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  “Carving the heart in him,” Morris murmured, “like lovers carve a heart and their initials into a tree.”

  “Two of them?” Peabody hissed out a breath. “A couple?”

  “It’s a theory. And it’s Mira territory. I need to run this by her, but it’s an interesting theory. They strip him, use a ball gag – a SMB tool, they strip him, burn his balls. But no sexual assault or activity? Because they have each other for that.”

  “If this is valid, it would make what they did to him —”

  “Foreplay,” Eve finished when Morris couldn’t.

  Morris laid a hand on the shoulder of his dead friend. “I never ask, and shouldn’t now. But find them.”

  No, he never asked, Eve thought. And she shouldn’t answer as she felt compelled to. “I will. You can bank on it.”

  He’s sad again.” Peabody waited until they were outside. “The vic made him think of Coltraine, so he’s sad again.”

  “He’ll get through it.” But Eve considered calling the priest, remembering Morris had found both comfort and friendship with Chale López. “We work the case, we get it done, and he’ll get through it faster.”

  “Do you want me to see if I can schedule a meeting with Mira?”

  “Yeah. We’re going into Central first. I want to get the book and board going, stew on this couple theory a little. Tell her I’ll send her a report.”

  “Got it. You think this was random – I mean the choice of vic.”

  “Can’t say. Right now we don’t even know where he was attacked, where he was snatched. We need to talk to friends and associates,” she continued as she drove through thickening snowfall. “Stick with the E’s first – we don’t throw out one theory for another. But start contacting them and arranging for them to come to us at Central. That way if Mira has a window, I can slip through it.”

  Peabody fell silent and into work, then paused, frowned out the window at the snow. “I think it was a couple.”

  “Because you think I think it was?”

  “That made me see the maybe, but my first reaction was no. Just no, that’s too sick. Then – I’m going to say it before you do – we’ve seen sicker. A lot sicker. But it was the classic romance symbol of the heart that made me say no, then made me see the yes. They signed him – or one did for the other – not like a piece of art, but in a symbol of their twisted idea of love.”

  Eve waited a beat. “Why does that piss you off?”

  “Because I believe in symbols of love, goddamn it. There’s this big-ass tree back home. My dad carved his and Mom’s initials in it before any of us were born. And when we started coming along he built this circular bench all the way around it – gave it plenty of space between to grow more. And it has. It was so they could sit there, watching us play, and looking out over the gardens. And when each of us got to be about six, he helped us each build our own birdhouse, so there’s all these birdhouses hanging in the limbs, and wind chimes my mother made, and… It’s special, it’s really special, and it started when he carved that heart and their initials inside it. And…”

  “Don’t blubber, Peabody,” Eve warned, hearing it coming.

  “I’m not going to blubber. It’s just that when we went there for Christmas my parents took us both out there, to the tree, and my dad handed McNab his knife, and told him he should carve our initials in the tree. Because they know I love him, and he loves me, and they believe it’s the real, long-haul thing. It meant so much to me, just so much, because the tree, it’s special. It matters. Symbols matter, and they shouldn’t be used like this. That’s all.”

  Eve said nothing until she’d pulled into the garage at Central, parked in her spot. “People defile and despoil what’s good and pure and special every single fucking day. We see it, we know it, we deal with it.”

  “I know, but —”

  “Shut up. You think about this. When some sick fuck uses what’s good and pure and special in his sick-fuck way, it just makes the symbol stronger and more important. It doesn’t lessen it one damn bit, unless you let it.”

  Because she had blubbered a little, Peabody scrubbed her hands over her face. “You’re right. You’re so completely right. I just let it get to me.”

  “It was nice,” Eve said as they got out of the car. “What your parents did, it was nice.”

  She glanced over at the quick click of heels, saw Mira cutting toward the elevator from her own space.

