Roarke said nothing, not yet. He knew what she was doing, walking it through as both victim and killer. “You’d want to restrain her first, take no chances. The cuffs, the sheets. Tight on the sheets; you want her to feel it. You want to leave marks. You hope she struggles. She will. You know she will. So you go down and clean up. Dishes, but for her glass, in the machine. Run it on sterilize, wipe out any trace. Check out the security door. No point working on that. She’s going to give you the code. You’ll make sure of it. Strip down, seal up.”
She circled around, shook her head in annoyance. “No, no, out of order. You’d do that downstairs, even before you bring her up. Nothing of you up here. All your things in a neat pile, careful, very careful. After you finish with her, get her bag, check the contents, take it down to put it with your stuff. Upstairs again, go through the room, make sure, very sure there’s nothing of you, nothing on her comp, on the bedroom ’link. Anywhere . . .”
She paused, wandering the room, opening drawers she’d already searched. “Would he take something to make sure he got hard? Multiple rapes take a lot of energy, a lot of wood. That’s a thought, that goes in the wonder pile. Maybe he doesn’t need it. Maybe her thrashing around trapped in the nightmare he gave her, helpless and scared, even unconscious, maybe that gets him up.
“Then she starts coming around, and the fun begins.”
“Don’t put yourself through that.” It clawed through his heart, left it bleeding. “We know what happened then, so don’t.”
“It’s part of it. Has to be. She’s . . . bewildered. The drug makes her mind musty at first, then the headache, the stabbing pain of it.”
She looked at the bed, stripped down to the mattress now. “It occurs to me he could’ve made it easier. Given her a dose of Whore or Rabbit. That was a choice. He didn’t want her to participate, even under a date rape drug. He wanted her terrified and hurting. Does he tell her what he’s going to do, or is it right down to business? I can’t see him yet. Just can’t figure him yet. She cries. She’s only sixteen, and that part of her cries and asks why, and doesn’t want to believe the sweet boy is a monster. But the cop’s daughter knows. The cop’s daughter sees him now. He’d want her to.
“She fights—that has to be satisfying—even during the rape she fights. She fights even while she screams and cries and begs. She’s a virgin; nice bonus. She bleeds from where you’ve broken her, from her wrists, from her ankles. She’s strong and she fights hard.”
He stood by, his guts in knots, as Eve went through it, step-by-step, horror by horror. She moved around the room, circling the bed where that obscenity had taken place. Even as she described the last moments of a young girl’s life, her voice stayed steady.
He didn’t speak again until she’d finished and had started another search of the room.
“Even after all this time with you, I don’t know how you can do it, how you can put yourself in these places, make yourself see these things the way you do.”
“It’s necessary.”
“That’s bollocks. It’s more than an objective, observational sort of thing. You do what you do, how you do it for them. You do it for Deena and all the others who’ve had their lives stolen. It’s more than standing for the dead, which is vicious enough to bear. But you walk with them through it. With all I’ve done in all my life, I don’t know if I’d have the stomach to do what you do, every day.”
She stopped for a moment, let herself stop, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I can’t not do it. I don’t know if it was ever a choice, but I know it’s not one now. I can’t see him. It’s not just because we haven’t found anyone alive who has. It’s who he is, why he is, why he did this and in this way. I can’t see him. He’s murky. Walking through it helps clear some of the murk.”
She rubbed her eyes again, refocused. “How long would it take you to retrieve the discs from a system like the one here, and wipe the hard drive?”
“It has two fail-safes, and requires a code for disc retrieval. But I know the system.”
“Yeah, one of yours, I checked. But he’d know it. Bank on that.”
“Well then, it would take me about thirty seconds for the retrieval, and another one or two to do the wipe. But he infected it to corrupt. We’ve got that much from today’s work. A complicated virus to corrupt the drive and wipe out the data and imagery, and that would take some time to upload, and skill or money to obtain.”
“He’s not as good as you—not a pat on your back, but he doesn’t have your experience. If he passes for nineteen, I doubt he’s hit thirty. So maybe two or three times longer for the retrieval, maybe twice on the wipe since he’s using a virus.”
“What are you looking for, Eve? If I had an idea I might be able to do more than stand here.”
“I don’t know. Something. You gave me coffee.”
“Sorry?”
“A token, something to charm her. A little gift, nothing too important. You sent me coffee right after we met.”
“And you interviewed me as a murder suspect.”
“It worked. The coffee, I mean. Hit the right button. So what did he give her? What . . . I knew it. I fucking knew it.” She held up a music disc taken from the hundred or so in a holder. “Happy Mix 4 Deena, that’s the label. And look here, she added this sticker thing—a big red heart, and initials inside.”
“DM, for her, DP for him.”
“For the name he gave her anyway,” Eve confirmed. “David, Jo said. Never as smart as they think. He should’ve looked for this, taken it. It’s a link, and the only one so far.”
She bagged it.
“I have to say the odds of tracing that disc—as it’s a common sort—are astronomical.”
“He made it. A link’s a link.” She looked around again, satisfied for now. “Okay, the scene doesn’t have any more to tell me. At least not now. I need to go work it.”
