Echoes in Death

“We’re not interested in the wrist unit, Ollie.”

  “Oh.” His big eyes blinked. “Hey, I only went by that party to hook up with Marletta, and we didn’t stay. Maybe an hour.”

  “What party?”

  “Um. Lorenzo’s party.” He tried a sheepish, “aw shucks” smile. “Maybe I figured there maybe would be Zoner and shit there, but I didn’t have any. I got a good job, and you could get bounced. Plus, my ma’d skin me.”

  Peabody smiled at him. “Your ma sounds like a good, smart woman.”

  “She ain’t raising her boys to be criminals. Tells us all the time.”

  “That’s good. You like your job, Ollie?” Peabody asked him.

  “I like it fine and good. Pays okay, and Carmine, he’s solid square. I got three years in, and I got a raise first of the year.”

  “You did a delivery and pickup yesterday,” Eve began.

  “Did five altogether yesterday. Weekends is busy. Five deliveries,” he qualified. “Three pickups. Got another pickup I’m on tonight.”

  “The Strazza job,” Eve qualified.

  “Um.”

  But he brightened up when she reeled off the address.

  “Sure did. Five ten-top tables, fifty chairs. Delivery and setup—that was for five sharp, and break down and pick up between eight-thirty and eight-forty-five. Big-ass house—you get to see a lot of fancy places with the job. We’ve done jobs at that place lots of times. The lady tips good. Some of them don’t, but the lady there, she does. Always says thank you, too. Some don’t.”

  “Did you see any of the guests?”

  “Oh, no, uh-uh. We went in when they were in the dining room. See, they had this fancy before-the-dinner thing in the living room. Don’t know why, but it’s not my business. We just go in, and the lady who does the food—that’s, um, Xena! Yeah, she’s nice, too. She’s cleared off the dishes and whatever, and we just go in, break down the tables, haul out the rentals. Quiet and quick like.”

  “So no one went in or out but you. You only saw the catering staff.”

  “Well, they had the valet guys outside—shot the shit with them a little. Then the entertainment.”

  Eve held up a finger. “Entertainment?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t really see him. Luca said how he must be the entertainment.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Luca?”

  “No, Ollie, the entertainment.”

  “Oh, I only just caught like a glimpse when I was hauling out a table with Stizzle, and this guy was going up the stairs—in the house. I said, ‘I guess he’s late for dinner,’ and Luca, he said how he must be the entertainment.”

  “How do know it was a man?” Peabody prompted.

  Ollie’s skinny eyebrows drew together in serious thought. “Um. I guess he looked like one. From the back. I dunno. I didn’t think about it.”

  “White guy, black guy, anything?” Eve asked.

  “I dunno. I think he had on a big black coat and a hat. I didn’t really pay attention, you know, ’cause we were humping it. Using the main ’cause it was the big tables and the double doors there made it faster. I just saw him going up the stairs.”

  “Between eight-thirty and eight-forty,” Eve added.

  “I guess about eight-forty-ish-like or like that. I guess we were in and out inside like twenty minutes, and we had the last table. Few more chairs left to go. So I figured he was late to the dinner thing, but Luca said he was the entertainment. Lots of times they have entertainment at the big-ass houses with the fancy parties.”

  “Okay, Ollie, thanks for coming in.”

  “I can just go?”

  “Yeah.” Eve rose to get the door. “And, Ollie, do yourself a favor and don’t buy anything else from Chachie. One day it could come back and bite you in the ass.”

  “That’s what my ma would say.”

  “Listen to your ma.”

  When he left, Peabody huffed out a breath. “The killer just walked right in and went upstairs.”

  “Ballsy,” Eve said. “Plenty ballsy. And timed well. Valets taking a break, talking with delivery guys, delivery guys in and out, catering staff in the living area making sure it goes smooth. Everyone else in the dining room or the kitchen. Let’s push on getting this Luca in here.”

  “Don’t need to. He and his roommate just signed in.”

  “Luca first. Slim chance they helped this guy gain access, but it’s there.”

