The Unquiet Page 4

  “And this green, red-eyed monster was dancing in the streetlight.”

  “And laughing, sir, in what the wit describes as a wild, guttural laugh. I believe her, Lieutenant, I mean about what she saw. It could be the subject was wearing a mask or a disguise.”

  “Yeah.” Eve heaved out a sigh. “Will she work with an artist?”

  “She’s anxious to.”

  “Contact Detective Yancy at Central, and get her to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She shoved the com into her pocket. “A green, red-eyed, cape-wearing monster.”

  “Or possibly demon,” Peabody put in and earned a sneer. “I’m not saying I believe in monsters and demons, but somebody hyped up on Zeus, say, convinced he is one, gets in the gear to top it off. Since the wit only saw one man, and the evidence leans toward one man—he’d have to be hyped on something. Zeus not only makes you crazy, but it deadens you to pain, pumps the adrenaline.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see it through.” She checked the time. “I want you to go by Slice, talk to the boss, the coworkers, and do the same at the twenty-four/seven. You can round it off with the diner they used as a hang spot. Maybe they had some trouble last night, or somebody followed them home. I’m going to swing by the morgue, see what Morris can give us. We’ll hook up back at Central.”

  “I’d sure as hell rather go to a pizza joint than the morgue. Want me to bring you a slice?”

  “No . . . maybe. Yeah.”

  Eve slid behind the wheel and headed for the morgue.

  Zeus was a good fit, she thought, but not a perfect one. It fit the violence, the frenzy of it. But not the calculation. Still, a blend . . . and some enterprising soul was always coming up with a new and improved in the illegals game.

  Flying on Zeus, a man could hack, beat, choke—and laugh his ass off while doing it. But he couldn’t plan—costume, satchel with weapons and protective gear, gloved or sealed hands. She didn’t expect the sweepers to gift wrap the killer’s prints for her.

  He’d broken in through the back window, Eve thought, bringing the scene back into her head. Need a tool for that, in the satchel. Climb in, nice and quiet—something else that didn’t fit the Zeus, not pure Zeus. Bathroom, back room all neat and tidy, so the killer had moved straight into the front of the shop and the vics.

  Target specific, premeditated, planned. She was sure of it.

  Motive was a murky area.

  She considered, rejected, fiddled with various theories through downtown traffic, then let them simmer as she walked into the white tunnel of the morgue.

  Morris wore a gray suit and a strong red tie. The choice cheered her a little. His wardrobe rarely varied from black since the murder of his lover. The band twined through his braid of dark hair matched the tie.

  His long, clever eyes met hers over the open body of Jennifer Darnell. Through the speakers, a sax wailed out a jazzy riff.

  “I see you got me a triple-header.”

  “The monster did it.”

  “Not difficult to believe, given the condition of these young people. There’s internal abuse, self-inflicted from years of illegals ingestion, poor diet. They lived hard for their short time. I found signs of recovery and reversal. If they’d lived and kept clean, they should have done well enough.”

  “Were they keeping clean?”

  “Knowing you’d ask, I ran and rushed the tox screen first, and they were. Their last meal, which I assume they shared about midnight, was pizza, a diet cola for the girl, straight cola for the boys.”

  “Sexual activity, consensual or forced?”

  “No. Victim one—in order of TOD—suffered multiple broken bones and ribs, some of them postmortem. COD would be a fractured skull. He’d literally had his brains bashed in. By a bat or pipe, some three inches in diameter, and extreme force. I found some paint flakes in the wounds. I’ve sent them to the lab.”

  “Head blow first?” Eve speculated.

  “From my reconstruction, which is still preliminary, yes. A blow here.” Morris tapped the side of his hand diagonally over his right temple. “It would have knocked him out cold. It’s unlikely he felt the rest.”

  “Small favor.”

  “Victim two, multiple stab wounds inflicted with a jagged-edged blade, some four inches in length. Not a hunting or carving knife. More likely an inexpensive meat knife. The tip broke on bone, and that’s at the lab as well. He was stabbed first center of the chest, two strikes, and once in the abdomen. Again, from my prelim, the rest of the wounds came several minutes later.”

