As she fought her way downtown, Eve checked in with the duty nurse, learned Daphne had had a restless night, required a mild sedative. And that Dr. Nobel was already on his way in. The patient’s physical condition had been upgraded to satisfactory.
The cuts and bruises would heal, Eve thought. The damage to the psyche took longer.
Put the past behind you—that’s what people always said. But those people didn’t get that the past was always behind you. Like a hound on the scent.
She pulled into Central, started toward the elevator, and spotted Jenkinson. You couldn’t miss the tie, not even from space.
With his coat open, it glowed toad green with—perhaps not coincidentally—bug-eyed frogs of yellow and blue hopping over it.
“You could light a cave with that thing around your neck.”
“Never know when you might end up in one. How was the time off, LT?”
“Quiet. Warm. Sunny. Everything winter is not.”
“Nice.” They stepped onto the elevator. “Cleared a couple while you were dancing on the beach.”
“Junkie knifed by second junkie, woman bludgeoned by ex-boyfriend.”
Jenkinson eyed her as the elevator stopped and more cops shuffled on. “Checking up on us from sun and sand?”
“I was in yesterday. Caught one yesterday morning, about two in the A.M.”
“Well, welcome home.” Then he frowned. “Strazza business?”
“That’s the one.”
“Getting play in the media. Bigwig surgeon, young fancy wife. She messed up bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Still…”
“Yeah, always look at the spouse first. But this woman didn’t rape herself, bust up her own face. Got two like crimes in the past year, just without the murder.”
Though the elevator stopped again, added more people, she decided to ride it out.
“He dresses up.”
Jenkinson, who’d been balefully eyeing the levels as they lit up, turned back to Eve. “What, like in a tuxedo?”
“Like monsters. Horned devil on this one.”
Jenkinson shook his head. “People are fucked-up.”
A couple more cops came on. One of them studied Jenkinson. “That’s some tie you got there, Jenks.”
“Yeah, that’s what your sister said when I put it on this morning.”
That got a few snorts and made the crowded ride a little more entertaining.
When they shoved their way off, Jenkinson kept pace with Eve toward the bullpen. “Reineke and I are clear right now if you need more hands with this case.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
The minute they stepped into the bullpen, Jenkinson leaped forward. “Hey! Are those sticky buns?”
Santiago stuffed the last of one—from the box Eve had left in the break room—in his mouth, mumbled incomprehensibly over it.
Eve kept going toward her office, so whoever had already reported for duty could fight over whatever was left.
Eve hit her office AutoChef for coffee, tossed off her coat and winter gear, and studied her board with rested eyes.
She had two police artist concepts of the first two costumes. Not Yancy’s work, but more than decent. And still, she imagined, the victims’ impressions, their fear, might have lent some drama to the looks.
She put in a tag to Yancy, left him a v-mail requesting he work with Daphne Strazza at the hospital in addition to the rental crew. She could use a good sketch of the devil.
Since Peabody hadn’t reported in, Eve contacted the first victims, ran into a house droid that gave her grief. She geared up for a fight, then heard the click of Mira’s heels heading to her office.
“We’ll get back to you.” She disconnected, held up a finger as Mira came in, and tagged Peabody. “Get your ass to work and contact the first two pairs of vics, arrange interview times. There or here. Make it happen.”
She clicked off before Peabody could respond, turned to Mira.
“Sorry.”
Waving it off, Mira slipped out of her soft blue winter coat to reveal a rosy red suit. The clicking heels went with a pair of silver-gray short boots, with the combo showing off excellent legs.
“You want some of that tea stuff?”
“I’d love it, thanks.”
“Use my chair. Seriously.”
“I absolutely will. And welcome back. You look rested. Amazing what just a couple of days away can do.”
“You should’ve seen me yesterday.” Eve programmed the tea, and while its floral scent wafted through her office, passed it to Mira.
Mira sat, crossed those excellent legs, smiled at Eve out of her soft blue eyes. “I looked at Daphne Strazza’s medical chart. You and Roarke may very well have saved her life.” Sitting back, Mira brushed back a strand of mink-colored hair.
