Creation in Death Page 8

  There were a few of the expected smirks at this, and Feeney just eyeballed the smirkers until they faded away.

  “Neighbors confirm the arrangement. Nor was Riley able to reach her via her pocket ’link. We’ve confirmed that he did, in fact, attempt to ascertain her whereabouts by contacting her coworkers, her friends. The statements given to the responding officer and to me have been corroborated. He is not considered involved in her disappearance.

  “Habitually the subject exited the building on Forty-sixth and walked west to Broadway, then north to the Forty-ninth Street subway. We’ll canvass for witnesses in that area. Transit Authority security discs do not show the subject entering that station on Thursday evening, nor has her Metro pass been used since Thursday morning. Witnesses do verify the subject left the building at approximately seventeen-thirty on the night in question. She was wearing a black coat, black sweatpants, a gray sweatshirt with the BodyWorks logo, and a gray watch cap.”

  He stepped back, looked at Eve. “Lieutenant.”

  “The subject fits the established pattern. Probability runs exceed ninety-six percent that she was taken and is being held by the unsub. Her disappearance and other information gathered today add another element to the pattern. Both York and Rossi were employed by an arm of Roarke Enterprises. Given the breadth of that organization, that factor alone scores low on the probability scale for a connect. However, the soap and shampoo identified by brand by the lab has been determined to be manufactured and sold through subsidiaries of that organization, as was the sheet used with York.”

  Roarke felt the eyes on him, and the speculation. Accepted them.

  “The probability is high,” Eve continued, “that there’s a connection on some level between the unsub and Roarke Enterprises. To this point, no connection, no central point has ever been determined. Now we have one, and we’re going to use it. The hair and body products are extreme high-end and have limited outlets. He bought them somewhere. McNab, find out where.”

  “On it.”

  “Callendar, take the sheet, cross-reference purchases with McNab’s data. Roarke.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Employee lists. Find and pull out individuals who fit the pattern and work or live in the city. He takes them from the city. He will, in all likelihood, move on number three within a matter of days. We need names.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “Jenkinson, I want a full and detailed report from you and Powell by nineteen hundred. Baxter, the same from you and Trueheart. I’ll be available twenty-four/seven, and expect to be notified immediately should any new data come to light. We’ll brief again at oh-eight-hundred. That’s it.”

  She pulled off her headset. “Peabody.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Log and copy, then go home and get some sleep. Feeney, can you look over the e-work to date, send me a basic rundown?”

  “Can and will,” Feeney confirmed.

  “Roarke, go ahead and log and copy what you’ve got so far, then shoot additionals to my unit here and at home. When you’re done, I need you in my office.”

  Eve walked out, contacting Mira’s office on the way. “Put me through to her,” she ordered Mira’s overprotective admin. “Don’t give me any crap.”

  “Right away.”

  “Eve.” Mira’s face swam on, and instantly her eyes registered concern. “You look exhausted.”

  “Second wind blew out, I’m waiting for the third to blow in. I need a sit-down with you.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll clear any time that works for you.”

  “I want to say now, but I need that wind before I start digging through the psychology of this. And there’s more data that needs to be factored in from your end. Peabody’s sending you a copy of the update right about now.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “After the eight-o’clock briefing.”

  “I’ll come to you. Get some sleep, Eve.”

  “I’m going to factor that in, somewhere.”

  She went into her office, programmed more coffee, and considered popping one of the departmentally approved energy pills. But they always made her jittery.

  She drank, standing at her narrow office window, looking out at her slice of the city. Commuter trams were crisscrossing the sky, lights beaming against the growing dark.

  Time to go home, time to have dinner and kick back, watch a little screen.

  Below, the street was thick with traffic, with people thinking just the same as those who chugged along above their heads.

  And somewhere out there was a man who really enjoyed his work. He wasn’t thinking about kicking back.

  Did he take a dinner break? she wondered. Have a nice, hearty meal before he went back to the business at hand? When had he started on Gia Rossi? When did he start the clock?

  Forty-seven hours missing, Eve thought. But he wouldn’t start it ticking until he got down to it. Number two always started after number one was finished.

  She didn’t hear Roarke come in, he had a skill for silence. But she sensed him. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” she said. “Maybe he won’t start on her until tomorrow. We’ve got another angle to work this time, so we could get lucky.”

  “She’s gone. You know it.”

  Eve turned. He looked angry, she thought, which was probably a good thing, and just a little worn around the edges, which was a rare one. “I don’t know it until I’m standing over her body. That’s the way I’m dealing with it. We’re going home. We can work from home.”

  He closed the door behind him. “I looked her up. She’s worked for me for nearly four years. Her parents are divorced. She has a younger brother, a half brother, a stepsister. She went to college in Baltimore, where her mother and younger brother still live. Her employee evaluations have been, consistently, excellent. She was given a raise three weeks ago.”

  “You know this isn’t your fault.”

  “Fault?” He could be faulted for a great deal, he knew and accepted that. But not for this. “No. But somewhere in it, I may very well be the reason these particular women die at this particular time.”

  “Reason has nothing to do with it. You’re no good to me if you screw yourself up with misplaced guilt. You do that, you’re out.”

