As Eve finished setting up the board, Peabody stepped out of the conference room. She came back with a couple of pita pockets that smelled iffy at best.
“I’m fading,” Peabody confessed. “I need something more than half an energy bar. You do, too.”
Eve eyed the offered pocket cynically. “What’s in it?”
“Veggie ham, nondairy American cheese, and shredded spinach. Everything else in Vending looked worse. At least it’s sort of hot.”
“Why is there always spinach?” Eve wondered, tried a bite. “It’s terrible.”
Peabody sampled. “Yeah, but still, sort of hot. I’ve lost six pounds.”
“Depend on Vending, you’ll whither away to nothing.”
“That’ll never happen, but I’ve lost six and kept it off for eighteen days and counting.”
“I thought you weren’t going to obsess about the numbers?”
“I like obsessing about the good numbers, and my currently loose pants. It motivates. If I’m not motivated, I’ll eat a bunch of brownies.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Mmm, brownies. Then I obsess about packing on enough to crush McNab’s skinny ass whenever I’m on top.”
Eve slapped two fingers to the corner of her twitching eye, noted Peabody’s innocent smile. “That was on purpose.”
“Just breaking the tension.” Peabody took another bite of the pocket. “But now I so really want a brownie.”
Shaking her head, Eve decided if she had to eat a revolting fake sandwich, she might as well top it off with the terrible cop coffee in the conference room AutoChef.
She was scowling over the first sip when Baxter and Trueheart came in.
“What is that smell?” Baxter demanded.
“Vending lunch,” Peabody told him.
“There ought to be a law.” He walked to the board, stood, hands dipped into his pockets, studying. “L’Page and Burroughs—possible targets?”
Eve forced down more coffee. “That’s right.”
“We’ve got two of those.”
“Put them up.”
Trueheart stepped up to do so while Baxter took a harder look at the most recent crime scene shots.
“Having a real party now. Escalating from target to target, but killing Strazza’s opened up a whole new world for him. He killed the male first?”
“ME has confirmed, yes.”
“Bigger threat—and having Strazza get loose, to go at him? Spooked and pissed. But if he can work up the balls, he’ll do the female first next round.”
Eve nodded, following Baxter’s reasoning. “Watch me kill your wife. You can’t stop me, can’t protect her. I’m a bigger, better man than you.”
Trueheart cleared his throat—his substitute for raising his hand. “Slitting the male’s throat? It’s quick, eliminates any potential threat. But it’s also messy. I think he liked the mess. It desecrates the bedroom. The victims’ private space.”
“And adds to the staging,” Eve agreed. “We can—”
She broke off as Olsen came in with her partner. Something tugged at her memory when the male detective—narrow shoulders in a tired-looking glen-plaid sport coat, lanky legs like skinny pipe cleaners in brown trousers—walked in.
His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and his eyebrows formed sharp, inverted Vs over hazel eyes. He wore a single gold stud in his left earlobe.
Then it clicked.
“Tredway. It’s been a while.”
“It has. What, six, seven years?”
“About. Detective Tredway and I worked a murder together some time back,” Eve explained.
“Back when Feeney was your LT. Vic was one of my weasels, so Feeney brought me in. We got the bastard.”
“Still in a cage.”
“And now you’re the LT.” He crossed to the board, shook his head. “Better you than me. These potential targets?”
“So far.”
“We have two couples to add to that,” Olsen said.
“Put them up,” Eve told her, “and let’s get down to it.”
She had Peabody run them through the interview with L’Page and Burroughs.
“This guy who put the moves on her at the gala deal. Any chance of a sketch on him?” Tredway asked.
“Next step. She says it was dim light, and almost a year ago, but we have a detective artist who’s got a way of refreshing memories and getting details.”
“Is that his work?” Olsen gestured to the devil sketch on the board.
“Yeah.”
“It’s worth a shot.” Tredway considered, drank cop coffee as if it didn’t burn the stomach lining. “Course some guys—most, really—are likely to put the moves on a frosty-looker. We’re either assholes or optimists, depending how you look at it.”
“Me, I’m an eternal optimist.”
Olsen snorted at Baxter’s comment. “World champ.”
