Imitation in Death Page 11
He hadn’t bothered with those. Unlikely he’d even looked. “No, I don’t think so. I think she was wearing a ring, a kind of wedding ring, and he took it off her finger. A symbol, a souvenir.”
“I thought she lived alone.”
“She did. Another reason he picked her.” She turned away from the box of pretty stones and metal, looked back at Lois Gregg. “He carries her in here. He’s got his equipment again, likely in a toolbox this time. Restraints for her hands and feet. Strips off her robe, ties her up. Finds what he wants to use to rape her. He’s going to wake her up then. He didn’t get to play with the other, but this one’s different.”
“Why?” Peabody set the jewelry box back on the dresser. “Why is she different?”
“Because that’s what he’s looking for. Variety. She screams when she comes around and realizes—when it comes into her like a flood what’s happened, and what will happen. Even though part of her rejects it, refuses to believe, she screams and struggles, and begs. They like it when you beg. When he starts on her, when the pain spurts into her, hot, cold, impossible, she screams more. He’d get off on that.”
Eve lifted one of Lois’s hands again, then moved down to her feet. “She bloodied her wrists and ankles trying to get free, straining and twisting against the restraints. She didn’t give up. He’d have enjoyed that, too. It’s exciting for them when you fight, makes their breath come fast in your face, makes them hard. It gives them power when you fight and can’t win.”
“Dallas.” Peabody kept her voice low, laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder as her lieutenant had gone pale and clammy.
Eve shrugged, carefully took a step back. She knew everything Lois Gregg had felt. But it wouldn’t take her down, not now, into the memory, into the nightmare. The blood and the cold and the pain.
Her voice was level and cool when she continued. “When he’s done raping her, he takes the sash from her robe. She’s incoherent now, from the pain and the shock. He gets on the bed, straddles her, looks into her eyes when he strangles her, listens to her fight to breathe, feels her body convulsing under his in that sick parody of sex. That’s when he comes, when her body bucks under his and her eyes bulge. That’s when he gets his release.
“When he comes back to himself, he ties the sash into a bow, wedges the note between her toes. He takes the ring off her finger, amused by it. Such a female thing, to wear the symbol when there’s no man to go with it. He slips the ring in his pocket, or puts it in his toolbox, then checks how it all looks, and he’s pleased. Just as it’s supposed to. An excellent imitation.”
“Of what?”
“Of who,” Eve corrected. “Albert DeSalvo. The Boston Strangler.”
She stepped out into the hallway, where cops were milling around, doing what they could to keep people from the neighboring apartments inside.
And there was Roarke, she thought. There was a man with more money than God sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor, his back supported by the wall as he worked with his PPC.
And would probably be content to do so, for reasons she could never understand, for hours.
She moved to him, squatted down so their eyes were level. “I’m going to be here awhile. You ought to go on home. I can catch a ride into Central.”
“Bad, is it?”
“Very. I’ve got to talk to the son, and he’s . . .” She let out a long breath. “They tell me the MT gave him something, but he’s still pretty messed up.”
“One is, when their mother’s murdered.”
Despite the presence of other cops, she laid a hand over his. “Roarke—”
“Demons don’t die, Eve, we just learn to live with them. We’ve both known that all along. I’ll deal with mine, in my way.”
She started to speak again, then looked up when McNab came off the elevator.
“Lieutenant, no disc run since eight this morning. Nothing from the outside unit, elevator, or the hall on this floor. Best I can tell, he jammed it by remote from outside before entering the building. I could verify, but I don’t have any tools on me.”
He held out his hands, a half-ass smile on his face, to indicate his baggy red shorts, blue cinch vest, and toeless airsneaks.
“Then go get some,” she began.
“I happen to have a few things in the car that might help with that,” Roarke interrupted. “Why don’t I give you a hand, Ian?”
“That would be mag. It’s pretty decent security, so I figure if he went remote, it had to be police-issue level or above. Can’t tell unless I can get into the panel and check the board.”
Eve straightened, then held out a hand. Roarke grasped her forearm, and she his, to help him to his feet. “Go ahead. Get me best guess on what he used.”
Oh eight hundred for entry, she thought. With the time of death she’d established, he’d spent no more than an hour on Lois Gregg. More time than Wooton, more time to play, but still fast.
She went back in, walked to the kitchen.
Jeffrey Gregg wasn’t weeping now, but the tears already shed had wrecked his face. It was red and swollen, much like his mother’s.
He sat at a small laminated table, his hands cupped around a glass of water. His brown hair stood up in tufts from where she imagined he’d pulled at it, raked his fingers through it, in his grief.
She judged him to be somewhere in his early thirties, and dressed in brown shorts and a white T-shirt for a casual summer Sunday.
She sat across from him, waited until those damaged eyes lifted to hers.
“Mr. Gregg, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I need to talk to you.”
“They said I couldn’t go in and see her. I should go in. When I—when I found her, I didn’t go in. I just ran out again, and called the police. I should’ve gone in—something. Covered her up?”
“No. You did exactly the right thing. You helped her more by doing just exactly what you did. I’m sorry, Mr. Gregg. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Useless words, she knew. Goddamn useless words. She hated saying them. Hated not being able to count the number of times they’d forced themselves out of her mouth.