  Eve thought the color of the coat that skimmed to the knees of Dr. Charlotte Mira’s excellent legs might be called aquamarine. The heels were certainly emerald as was the hint of the dress under the coat. A sassy beret of rich sapphire blue perched on her smooth bob of mink-colored hair. She carried a purse of the same color as the beret and a shoulder-strap briefcase of supple bronze leather.

  “Well, good morning. Are you just coming in, or… Peabody, are you all right?”

  Instinctively, Peabody scrubbed at her face again. “Oh yeah. I just had a moment, that’s all. And I just tagged your admin to see if you could squeeze Dallas in for a consult.”

  “So you’re just getting in, but not just coming on.” Mira turned her quiet blue eyes to Eve. “I’m actually not due in for another twenty minutes. I left early as I wasn’t sure how traffic would be once the snow started. I can come up with you to your office now, if you have the time.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  When she could grab time with the department’s top shrink and profiler, she grabbed it.

  “A new case? You’ve just gotten back from holiday.”

  “We got back yesterday afternoon. We caught the case about four this morning when a beat droid found the body.”

  Seeing no point in wasting time, Eve started the rundown as they got on the elevator.

  “Dennis and I went to the Met with friends, saw Giselle just last weekend. Your victim must have been playing.” Mira shifted as the elevator shuddered to a stop on nearly every floor and more cops piled on. “Held and tortured for two days. Sexual component?”

  “None that shows. The killer used a precise flame – probably a hand torch – to inflict small burns on the genitals.”

  Every male cop on the crowded car shifted, and Eve imagined cop balls shrinking up in sympathy and defense.

  “No mutilation?”

  “Not your standard. Broken bones, burns, cuts, bruises. Primarily torso, abdomen, limbs, broken and crushed fingers. Hacked his hair off, left insulting little tufts of it. He had a lot of thick, shiny hair.”

  “Humiliation. But the face, nearly unmarked, no mutilation of the genitals. It doesn’t feel personal.”

  “Somebody takes a torch to my balls, I’m taking it personal,” one of the cops said. Mira smiled at him.

  “Burns heal, Officer, given the time. Personal would be slicing them up or off.”

  “Acid.” Eve spoke casually. “I caught one once where the girlfriend got pissed, and when the guy was crashed on Zoner, poured acid on his balls.”

  Grateful when the elevator stopped on Homicide level, Eve pushed her way through cops, did her best to make a hole for Mira and Peabody.

  “Everyone with balls on that car is going to check his own, first chance,” she said, and made Mira laugh.

  “I think that’s an accurate analysis.”

  When they turned into Homicide, Eve saw Detective Baxter start to stand up, as if he’d been watching for her. But he settled back again.

  “Hey, Dr. Mira. Looking good.”

  “As do you, Detective. Always.” Mira glanced toward the corner where they’d had the perfectly pathetic holiday tree. And where Eve, Baxter and nearly every cop currently in the room had come far too close to death on the last day of 2060.

  “I’ll miss your very eclectic and inclusive holiday decorations,” she said. “Maybe you can do something for Valentine’s Day.”

  “Not ever.” Eve said it definitely in case anybody got some weird ideas. “Peabody, start arranging the interviews. Dr. Mira, why don�
��t you go into my office? I’m right behind you.” But she crossed to Baxter first.

  “Something hot?”

  “No, nothing hot, boss.” He shrugged shoulders that filled out a smart, perfectly cut suit. “Just something I wanted to touch base with you on when you get a minute.”

  “After I talk to Mira.” She looked across the room, studied Jenkinson’s tie. Today’s had white snowflakes swirling against a blue so bold and lively Eve thought it might have a pulse.

  “That’s never going to stop, is it?”

  Baxter grinned, shook his head. “It’s now a Homicide Division tradition. Reineke told me Jenkinson’s found a street vendor who’ll sell them to him at a discount when he buys five at a go.”

  “God help us all,” Eve muttered, and walked away to join Mira.

  4

  In Eve’s office with its single skinny window, Mira sat in the ass-biting visitor’s chair – as close to its edge as she could manage without tipping over.