“Worth a shot,” Tredway continued. “What are the odds some random asshole or optimist puts those kind of moves on her at that event, and she and the guy she gets married to fit the target requirements down the fricking line?”
He took notes as they talked—actual notes in a little dog-eared book with a stubby pencil. Though she knew better, Eve would have sworn it was the same book, the same pencil he’d used seven years before.
“I tagged Yancy on this,” Eve said. “He’ll take his first pass with L’Page today. If this is our guy—and though the world is full of assholes, I’m with Tredway on the odds—she’s the only one we know of who’s seen the suspect’s face.”
“Maybe that face?” Tredway gestured toward Anson Wright’s ID shot.
“I’ve just completed an interview with him.”
Eve ran them through it.
“To sum it up, there’s some weight there. He’s been in the third vics’ home, has a second connect with them through the first male vic’s studio. He knows how to do makeup. No alibis, lives alone. He’s the right height and build, and if L’Page is correct, the right race. On the other side, he made no attempt, whatsoever, to come up with an alibi, and seemed oblivious as to why I asked. Not stupid, but oblivious and self-absorbed.”
“An actor,” Baxter added.
“Yeah. Apparently a good one. So I want to keep eyes on him the next couple days.”
“We can take some of that.” Olsen glanced at her partner for confirmation, got his nod.
“The boy and I can run shifts with you. That work, boss?” Baxter asked.
“I’ll clear it. Set it up. Who are your picks up there?”
“Take it away, Detective,” Baxter told Trueheart.
He ran through the bombshell’s data, her husband’s.
“My angle on that,” Eve began, “she doesn’t fit.”
“My angle is, she’d fit anywhere.”
Eve sent Baxter a cool stare. “Keep it in your pants, horndog. She doesn’t fit his type,” Eve continued, and laid out her theory.
Tredway took his notes, nodded through her explanation. “He’s looking for his dream girl, and his dream girl doesn’t bang out the sexy.”
“Unless it’s for him,” Olsen agreed. “But the get-’em-up-big-boy on screen doesn’t fit the image.”
“Too much competition,” Baxter added.
“That factors. They should take precautions,” Eve added, “but they’re low on the list. Who’s next, Trueheart?”
“Jacie and Roderick Corbo, both age thirty-one. Married three years with main residence Upper East. Additional home in Oyster Bay, and an interest in a family estate—her side—on St. Lucia.”
“Big-time trust-fund babies,” Baxter put in. “Both of them.”
“They’ve used both vendors,” Trueheart continued, “and Mrs. Corbo has used On Screen twice to record and broadcast infomercials for a line of skin-care products one of her family’s businesses represents.”
“She’s the face,” Baxter explained. “It’s a hell of a face. She also states she received a couple of overtly suggestive ’link calls a short time after the last infomercial hit the screen.”
“You got her ’link?”
Baxter shook his head. “She said she lost it. Husband confirms she loses her ’link about once a month.”
“The infomercial initially aired in November, Lieutenant,” Trueheart continued. “She thinks the calls came in right after. Two of them.”
“Describe ‘overtly suggestive,’” Eve said, and Trueheart flushed.
“I’ll take that and spare the boy. A male, blocked video, told her he was going to fuck her and fuck her right and she’d beg for more. He claimed he was watching her. The second time he called, she thinks maybe a week after the first time, it was more of the same, but he added he liked her in green, how that tight skirt hugged her ass. But he was going to like her naked, tied up, and begging for it even more.”
“Did she report any of this?”
“No, sir.” Trueheart cleared his throat again. “She said she just considered it an annoyance at the time. She didn’t even tell her husband, didn’t relate it to us until she began to get nervous during the interview.”
“When would the suspect have been able to see her in green? Could she pinpoint?”
“She checked her closet records, gave us two dates. The first was a family Thanksgiving dinner, which included some close friends, the second was an anniversary party held at the Corbo mansion, and catered by Jacko’s. We verified that as she wasn’t a hundred percent on it. The first event had about seventy-five people, the second more than two-fifty.”
“We’ll need the guest lists.”