Eve cocked her head. “Did you and Mr. Mira head for the sun, too?”
“No, but that’s a compliment. I decided to add some more highlights, get through the winter doldrums. Actually, Trina talked me into it.”
Eve goggled. “You’re going to Trina now?”
“I am. My hairdresser moved to Brooklyn, and Trina—though I know she can be … opinionated—is excellent.”
Opinionated, Eve mused. She’d have used pushy, scary, and in-your-face. And she couldn’t believe she was talking about hair anyway.
“Okay, well. Daphne Strazza.”
“I’ll have a written evaluation for you this morning, and she’s agreed to talk to me again. Physically, as you know, the attack was brutal, the beating and the rapes. Emotionally, only more so. She’s blocking a great deal of it, and that’s to be expected. Additionally, the blow to the head could be responsible for blank spots. She was tortured, terrorized, and I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“Not so far.” Eve sat on the corner of her desk. “Everyone I’ve spoken to about her describes her as sweet—that’s a repeated word. Personable, a perfect hostess, generous. It may be cynical, but some of my takeaway on that is she’s naive.”
“I wouldn’t disagree. She’s young—even younger emotionally, I’d say, than her years. Soft would be another word I’d use. Malleable.”
“Okay, that’s the word.” Eve shot a finger in the air. “Malleable. People don’t speak of her dead husband in the same terms. Perfectionist, impatient, domineering, cold.”
“And brilliant. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew his reputation. Those in his field, with that reputation, are often cold and domineering. The classic God complex.”
“Right. And often when an older, successful individual—with a domineering personality—marries a younger spouse, that individual goes one of two ways. Pampers or bullies. I vote for bully.”
“I’ve only spoken with her once, for less than an hour, and was careful to keep it more on the surface. But my impression of their relationship matches yours. Small things. She refers to him as ‘my husband’ more than she uses his name.”
“Yeah, I caught that.”
“He was, I believe, more authority figure than mate or partner. His death frightens her more than grieves her. When I asked her about her routines, her interests, her friends—to try to make a connection—she spoke more of his expectations, his wishes, his social circle than her own. And there’s a look,” Mira added, “a look in the eyes, a body language, a tone, when someone’s been bullied or abused.”
“Yeah, there is. She’s got all of that, but I can’t be sure it’s from the husband or a result of this attack.”
In her pretty suit, Mira sipped her tea as if they sat in front of a classic work of art rather than a murder board.
“Are you considering, if she’s been abused, she had a part in her husband’s death?”
“I have to consider it, but a partnership doesn’t fit. Not with what was done to her. Her injuries were brutal, and she wasn’t playing it when we found her wandering the streets, naked, freezing, in the middle of the night.”
Eve pushed off the desk, paced. “On the other hand, if there was some sort of partnership, you could consider the partner just went too far, damaged her more than planned. Plan is, mess her up to give her cover, kill the husband.”
“I need more time with her, but my opinion at this point is Daphne Strazza is far too passive to have engineered any of this.”
“It doesn’t make sense anyway, for a lot of reasons.”
“She fears violence, which may be yet another way her husband dominated her. She has several of the symptoms of an abused spouse, but as you say, it could be muddled with this assault.”
“Okay, so more time there. Were you able to read the data on the killer?”
“Yes, reviewing the two open case files I’d previously profiled, and yours. Unlike Daphne, this man enjoys violence—perpetrating it, and even more so doing it to victims who are unable to fight back.”
“A coward.”
“Undoubtedly, but one who feels courageous by striking out when his quarry is helpless. Another sort of bullying. He may have been bullied, felt helpless as a child or young man. He’s found a way to compensate. To punish, to humiliate, as he was once humiliated.”
Mira set her tea aside. “He selects married couples. The third makes that a very clear pattern.”
“Yeah, that’s important.”
“I believe it is, and I can add to the initial profile. Certainly his victims are surrogates, perhaps for his own parents. They may have, or one of them may have, bullied and abused him. Or brushed off and ignored those who did. He certainly had sexual feelings for his mother.”
