Creation in Death Read online

When Eve strode into the war room, she noted that two pizzas had been demolished along with most of a third. After setting down her notes, she marched over, grabbed a slice.

  “Got Jenkinson, Powell, Newkirk, and Harris on the line,” Peabody told her. “Everyone else is here.”

  “Mira’s on her way. I want her take on this.” Even as Eve bit in, Feeney was coming toward her.

  “You’ve got something. I can see it.”

  “Might. A possible link, possible method. I’m going to lay it out as soon as Mira’s in the room.” She glanced over, then handily caught the tube of Pepsi that Roarke tossed her. “Progress?” she asked him.

  “I have fifty-six most possible, given their vocations or avocations. Still coming.”

  “Okay. Peabody, get the screen up, backed with the disc I brought in.” She nodded when Mira came in. After taking a long sip, Eve put on the headset.

  “Listen up, people. I need your full attention. If you can’t eat pizza and think—”

  “You got pizza?” was Jenkinson’s complaint in her ear.

  “We’re working on a new theory,” Eve said, and began to lay it out.

  9

  “ONE OF CORRINE DAGBY’S COWORKERS AT THE time of her death remembers—or more accurately thinks she remembers—the vic mentioning she was up for a part in a play. Off-off Broadway. If she spoke of this to anyone else, family, friends, other students in her classes, they don’t recall.

  “Melissa Congress, second vic, secretarial position. Last seen leaving a club Lower West, well lubricated. This remains, most probably, a grab. A moment of opportunity. She was, however, known to complain with some consistency about her level of employment, her pay, her hours. There remains a possibility that she was approached about interviewing for another position and therefore knew or recognized her abductor.

  “Anise Waters,” Eve continued. “Grad student at Columbia. Fluent in Mandarin Chinese and Russian, and working on a master’s in political science. She sometimes supplemented her income by tutoring, most usually on campus. Last seen leaving the university’s main library. Wits stated that she took a pass on joining a group for drinks, claiming she had work. As she was a serious and dedicated student, it was assumed she was heading home to study. She didn’t mention, to anyone’s recollection, an outside tutoring job. The language discs she checked out from the library were never recovered. The vic did have a scheduled tutoring job, on campus, the next day. It was assumed she’d checked out the discs for that purpose.

  “Last, Joley Weitz. Last seen leaving Arts A Fact, a shop where she was employed, at approximately seventeen hundred. The vic did pottery, and had sold a few pieces she had on consignment at her place of employment. Her employer stated that the vic mentioned she had an important stop to make before she got ready for a date with a new boyfriend. The boyfriend was identified and cleared. As the vic had a dress on hold at a boutique she frequented, it was thought picking that item up for her date was her stop. She never reached the boutique, if indeed that was her intended destination.”

  She waited a moment, let it soak. “New theory. The vics were approached by the unsub at some time. York gave dance instruction, Rossi moonlights as a personal trainer off-site. It’s a reasonable assumption all or most of these women were offered a private job, and went to their killer. I’ve begun examining the other cases, outside of New York, and believe this possibility extends. We have an assistant chef, a photographer, a nurse, a decorator, a data cruncher, a freelance writer, two health care aides, two artists, a clerk in a nursery—plants, the owner of a small flower shop, a librarian, a hair and skin consultant, a hotel maid. A music instructor, an herbalist, a caterer’s assistant.

  “No link but physical appearance was ever found between these women. But if we factor in this possibility. An opportunity to head the kitchen for a private dinner party, to do a photo shoot, private nursing care, write an article, so on.”

  “Why didn’t anyone know they were going off for a private job, an audition?” Baxter asked.

  “Good question. Some of them are likely grabs, as we assumed all along. It’s also possible he took the time once they were inside the location to engage them in casual conversation, determine if they had told anyone. In some cases, outside jobs would be against their rules of employment. Cop moonlights as a security guard, a bouncer, a body guard, he keeps it to himself. Dr. Mira? Any thoughts on this?”