  Luca DiNozzo wasn’t a skinny black guy, but a ridiculously attractive Italian with a flirtatious smile and a gym-buff body in a snug black sweater and tight jeans.

  Eve could all but hear Peabody’s hormones humming.

  He sat relaxed in the box, but then he’d been there before. Minor bumps, Eve thought, but minor often served as a gateway to more.

  “What can I do for you ladies?”

  “Lieutenant,” Eve said. “Detective.”

  He just smiled his flirty smile.

  “Tell us about the Strazza job.”

  “They’re regulars. Dinner party last night.”

  He ran through the particulars just as Quint had done, matching the delivery, the timing, the break down. But he shifted as he finished up, and his jaw went tight. “They got a complaint? I supervised that job.”

  “A lot to supervise with your people moving in and out, a lot of pretty little things out in plain sight. Easy grab and go. You’ve had some bumps along the way, Luca.”

  Now his shoulders shot back, his jaw forward. “If anything’s missing from that house, one of the guests pocketed it. Nobody who works for Carmine steals—and I know those guys. I know Jacko’s crew, too. So if Dr. Strazza’s making a stink, he should look to his own.”

  “About those bumps,” Eve added.

  “That was then, this is now. I did the stupid when I was drinking. Got into a program, stopped drinking and doing the stupid. And I never stole so much as a freaking gumball even when I was drinking. Carmine took a chance on me, and I don’t forget it. I wouldn’t do anything to mess him up, mess myself up. Like I said, the Strazzas are regulars. If we weren’t trustworthy, they wouldn’t use us, so if Dr. Strazza’s got some bug up his butt, it’s his problem.”

  “Strazza’s dead.”

  Eve saw the shock—instant and violent. Luca’s chiseled jaw literally dropped.

  “What? What the hell? Dead?”

  “Murdered. Take me through your night, Luca.”

  “I— Wait.” He closed his eyes, breathed for a minute. “Let me think. We had another pickup after the Strazzas’. Jesus. But that wasn’t until eleven. We took the pickup back to the warehouse, stowed it, logged it, went out to get something to eat. Except Charlie went on home—didn’t need him for the last job, and he’s got a new baby, so I cut him loose. The rest of us did the pickup—way the hell down in SoHo. We hauled it back, logged that in—I know that was about twelve-thirty. We all went out for a beer—well, that’s club soda for me. I guess Ollie took off about one, then Stizzle and Mac and me had another drink, got some bar food, just to hang. Stizzle and I went home—we’re roommates—about two. Mac, he was making some progress with this brunette, so he stayed back.

  “Jesus, we didn’t kill anybody. You can check the pickups, the log-ins. Carmine’s got security cams and the feed’s time-stamped. I can vouch for every one of the guys. I can guarantee you Charlie went straight home to his girl and their baby. The baby’s just two weeks old, man. We didn’t hurt anybody.”

  “Okay. Tell me about the latecomer. Tell me about the person who walked into the Strazzas’ residence while you were breaking down the job.”

  “The weird guy? Musician or something, right? Performance artist. I don’t get that. Look, can I have some water or something? Jesus, somebody got murdered.”

  “I’ll get it.” Peabody rose, slipped out.

  “Performance artist,” Eve prompted.

  “Something like that, I figured. He’s all wrapped up in this coat, hat, shades—only assho
les and entertainer types wear shades at night, right? He’s carrying a case—I figure like a musical instrument or something.”

  “What did he look like—his face?”

  “Couldn’t really see it, but he was wearing like stage makeup. I could smell it. My cousin’s an actor—done plenty of gigs off-Broadway. Well, an off-off, and one more off-Broadway. I could smell, like, the greasepaint. Just a weird artist type, I figured, and…”

  Eve saw it hit, saw the horror come into the dreamy bedroom eyes. “That guy? He killed Strazza? But … he walked right by me. I let him walk right by me. I let him … He went right up the stairs in the house. Like he was supposed to. I let him in the house.”

  “Did you open the door for him?”