  “You can’t push me out,” he countered, with considerable heat. “With or without your bleeding task force, your sodding procedure, I’m bloody well in this.”

  “Fine. Waste time pissing on me then.” She grabbed her coat. “That’s helpful.”

  She started to shove by him, but he grabbed her arm, swung her around. For an instant the rage was carved into his face. Then he yanked her against him, banded his arms around her.

  “I have to piss on someone. You’re handy.”

  “Maybe.” She let herself relax against him. “Okay, maybe. But you have to think in a clear line with this. I need your brain, as well as your resources. It’s another advantage we didn’t have nine years ago.”

  “Knowing you’re right doesn’t make it easier to swallow. I’ve got to get out of this place,” he said as he eased back. “That’s God’s shining truth. I can only breathe in cop for so long without choking.”

  “Hey.”

  He tapped his finger on her chin. “Excepting one.”

  She hauled up the file bag she wanted to take with her. “Let’s go.”

  She drove primarily because she knew the battle uptown would keep her awake. A hot shower, she thought, something quick and solid in her stomach, and she’d be good to go for a few more hours.

  “Summerset would be useful,” Roarke considered.

  “As what, a hockey stick?”

  “The employee files, Eve. He can run those, generate a list of women who fit this pattern who work for me. It would free my time up for other things.”

  “All right, as long as he understands he answers to me. And that I get to debase him and ream him out as is often necessary with those under my command. And adds some entertainment t
o my day.”

  “Because you’re so good at it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a knack.” She scanned the army of vehicles heading north, the throngs of pedestrians hustling along on the sidewalk, the glides, or bullying their way on the crosswalks. “Nobody notices things—other people. Sure, if somebody jumps out of a building and lands on their head, it gives them a moment’s pause, but they don’t click to a woman being forced into a car or a van or Christ knows unless she puts up one hell of a stink about it. Mostly, they just keep their heads down and keep going.”

  “Cynicism is another of your finely tuned skills. It’s not always so, not with everyone.”

  She shrugged. “No, not always. He’s slick about it, or has some cover, something people don’t register. If she kicked up enough fuss, yeah, somebody would notice. They might not do anything about it, but they’d notice. So no overt struggle on the street. One of the working theories is he drugs them somehow rather than overpowers them.

  “Quick jab,” she added. “Wraps an arm around her. ‘Hey, Sari, how you doing?’ Just a guy walking along with some zoned-out woman, helping her into his ride. Ride would need to be close to wherever he picks her up. Going to hit lots and garages tomorrow.”

  When she drove through the gates of home, she couldn’t remember ever being more grateful to see the jut and spread of the gorgeous house, to see the lights in the windows.

  “Going to grab a shower, grab something to eat in my office.”

  “You’re going to grab some sleep,” he corrected. “You’re burnt, Eve.”

  No question she was, but it annoyed her to have it pointed out. “I got some left.”

  “Bollocks. You haven’t slept in more than thirty-six hours. Neither have I, come to that. We both need some sleep.”

  “I’ll take a couple hours after I set up a board here, review some notes.”

  Rather than argue—he was too bloody tired to bother—he said nothing. He’d just dump her into bed bodily, and he imagined once she was horizontal for thirty seconds, she’d be unconscious.

  She parked in front of the house, grabbed her file bag.

  She knew Summerset would be in the foyer, and he didn’t disappoint. “Fill your personal cadaver in,” Eve said before Summerset could speak. “I’m hitting the showers before I get started on this.”

  She headed straight up, neglecting to take off her coat and sling it over the newel as was her habit. And which, she knew, irritated Summerset’s bony ass. Once she was out of sight, she rubbed at her gritty eyes, and allowed the yawn that had been barely suppressed to escape.

  The shower was going to feel like a miracle.

  She dumped the bag in the bedroom, shrugged out of her coat. As she hit the release on her weapon harness, her gaze landed on the bed. Maybe five minutes down, she considered. Five off her feet, then she could shower without risking drowning herself.

  Tossing the harness aside, she climbed the platform where the bed spread like the silk clouds of heaven. She slid onto it, stretching out across it, facedown.

  And beat Roarke’s guess by being out in ten seconds flat.

  He came in five minutes later, saw her on the bed, with the cat slung across her ass. “Well, then,” Roarke addressed Galahad. “At least we won’t have to fight about it. But for Christ’s sake, couldn’t she have pulled off her boots? How can she sleep well like that?”

  He pulled them off himself—and she didn’t stir a bit—pulled off his own. Then he simply stretched out beside her, draped an arm around her waist.

  He dropped out nearly as quickly as she had.

  6

  IN THE DREAM THERE WAS A WHITE SHEET OVER the dark ground, and the ruined body that lay on it. Bitter with cold, dawn carved its first light, etching the eastern spires into sharpened silhouettes.

  She stood with her hands in the pockets of a black peacoat, a black watch cap pulled low on her forehead.

  The body lay between her and a big black clock with a big white face. The seconds ticked away on it, and every strike was like thunder that sent the air to quaking.

