Creation in Death (15 page)

“Yancy. Got it. Good as it’s going to get.”

“Show me.”

He flipped the image on screen. Eve saw it was a bit more defined than the sketch she was carrying. The eyebrows were slightly higher, the mouth less sharply shaped. And the nose was, in fact, a little shorter. “Good. Let’s get it out. Notify Whitney, and tell him I requested Nadine Furst get a five-minute bump over the rest of the media.”

“Got that.”

“Good work, Yancy.”

“He looks like somebody’s nice, comfortable grandfather,” Peabody commented. “The kind that passes out peppermint candy to all the kids. I don’t know why that makes it worse.”

Safe, Trina had said. She’d said he looked safe. “He’s going to see himself on screen. He’ll see it at some point in the next few hours, the next day. And he’ll know we’re closer than we’ve ever been before.”

“That worries you.” Peabody nodded. “He might kill Rossi and Greenfeld out of panic and preservation, and go under again.”

“He might. But we’ve got to air the image. If he’s targeted another woman, if he’s contacted her, and she sees it, it’s not only going to save her life, it may lead us right to his door. No choice. Got no choice.”

But she thought of Rossi. Eighty-six hours missing, and counting.

Considering the sketch she had was closer than most, Eve used it while they talked to other businesses, to residences, to a couple of panhandlers and the glide-cart operators on the corners.

“He’s, like, invisible.” Peabody rubbed her chilled hands together as they headed toward the club. “We know he’s been around there, been inside the gym, but nobody sees him.”

“Nobody pays attention to him and maybe that’s part of his pathology. He’s been ignored or overlooked. This is his way of being important. The women he takes, tortures, kills, they won’t forget him.”

“Yeah, but dead.”

“Not the point. They see him. When you give somebody pain, when you restrain them, hold them captive and isolated, hurt them, you’re their world.” It had been that way for her, she remembered. Her father had been the world, the terrifying and brutal world the first eight years of her life.

His face, his voice, every detail of him was exact and indelible in her mind. In her nightmares.

“He’s the last thing they see,” she added. “That must give him a hell of a rush.”

I
nside Starlight it was colored lights and dreamy music. Couples circled the dance floor while Zela, in a waist-cinching red suit Eve had to assume was retro, stood on the sidelines.

“Very smooth, Mr. Harrow. Ms. Yo, relax your shoulders. That’s the way.”

“Dance class,” Peabody said as Zela continued to call out instructions or encouragement. “They’re pretty good. Oops,” she added when one of the men wearing a natty bow tie stepped on his partner’s foot. “Kinda cute, too.”

“Adorable, especially considering one of them might dance on home after class and torture his latest brunette.”

“You think…one of them.” Peabody eyed Natty Bow Tie suspiciously.

“No. He’s done with this place. He’s never been known to fish from the same pool twice. But I’m damn sure he fox-trotted or whatever on that floor within the last few weeks.”

“Why do they call it a fox-trot?” Peabody wondered. “Foxes do trot, but it doesn’t look like dancing.”

“I’ll put an investigative team right on that. Let’s go.”

They headed down the silver stairs, catching Zela’s eye. She nodded, then applauded when the music ended. “That was terrific! Now that you’re warmed up, Loni’s going to take you through the rhumba.”

Zela gestured Eve and Peabody over to the bar while the young redhead led Natty Bow Tie to the center of the floor. The redhead beamed enthusiastically. “All right! Positions, everyone.”

There was a single bartender. He wore black-tie, and set a glass of bubbly water with a slice of lemon in front of Zela without asking her preference. “What can I get you, ladies?”

“Could I have a virgin cherry foam?” Peabody asked before Eve could glare at her.

“I’m good,” Eve told him, then drew out the sketch, laid it on the counter. “Do you recognize this man?”

Zela stared at it. “Is this…” She shook her head. She lifted her water, drank deeply, set it down again. Then, picking up the sketch, she angled it toward the lights. “I’m sorry. He just doesn’t look familiar. We get so many men of a certain age through here. I think if I’d worked with him—in a class—I’d remember.”

“How about you?” Eve took the sketch, nudged it across the bar.

The bartender stopped mixing Peabody’s drink to frown over the sketch. “Is this the fucker—sorry, Zela.” She only shook her head, waved the obscenity away. “This the one who killed Sari?”

“He’s a guy we want to talk to.”

“I’m good with faces, part of the trade. I don’t remember him sitting at my bar.”

“You work days?”

“Yeah. We—me and my lady—had a kid six months ago. Sari switched me to days so I could be home with my family at night. She was good about things like that. Her memorial’s tomorrow.” He looked over at Zela. “It’s not right.”

“No.” Zela laid a hand over his for a moment. “It’s not right.”

There was grief in his eyes when he moved away to finish mixing the drink.

“We’re all taking it pretty hard,” Zela said quietly. “Trying to work through it, because what can you do? But it’s hard, like trying to swallow past something that’s stuck in your throat.”

“It says a lot about her,” Peabody offered, “that she mattered to so many people.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. I talked to Sari’s sister yesterday,” Zela continued. “She asked if I’d pick the music. What Sari liked. It’s hard. Harder than anything I imagined.”

