy, but he didn’t go with that. Even a blade,” Baxter continued, “in a heart jab—and he had plenty of time to aim, isn’t going to give you spatter. Bare-handed strangulation. That takes time, effort, and yeah, that purpose again.”
“Hurting her was the thing, right?” Jamie stared down at the fizzy in his hand. “That was the score.”
“He didn’t really mess her up.” Trueheart cleared his throat when eyes turned to him. “Her face. If he was working off rage, he would have. I think. Maybe he didn’t want to use his fists, mess up his hands. But there were plenty of weapons in the house. Objects he could have used as either blunt or sharp instruments. And he choked her more than once, so . . . that’s what he wanted. That’s the way he wanted to kill her. I think.”
Baxter beamed. “Boy gets an A.”
“To pursue this angle, I’m running searches on like rape-murders within the penal system, with victims who connect to MacMasters and his investigations or the investigations by officers under his command.”
“That’s going to take a hell of a while,” Feeney calculated. “But it’s a good angle.”
“Meanwhile, as Detective Yancy is not here, he’s still working with one or both of our wits. We’ll get that status after the briefing. Baxter and Trueheart have goose egg thus far on the canvass. They will recanvass when we have a sketch.
“We’re also tugging lines with Columbia. We’ll do searches on students and staff—again—” she said before anyone commented. “Widen it to include all Southern states, and go back another five years. We’ll also cross-reference the articles brought from the vic’s room pertaining to theater and lectures with any given at the university since April. If he took her or accompanied her, we’ll have another location, and more potential wits. Peabody. Shoes.”
“Shoes. Okay, the wit from the park made the suspect’s shoes. Anders Cheetahs, navy on white. These are high-end, geared for running shoes. As the wit’s opinion was they were new, or fairly new, I’ve been doing a search for vendors with sales of this model starting in January. Let me just say a hell of a lot of people fork out a hell of a lot of scratch for a shoe you’re supposed to run in. I’ve split that into various categories. Online, Skymall, New Jersey, and New York sectors. As the locations where the suspect is known or believed to have been with the vic, I flipped to concentrate below Fortieth, online, and outside Manhattan.”
She paused to slug down water. “And still, a lot of shoes. Given his reputed height, I’ve focused on average sizes for males of six feet, and slender build, according to the highest probability. And still—”
“We get it, Peabody,” Eve snapped.
“Sorry. I’ve kept the search on Auto on my PPC. But I had some thinking time riding the subway back to Central. School’s sprung, and there were a lot of teens and twenties in the car. I thought about how they were dressed, you know? And that started me thinking. We’re going on the theory he blends, acclimates. I agree. But I started to wonder about that first meet. He had it planned out. The Columbia sweatshirt—it was like a costume for his character, something she’d relate to. And the shoes? She was a runner, so she’d have probably recognized he was wearing high-end running shoes.”
“Dressed the part,” Eve agreed.
“Yeah. And he plans, right? Thinks things out in advance. So why wouldn’t he plan out his costume? When I’m buying something important to wear—like, say, for an important event, I want to coordinate, be sure everything goes together. If I can I buy it all—dress, shoes, bag, all that, in one place. If I just can’t, I take one of the pieces I have, or even a picture of it when I’m hunting for the rest.”
“A picture?” Eve asked, sincerely astonished.
“Sure. You don’t want your bag to clash with your shoes, or your shoes to look crappy with your dress. You want to look good. And even if you’ve got a squeeze . . .” She sent McNab a flirty look. “Even then, you want to make an impression.”
McNab sent Peabody a gooey smile. “You always look good to me.”
“Stop before I’m sick,” Eve ordered.
“Maybe he bought the shoes, the pants, the running pants together. In the same place, I mean,” Peabody continued, but snuck her hand between the chairs to wiggle fingers with McNab. “An outfit. It was, in a really twisted way, like a first date. First-date wardrobe is major. He wanted her to see him in a certain way, to give off a certain impression.”
“I get it,” Eve murmured. “Girl gets an A.”
“Really?” Peabody puffed out. “Because I’ve started another search for venues that sell college gear, running gear, and Anders shoes. There’s a lot, but not as many as just the shoes.”
“Shades,” Eve said. “He had on shades, and a cap.”
“I’ll plug it in. The other thing is, if he did buy all this from one vendor, he probably didn’t go with cash. Not if he didn’t want to stand out. It has to be near a grand, or more. He’d use credit or debit. He’d leave a trail.”