“His—huh.”
“Possibly stepmother. It’s possible his father remarried—younger woman, attractive woman, and he developed feelings for her. And he has a deep hatred for his father, or father figure. At the same time a deep envy of him. His father had authority, power over him, and, more, had a sexual relationship with the mother your killer wanted. If we follow this line, it’s most likely the killer came from some privilege.”
“Not that he envied that lifestyle, but had it.” Eve eased back on the corner of the desk. “I lean there.”
“I believe he grew up in a wealthy home, but never had what he most wanted. Power, control, physicality, and courage. He hides behind masks, elaborate ones, monstrous ones. They add to his sense of power, and probably theatrics as well. The stealing isn’t beside the point. He takes the tangible as well. Strips things away from them.”
“And keeps them—all. It’s looking like he hasn’t sold or pawned any of the jewelry or valuables, from—so far—the three hits.”
“Hmm. I missed that. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Not just a souvenir, a token, a remembrance, but all. Greed. The theft isn’t, even on a minor level, about profit. It’s about having, holding, seeing, touching. He needs the tangible as well.”
Pausing, Mira looked at the board. “He selects beautiful women—I believe they come first. He must find one, then find one who’s married. The couple must be wealthy, privileged.”
“No kids.”
“Yes, that’s another requirement. It may be because having children in the house adds complications to his plans, or—”
“He doesn’t want the competition.”
Mira smiled. “Exactly. I doubt very much he was an only child, and true or not, felt his sibling or siblings garnered the most love and attention—took what was rightfully his. He won’t be married. If he’s in a relationship it’s a front. Another mask. He won’t have children. He will be financially solvent, very likely successful. He knows how to become what’s needed, even enjoys the false fronts, how he fools the people around him. His sex life is pedestrian if it exists. He needs to rape to feel true release. He needs to hear the victim praise him, to tell the father figure he’s better, more virile, a better lover. By this time, he’s impotent unless it’s rape.”
“How about jerking off?” Eve asked. “He takes an outfit from the female victims. Maybe dresses up a droid or whatever.”
“Yes, he could achieve release by reenacting the experience, though that will become more difficult, more frustrating. He’s probably between thirty and fifty. Old enough for control, for planning rather than impulse, for patience. He’ll continue to plan—he has no desire to be caught, to be stopped. And he’ll continue to escalate, to attack at shorter intervals.”
“And he’ll kill again now.”
“Yes, almost certainly. He didn’t plan on murder, but he will with the next. Eventually, he’ll kill both mother and father figure.”
“Not if I find him first. Thanks. I’ve got a picture.”
“Will you tell me how you feel?”
Eve glanced away from her board, into those soft blue eyes. “What?”
“Eve. Clearly there are similarities between what happened to you and to Daphne Strazza.”
“I’m dealing with it. It’s not in my way.” But she pushed up, stuck her hands in her pockets, paced to her skinny window. “Won’t get in the way. I can empathize, sure. I’m not where I was a couple years ago. I don’t shake as easy on things like this. It gave me some bad moments, and may give me more, but I can handle it.”
“I don’t doubt you can handle it. You’re strong, and always have been. Even then, Eve, even at eight, you had strength or you’d never have survived it.”
“Plenty of cracks. Less of them now.” Eve turned back. “You get credit for some of that.”
“I’ll take it.” Mira rose. “And tell you to remember that if you need to lean, need to talk, just need someone to listen.”
“I do remember it. And if I start to shake, I’ll come to you.”
“Good.” Mira rose, gathered her coat. “I’ve got an early session, but I’m available if needed.”
“Thanks.”
Eve turned back to her board, studied the hard, handsome face of Anthony Strazza, the bloody broken body she’d recorded.
She had a strong instinct that he’d been a mean son of a bitch. But he was her victim.
She wouldn’t shake.
Moments after Mira clicked out of the office, Peabody clomped in.
“I’ve got Neville Patrick, at his office at his studio. I made a push to speak to his wife at the same time, and he balked about speaking to her at all. But given the choice of us going to his house, he’s going to talk to her about coming into the studio this morning.”