“Working on it. We’re expecting the one from the first shortly,” Baxter said. “The problem with the second is the Corbos’ social secretary is currently on vacation. Some sort of meditation camp—no communications. And apparently nobody else seems to know where to find the guest list.”
“Christ’s sake.”
“We’re pushing.” Baxter shrugged. “The rich really are different. The social secretary has an assistant—and if that isn’t excessive enough, the assistant has an assistant. Neither of them are allowed to access her files. Even if they were, the woman’s so paranoid she took it with her. She works on a portable. We’re running down where she is because nobody there seems to know. We’re on it, Loo.”
“Stay on it. Your two,” she said to Olsen.
“Gregor and Camilla Jane Lester. Ages forty-eight and twenty-nine respectively. Married two years. His second time around,” Olsen added. “Gregor is chief of emergency medicine at—drumroll—St. Andrew’s. He knew Anthony Strazza well. He chose his words carefully, but clearly, no love lost there. He met Daphne Strazza, briefly and casually at a few events, such as the gala. They have used Jacko’s. Camilla Jane loves to entertain,” Olsen added with an eye roll. “But she likes to mix it up, surprise her guests, and Jacko’s is so, you know, conventional.”
“Bimbo.” Tredway circled a finger in the air, then tapped it at his partner. “Her word.”
“Well, Jesus, if you did a search on the word, Camilla Jane Lester’s picture would pop up. She’s gorgeous, incredibly silly, and her husband adores her. Indulges her. It shows.”
“Guy’s got a face like a hamster, and he lands somebody who looks like that? Why wouldn’t he? Interesting fact,” Tredway continued. “As Camilla Jane, prior to the marriage, she made a living acting. Bit parts, stage and screen. Very bit from the sound of it. And supplemented that living as, we’ll politely call it, a dancer.”
“She was a stripper?”
“Ah, you say tomato. She had some work as an extra on a couple of serials—the daytime sort—played a dead girl once, and so on.”
“Connection to On Screen?”
“Auditioned for a couple of productions there, didn’t get the parts. Did shoot a pilot for them, but it didn’t get picked up.”
“Connects,” Eve stated. “A lot of connections.”
“She hasn’t worked since the marriage—her choice, she says.” Olsen shrugged. “She met Lester when she was further supplementing her income as part of the entertainment on Burlesque Night, a fund-raiser.”
“The kicker? Why they’re up there?” Tredway lifted his chin toward the board. “She swears somebody was in the house last month, and went through her underwear. Took a matching set. Since nothing else was missing they dismissed it. But when she was shopping a few days ago, for more fancy underwear, she says she got a text telling her to buy more purple. It was a good color for her.”
“Her ’link?”
Olsen fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, she got so upset, so angry, she threw her ’link right in the recycler and bought another. Bim with a big bo. We got the name of the boutique, went by. Any security refreshes every twenty-four, and no one could recall a man loitering in the shop.”
“Your number two?”
“Anna-Teresa and Ren Macari, twenty-eight and thirty. Married eighteen months. More trust-fund babies, and these two don’t much pretend to work at anything.”
“Now, Olsen, he has his magic,” Tredway reminded her.
“Right. He’s a magician. That’s his passion. Daddy bought him a magic club where he can perform. A quick check on that shows he’s driving it into the ground playing Houdini, doesn’t actually do anything else there. Neither have used the vendors, but her mother’s used Jacko’s for events, and both the Macaris have eaten there. His father is a major donor at—buzz—St. Andrew’s, and helped defray the costs for a fund-raiser. A masquerade ball last May. At that event, Anna-Teresa was accosted—her word—by a man dressed like the Phantom of the Opera.”
“Wait,” Eve interrupted. “How does anybody dress as a phantom? Aren’t they invisible? Isn’t that the whole stupid idea?”
“It’s a character, sir,” Trueheart explained. “An actor who was burned and disfigured in a theater fire, and went insane. He’s obsessed with a young actress, and kills people he blames for his accident.”
“Pretty much,” Olsen agreed. “He was, according to the wit, wearing a black cape, a white mask obscuring half his face, and what she thinks might have been a wig—longish, black, curling.”
“Where did it happen?”