“Why would he worry about that?” Eve nodded. “Nobody’s going to notice, think twice. Push it.”
“All over it.”
“Baxter, Trueheart, keep working the files. When and if I have any results from my like-crimes search, we’ll factor it. I’ll give you a pint of my own blood,” she told Feeney, “if you get me something off that hard drive.”
“You
r man contacted, should be in on it later this afternoon. He’s got some tricks.”
No question about it, Eve thought. “The vic’s memorial is scheduled for Thursday. I want a team—any of you who can be spared, as well as uniforms in soft clothes, any detectives I can get to attend. He’s going to want to be there, want to reap the benefits of his work. Whatever we have re the sketch by that time, every man on the team will have a copy. Let’s go, keep the hammer down.”
Eve waited, and tried to ignore the quick lip-lock and ass-grab Peabody and McNab exchanged by the door.
“That was good thinking,” she said, “the buying angle.”
“Shopping is a vital part of my life, unlike yours. Still, it feels like we’ve got lots of angles but no shape. He’s still a ghost.”
“Let’s hope Yancy can bring him to life.”
12
SHE KNEW BETTER THAN TO PUSH YANCY when it came to renderings. But she thought she could try a single, firm nudge. When she didn’t find him at his workstation, she did a quick search of the trio of private conference rooms.
She interrupted two other police artists, but didn’t find Yancy.
She tracked him down in the break room.
He stood, leaning against the short counter, munching on dried fruit from a bag, eyes closed, headset on.
His mop of hair curled appealingly around his striking face. He wore his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of well-worn jeans.
It occurred to her he probably looked more like a college kid than a police detective.
Could pass for twenty-two or -three, she thought. Younger if he worked at it.
Then his eyes opened, and she added on another five years. The eyes knew too much for barely two decades.
“How old are you?”
His brows lifted. “Twenty-eight. Why?”
“Just figuring something.”
He munched another handful of fruit. “You’re thinking of the suspect. He skews young, but may be older.”
“Something like that.” She glanced at the bag he offered. “No, thanks. Why do you eat that?”
“I wish I knew. I finished with Marta.”
“Delroy, nanny from the park. What do you have?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t get a good look. She was game, and she worked at it, but it comes down to a quick glimpse, and in the rain. She’s pretty solid on height and build, coloring, hair length. I walked her through it, and it’s coming out that she saw his profile. I got what feels like real on what he was wearing, and a pretty good idea of the style airboard. But his face is mostly impression. Young, good-looking.”
“Why don’t you show me?”
He puffed out a breath. “You’re not going to be happy.”
But he led her out, wound around to his workstation. Standing, he called up the sketch on the computer, then laid out the drawing he’d done.
“Shit. It could be anybody. It could be female.”
Yancy lifted a finger as a point. “Yeah, and the second part might be an advantage. It was a male, she’s sure of that, but she used terms like cute, and once, pretty. It may be he’s got androgenous features. Young girls feel safe, and are often attracted to boys with androgenous features. They’re not as threatening.”
“So, we may or may not have a pretty boy who may or may not be nineteen.”
“I’ve got your second wit coming in. She’s due in about a half hour. I did a quick ’link warm-up with her. She’s more decisive than Marta, brisker, comes off more confident. I may do better with her. And what I get from her I can use with what I’ve got here. I’ll show the finished to both wits, and see if it rings.”
“Tell me about the airboard.”
“Black, silver racing stripes. Metallic silver, she thinks, because it glinted, and it was raining so no sun. That’s pretty simple for an airboard design. So I did a search. Two manufacturers make one that basic design. Go-Scoot and Anders Street Sport.”
“Anders.”
“Yeah, how about that? Wasn’t that long ago you were investigating his murder.”
“Small world, even for the dead, I guess. But it’s interesting as the second wit ID’d his shoes as an Anders brand. Could be brand loyalty. Get me what you can get me as soon as you get it.”
“You got it,” he said and grinned.
Back in her office she did a run on Nattie Simpson, the husband, the kid. As MacMasters had told her, Nattie was doing her time at Rikers. The husband—now ex—had relocated to East Washington, with the kid. He was thirty-five, and couldn’t pass for a teenager. The kid was ten, and couldn’t pass either.
Still, she followed through with a call to Rikers for an overview of Nattie before she crossed that angle off her list.
No connection, no pop, she thought when she’d finished.
Dead end.
She checked the search results on like crimes, and found nothing to connect to MacMasters in the last five years.
She considered adding in victims and witnesses, then decided her office unit would probably implode from that much activity. She’d do it at home.