“That’s one.”
“Both Ira and Lori Brinkman prefer to address this in their home, want the privacy. They’re juggling their schedules, and one of their admins will get back to me on the best time.”
“Good enough.” Eve grabbed her coat. “Let’s go.”
“Did Mira add anything we can use?”
“She says it looks like the killer has mommy issues.”
“Mommy issues?” Scrambling to keep up, Peabody grabbed her own coat out of the bullpen.
“And daddy.”
“I don’t … Oh.” Peabody’s face scrunched up as she swung on her coat. “Mira thinks the vics are surrogates for the killer’s parents. That’s just beyond the ick.”
“It gives us an angle.” When the elevator doors opened, revealed the logjam of cops, visitors, support staff, Eve simply turned on her heel and headed for a glide. “All the elements are violations, deliberate humiliations, excessive violence. But the rapes are the centerpiece. Mommy may be stepmommy, but the surrogate makes solid sense.”
“Daddy remarries—because marriage plays, too,” Peabody said. “Younger, frosty new wife—probably—and this guy wants her for his own. Or at least wants to do her. Or…”
Peabody hoofed it as Eve switched glides. “What if mommy remarried? Killer’s bent because he wasn’t enough for mommy.”
Eve angled her head. “Good. That’s good. Either way. If Mira’s right, we’re looking for a schmuck with an Edison thing.”
“Edison? Like Thomas?”
“Who’s Edison Thomas?”
“I mean Thomas Edison. The inventor?” Peabody explained. “The lightbulb?”
“No, for Christ’s sake, this isn’t about lightbulbs. Like the sicko guy who married his own mother, then whined about it.”
After a moment’s confusion, Peabody’s own lightbulb went off. “That’s Oedipus. I’m pretty sure that’s Oedipus.”
“Edison, Oedipus, platypus. Whatever.”
Peabody huffed out a laugh, then realized the strange discussion had distracted her from hopping off yet another glide and hoofing it down two flights of stairs into the garage.
Peabody put on her hat, wound on her scarf.
“Plug in the studio address,” Eve ordered, sliding behind the wheel.
Once Peabody programmed the address into the in-dash, Eve glanced at it and bulleted out of the garage. As she fought downtown traffic, she gave Peabody the main thrust of Mira’s profile.
“Same social/financial strata rings for me,” Peabody decided. “Or he could have grown up in that world—say the son of live-in staff.”
“You’ve got your thinking hat on, even if it is pink and purple. That road leads to maybe the employers are surrogates for mommy and daddy, and the vics surrogates for the employers. It’s an angle. In the world, but not of it. Resentment simmers and boils, and to maintain requires a false face. Acting. It’s not bad.”
“The Patricks have to know a lot of actors, a lot of people in the industry. But then that falls apart with the Brinkmans and the Strazzas.”
“Brinkman’s international finance. A lot of people in the entertainment industry are rich. She’s a human rights attorney. A lot of people in the industry get involved in causes. Strazza, hotshot doctor. There’s going to be a cross in there, another common factor. And the first victims are always the launch point.”
“The Patricks.” Peabody pulled out her memo book. “What I dug up is they met through a mutual friend at a party on Long Island about three years ago. At that time she was involved with someone else. A few weeks later, that ended, but he was seeing someone else. Basically they knew each other for around ten months before they started seriously dating. They got engaged about a year later—big splash—bought a house and moved in with each other last spring. Got married—even bigger splash—last June. They honeymooned in Europe—a three-week deal—and had been back for just over a week before the assault.”
“I’ll bet there was a lot of splash, too, in the gossip and society blathering about their honeymoon.”
“Yeah, I skimmed through some of it. They did Paris, Provence, Rome, Venice, London—”
“Not asking for their itinerary. They were specific targets. The assailant knew they were out of the country. If he’d just wanted to rob them, he’d have done that when they were gone. It just solidifies that the assaults, specifically the rapes, were the main objective.”