  “Let me get this set up, then you can take the desk chair.” Eve frowned at the ugly, miserable excuse for a chair she’d had since she’d had the office. “I guess I should probably requisition a new visitor’s chair.”

  “Which you haven’t done before because you’d prefer not to have visitors in here.”

  “It’s getting hard to keep them out. I didn’t mean you.”

  Understanding perfectly, Mira pulled off her beret, fluffed her rich brown hair. “Not today at any rate.”

  “You want some of that tea? I’ve got some.”

  “Actually¸ at this time of the day I wouldn’t mind some of your superior coffee.”

  Eve walked to the AutoChef – every bit as ancient as the chair – programmed two coffees. “I want to get the board up. It’ll be easier to show you.” With the coffee at her elbow, Eve sat at the desk to get it started. After interfacing her recorder, she ordered the crime scene shots she wanted.

  “I’ll have a report written up, and a copy of Morris’s findings within the hour,” she began. “Next of kin – vic’s mother – has been notified and interviewed. Other than the vic’s doorman, we haven’t talked to anyone else. Peabody and I went through his residence, tagged electronics for EDD, but there’s nothing in there to indicate he had trouble. The picture coming through,” she continued as she transferred images to her board, “is of a successful, talented man who had a wide group of friends. That included Morris, as a kind of acquaintance.”

  “Morris knew the victim?”

  “The vic routinely dropped into jazz and blues clubs, jammed with other musicians. He had a range of musical talent and interests.”

  “As does Morris,” Mira said with a nod.

  “Quick aside. It hit him kind of hard – reminded him of Coltraine. You could see it. I thought about calling the priest – López. They hit it off.”

  Mira nodded again. “It’s a good thought. I’d give him a day or two, see if he reaches out himself, or feels the need. You’re a very good judge, a good friend. You’ll know.”

  “Okay.” It helped, and bought her time before she moved on the idea of poking into Morris’s personal business. She’d give it a day or two.

  “Morris’s impressions of him jibe with the mother’s interview,” Eve continued, more comfortable with the business of death. “Nice guy, talented guy, friendly, who enjoyed intimate relationships with both sexes on, reputedly, a casual basis. No enemies, no particular lover, very social, very dedicated to his craft.”

  Rising, Eve pointed to her chair. She preferred standing in any case. “We haven’t established when he was taken, or if he went willingly. As the blow to the back of the head was the first strike, it’s more likely he was attacked and taken, then held for two days. Tortured.”

  Though Mira rose, she didn’t take Eve’s chair but stood beside her, studying the board. “Burns, lacerations, contusions. Bones crushed and broken.”

  “Increasing in severity. Lesser ones are older. Three kinds of sharps is Morris’s opinion. An ice pick or something similar, a jagged-edged blade and a smooth blade. The burns are from both cigarettes and a flame tool – one capable of pinpoint, precise flame. The vic was restrained with duct tape, or a similar product, but gagged with a ball gag.”

  “Most usually a sexual tool.”

  “No sign of sexual assault or activity. And you can see the wounds on the genitals are less severe than those on the torso and limbs.”

  “The same with his face, but the hair was shorn and hacked off – crudely. And the body was naked. Those are humiliation, and the hair would be more personal. But the lack of mutilation, face and genitals is more impersonal.”

  “And this.” Eve tapped the photo of the carved heart and initials.

  “D for Dorian. E for the killer.” Mira frowned. “Very personal, even romantic. It’s very precisely done, isn’t it? But…”

  “Yeah, but.”

  “I would expect to see more attention paid to the genitals, the face. I would expect some sort of sexual component. If this was a jilted or unhappy lover, or a delusional fan who craved and imagined a relationship, I would expect to see that reflected in his wounds.”

  “Yeah. And what we see is an escalation – humiliation, pain, fear, blood – and Morris said some of the wounds were treated.”

  “Ah.” Mira nodded. “To keep it from ending too soon. The slice across the abdomen was the final?”