  “It could be another form of control and enjoyment. Inviting his victims in, having them willingly enter, would be yet more proof to him of his superiority over them. It may indeed be another part of the ritual he’s created. The lack of violence on the bodies—and by that I mean the fact there’s no evidence he used his fists, his hands to strike, to throttle, that there is no sexual molestation—indicates he isn’t physical in that way. The violence is through implements and tools. A method such as you’re theorizing would fall within the structure of his profile.”

  “I like it,” Baxter commented. “Makes more sense to me, if he’s hitting on sixty or over, he’d use deception instead of force to bag them.”

  “Agreed,” Eve said. “If this holds, it indicates he’s aware they’re physically stronger than he is, or might be,” Eve put in. “All these women were in good physical shape, a number of them in exceptional physical shape. He targets young, strong women. We believe he isn’t young, maybe he isn’t particularly strong.”

  “Which may be one of the reasons he needs to subdue, humiliate, and control them.” Mira nodded. “Yes, by luring them into a location he has secured, he’s dominated them intellectually, and then he proceeds to dominate them physically up to and including the point of their death. He not only masters them, but makes them other than they were. And by doing so, makes them his own.”

  “What does that tell us?” Eve scanned the room. “It tells us one thing we didn’t know about him before.”

  “He’s a coward,” Peabody said, and gave Eve a quick, inner glow of pride.

  “Exactly. He doesn’t, as we believed, confront his victims, doesn’t risk a public struggle, even with the aid of a drug. He uses guile and lies, the lure of money or advancement or the achievement of a personal goal. He has to know them well enough to use what works, or has the greatest potential of working. He may have spent more time observing and stalking each vic than we previously supposed. And the more time he spent, the more chance there is that someone, somewhere, saw him with one or more of the victims.”

  “We’ve been shooting blanks there,” Baxter reminded her.

  “We go back, interview again, and ask about men the vics spent time with at work, who may have taken one of their classes or talked about doing so. A month ago, two months ago. He wouldn’t have been back since he abducted them. He’s done with them; he’s moved on from that stage. Who used to hang out at these locations, or frequent them who hasn’t been there in the last week for York, the last three days for Rossi.

  “McNab, dig into Rossi’s comps, find me a new outside client. Roarke, names, addys, place of employment on everyone on your list who feels like she fits. Feeney, keep at the Urban War angle. Body identification, comments, commentaries, names of medics officially assigned, of volunteers where you can find them. I want photos, horror stories, war stories, editorials, every scrap you can dig up. Baxter, you and Trueheart hit the street. Jenkinson, you and Powell stay out there, find somebody whose memory can be jogged.

  “Write it up, Peabody.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She started out, and Feeney caught up with her. “Need a minute,” he said.

  “Sure. Got something?”

  “Your office.”

  With an easy shrug, she kept going. “Heading back there. I want to go through the cases between the first and this one more carefully, start calling names on the original interview lists. We just need one break, one goddamn crack, and we can bust it. I know it.”

  He said nothing as they wound through the bullpen, into her office. “Want c
offee?” she asked, then frowned as he closed the door. “Problem?”

  “How come you didn’t come to me with this?”

  “With what?”

  “This new theory.”

  “Well, I—” Sincerely baffled, she shook her head. “I just did.”

  “Bullshit. What you did was come out as primary, as team leader, you briefed and assigned. You didn’t run this by me. My case, you remember? It’s my case you were using out there.”

  “It just popped. Something York’s boyfriend said clicked on a new angle for me. I started working it and—”

  “You started working it,” he interrupted. “Going back over my case. A case where I was primary. I was in charge. I made the calls.”

  Because the muscles in her belly were starting to twist, Eve took a long, steady breath. “Yeah, like I’m going to go back over the others. They’re all part of the same whole, and if this is an opening—”

  “One I didn’t see?” His tired, baggy eyes were hard and bright now. “A call I didn’t make while the bodies were piling up?”