  And in the dream Feeney stood beside her. The harsh crime scene lights washed over them and what they studied. There was no silver in his hair to glint in those lights, and the lines in his face didn’t ride so deep.

  I trained you for this, so you could see what needs to be seen, and find what’s under it.

  She crouched down, opened her kit.

  She doesn’t look peaceful, Eve thought, as people so often said about the repose of the dead. They really never do.

  But death isn’t sleep. It’s something else again.

  The body opened its eyes.

  I’m Corrine Dagby. I was twenty-nine. I was born in Danville, Illinois, and came to New York to be an actress. So I waited tables because that’s what we do. I had a boyfriend, and he’ll cry when you tell him I’m dead. So will the others, my family, my friends. I bought new shoes the day before he took me. I’ll never wear them now. He hurt me, he just kept hurting me until I was dead.

  Didn’t you hear me screaming?

  She stood in the morgue, and Morris’s bloody hand held a scalpel. His hair was shorter, worn in a neat and tidy queue at the nape of his neck. Over the body, he looked at Eve.

  She used to be healthy, and had a pretty face until he ruined her. She sang in the shower and danced in the street. We all do until we come here. And in the end, we all come here.

  In the corner, the big clock ticked the time so every second echoed.

  They won’t come if it stops, she thought. Not if I stop it. They’ll sing in the shower and dance in the street, they’ll eat cupcakes and ride the train if I stop it.

  But you haven’t. Corrine opened her eyes again. Do you see?

  The faces and bodies changed, one melding into the next while the clock hammered the time. Hammered until her head pounded with it, until she pressed her hands to her ears to block it out.

  Faster, faster, the faces flashed and merged while the seconds raced. So many voices, all the voices calling, coalescing into one, and the one cried out.

  Can’t you hear us screaming?

  She woke with a gasp, with that awful cry echoing in her head. The light was dim, warm with the fire simmering low in the hearth. The cat butted against her shoulder as if telling her, “Wake up, for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah, I’m up. I’m awake. Jesus.” She rolled over, stared up at the ceiling as she got her breath back. With one hand she scratched Galahad between the ears, and checked the time on her wrist unit. “Oh, crap.”

  She’d been out nearly three hours. Shoving off sleep, Eve pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and began to push off the bed. She heard it then, the sizzle and pulse of the shower.

  She laid a hand on the spread beside her, felt his warmth lingering there. So they’d both slept, she realized. Good for them.

  Stripping as she went, she headed for the shower.

  She wanted to wash away the fatigue, the grit, the ugliness of the past twenty-four hours. She wanted the beat of the water to push away the vague headache she’d woken with, and flood out the remnants of the dream.

  Then, when she stepped to the wide opening of the glass that enclosed the generous shower, she knew she wanted more.

  She wanted him.

  He was facing away from her, his hands braced on the glass, letting the water from the multiple jets beat over him. His hair was seal-sleek with wet, his skin gleaming with it. Long back, she mused, a taut, bitable ass, and all those tough, toned muscles.

  He hadn’t been up for long, she thought, and was likely as worn down as she.

  The water would be too cold, she knew. But she’d fix that.

  They’d fix each other.

  She slipped in, wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her body to his back. Nipped lightly at his shoulder. “Look what I found. Better than the toy surprise in the cereal box. Increase water temp to one hundred and one degrees.”

  “Must you boil
us?”

  “I must. Anyway, you won’t notice in a minute.” To prove it, she glided her hands down, found him. “See?”

  “Is this how you behave with all the members of your task force?”

  “They only wish.”

  He turned, caught her face in his hands. “And look how my wishes come true.” He kissed her softly, brow, cheeks, lips. “I thought you might sleep a bit more.”

  “I already took more than I meant to.” She pressed to him again, laying her head on his shoulder as the water flooded them. “This is better than sleep.”

  As the steam began to rise she tipped her head back. She found his mouth with hers, soft again, soft so they could both sink deep.

  His fingers skimmed up into her hair, combing through the sleek cap of it as he murmured something that tasted sweet against her lips. Even through the sweetness she recognized need.

  Yes, they would fix each other.

  She tore her lips from his to press them to his throat, to feel his pulse beat while her hands stroked up his back. As he held her, as he turned her so the water sluiced over them, more than the day washed away.

  Now his hands moved over her, creamy with soap, gliding over skin that all but hummed at the pleasure. Again he turned her, drew her back against him. And those hands circled her breasts, slid over them while his mouth sampled the side of her throat, her shoulder.

  She moaned once, lifted an arm to hook around him, and quivered as his hands circled down.

  He could feel her giving, opening, awaiting. The way her body moved, the way her breath caught. He could hear it in the quick cry that escaped her when he slipped his hands between her legs to cup her. How she trembled, her arm tightened when he used his fingers to tease and to pleasure. And the shock of her release when he dipped them into that hot, wet velvet.

  “Take more.” He had to give more.

  Her trembles went to shudders, her breath to sobbing.

  Her surrender, to him, to herself, aroused him beyond imagining. And the fatigue and sorrow that sleep and shower hadn’t washed away drowned in his love for her.

  He spun her around, pressed her back against the wall. Her breath was short, but her eyes stayed on his.