“She never hurt anybody.” He managed to lift the glass to his lips. “I think you should know that. She never hurt anybody in her life. I don’t understand how somebody could do this to her.”
“What time did you come here today?” She knew already, but would take him through the details, the repetition.
“I, ah, came over about three, I think. Maybe closer to four. No, nearer to three. I’m so mixed up. We were supposed to have this afternoon cookout at my sister’s in Ridgewood. My mother was supposed to come by our place. We’re over on 39th. We were all going to take the train over to New Jersey. She was supposed to be at our place by one.”
He gulped some water. “She runs late a lot. We tease her about it, but when it got to be like two, I started calling to move her along. She didn’t answer, so I figured she was on her way. But she didn’t show. I called her pocket number, but that didn’t answer either. My wife and kid were getting restless and annoyed. Me, too. I was getting pissed off.”
Remembering that, he began to cry again. “I was really steamed that I had to come over here and get her. I wasn’t worried so much, not really. I never thought anything had happened to her, and all the time she was . . .”
“When you got here,” Eve prompted, “you let yourself in. You have a key?”
“Yeah, I got access to the outside door and her apartment. I was thinking, something wrong with her ’links, that’s all. She forgets to bump them sometimes and they go out. Something’s wrong with her ’links and she’s lost track of time. That’s what I was thinking when I let myself in. I called out to her, like: ‘Mom! Damn it, Mom, we were supposed to leave for Mizzy’s two hours ago.’ And when she didn’t answer, I thought, Oh crap, she’s on her way to my place and I’m over here, and this is so irritating. But I walked to the bedroom door anyway. I don’t even know why. And she was . . . God. God. Mom.”
“I don’t know.” He mopped at his streaming face. “I was irritated and in a hurry. I didn’t see anything special.”
“Did your mother mention being uneasy about anything, noticing something, someone who worried her?”
“No. She’s lived here for a dozen years. It’s a nice building. Secure.” He took deep breaths to steady his voice. “She knows her neighbors. Leah and me, we’re only ten blocks away. We see each other every week. She’d’ve told me if something was wrong.”
“How about your father?”
“They split, God, twenty-five years ago. He lives out in Boulder. They don’t see each other much, but they get along okay. Jesus, Jesus, my father wouldn’t have done this.” The hitch came back in his voice, and he began to rock himself. “You’d have to be crazy to do this to somebody.”
“It’s just routine. Was she involved with anyone?”
“Nobody special now. She had Sam. They were together for about ten years. He was killed in a tram wreck about six years ago. He was the one for her, I guess. There hasn’t been anybody else special since.”
“Did she wear a ring?”
“A ring?” He looked at Eve blankly, as if the question had been posed in some strange foreign language. “Yeah. Sam gave her a ring when they moved in together. She always wore it.”
“Can you describe it for me?”
“Um . . . it was gold, I think. Maybe with stones on it? God. I can’t remember.”
“It’s okay.” He’d had enough, she judged. And this line was a dead end. “One of the officers is going to take you home now.”
“But . . . isn’t there something? Shouldn’t I do something?” He stared beseechingly at Eve. “Can you tell me what I’m supposed to do?”
“Just go home to your family, Jeff. That’s the best thing you can do for now. I’m going to take care of your mother.”
She walked out with him, turning him over to a uniform for escort home.
“Tell me something,” she demanded of McNab.
“Definitely a remote zap. He has to have a superior skill with electronics and security, or enough money to buy a jammer, and we’re talking mucho black-market buckaroos for a unit like this.”
“Why?” she wanted to know. “A building like this, security’s good, but it’s not top level.”
“Okay, it’s not that it jammed security, it’s how it jammed.” He pulled a pack of gum from one of his many pockets, offered Eve some, then folded a cube into his mouth when she shook her head.
“It shut everything down—security-wise—without messing with other ops. Lights, climate control, home and personal electronics weren’t touched. Except—” Busily chewing, he pointed to the living room lamps. “In here. This apartment unit, and this specific room. Lights on,” he ordered, and Eve nodded when the lamps stayed dark.
“Yeah, that fits. ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’ve had reports of electronic malfunction in the building.’ He’s dressed like a workman. I’d make book he’s got a toolbox. A big helpful smile. Maybe he even tells her to try the lights, and when they don’t work, she opens the door.”
McNab blew an impressive purple bubble, snapped it. “Plays for me.”
“Check out the ’links, let’s be thorough. You find anything, I’m at Central. Peabody!”
“With you, sir.”
“Not while you’re wearing that stupid hat. Lose it,” Eve ordered and strode out.
“I like the hat.” McNab kept his voice low. “Sexy.”
“McNab, you think brick’s sexy,” Peabody replied. But with a quick check to see if the coast was clear, she gave his ass a fast squeeze. “Maybe I’ll wear it later. You know, just the hat.”
“She-Body, you’re killing me.”
He took a quick peek, saw Eve was gone, then dragged Peabody close for a sloppy kiss.
“Blueberry.” Amused, she blew a purple bubble with the gum he’d passed to her. Then hurrying after Eve, she pulled the hat off her head.