  “No. Jesus, Feeney. Nobody’s saying that or thinking that. It just turned for me. You’re the one who taught me when it turns for you, you push. I’m pushing.”

  “So.” He nodded slowly. “You remember who taught you anyway. Who made a cop out of you.”

  Now her throat was drying up on her. “I remember. I was there, Feeney, from the beginning when you pulled me out of uniform. And I was there for this case. Right there, and it didn’t turn for us.”

  “You owe me the respect of cluing me in when you’re going to pick my work apart. Instead you roll this out, roll it over me, and you push me off on some bullshit Urban Wars research. I lived and breathed this case, day and night.”

  “I know it. I—”

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve dug it out since and lived and breathed it again,” he interrupted furiously. “So now you figure it’s turned for you and you can rip my work to pieces without so much as a heads-up.”

  “That wasn’t my intent or my purpose. The investigation is my priority—”

  “It’s fucking well mine.”

  “Is it?” Temper and distress bubbled a nasty stew in her belly. “Fine, then, because I handled this the best I know how—fast. The faster we work it, the better Rossi’s chances are, and right now they’re about as good as a snowball’s in hell. Your work wasn’t the issue. Her life is.”

  “Don’t tell me about her life.” He jabbed his finger in the air toward her. “Or York’s, or Dagby’s, or Congress’s, Waters’s, or Weitz’s. You think you’re the only one who knows their names?” Bitterness crackled in his tone. “Who carries the weight of them around? Don’t you stand there and lecture me about your priorities. Lieutenant.”

  “You’ve made your viewpoint and your feelings on this matter clear. Captain. Now, as primary, I’m telling you, you need to back off. You need to take a break.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Take an hour in the crib, or go home and crash until you can shake this off.”

  “Or what? You’ll boot me off the investigation?”

  “Don’t bring it down to that,” she said quietly. “Don’t put either of us there.”

  “You put us here. You better think about that.” He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the glass shudder.

  Eve’s breath whistled out as she braced a hand on her desk, as she lowered herself into her chair. Her legs felt like water, her gut like a storm inside a violent sea.

  They’d had words before. It wasn’t possible to know someone, work with someone, especially under circumstances that were so often tense and harsh, and not have words. But these had been so biting and vicious, she felt as if her skin was flayed from them.

  She wanted water—just a gallon or two—to ease the burning of her throat, but didn’t think she was steady enough to get up and get it.

  So she sat until she got her wind back, until the tremor in her hands ceased. And with a headache raging from the base of her skull up to her crown, she called up the next file, prepared to make the next call.

  She stuck with it for two hours solid, with translators when necessary. Needing air, she rose, muscled her window open. And just stood, breathing in the cold. A couple more hours, she thought. In a couple more, she’d finish with this step, run more probabilities, write up the report.

  Organizing data and hunches, statements and hearsay, writing it all down in clear, factual language always helped you see it better, feel it better.

  Feeney had taught her that, too.

  Goddamn it.

  When her communicator signaled, she wanted to ignore it. Just let it beep while she stood, breathing in the cold.

  But she pulled it out. “Dallas.”

  “I think I’ve got something.” The excitement in McNab’s voice cut through the fog in her brain.

  “On my way.”

  When she walked into the war room, she could almost see the ripple of energy and could see Feeney wasn’t there.

  “Her home unit,” McNab began.

  “Fell into your lap, Blondie,” Callendar commented.

  “Was retrieved due to my exceptional e-skills, Tits.”

  The way they grinned at each other spoke of teamwork and giddy pride.

  “Save it,” Eve ordered. “What’ve you got?”

  “I’ll put it on the wall screen. I found it under ‘Gravy.’ I’d been picking through docs labeled ‘PT,’ ‘PP,’ ‘Instruction,’ and well, anyway. I hit the more obvious, figuring gravy was like nutrition or, I dunno, recipes. What she means is extra—the gravy.”

  “Private clients.”