“I’m sure it is. What about her?” Eve glanced toward the redhead. “Did she work with Sari on any of the classes?”

“No. Actually, this is Loni’s first class. We’ve had to do some…well, some internal shuffling. Loni worked coat check and revolving hostessing. I just bumped her up to hostess/instructor.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“Sure, I’ll send her over.” Zela rose, smiled wanly. “Pity my feet. Mr. Buttons is as cute as, well, a button, but he’s a complete klutz.”

The dancers made the switch with Loni giving her klutzy partner a quick peck on the cheek before she dashed over to the bar on three-inch heels.

“Hi! I’m Loni.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”

Peabody swallowed her slurp of cherry foam and tried to look more official.

“I talked to those other detectives? I have to say
mmmm
on both. I guess they’re not coming back?”

“Couldn’t say. Do you recognize this man?”

Loni looked at the sketch as the bartender set down beside her something pink and fizzy with a cherry garnish. “I don’t know. Hmmm. Not really. Sort of. I don’t know.”

“Which is it, Loni? Sort of or not really?”

“He kind of looks like this one guy, but that guy had dark hair, slicked back dark hair and a really thin mustache.”

“Short, tall, average? This one guy.”

“Ummm, let me think. On the short side. ’Cause Sari had an inch or two on him. Of course, she was wearing heels, so—”

“Hold on. You saw this man with Sari?”

“This one guy, yeah. Well, lots of the men liked to dance with Sari when she was working the floor. It’s probably not this guy because—”

“Hold on.” Eve pulled out her ’link, tagged Yancy. “I need you to alter the sketch. Give him dark hair, slicked back, a thin mustache. Send it to this ’link.”

“Give me a minute.”

“When did you see this man with Sari?” Eve asked Loni.

“I’m not sure. A few weeks ago, I guess. It’s hard to remember exactly. I only remember at all because I was working the floor, and I asked this guy to dance. We’re supposed to ask the singles to dance. He was sort of shy and sweet, and said how he’d just come in for the music, but thank you. Then just a little while later, I saw him dancing with Sari. It sort of frosted me, you know? Silly.” She shrugged. “But I was, like, I guess he goes for brunettes instead of…Oh.” She went a little pale. “Oh, God.
This
guy?”

“You tell me.” Eve turned her ’link around so that Loni could view the screen with the adjusted sketch.

“Oh God, oh God. I think, I really think that’s the guy. Brett.”

“It’s okay.” The bartender took her hand. “Take it easy.” He angled his head to look at the screen. Shook his head. “He didn’t come to the bar. I don’t remember him sitting at the bar.”

“Where was he sitting, Loni?”

“Okay. Okay.” She took long breaths as she swiveled around to study the club. “Second tier—I’m pretty sure—toward the back over there.”

“I need to talk to whoever waits tables in that section. Can you pinpoint the night, Loni?”

“I don’t know. It was a couple weeks ago. Maybe three? You know, I checked his coat once. I remember checking his coat, and that’s why I zeroed on him that night. I’d checked his coat before, and he’d been alone. So when I was working the floor, I spotted him and thought, ‘Oh yeah, that guy’s a solo.’ But he didn’t want to dance with me.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. “He wanted Sari.”

“UNOBTRUSIVE,” EVE SAID, PUSHING HER WAY
through traffic as a thick, heavy snow began to fall. “Limits contact with anyone other than the target.”

“None of the waitstaff could make him, none of the valets. Could live or work within walking distance of the club,” Peabody ventured.

“Yeah, or he parks elsewhere on his own. Or he’s using public transportation for this part of his game. What cabbie’s going to remember picking up or dropping off a fare days later, or in this case weeks? We’re spitting into the wind there. Loni only remembered him because he’d spanked her vanity. Otherwise he’d have just been another forgotten face. He’d have been smarter to dance with her. She wouldn’t have remembered him for five minutes after.”

Eve glanced in the sideview, changed lanes. “He comes in, slides into the crowd, stays out of the main play, keeps to the back. Probably tips the waiter smack on the going percentage. Later, they don’t think, ‘Oh yeah, this guy stiffed me,’ or ‘This guy seriously flashed me.’ Just ordinary and average. Steady as she goes.”

“The confirmation’s good to have. Loni verifying he’d been in the club, made contact there with York. But it doesn’t tell us much.”

“It tells us he likes to alter his appearance. Slight alterations, nothing flashy. Dark hair, little mustache, gray wig. It tells us it’s unlikely he frequents or revisits the point of contact after he’s got the target. We know that he doesn’t lose control, that he can and does maintain whatever role he’s chosen to play during the stalking phase.”

She turned, headed west for a block, then veered south. “He danced with York, had his hands on her. They’re eye to eye, talking. It would be part of her job to talk to her partner. Everything we know about her says she was smart, self-aware, and knew how to deal with people. But she doesn’t get any signals, nothing that puts a hitch in her step, that this guy is trouble.

“Check the side view,” Eve told Peabody. “See that black sedan, six cars back?”