“She’d gone outside.” Tredway picked up the report. “To get some air, she claimed, how it was crowded and stuffy. There’s a garden area, and eventually she confessed she’d snuck out and found a dark corner because she wanted to smoke an herbal. So the Phantom comes along, tells her they have to dance, grabs her. At first she figures drunk and obnoxious, and starts to pull away. But he clamps on, grabs her ass with one hand, and he’s got an erection. Now she struggles, and he laughs. Tells her it’s going to be the best she’s ever had. As she’s gearing up to scream, he shoves her down, swirls his cape, and runs away.”
“She went right in, told her husband, and they told security. They didn’t find him.” Olsen looked back at the board. “‘Best you’ve ever had.’ That’s the magic phrase.”
“There’s going to be more,” Eve said. “He’ll have accosted more, harassed more. Doing that helped him fill the gap between break-ins, rapes. Guest list for the party?”
“Not an invite deal. You bought tickets. A cool grand a pop. Twelve hundred plus tickets sold. You could buy a table,” Olsen added. “Plunk down ten large for a table, and bring guests.”
“People don’t pay cash for that sort of thing, so there’ll be a paper trail. Peabody.”
Peabody added the task to her handheld. “I’ll start heading down the trail.”
“And let’s see if Wright can verify his whereabouts on the night Macari was accosted. Have EDD go to the underwear shop, dig into the security. If necessary, have them get a warrant, confiscate and bring it here to work on. The four couples added should be advised to add to their own security.”
She glanced around the conference table. “Thoughts, complaints, remarks, comments?”
Trueheart started to raise his hand, caught himself. “I think he’s been inside several more houses, Lieutenant. Taken other personal items the homeowners haven’t noticed. Or if they did, put it down to their own carelessness. Lost it, left it somewhere, that kind of thing.”
“I agree. Small, intimate items belonging to the female is most probable. No valuables—that could be reported. He can fantasize, imagine, plot, and plan.”
“He has to know when to go in. He has to watch them,” Olsen added.
“Somebody with plenty of free time,” Eve agreed. “Either has money enough he doesn’t have to work every day—or at all—or has a job that allows him to go out of the office or place of business. Or a job or position that gives him access to their schedules.”
“They broadcast a lot of it.” In a world-weary way, Tredway shook his head. “Through the society channels, and on their own social media. Fricking invites a break-in, you ask me.”
“I wouldn’t argue,” Baxter said, “but even bimbos aren’t likely to broadcast they’re going to buy panties today. A combo of watching them virtually and otherwise, I’d say.”
“It started in earnest in April of last year at the Celebrate Art Gala.” Eve rose, paced to the board. “He may have harassed women before that time, and likely did. May have broken into their homes and taken panties to sniff. But what we have points to this night. Every victim on this board attended that gala. So did he.”
She closed her eyes a moment, let it circle in her mind, turned back.
“Mira profiles him between thirty and fifty. I think forty is top age. He’s younger, but old enough to have control and patience. Not as much patience as we previously thought, as he’s clearly used other avenues to satisfy his needs. Between thirty and forty, most likely white. Around five feet, eight inches tall. Average build. He’s either one of this social group or he knows how to blend with them.”
She gestured to Anson Wright’s photo.
“That doesn’t take the bartender out. An actor knows how to inhabit a role—and that’s pretty much what he told me in Interview. In fact, made a point of it. He won’t be married, won’t have a cohab or a serious relationship. He hoards. He has to have a place where he can keep all the loot he takes from his hits, as there’s no evidence he disposes of it.”
She walked from one end of the board to the other. “He takes surrogates. Married couples only, exceptionally beautiful woman. Rape is the primary goal. And it is about sex as much as power and causing fear. Violent sex, the sort that eases—temporarily—his frustration at not having the true object of his desire. At not being able to punish and humiliate her for rejecting him, to do the same to the male for having what he couldn’t have.