The building that housed On Screen Productions had its own underground parking. She pulled in, veered toward the visitor’s section, and wound through until she found a slot.
Without a swipe card for other floors, the elevator took them as far as the main lobby. Security and Information held the center in a space ringed with coffee shops, sundry shops, snack shops.
The coffee shops had the bulk of clientele.
Eve headed for the central counter, took out her badge. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Neville Patrick. On Screen Productions.”
“One moment.” The woman in an all-business black suit scanned the badge, swiped at a screen. “You’re cleared for that. Twenty-second floor would be their reception level. Take any elevator in Bank B.”
“Got it. Does Neville Patrick have a brother?” Eve asked Peabody.
“Two sisters.” Peabody consulted her memo book. “Half sisters. One lives in New L.A., one in London. There’s also a big family estate in the Lake District.”
“Parents?”
“Father is a director—primarily episodic home screen. First wife died in a vehicular accident, leaving him a widower with two girls. He remarried nearly a decade later. They produced Neville, and have been married for about thirty-five years. She was an actor, pretty much retired from that when she had their son.”
“What about Rosa Patrick?”
“Half sister from father’s previous relationship. Parents have been married for about twenty-five years. He’s fourth-generation money—that’s Hernandez money, which is substantial. He’s an engineer, specializing in rebuilding areas after natural disasters. The mother’s on the board of Give Back, which is an arm of the Hernandez Family Foundation.”
“Lori Brinkman’s a human rights attorney. Rosa Patrick’s family is heavy into good works. Daphne Strazza’s parents were killed in a natural disaster—nearly fifteen years ago, but possible cross there. Thin, but possible.”
The elevator opened into a colorfully lush reception area just as a woman strode through a set of glass doors etched with the On Screen logo.
Her suit wasn’t all business. A flowing jacket in bold red had a snatch of black lace beneath where impressive breasts swelled. The tiny skirt showed off long legs and skyscraper heels that matched the jacket. Her hair, shorter than Eve’s, formed a golden halo around a face dominated by huge eyes so blue they read purple.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” She had a smoky-room voice and a firm handshake. “Detective. I’m Zella Haug, Mr. Patrick’s admin. I’ll take you to his office. We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”
“No problem.”
They walked by a few offices, and a large area with a conference table around which about a dozen people all talked at once. A lot of people walked briskly while they talked on ’links or headphones or tapped on tablets.
Eve saw a man in an NYU sweatshirt with his feet on a big desk, watching a car chase on his wall screen. And another pacing his office while juggling three blue balls and apparently talking to himself.
“Writers,” Zella said absently. “Show runners, project acquisitions.”
She led the way to a corner office, knocked on the door, then opened it. “Neville, the police are here.”
He turned from the trio of wide windows and a view grander than his office.
He seemed younger than his ID shot, Eve thought, and certainly less polished. He wore a dark gray suit, no tie. He had a curling mass of hair around a thin face. His frame was also thin, as if he’d lost muscle as well as weight.
His eyes, a few shades lighter than his suit, met Eve’s, then shifted to Zella. “Thanks. I’ve got it. Send Rosa straight back if she comes in.”
“Of course.”
She eased back, shut the door.
“I spoke with Detective Olsen,” he began. “She said there’d been another, but this time…” He gestured vaguely. “I’m sorry, please sit down. I can offer you coffee or tea, or my own personal vice? Pepsi.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry to put you in the position of revisiting a difficult experience, Mr. Patrick.”
“Revisiting?” He shoved at his hair, sat on a chair that looked more comfortable than stylish. “We live with it every day. Every night. My wife … We sold the house we loved and are living in a fully secured condo neither one of us want. And still she can’t be alone for more than a few hours during the day, has nightmares constantly. She was just starting to do better. We were starting to do better. And now this.
“Why can’t you find him?” Neville demanded. “Until he’s locked away, it’ll never be over.”
And not even then, Eve thought. “I wish I had a simple answer, and could promise you we’ll find him quickly. What I can tell you is Detectives Olsen and Tredway have never stopped working the investigation. Detective Peabody and I won’t stop, either.”