She found Eve outside standing beside the totally iced vehicle with the totally iced Roarke.
“No point in it,” Eve was saying. “We’ll hitch in a black-and-white. If I’m going to be really late, I’ll let you know.”
“Let me know regardless, and I’ll have transpo arranged to bring you home.”
“I can arrange my own transpo.”
“This isn’t transpo.” Peabody gave a feline purr as she stroked the car. “This is a total ride.”
“We could easily squeeze in.”
“No.” Eve cut Roarke off. “We’re not squeezing anywhere.”
“Suit yourself. Peabody, you look delicious.” He took the hat from her hand, arranged it back on her head. “Absolutely edible.”
“Oh. Well. Golly.” Under the hat, her head went wonderfully light.
“Wipe that ridiculous look off your face, lose the hat, and get us a ride to Central,” Eve snapped.
“Huh?” She let out a long sigh. “Oh, yes, sir. Doing all that.”
“Do you have to do that?” Eve demanded of Roarke when Peabody walked dreamily away.
“Yes. When she makes detective, I’m going to miss seeing our girl in uniform, but it should be interesting to see how she suits up otherwise. I’ll see you at home, Lieutenant.” And not caring if it annoyed her, he caught her chin in his hand, pressed his lips firmly to hers. “You are, as always, delicious.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Jamming her hands in her pockets, she stalked away.
It was dark when she got home. Whether it was bullheadedness or not, she hadn’t tagged Roarke for transpo even after realizing she didn’t have cab fare on her. But she had dug up subway tokens, and found the underground ride jammed with people going home after a Sunday out on the town.
She opted to stand, swaying with the rhythm of the train as it headed uptown.
She didn’t ride the subway enough anymore, Eve thought. Not that she missed it. Half the ads were in languages not her own, half the passengers were zoned or irritated. And there would always be one or two who smelled as if they had a religious objection to soap and water.
Such as the wizened, toothless beggar with his license around his grubby neck who gave her a gummy grin. Still, it only took one steely stare to have him looking elsewhere.
She supposed she’d missed that, just a little.
She shifted, whiling away the trip by studying the other passengers. Students, buried in their disc books. Kids heading out to the vids. An old man snoring loud enough to make her wonder if he’d slept through his stop already. Some tired-looking women with children, a couple of tough guys looking bored.
And the skinny, geeky guy in the unseasonable trench coat currently masturbating at the far end of the car.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She started over, but one of the tough guys spotted the geek, and obviously taking exception to the activity smashed a fist into the whacker’s face.
Blood spurted. Several people screamed. Though his nose was now a fountain, the geek kept himself in hand.
“Break it up.” Eve surged, reached down to grab tough guy number one when a fellow passenger panicked, sprang to his feet, and knocked Eve into the fist of tough guy number two.
“Goddamn it to hell!” She saw a couple of shooting stars, shook her head clear. “I’m the frigging police.” With her cheek throbbing, she smashed her elbow into tough guy number one to stop him from pounding on the giggling pervert still whacking off on the floor of the car, then stomped her foot on the instep of tough guy two.
When she hauled up the geek, snarled, everyone else stepped back. Something about the glint in her eye did what the tough guy’s fist hadn’t. The geek went limp.
She glanced down as he deflated, and let out a sigh. “Put that thing away,” s
he ordered.
Screw the subway, she grumbled as she strode up the long drive toward home. The ride had given her a sore jaw and a headache, and cost her the time it had taken to get off the damn car and turn the idiot over to the transit authority.
She didn’t much care that there was a nice breeze stirring up, an almost balmy one. Or that it carried hints of something sweet and floral into the air. She didn’t care that the sky was so clear she could see a three-quarter moon hanging in it like a lamp.
Okay, it looked nice, but hell.
She stomped inside, and after a terse inquiry, was told by the house system that Roarke was in the family media room.
Which was opposed to the main media room, she thought. Where the hell was it again? Because she wasn’t entirely sure and the hike from the subway stop to the front door had been considerable, she went into the elevator.
“Family media room,” she ordered, and was whisked up, and east.
The main media room was for parties and events, she remembered. It could fit more than a hundred people in plush chairs, and offered a wall screen as wide as a theater’s.
But the family media room was—she supposed he’d say—more intimate. Deep colors, she recalled, cushy seats. Two screens—one for vids, one for games. And the complex and complicated sound system that could play anything from the old-fashioned clunky vinyl records Roarke liked to fiddle with on occasion to the minute sound sticks.
She stepped into the room to a blast of sound that seemed to come from everywhere. Her eyes widened in reaction to the fast-moving space battle being waged over the wall screen.
Roarke was kicked back in a lounge chair, the cat in his lap, a glass of wine in his hand.
She should go to work, she told herself. Do more research on the Boston Strangler, keep digging for a connection between Wooton and Gregg. Though she was dead sure there would be no connection.
She should hound the sweepers, the ME, the lab. None of whom, she knew, would pay much attention to her at nearly ten on a Sunday night. But she could harass them anyway.
She could run probabilities, go over her notes, her suspect lists, stare at her murder board.