“The ’link calls, the texts, the … putting moves on, even the break-ins to steal underwear, that’s all foreplay for him. Adds excitement, anticipation. But since he killed Strazza, everything changed, opened, expanded. He doesn’t need that kind of foreplay now—a grope in the dark, a voice over a ’link. He needs the kill, the climax. Now when he chooses his costume, does his makeup, goes in to set the stage, he knows those first performances were just—what do you call them—dress rehearsals. These are the real shows. And he just can’t fucking wait to step onstage again.”
“He won’t wait long,” Tredway agreed. “Maybe a couple of days.”
“Then we’d better find him first. We’re all going to go over the guest list, the list of staff and support staff for the gala. We’re going to cull out every man between thirty and forty, white—but it was bad light, so we need to consider mixed race. We have his approximate build. Unmarried males, no cohabs. He’s going to live alone. And when we have those, we’re going to look at his mother, a stepmother, or an older sister maybe. She’s going to be exceptionally beautiful.”
“Lieutenant?”
She gave Trueheart the nod.
“It could have been a teacher—the person he’s fixated on. I just mean to say I, ah, had a pretty hard crush on my English Lit teacher in high school.”
“You dog,” Baxter said with a laugh.
“I got over it, but for a few weeks there, it was pretty intense in my head. Or it could have been a friend’s mom, a neighbor, or—”
“Christ, you’re right. Someone he saw regularly, had a connection to, a relationship with. Enough to stick in his twisted brain. She’ll be married, and upper middle class at least. Start with mothers. We’ll work down the list of possible others. Look for any sort of complaint—even juvie. Dig in, maybe his parents sent him to therapy or rehab. Work the levels.
“Peabody, divvy it up so we’re not stepping on each other’s feet. He could be a little taller or a little shorter,” she considered. “Make it five-seven to five-ten. Let’s not let him slip through because we restricted too much.”
She glanced at her wrist unit. “I want to take another pass at Daphne Strazza. Send my list to my home office, Peabody. Anybody gives even the shortest buzz, contact me. Any questions, any new avenues to try, the same. That’s ’round the clock.”
She headed out, walking briskly toward the bullpen. She’d grab her coat, get to the hospital, maybe pull something else out of Daphne, then head home, drop straight into the work.
She should check and see if Roarke—
Her brain took a detour when she saw Rosa Patrick and Kyle Knightly step off the elevator.
“Mrs. Patrick, Mr. Knightly.”
“Oh, thank God! You’re right here.” Rosa all but launched herself at Eve. “He sent me a text, with a picture from … Oh God.”
“Hold on, Rosie.” Kyle wrapped an arm around her waist as he looked at Eve. “Is there a place we can sit down? She really needs to sit down.”
“Come this way.” She considered the lounge, but Interview A wasn’t in use, and was closer. More private.
She showed them in. “Have a seat. Tell me what happened.”
“My ’link. I answered my ’link, and— Here.” She dragged it out of her purse, shoved it toward Eve.
“Here.” Kyle took it, gently pressed Rosa’s thumb to the security pad. “I’ll bring it up, okay?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
He called up a text, handed the ’link to Eve.
An image of Rosa, bound, naked, unconscious on tangled sheets, came on screen. Above it, the text read:
Wasn’t that fun? The best you ever had. Let’s do it again!
Eve read the time sent: thirty-five minutes earlier.
“You can trace it.” Rosa clutched her hands together, knuckles white as she pressed them between her breasts. “You can do that. Can you do that? Please. You can find him.”
“Give me a second.” Eve rose, stepped away from the table, tagged McNab.
“McNab, e-whiz.”
“Interview A. Now.”
“I’m there.”
Eve came back, sat across from Rosa. “Is this the first communication you’ve received like this?”
“Yes.”
“Think back. Before the assault did you receive any kind of communication from anyone that was suggestive, overt, threatening?”
“No. I swear. Why would he do this now? Why? It’s been months.”
“He got stupid, that’s why.” Kyle gripped her shoulder. “They’ll trace that text, Rosa.”
“The picture. He—he recorded … It’s like it’s happening again.”
“Mrs. Patrick, where’s your husband?”
“He’s on his way. He was uptown, in meetings, but he’s coming.”
“Where were you when you received this text?”
“We were—we were in the West Village.”
“We’re doing a location shoot there next week,” Kyle explained. “I wanted to take another look, walk the streets we’re using. I asked Rosa to come along, give me her perspective.”