“He’s a monster. It wasn’t just a costume.”
“I know it.”
“How do you catch a monster?”
“By understanding him.”
Frowning, Neville leaned forward. “Yes. Yes. Understanding him. How do you do that?”
“We’re working on doing that right now. It’s why we’re here. He targeted you and your wife, specifically.”
“Why do you say that? Nikki and Stan never said that.”
“I believe you were specific, as were Ira and Lori Brinkman, as were Anthony and Daphne Strazza.
“You represent something to him. Someone.”
“Rosa’s never hurt anyone in her life. You can’t—”
“You did nothing. She did nothing.” Because it mattered, Eve let her words simply hang for a moment before continuing. “It may be that the ones you represent to this individual did nothing.”
Though he nodded, Neville rubbed his hands over his face like a man scrubbing away a film. “I did everything he told me to do, gave him whatever he asked for. And still he raped her, and he choked her, and he hit her.”
“Because that’s what he wanted. That was his purpose. The rest was incidental.”
“What do you mean?”
“He violated your wife in front of you. That’s what he wanted. You know him, Mr. Patrick.”
Those words had him flinching back as if from a sharp slap.
“You’ve done business with him,” Eve continued, “he’s worked for or with you, or with your wife. When we do find him, you may not recognize him immediately. But you will recognize him.”
“Someone I know?” He had to choke the words out. “Why do you say that? How can that be?”
“He waited until you were back from your honeymoon, rather than breaking in when you were gone. Rather than taking what he wanted. And he waited until you were out for the evening, so he could ambush you both. He knew about the safes, he knew enough to deactivate your security, your house droid.”
“You’re saying he’s been in our home. That he’s spent time in our home?”
“Yes, I am. Considering that, I’d like you to think back. Did you have any arguments or disagreements, personally or professionally, with anyone?”
“Of course. We’re in a creative and passionate business. We thrive on disagreements. It’s how we refine any project. Kyle and I—my partner—give our people a great deal of autonomy, but at the end of the day, the decision to make or break comes from us. We started this company together. It’s very personal to us.”
“Did any of those disagreements lead to the termination of an individual or project that left hard feelings?”
“Shelving a project always leaves hard feelings. But it’s a business, Lieutenant. Anyone inside it knows how it works, has to work. And that they can always make a case to have the project revived.”
“An actor,” Eve pressed, “who wasn’t given a part, or fired?”
“God, every project would have actors passed over for a part during the casting process. It’s the nature of the beast. I honestly can’t think of anyone who’d react to that with this sort of violence.”
“In your statement you said he used a fake British accent. Upper-class Brit.”
“Yes, he dropped it a couple of times when he…” Neville looked away. “He dropped it once or twice. I believe he’s American, or Canadian.”
“Could he have switched it up to make you think that?” Peabody asked him.
Struck, Neville frowned at her. “I hadn’t considered that. But no. I’m nearly certain the English accent was fake.”
“What about someone who had feelings for your wife?” Eve suggested. “A former relationship, or someone who wanted a relationship with her.”
“Rosa and I have been together more than three years. Her former relationship is now happily cohabbing in Florence, and has been for more than a year. Lieutenant, Rosa is beautiful, inside and out. If you didn’t know her, you’d be struck by her looks. I’m fully aware men look at her, and look at me with some envy. I can tell you, without hesitation, I don’t know anyone who’d hurt her the way she was hurt.”
Eve changed tack. “Your company has used Jacko’s Catering and Loan Star Rentals.”
“Yes, Loan Star. They’re our go-to for renting a one-off. I don’t know the caterer offhand. I’d need to check with Zella. Why?”
“We’re exploring all avenues, any possible connections. Have you held any events at your home where you would have used a caterer or rentals?”
“No. We’d only moved in—in April, and were married in June. We had friends over from time to time, but small gatherings, informal. We’d planned to hold our first party as a married couple during the holidays, but…”
He looked over as the door opened, and Eve saw his face register love, grief, hope. He said, “Rosa.”