  “I…” Breathing fast, he dragged a hand through his fairly magnificent mane of hair. “No, not exactly. I was by the door, I was holding it open—can’t use a stop on the door when it’s that freaking cold. The clients don’t like it. So I was holding it open—Mac and Charlie had just carried out chairs and … Ah, yeah, Ollie and Stizzle were coming with a table, so I held the door. This guy, I saw him coming up the steps toward the door, talking on his ’link. And he walked right by me, and walked to the stairs, went up.”

  “On his ’link,” Eve began as Peabody came back with the water.

  Luca took the tube, cracked it. “Can I have a minute?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He sat, drank, sat, drank again, then shot straight up in his chair. “The lady. Mrs. Strazza. God, is she…”

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Jesus. Is she going to die?”

  “She’s stable. She’ll be all right. Did he say anything to you, this man who came in? Did you hear him talking on his ’link?”

  “He didn’t even look at me, just breezed right on by. I let him breeze right on by. He was talking on the ’link, kind of pissy, you know? Like he was half pissed at who he was talking to. Said, like … ‘I’m here now, okay? They’re still eating.’ Like that. He just came in, like he belonged, like he was supposed to be there. I never thought to try to stop him.”

  “How tall was he?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. Truth? I was wondering if I’d have a couple minutes to hit on Xena. Can’t get her to go out with me, and I wasn’t paying attention. Not as tall as me,” Luca said suddenly. “Shorter. Yeah. I’m six foot—or, okay, five-eleven and a half. He was shorter. Like a couple inches shorter, I think.”

  “Build?”

  “Hard to say. It was a lot of coat. It had flounces! Like—”

  He made wavy gestures with his hands.

  “Theatrical, right? A big black coat with flounces or whatever they are, and a black hat with a big brim he had pulled down, maybe a scarf? I didn’t pay attention. The shades, because I thought: Asshole.”

  “Race, age, anything?”

  “His voice didn’t sound old. I didn’t really see his skin color—I think he had gloves. It was really cold. I didn’t … You know, I think his face was kind of red. I didn’t really see, it was like two seconds, but maybe red. That’s weird.”

  Luca blew out a breath. “I just got an impression, that’s all. I just figured they’d hired somebody to do a gig, put on an act. He walked in like he was expected, and I let him. Is it my fault?”

  Eve met his eyes. “Do you think I’d soft-pedal it for you?”

  “No.” His voice wavered like a man on the edge of being sick. “No. God.”

  “I’m telling you it’s not your fault.”

  Luca closed his eyes. Eve saw him press his lips together when they trembled. “It feels like it is.”

  “It’s not. And what you’re telling us may help us catch him, so take that away. Now let’s go over it again. Did anyone else see him?”

  “Ollie said something. And, yeah, Stizzle. They were heading my way, toward the door, as he went up the stairs.”

  “Peabody, bring Stizzle in.” Eve looked back at Luca. “We’re going to see if he can add any details.”

  6

  It turned out Luca had gotten the best look, but his roommate confirmed the coat, hat, shades, and the height as shorter than Luca. And since Stizzle had noticed the UNSUB’s boots—shiny black with short, stubby heels—they estimated five-eight.

  Eve arranged for them both to work with a police artist the next day. If anyone could draw more details out, it would be Yancy.

  With the rental crew interviewed, and cleared to her satisfaction, she headed back to her office to—finally—put up her murder board, start her book.

  She found Roarke in her office, his boots (no short, stubby heels required) up on her desk—as she was wont to do—working on his PPC.

  He wore black trousers, a black jacket, a steel-gray sweater. Roarke’s version, she supposed, of casual office wear.

  “Comfy?” she asked him.

  “It’ll do. I’ve been up in EDD with McNab, and wish there was better news on that front.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  He slipped his PPC into his jacket pocket. “You won’t get a handy image of your suspect coming or going from the crime scene. He gutted, quite professionally, the security, and took the essentials with him. We can tell you the alarm wasn’t compromised. It was shut down from inside, as were the locks.”

  “So you’d think an inside job. But it’s not.” Since it was there, she took the coffee he had set on her desk, drank it.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, because we have three—potentially more when I speak to the valets—who saw the suspect walk right into the house at approximately eight-forty last night.”