“He wanted to give me something to do. I have a hard time getting out, alone. Staying home, alone.”
“You’re doing better.”
Rosa managed a smile at Kyle. “I was. I will. But … Kyle convinced me to go downtown with him and the assistant director. I was enjoying it. It took my mind off everything, and then this happened.”
“You, Mr. Knightly, and—”
“Karyn Peeks,” Kyle supplied. “The AD on the shoot. We were standing on—God, I think it was Charles.” He rubbed his forehead. “Mind’s a little scrambled. Karyn and I were discussing some angles, and Rosa answered her ’link. She went white, absolutely white. She nearly dropped the ’link. I caught it, and I saw…”
“I wanted to run. I don’t even know where, just run. Kyle said we needed to bring it to you, right away. To bring it to you, and you’d trace the transmission.”
“That was the right thing to do.”
McNab knocked briskly even as he opened the door.
“This is Detective McNab, with EDD. I need your permission to give him your ’link.”
“Yes, yes. I don’t care if I ever see it again.”
“Give me a second.” Eve stepped out with McNab. “Incoming text with image, came in about thirty-five minutes ago. Get me all you can, fast as you can.”
“Done. I can do this in your office if that’s okay. Save time.”
“Save time.”
She went back in. “He’s one of the best,” she told them, “I want to reassure you. I’ve just come from briefing a team of detectives working on the investigation. It’s my top priority, and theirs.”
“Do you have any leads?” Kyle lifted his hands. “Everyone asks that, but there’s a reason they do.”
“And there’s a reason I can only tell you this investigation is open and active, and we’re pursuing any and all leads. And we are,” she said, looking back at Rosa.
“I went, or, Lori and I went to see Daphne last evening.”
“That’s good.”
“It was hard, for all of us, but I think it is good. Lori and I know what she’s feeling right now, and I hope we showed her she’s not alone, and that it will get better. It was better, and now—”
“This isn’t going to change that or you. You’re not going to let him violate you again.”
“If I’d been alone when…”
“You weren’t.” Kyle took her hand. “You’re not.”
“I just … Neville. I wish he’d get here.”
Giving her hand a squeeze, Kyle nodded. “How about I go out, get you some coffee, tag him and let him know we’re talking to Lieutenant Dallas, get his ETA?”
“Would you? I’d just feel better.”
“Sure.”
“Skip the coffee,” Eve advised. “It’s as bad as it gets. Tea’s a better bet.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be right back.”
“Rosa,” Eve began when they were alone. “I know you’ve been through this countless times. I know you’re feeling vulnerable right now. I’m going to ask you to think, and carefully. Before the assault, in the time after, but particularly before, was there any incident—however minor—when someone approached you, touched you, or … you know what I’m saying. Moved on you?”
“No.”
“Rosa, you’re a beautiful woman. It’s hard to believe you haven’t had someone hit on you.”
“Not in an ugly way. A flirtation, an attempt? I mean you’re in a bar or a club waiting for friends and a man offers to buy you a drink? Sure. You say no thanks, and he may try to chat you up for a minute. You can judge if it’s harmless or if he’s going to get pushy, and you handle it accordingly.”
“And there’s never been one of those times anyone approached you that way, frightened you, made you feel threatened.”
“Honestly, no. Annoyed, yes. But since I’ve been with Neville, not much of that. I almost think—well, one of my friends said it’s like I have this aura of ‘Don’t Bother’ around me. I knew the first time I saw him. I was with someone else, but my heart just … Thud.” She let out a half laugh. “And when I managed to work my way up to him, to start a conversation, I was sunk. I knew it, felt so guilty because the man I was with was a very, very nice man.”
“Was he angry?”
“Who? Justin? Oh, no. He didn’t know, for one thing. Honestly, I thought of Neville as a lovely fantasy. The looks, the accent, the manner, the chemistry. I was sure it was only that when we ran into each other again. I was free, but he was with someone else. Missed that chance, that’s what I thought. Then, third time’s the charm. We met again and we were both single, and it turned out he’d felt that same thud. And that’s been that. The Don’t Bother aura descended.”