  “Incapacitate both males.”

  “And her. As in your notes, she was struck with the same bat as killed her friend, across the knees, shattering her kneecaps. The ear, eye, and tongue were removed postmortem, and with a smooth, sharp blade—a scalpel would be my opinion. And it was done with precision. Do you know how many are responsible for this?”

  “One.”

  Morris’s eyebrows shot up. “One? You never fail to intrigue.” He looked over the bodies again. “The damage here, the strength, the sheer energy it took to beat the first vic was considerable. On the second, the stab wounds are very deep, very forceful, and there are eighty-five holes in that unfortunate boy. That also takes strength and energy. Considerable endurance.”

  “And when he’d finished there, he still had enough to manually strangle—correct?”

  “Yes,” Morris confirmed, “he used his own hands.”

  “To manually strangle the third, which also takes strength. And still after that, he had it in him to break chairs, tables, basically wreak havoc. He ended it, according to the wit we’re working with, by dancing down the sidewalk.”

  “Then he has a powerful constitution, probably chemically enhanced. He enjoyed this.” Morris laid a gentle hand on Jennifer Darnell’s head. “I’m not Mira, so that’s simply a dead doctor’s take. But you and I see, every day, what one human being is capable of doing to another. This one enjoyed himself.”

  “Yeah, and when they have that much fun, they want to do it again.”

  She headed to Central. She needed to review her notes, write an initial report—harass the sweepers and the lab for theirs—start her murder board and book. And she wanted a look at the wit, or at least Yancy’s sketch.

  Somewhere in there she wanted to carve out some time to do a good, solid run on Eton Asshole Billingsly.

  She smelled cookies the minute she stepped into the bullpen, caught the scatter of crumbs on Jenkinson’s shirt, watched Baxter stuff the remains of one in his mouth before he offered her a big smile.

  “Nadine’s in your office, LT.”

  “Pathetic. Pathetic that a bunch of cops, fat-assing at their desks instead of out taking down bad guys, can be bribed with cookies.”

  Jenkinson shot up a hand. “We got one, Dallas. Reineke’s walking him down to lockup. I’m doing the fives.”

  “With cookie crumbs on your shirt.”

  He brushed at them hastily as she turned away to stride to her office. Where Nadine Furst, reporter extraordinaire, lounged in her visitor’s chair, nibbling on a cookie and working on her PPC.

  Saying nothing, Eve lifted the lid of the bakery box on her desk, took out a fat chocolate chip. “What do you want?”

  “A man of amazing sexual prowess, great sensitivity, stupendous abs, and the face of an angel. Toss in a wicked sense of humor and stupendous wealth, who adores the very ground I walk on. Oh wait, you already have him.”

  Eve bit into the cookie.

  “Second choice?”

  Nadine fluffed back her streaky blond hair, smiled her feline smile with her cat’s eyes glinting. “I heard you caught a messy one.”

  “That’s right. I don’t have anything to give you. I haven’t put it together yet.”

  “Three victims, beaten, stabbed, and strangled, recovering addicts with a connection to the Whitwood Group—killed, in fact, on property owned by same. The Whitwoods are always a strong story.”

&n
bsp; “The victims are the story.”

  “I know.” Nadine’s smile faded. “They were young, trying to turn things around. Are you looking at gang and/or illegalsrelated murders?”

  “I’m looking at everything, everyone.”

  “Including the Whitwoods, and the very dreamy Justin Rosenthall.”

  “Including.” Nadine, Eve calculated, was always a good source. “What do you know about Eton Billingsly?”

  “He’s a dick.”

  “I got that much.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “Nadine, it’s too early.”

  “Well, I hope he is, because he’s, as I said, a dick. Comes from money. Not quite on the Whitwood level, but he’s got a fat portfolio. He also seriously courted the lovely Arianna, who fell head over skirt for Rosenthall—who is not a dick. I don’t know much about him, but I can find out.”

  “I’m working on it.” Eve took another bite of cookie. Damn fine cookie. “What else do you want?”