  “Yeah, like she couldn’t have doc’d it that way? So, she’s had a bunch. Works with someone until they don’t want anymore, or does monthly follow-ups. Before she starts she does this basic analysis—sort of like a proposal, I think. Tons of them in there. But this one…”

  McNab tapped one of his fingers on the comp screen. “She created sixteen days ago, and she’s finessed and updated it here and there since. Up to the night before she poofed. She made a disc copy of it, which isn’t anywhere in her files.”

  “Took it with her,” Eve concluded as she studied the wall screen. “Took the proposal to the client. TED.”

  “His name, or the name he gave her. She has all her private clients listed by first name on the individualized programs she worked up.”

  “Height, weight, body type, measurements, age.” Eve felt a little giddy herself. “Medical history, at least as he gave it to her. Goals, suggested equipment and training programs, nutrition program. Thorough. Boys and girls,” Eve announced. “We’ve got our first description. Unsub is five feet, six and a quarter inches, at a weight of a hundred and sixty-three pounds. A little paunchy, aren’t you, you son of a bitch? Age seventy-one. Carries some weight around the middle, according to these measurements.”

  She kept her eyes on the screen. “Peabody, contact all officers in the field, relay this description. McNab, go through the comps from BodyWorks, find us Ted. Callendar, do a search on York’s electronics for this name, for any instruction program she might have written that includes body type, age. Anything that coordinates or adds to this data.”

  She turned. “Roarke, give me anything you’ve got. You and I will start contacting the women on your list, find out if they’ve been contacted or approached by anyone requesting a home visit. Uniforms, back to canvass, making inquiries about a man of this description. Baxter, Trueheart, you’re back to the club, back to the fitness center. Jog somebody’s memory. I need a station, a d and c. We’ve got a hole. Let’s pull this bastard out of it.”

  He sighed as he stepped back from his worktable. “You’re a disappointment to me Gia. I had such high hopes for you.”

  He’d hoped the rousing chorus from Aida would snap her back, at least a bit, but she simply lay there, eyes open and fixed.

  Not dead—her heart still beat, her lungs sti
ll worked. Catatonic. Which was, he admitted as he moved over to wash and sterilize his tools, interesting. He could slice and burn, gouge and snip without any reaction from her.

  And that was the problem, of course. This was a partnership, and his current partner was very much absent from the performance.

  “We’ll try again later,” he assured her. “I hate to see you fail this way. Physically you’re one of the best of all my girls, but it appears you lack the mental and emotional wherewithal.”

  He glanced at the clock. “Only twenty-six hours. Yes, that’s quite a step back. I don’t believe you’ll be breaking Sarifina’s record.”

  He replaced his tools, walked back to the table where his partner lay, bleeding from the fresh cuts, her torso mottled with bruising, crosshatched with thin slices.

  “I’ll just leave the music on for you. See if it reaches inside that head of yours.” He tapped her temple. “We’ll see what we see, dear. But I’m expecting a guest shortly. Now, I don’t want you to think of her as a replacement, or even a successor.”

  He leaned down, kissed her as yet unmarred cheek as kindly as a father might kiss a child. “You just rest awhile, then we’ll try again.”

  It was time—time, time, time—to go upstairs. To cleanse and change. Later he would brew the tea, and set out the pretty cookies. Company was coming.

  Company was such a treat!

  He unlocked the laboratory door, relocked it behind him. In his office, he glanced at the wall screen, tsked at the image of Gia as she lay comatose. He was afraid he would have to end things very soon.

  In his spotless white suit he sat at his desk to enter the most current data. She was simply not responding to any stimuli, he mused as he noted down her vital signs, the methods and music used in the last thirty minutes of their session. He’d believed the dry ice would bring her back, or the laser, the needles, the drugs he’d managed to secure.

  But it was time to admit, to accept. Gia’s clock was running down.

  Ah, well.

  When his log was completed, he made his way through the basement labyrinth, past the storage drawers that were no longer in use, past the old work area where his grandfather had forged his art once upon a time.