“Did you ever have the feeling someone had been in your home when you weren’t? Notice something missing?”
“Not really.”
“Underwear,” Eve said and watched surprise flicker over Rosa’s face.
“I … It’s odd you say that. I bought all new lingerie before the wedding, didn’t wear any of it. Neville and I lived together in the house since the spring, and I wanted everything new when we were married. So I put it away, but didn’t wear it. When we got back from the honeymoon I’d have sworn a couple of sets were missing. I took some with me on the honeymoon, but I was so sure I’d bought and put away these others.”
“They weren’t where you’d put them.”
“They weren’t anywhere. I just chalked it up to all the wedding chaos.”
She stopped, rubbed a hand over her heart. “He’d been in the house?”
“It’s something we’re looking into.”
“It feels like it’s never going to end,” Rosa murmured.
McNab opened the door, let Kyle walk in ahead of him.
“Lieutenant?”
“Give me a minute.” She stepped out with McNab.
“Drop ’link.”
“I figured.”
“But I’ve got a location. Where the text originated, and where the ’link—still active—is now. It’s half a block from the Patricks’ building. I checked the file.”
“Get your gear, you’re with me. Garage, five minutes, so move your ass.”
“It’s never still.”
Simple truth, she thought as he rushed off on his tartan airboots and she went back into Interview A.
“As I suspected, the text came from a drop ’link.”
“What does that mean?” Rosa demanded.
“They can’t identify it, Rosa,” Kyle explained. “It’s not registered.”
“Oh, but—”
“We do have a location. I’m going there now. I can take you down to our lounge to wait for Mr. Patrick.”
Kyle checked his wrist unit. “Damn it. He’s still about ten minutes out. Don’t wait. Go. I’ll tag him back, and we’ll meet him downstairs. He’s nearly here, Rosa. We’ll go meet him.”
“Yes.” Rosa stood up. “Hurry,” she said to Eve.
Eve hurried to her office, barely slowing her stride when Peabody sprang from her desk in the bullpen. “McNab said—”
“Work the list. McNab’s enough for this. We get anything, you’ll know.”
Eve grabbed her coat, arrowed down to the garage. McNab loped up half a minute behind her.
Eve simply bulleted out of the slot, hit the lights and sirens, and sped out of the garage.
“Yee-haw” was McNab’s reaction, but he tightened his safety harness. “Not to dampen down, Dallas, but he’s not going to be there.”
“I know it.”
“Okay then. This sucker moves. So this fuckhead escalates to murder on one hand, devolves to taunts on the other.”
“Why ‘devolve’?” she asked as she swerved around a sedan whose driver obviously decided sirens meant nothing to him.
“It’s small time, right? Sure, it keeps a former target on edge, or brings back that edge, but he’s on to bigger now.”
“Ask yourself why this target? Why this woman? The first.”
He asked himself as she hit a clear stretch on Tenth, and the city blurred by. “She’s still important. She, especially, means something to him.”
“He didn’t include the husband on the text—it wasn’t a couple thing. He didn’t threaten violence. He taunted, yeah, but it’s ‘Let’s do it again.’ The sick part of him that twists this into actual sex wants to do it again. With her. That’s my conclusion until and unless the rest of the victims get the same.”
McNab thought it through. Nodded. “That’s why you’re the LT.”
“Fucking A. Still in that location?”
“Hasn’t budged. I got a lock on it.” He studied the read on on his PPC.
He guided her in as they got closer, then cursed.
“Shit, fuck, damn, it shut down.”
“Turned off?”
“Shut down,” he repeated. “Vanished. I’ve got the lock on the location, but the ’link’s shut down. Left here, half a block. Shit. Ten feet, south side. Stop. We’re right on it.”
Eve cut the wheel, double-parked. And saw the blueprint of it all the minute she stepped out of the A-T into the blast of angry horns.
“Recycler.” She pointed, jogging to it. “It’s still humming, goddamn it.”
“Smash-and-churn schedule’s right on it.” Frustrated, McNab kicked the bin. “Started up five minutes ago. Not just shut down, Dallas. Crushed and shredded.”