  “You’re just back from closing a big one in Dallas. Isaac McQueen—the second time you took him down. It’s a hot story, Dallas. Him coming after you, abducting one of his former victims. I want you to come on Now and talk about it.”

  Eve set the cookie aside. Damn fine or not, her appetite dried up. “I’m not going to do that.”

  Before she could say anything else, Nadine held up a hand. “And I’m not going to press you. I had to ask.”

  “It’s not like you to give up so easy.”

  Nadine recrossed her legs. “A couple of years ago when you and I hooked up over the DeBlass case, I did a little research. I like to know who I’m working with.”

  Eve said nothing.

  “It’s not easy getting much background on you, but I know you were found in Dallas when you were a child, and you’d been . . . hurt. The reporter wants an interview, Dallas, but the friend won’t push. Friendship’s stronger than a story.”

  “Okay.” And it was.

  “When you get something on this new case, maybe you can give me a heads-up.”

  “Maybe I could. You should contact Bree and Melinda Jones,” Eve said as Nadine rose. “You should go to Dallas, where it happened, talk to them there.”

  “I intended to contact them.” Nadine angled her head. “An on-location special? That’s not bad. Some of it in the apartment where he kept Melinda Jones and the girl, some in the hotel suite where he came after you. No, that’s not half-bad. I’ve got to go.”

  At the door, Nadine paused, glanced back. “Dallas, anytime you want to talk to the friend, about any of it, the reporter will step back.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Alone, Eve turned to her ’link and contacted another friend. She was shuffled directly to Dr. Louise Dimatto’s v-mail, left a message asking for a meeting.

  Rising, she programmed coffee, then began to set up her board. She’d work better with the visuals.

  When she finished, she started her report.

  “That’s particularly gruesome,” Roarke said from her doorway.

  Nadine had been right, Eve thought, in her summary of him. Oh, she’d left a few things out, but all in all. He did have the face of an angel, a fallen one, with the wings well-singed, but that only made him more compelling. That and those wildly blue eyes, the silky black hair. He wore one of his sharp business suits, but there was no asshole vibe here as with Billingsly.

  This was power, success, sex, and danger all rolled into one streamlined package with Ireland gilding his voice.

  Still.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I had business nearby, and took a chance I’d see my wife. And here she is. This is new,” he said, looking at her board again.

  “Caught it this morning. Oh, Justin Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood say hi.”

  “Is that so?” He shifted his gaze back to her. “What would they have to do with this?”

  “That’s a question. How well do you know them?”

  “Not that well.” He ran a hand absently over Eve’s shoulder as he moved closer to the board. “Surface, socially, charitable foundation events sort of knowing. He’s intense without being preachy, and she’s dedicated without being tiresome. And they both put their time and effort into their particular cause.”

  “Eton Billingsly.”

  “Git,” Roarke said, using his childhood slang in insult.

  “Maybe you can elaborate on that later, but right now I have to—” She broke off, answered her ’link.

  “Dallas.”

  “I’ve got the sketch, Lieutenant,” Yancy told her. “I think you’re going to want to see it.”

  “On my way.”

  She clicked off, rose.

  “Why not have it sent to your comp?”

  “Because he’s going to want to explain it to me.” She thought of the description. “You can tag along.”

  “Why not, since it’s unlikely I can talk you into a late lunch or early dinner.” He flipped open the bakery box, helped himself to a cookie. “This will have to do. I haven’t had time to monitor the police reports,” he added as they walked. “Tell me about the case.”

  She did as they used the glides to get to Yancy’s level.

  “A strong Whitwood-Rosenthall connection,” he commented. “As I said, I don’t know them well, but I can’t see them involved in that. Unfortunately, I can’t see Billingsly involved either. Certainly he wouldn’t stoop to getting his hands dirty.”

  “People who work with addicts, day in, day out, sometimes end up using themselves. Maybe one, or more than one of them, gets in too deep. Newly recoverings can be like converts. Fervent. One of them finds out, threatens to spill it. Reputation’s ruined, the Center blackened, blah, blah.