  “Eyewitnesses? So your news is better. You’ll tell me about that while we have lunch.”

  “I haven’t had time to put my board and book together,” she began when he swung his feet off her desk and rose.

  “There’s pizza in the AutoChef.”

  She stopped dead. “There is?”

  “There is today.”

  “I’d have sex with you for that alone,” she told him and smiled.

  “I can lock the door.”

  “Later.”

  She started on her board as he programmed the pizza. The seductive scent of it struck her dead center when he pulled it out. That bubbling cheese, the spice of pepperoni.

  She could have wept.

  She ate one-handed—only one of the many advantages of pizza—while she arranged her board and filled him in.

  “He’s got big brass ones, doesn’t he?”

  “I think he likes the risk. It’s part of the fun.” Eve studied her board, grabbed a second slice. “He needed to know the timing, the routine. He had to know the targets were having a party. Figure there are, in addition to the hosts, forty-eight guests—and their staff, maybe hairdressers, and so on who knew. Add the caterer, and staff—and the people they might have mentioned it to, the rental place, and so on.”

  Nodding, Roarke passed her a napkin. “Potentially a few hundred people knew the time, the place, the basic setup.”

  “Not that hard to get the information. He plans. He gathers information on the targets. The first couple, out for the evening, he breaks in, disables security. Second couple returning from a few days away.”

  She sat down now, put her boots up, while Roarke settled for the ass-pinching visitor’s chair. “His violence and lag time have escalated, but the Strazzas—that was the big one. Walking in while people were in the house, strolling right by staff and up the stairs to set the stage. I bet that added excitement. Possibly increased his violence due to same.”

  “The theatrics, the folklore monsters. There are easier ways to disguise yourself, but he chooses the elaborate.”

  “And it’s a sharp angle,” Eve agreed. “It’s like a performance, right? And he’s in character. He writes the script, sets the stage. But this time, he had to—what do you call it—ad lib. He didn’t go in there intending to kill. But now that he has…”

  “You exp
ect he might write that ending for the next performance.”

  “I do. He will.” Of that she had no doubt. “He likes causing pain, suffering, fear, humiliation. In every case he choked the female victim to unconsciousness. Sooner or later he’d have gone too far there, either by accident or design. Now he’s crossed that line. He won’t go back.”

  While he didn’t doubt her, Roarke studied the board as she did. “Yet, every time he released his victims before he left—and even after he killed, he released Daphne Strazza.”

  “Yeah, well, show’s over, right?”

  “Mmm. If you take your theory to the next step, does he release her because he wanted a review? Someone who’d lived through the performance, as you called it, and would speak of it. Even—to his deluded mind—praise it.”

  “Like a critic?” Musing on it, Eve reached for her coffee, found the mug empty.

  Roarke rose, got two tubes of water. “Switch it up,” he suggested as he handed her one. “Like a critic,” he confirmed, “or an audience review. Someone who’d relate how convincing his performance was.”

  “I can see that.” After gulping down water, Eve gestured toward the board with the tube. “Daphne Strazza’s done just that because in her state of mind, she is convinced the devil attacked her.”

  “Surely there’s no greater ego boost for a performer than having someone believe he was the character he portrayed. It’s a terrible sort of praise, isn’t it?”

  “Ego,” Eve murmured. “A need for praise. He made the women praise him while he raped them. Next to stupidity, ego’s the thing that causes the most mistakes.”

  Again she gestured to the board. “Following a pattern’s another. There’s got to be some connection between the victims. Some linchpin. The SVU detectives are solid, they’ve been thorough, but there’s something they haven’t found.”

  “So you will.”

  She angled her head to look at him. He so rarely looked tired, so rarely showed fatigue, but she saw the first signs of it in his eyes. “So I will. And you should go home.”

  “Kicking me out?”

  “For your own good.”

  “Come with me and work at home. After you have a nap.”

  “I’ve got the valets coming in—I have to cross them off. And some other things to deal with. Then I’ll be home. And maybe take a nap in our big, fancy new bed.”