6
AS SUMMERSET MADE NO APPEARANCE WHEN they walked into the house, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “Where’s Mister Scary?”
The look Roarke sent her managed to be both resigned and mildly scolding. “Summerset has the night off.”
“You mean the house is Summerset-free? Damn shame we have to waste it with work.”
He slid a hand down her back, over her ass. “A break wouldn’t be uncalled for.”
“Nope. I’ve got over thirty runs to do. Plus I put off reporting to Whitney hoping we’d catch a miracle.” She started up the steps, then stopped dead when she spied the cat sitting on the landing, staring at her with unquestionably annoyed eyes.
“Jesus, he’s almost as bad as your goon.”
“He dislikes being left on his own.”
“I’m not going to start hauling him to crime scenes. Deal with it, pal,” she told the cat, but stopped to crouch and stroke when she reached the landing. “Some of us have to work for a living. Well, one of us has to. The other one mostly does it for fun.”
“As it happens I need to go have a bit of fun. After which I’ll put in some time in the lab.”
“Work, on Peace Day—or pretty much Peace Night now, I guess.”
“A little something I started this morning when my wife left me on my own.”
They continued up together with the cat prancing between them.
“Can you make a copy of this disc?” she asked him. “I need to keep the original clean.”
“No problem.” He took the evidence bag. “We’re eating in two hours,” Roarke decreed as he walked past her office toward his own. “Meanwhile, you can feed the cat.”
She didn’t bother to scowl, it was energy wasted. She moved through her office, and again stopped dead when she saw the stuffed cat Roarke had given her—a toy replica of Galahad—sprawled on her sleep chair.
She looked at the toy, at the original, back to the toy. “You know, I don’t even want to know what you were doing with that.”
In the kitchen she fed the cat, programmed a pot of coffee.
At her desk
she booted up her comp then sat to organize her notes, the reports, and start the first ten runs from the Columbia list. While the computer worked, she looked over the report she’d drafted for Whitney.
She refined it, read it again. Hoping he’d be satisfied, for now, with the written, she sent copies to both his home and office units.
She ordered the computer to display the runs, in order, on screen. Sitting back with her coffee she studied data, images.
Young, she thought, all so young. Not one of her initial runs had so much as a whiff of criminal, no juvie bumps, no illegals busts, not even so much as an academic knuckle rap.
She ran the rest, then started over from another angle.
“Computer, run current list for parents, siblings with criminal record and/or connection to MacMasters, Captain Jonah, as investigator or case boss.”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
Payback, if payback it was, came from different roots, she thought. While the run progressed, she rose to set up yet another murder board.
Data complete . . .
“On screen.”
Now there were some bumps and busts, and a few whiffs. Eleven on her list had illegals hits, some more than one. And yet, she noted, none of those had any connection to MacMasters.
Considering, she ordered a run on the investigating officer or team. Maybe the connection with MacMasters was more nebulous.
Once again, she hit zero. And paced.
She’d ask MacMasters directly. Maybe one of the investigators was an old childhood friend, or a third cousin once removed.
Waste of time, that wasn’t it, but they’d cover the ground.
She recircled the murder board, coming from another angle, but saw nothing new. She shook her head as Roarke came in.
“Daughter,” she said. “Payback—if we run with that—was to kill MacMasters’s daughter. Is it a mirror? Is MacMasters somehow responsible—in the killer’s mind—for the rape or death of his own daughter—child. Make it child as MacMasters only had a daughter.”
“If the killer is anywhere near the age he pretended to be, he’d be a very young father. What if he’s the child, and MacMasters is, to his mind, responsible for the rape or murder of his parent? Or, for that matter himself. He might perceive himself as a victim.”
“Yeah, I’m circling those routes, too.” She dragged both hands through her hair. “Basically, I’m getting nowhere. Maybe taking that break, clearing it out of my head for an hour, is a good idea.”
“I copied the music disc.”
Something in his tone had her looking away from the board, meeting his eyes. “What is it?”
“I ran an auto-analysis while I was working on the other e-business. It’s both audio and video, which is very unusual. Performance art is often a part of a disc like this. But there was an addition made this morning at two-thirty, and another at just after three.”
“He added to it. Son of a bitch. Did you play it?”
“I didn’t, no, assuming you’d disapprove of that.”
She held out her hand for the disc, then took it to her comp. “Play content from additions, starting at two-thirty, this date. Display video on screen one.”
Roarke said nothing, but went to her, stood with her.
The music came first, something light and insanely cheerful. The sort of thing, she thought, some stores play in the background. It always made her want to beat someone up.
Then the image slid on screen—soft focus, then sharper, sharper until every bruise, every tear, every smear of blood on Deena MacMasters showed clearly.
She’d been propped up on the pillows so that she reclined, half-sitting, facing the camera. Probably her own PPC or ’link, Eve thought. Her eyes were dull, ravaged, defeated. Her voice, when she spoke, slurred with exhaustion and shock.
“Please. Please don’t make me.”
The image faded, then bloomed again.