  “Whoever did it had some medical training,” she added. “Morris confirms the amputations weren’t the work of an amateur.”

  “Any number of people at the Center and Get Straight would have medical training.”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to look at all of them.”

  She moved through Yancy’s division, straight to the glass cube where she saw him and a woman in her early thirties with a baby on her lap.

  Yancy gave Eve a nod.

  “Cynthia, this is Lieutenant Dallas. LT, Cynthia Kopel—and Lilian.”

  “Thanks for coming in Ms. Kopel.”

  “I’m happy to. I only wish I’d contacted the police last night, when I saw him. But I just thought it was some crazy. I didn’t know about those people until Officer Slovic knocked on the door today.”

  As she spoke, the baby sucked heroically on one of the plugs parents used to keep babies from screaming—as far as Eve knew.

  “We appreciate your cooperation and information. Can I see the sketch?”

  Yancy exchanged a look with the witness, and Cynthia sighed. “It’s what I saw. I know how it looks, but it’s what I saw.”

  Eve held out a hand for the printout. And when Yancy gave it to her, looked at the face of a monster.

  FIVE

  The crooked jaw accented a twisted mouth with teeth long, sharp, and prominent. A thin nose hooked over it. The eyes bulged and gleamed red against skin of pale, sickly green. Hair fell in oily twists over a wide forehead, over ears with a defined point, nearly to the shoulders of a swirled black cape.

  “I know how it looks,” Cynthia repeated, bouncing the baby on her knee either out of nerves or habit. “I know I sound like a nutcase, but I’m not. I got a good look because he was dancing around in the streetlight, like it was a spotlight on a stage. Just weird. Well, I thought—after it scared the hell out of me for a second—just some weird guy. But then when the police came and said those three people had been murdered right across the street . . .”

  “Maybe he dressed up for it,” Eve considered. “Theatrics.”

  “I know he was creepy. And that laugh.” Cynthia shuddered. “It was this maniacal laugh, but low and deep—and kind of raw. Like he had something stuc
k in his throat. After he stuffed something in the recycler, he bent over, his hands on his knees, laughing and laughing. I started to go wake up Reed—Lilian’s daddy—but then he—this guy—left. He went up the street—spinning around so the cape he was wearing twirled.”

  She let out a sigh. “You see all kinds of strange stuff and people in the city, and half the time you barely notice or get a kick out of it, you know? But this was . . . Well, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.”

  “When you see something like this in the middle of the night outside your window, it would spook you,” Eve commented.

  The tension in Cynthia’s face eased. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I felt stupid, but then those three people, I had to report it once I knew. However he looked, how could he be laughing and dancing around after killing them? He is a monster.” She drew the baby closer. “On the inside, he’s exactly how he looked. Evil.”

  “I know how it looks, too,” Yancy said after he’d walked Cynthia out. “But she was solid, Dallas.”

  “Yeah, I got that. I don’t think we’ll be issuing a BOLO on this face at this time, but she saw what she saw. The attitude fits—the laughing, dancing around, the theatrics. There was definite glee in the killings. So he dresses up for it, adds some punch.” She frowned over the sketch. “He strangled Darnell face-to-face. Is this what he wanted her to see? Adds more fear, but it’s not as personal if she’s seeing this mask, this disguise, and not him.”

  “Are you certain she knew him?” Roarke asked.

  “Oh yeah. They knew each other. He knew all of them. Ear, eyes, tongue. What did they hear, see? What was he afraid they’d say? So . . . send me the file copy,” she said to Yancy. “We’ll start checking costume shops, theaters.”

  “If it’s makeup,” Yancy told her, “he’s a pro and an expert. If it’s a mask of some kind, it’s damn good, so it’d cost large.”

  “Yeah. And that should help. Nice job, Yancy.”

  “Here to serve. Strangest sketch I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some strange.”

  “Have you considered a combination?” Roarke asked as they walked back. “That he has some sort of deformity and played it up. The jaw—if your witness has it right—it looks severely dislocated.”