Earmarking that for later, she began cross-referencing Deena’s box of souvenirs with the list from Lapkoff.
There, she hit fast.
“Spring musical, Shake It Up, May 15-18.”
She skimmed through it, scanning photographs, play summary, the cast and crew lists, the ads, in case Deena had made any notations.
Though she found none, she logged the playbill into evidence, bagged it.
She continued through, making ordered piles—plays, concerts, dance theater, performance art. And frowned when she came on a second playbill for Shake It Up, same dates.
“Did you take his, too, Deena? Shit, shit.” She grabbed Seal-It from her desk, coated her hands. She paged through the second book, and found a small notation inside a heart above the summary.
D&D
5/16/60
“One’s his, one’s got to be.” She logged and bagged the second playbill, then placed a ’link call to Jo Jennings.
Her mother answered. Not frazzled this time, Eve thought. Weary.
“Ms. Jennings, I need to speak with Jo.”
“Lieutenant, my girl’s wrecked. Just . . . devastated. Do you know she’s blaming herself? Blaming herself for not telling anyone Deena was seeing a boy? All she did was keep her word to her best friend, but she’s crushed with guilt for it now.”
“It may help her if she can do something to help. I just want confirmation on something, if she can give it to me. And it could be extremely important to the investigation.”
“All right. All right.” Ms. Jennings rubbed her forehead. “She’s in her room. She’s barely come out since you came and . . . She may be sleeping. I’m not going to wake her if she’s sleeping.”
The ’link cut to holding blue. Eve used her comp to e-mail a priority message to Berenski at the lab.
Have a possibility for prints re the MacMasters homicide. Will hand-deliver asap. This is priority. Don’t give me any shit.
“Lieutenant. Jo’s here. I’m going to stay with her.”
“That’s fine. Jo, I need to know if Deena went with the boy she was seeing secretly to a musical production at Columbia University. On May sixteenth.”
“I dunno.”
“Would she have told you? I know she enjoyed theater, got excited about theater. She saved playbills. She had a large collection of them.”
“He was supposed to take her that night and he killed her.” Tears sprang and spilled.
“But it wasn’t the first time they were supposed to go see a play together, was it?”
“She said he really liked theater, too. He’s just a liar.”
She said it fiercely, bitterly. “Just a liar.”
“Lieutenant, that’s enough.”
“Hold on. May sixteenth, Jo. They’d been seeing each other for about four weeks then. It was a musical about college students performed by college
students. I bet she enjoyed it.”
“Shake It Up.”
“That’s right. Did she go with him?”
“It was like an anniversary. A month. She met him for dinner, then they went to the play. He gave her a little stuffed dog.”
Eve remembered the collection of animals. “What kind of dog?”
“A little brown and white one. If you rub its ears it says I love you. Mom.”
“Okay, baby, okay. That’s all, Lieutenant.”
“Jo, you helped me a lot. You helped Deena by talking to me, by remembering.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. Thank you.”
Jo turned her face into her mother’s breast. Ms. Jennings nodded at Eve, then clicked off.
Eve grabbed the evidence bag, strode out, swung by Peabody’s desk. “I may have something. Two playbills for a Columbia performance, one the best friend confirms Deena attended with the UNSUB, on May sixteen.”
“Two? She kept his.”
“Seems logical. I’m taking them to the lab now, personally. I’ve got more I want to input in the searches, but this unit won’t deal with it. I’m working from home after the lab.”
“Roarke’s up in EDD.”
“Shit. Well, I’ll see him at home later. I also need to go by the scene. He gave Deena one of the stuffed toys. Could get lucky there, too. I’ll run it, get that to the lab first thing in the morning.”
“If I hit anything in the meantime, you’ll be the first.”
“Right, do a secondary, adding in an Anders airboard. Black with silver racing stripes. Street Sport. He may have purchased that along with the shoes.”
“Got it.”
Eve dragged out her ’link as she headed down to the garage.
“Lieutenant,” Roarke said.
“I’ve got some field work, then I’m going to work from home. I’m heading out now. Just, ah, fyi.”
His eyebrow raised. “Then I suppose I’ll have to get myself home.”
“Sorry. When you do . . . we’ll talk about that then.”
“If you say so. I’ll be there . . . eventually. Eat something, and don’t wait for me,” he ordered and broke transmission.
She frowned at the blank screen. She knew annoyed when she heard it. He shouldn’t have poked into the cop work if he was going to get annoyed she couldn’t hang around to give him a damn ride home.