“Okay. Okay. Dad, this is your fault. Everything is your fault. And, and, oh God. Oh God. Okay. I will never forgive you. And I hate you. Dad. Daddy. Please. Okay. You’ll never know why. You won’t know, and I won’t. But—but I have to pay for what you did. Daddy, help me. Why doesn’t somebody help me?”
The image faded again, and the music changed. Eve heard the cliché of the funeral dirge as the camera came back, panned up, slowly, from Deena’s feet, up her legs, her torso, to her face. To the empty eyes.
It held on the face as text began to scroll.
It may take you a while to find this, play this. Your dead daughter sure liked her music! I played it for her while I raped the shit out of her. Oh, btw, she was an idiot, but a decent piece of ass. I hope our little video causes you to stick your weapon in your mouth and blow your brains out.
She didn’t deliver her lines very well, but that doesn’t diminish the truth. Your fault, asshole. If it wasn’t for you, your deeply stupid daughter would still be alive.
How long can you live with that?
Payback is rocking-A!
For the crescendo, the audio blasted with Deena’s screams.
“Computer, replay, same segment.”
“Christ Jesus, Eve.”
“I need to see it again,” she snapped. “I need it analyzed. Maybe he said something that we can pick up, maybe there’s something that picks up his reflection.” She moved closer to the screen as it began its replay.
Roarke crossed over to open the wall panel. He pulled out a bottle of wine, uncorked it.
“There’s no mirror, no reflective surface. Her eyes? The way he’s got her sitting, maybe he can get a reflection off her eyes.”
“Alive or dead? I’m sorry,” Roarke said immediately. “I’m sorry for that. Truly.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. She’s so young, and so afraid, so helpless.”
“She’s not me.”
“No. Not you, nor Marlena. But . . .” He handed her a glass of wine, then took a long drink from his own. “I’ll see if I can get something off it. I’d have a better chance with the original than a copy.”
“I need to log that in, in Central, run it through Feeney.” Time, she thought, it all took time, but . . . “No shortcuts on this.”
“All right then.” Roarke gestured to the screen. “You won’t show this to the father.”
“No.” She drank because her throat was dry. “He doesn’t need to see this.”
Because he needed to, needed the contact, Roarke took her hand in his as they studied the screen together. “It seems revenge, your payback, holds as motive.”
“It had to. I couldn’t see it any other way.” Again, and again, she read the final text, that ugly message from the killer.
“It’s boasting,” she said quietly. “He couldn’t resist digging in the knife. Leaving the music disc wasn’t the mistake. But adding this, that’s a big one. He doesn’t care about that, but it’s a mistake.”
“It wasn’t enough even to torture that child, to force her to say those words—her last—to her father. He had to add his own.”
“Exactly right. That’s a crack in control, in logic, even in patience.”
“The kill,” Roarke suggested. “For some it’s a spike, a rush.”
“That’s right. He was so damn pleased with himself. All those weeks, those months of preparation coming to a head here, in what he sees as his victory. So he has to do his little dance. It’s a mistake, a weakness,” she said with a nod. “He put too much of himself in there, couldn’t resist claiming that much responsibility for her. It’s the kind of thing that gives us a handle.”
Personal, she thought. Deeply personal. “He needed MacMasters to know, and to suffer for the knowing. It gives us a focus. We concentrate on MacMasters, his case files, his career. Who has he taken down, what cops has he kicked over the years. Everything he did up to that was cold, controlled. This part? It’s cocky, and even while it’s smug, it’s really pissed off. It helps.”
Because he’d had enough, mayb
e too much, Roarke turned away from the screen. “I hope to God it does.”
“We’ll take a break.”
“Which you’re doing now for me.”
“About half.” She ordered the screen off, ordered a copy of the disc. “You’re right, it hits really close to home. I need it out of my head for a little while.”
He went back to her wondering why he hadn’t seen how pale she’d gone, how dark her eyes. “We’ll have a meal. Not in here. We’ll step away from this. We’ll have a meal outside, in the air.”
“Okay. Yeah.” She let out a breath that eased some of the constriction in her chest. “That’d be good. I need to inform Whitney, and the team. I have to do that now.”
“Do that, and I’ll take care of the meal.”
When she came down, stepped out on the terrace, he stood with his glass of wine on the border between stone and lawn. He’d switched on lights that illuminated the trees, the shrubs, the gardens so they glimmered under the moon. The table was set—he had a way—with flickering candles and dishes under silver covers.
Two worlds, she supposed. What they’d closed away inside for a while, and what was here, sparkling in the night.
“When I built this house, this place,” he began, still looking out into the shimmering dark, “I wanted a home, and I wanted important. Secure, of course. But I think it wasn’t until you I put secure in the same bed as safe. Safe wasn’t a particular priority. I liked the edge. When you love, safe becomes paramount. And still with what we are, what we do, there’s the edge. We know it. Maybe we need it.”
He turned to her now, and he was both shadow and light.
“Earlier I said I didn’t know how you could bear doing what you do, seeing what you see. I expect I’ll wonder that a thousand times in a thousand ways through our life together. But tonight, I know. I don’t have the words, no clever phrases or lofty philosophy. I simply know.”
“When it’s too much, bringing it home, you have to tell me.”