  “Yeah, that’s the kill shot, and would have taken some time to take the vic under, for him to bleed out.”

  “We’ll need more data on the victim, a better sense of him and those around him. But if this was random – not personal – it’s very possible you have a team.”

  That clicked, just clicked for her. “Romantically, sexually linked, initials D and E, who get off on torture and murder.”

  “I need more data,” Mira began, “but if the victim was specifically targeted, you’d look for someone who wanted to humiliate and terrorize, while having complete control. If Dorian Kuper was chosen randomly, and this is where I lean with the current data, you would still look for a sadist, one who uses both the symbolic sadism of cutting off the hair, as well as the infliction of pain while the victim is bound and helpless.”

  “The heart changes it. The signature changes it,” Eve insisted.

  “Perhaps. If this is a couple then it’s highly likely they are sexual sadists who use this humiliation, this control, this infliction of pain as sexual stimulus – which they use for each other rather than the victim. There’s no piquerism,” she murmured. “No stabbing of the breasts, the buttocks, no mutilation of genitals, no rape. The variance in wounds, in tools…”

  She broke off and, as Eve often did, circled around the board, the office. “Most usually you’d expect a dominant and a submissive. One to inflict the pain, one to watch. Or one to order the submission to inflict the pain. But, at this preliminary stage, it may be they are a true couple, a team of equal power and authority.”

  “It has to be planned out – not impulse. Had to have the place – private place to torture this vic for two days. The transportation, the tools.”

  “Predatory psychopath – or psychopaths – who plan, even rehearse. Sadists who enjoy and are stimulated by inflicting pain. Lust murder perhaps. The death and dying he or they cause brings intense pleasure. The heart symbolizes love, unity. They believe themselves in love, and the victim is a gift to each other.”

  “I don’t know if Kuper’s the first – we’re running like crimes – but he won’t be the last. Predators have to hunt. Sadists need victims. And lovers, if we’re dealing with that, need that sexual rush.”

  “Agreed. It is possible that, while the heart is a signature, a symbol, the killer romanticizes his kill, the victim. It may be a single predator, lacking the sexual drive and component. A romantic. I’m sorry I can’t be more definitive.”

  “No, I’ve got clear avenues to pursue. And we’ll have more data once we pull in friends, coworkers. We’
ll know more when we get something from IRCCA. I’ll send you a report once I have enough to put together. Thanks for the time.”

  “Paid in full by the coffee.” She handed Eve the empty cup, then smiled. “You look well rested. I can’t say that often.”

  “I had days to do pretty much nothing but lie around.”

  “You earned it. None of us will forget how we spent the last day of the year anytime soon. Keep me in the loop,” she added, with another glance at the board before she left. “I very much want to profile this one.”

  Alone, Eve sat to write up her preliminary report, to start the murder book, to refine the board. She added Morris’s report when it came through, then glanced up when she heard the clomp of Peabody’s fuzzy-topped boots.

  “I’ve got the first of the interviews coming in,” she reported. “I staggered them by thirty minutes. I was able to pull in Chamberlin. He talked the vic’s mother into taking a tranq, and activated Maeve the droid to stay with her. He’s pretty anxious to talk to you, so I put him first.”

  “Good. Always good to talk to the top guy. Now if they’d just send me – Finally,” she said when her computer signaled incoming. “IRCCA results. Computer, on screen.”

  Peabody edged in as the data began to scroll.

  “Holy shit, Dallas, that’s a lot of like crimes.”

  “Computer, remove any closed cases. Remove any result that includes sexual assault, mutilation or rape.”

  Leaning back, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “That takes it down. Computer, highlight all results with the element of a heart carved or burned into the body.”

  Those brows lowered and knit when twenty highlighted.

  “Results with the initials D and E carved or burned into the body.”

  “I repeat, Dallas. Holy shit.”

  “Twenty,” Eve stated. “Twenty from Tennessee to New Jersey. Males, females, an assortment of races, ages. No specific type. First one’s last September. It averages about one a week, but…”