Peabody shifted, trained her gaze on the mirror. “Yeah. Barely. This snow is pretty thick. Why?”

“He’s been tailing us. Five, six, seven back, since we left the club. Not close enough for me to make out the plate. Since, as was recently pointed out, you’re younger than me, maybe your eyes are sharper.”

Peabody hunched her shoulders. “No. Can’t make it. He’s too close to the car in front of him. Maybe if he drops back a little, or comes around.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that.” Eve gauged an opening, started to switch lanes.

The blast of a horn, the wet squeal of brakes on sloppy pavement had her tapping her own. One lane over a limo fishtailed wildly in an attempt to miss hitting some idiot who dashed into the street.

She heard the thud, saw the boy fall and roll. There was a nasty crunch as the limo laid into the massive all-terrain in front of her.

“Son of a bitch.”

Even as she flipped on her On Duty light, she looked in the rearview again. The sedan was gone.

She slammed out of her vehicle in time to see the boy scramble up, start a limping run. And to hear the scream of: “Stop him! He’s got my bag!” over the urban symphony of horns and curses.

“Son of a bitch,” she said again. “Handle it, Peabody.” And set off in pursuit of the street thief.

He got his rhythm back quickly, proving—she supposed—someone else was younger than she. He dashed, darted, skidded, all but flew across the street, down the sidewalk.

He may have been younger, but her legs were longer, and she began to close the distance. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes showing both alarm and annoyance. As he ran he yanked the big brown bag out from under his bulky coat and began to swing it like a stylish pendulum.

He knocked over pedestrians like bowling pins so that Eve had to leap, dodge, swerve.

When he spun, swung the bag at her head, she ducked, snagged the strap, and simply yanked it to send him tumbling to the sidewalk.

Annoyed, she crouched. “You’re just stupid,” she muttered, and shoved him over on his back.

“Hey! Hey!” Some good Samaritan stopped. “What are you doing to that boy? What’s the matter with you?”

Eve planted her boot on the boy’s chest to keep him down, flipped out her badge. “You want to keep moving, pal?”

“Bitch,” the boy said as the Samaritan frowned at Eve’s badge. Then, like an angry terrier, bit her.

H
uman bites are more dangerous than animal bites.” Peabody had the wheel now as Eve sat in the passenger seat dragging up her pants leg to see the damage. “And he broke the skin,” Peabody noted with a sympathetic wince. “Gee, he really clamped down on you.”

“Little bastard son of a bitch. Let’s see how he likes the assaulting-an-officer strike on top of the robberies. Biting Boy had a dozen wallets in his coat pockets.”

“You need to disinfect that.”

“Made me lose the sedan. Could’ve kicked him bloody for that.” Setting her teeth, Eve used the clean rag Peabody had unearthed from somewhere to staunch the wound. “Turned on the cross street as soon as there was a commotion. That’s what he did, that’s what he does. Avoids crowds and confrontations. Fucking fucker.”

“Bet that really hurts. You’re sure it was the guy?”

“I know a tail when I see one.”

“No question. I’m just wondering why he’d tail us. Trying to find out what we know, I guess. But what’s the point? All he can get is where we go—and where we’ve gone is pretty standard for an investigation.”

“He’s trying to get my rhythm, my pace, my moves. Trying to find a routine.”

“Why would…” It hit, and had Peabody jerking in her seat. “Holy shit. He’s stalking you.”

“Thinks I won’t make a tail?” She jerked her pants leg back down because looking at the teeth marks only made it hurt more. “Thinks he can figure me. Fat chance. He doesn’t know his target this time, he—ha—bit off more than he’s going to be able to chew.”

“How long have you known he was looking at you?”

“Know? Since about a half hour ago. Toyed with the possibility for a while, but having him tail us pretty much nailed it down.”

“You could have mentioned the idea to your partner.”

“Don’t start. It was one of God knows how many possibles. Now I’m giving it a high probable, and you’re the first to know. Black sedan, nothing flashy—which fits right in—round headlights, no hood ornamentation. It looked like a five-bar grill. We should be able to get a model from that.”

She all but sighed with relief when Peabody turned into the garage at Central. She wanted to ice down the damn leg. “New York plate was all I could make. Just a quick glimpse on the plate color. Too much distance, too much snow to get any number.”

“You need to take standard precautions with that injury.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“One of them should be an hour in the crib. You’re wiped out.”

“I hate the crib.” Eve climbed, somewhat achily, out of the car. “If I need to shut down for an hour, I’ll use the floor in my office. It works for me. Do me a favor,” she added as she hobbled to the elevator. “Set up a meet with Whitney and Mira, asap. I’m going to go steal some disinfectant and a bandage from the infirmary.”

“You don’t have to steal it. They’ll fix you up.”

“I don’t want them to fix me up,” Eve grumbled. “I hate them. I’ll just palm what I need and take care of it myself.”

E
ve swung through the infirmary, committed—if you wanted to be absolutely technical—some basic shoplifting by pocketing what she needed without logging it in.

But if she logged it, they’d insist on seeing the wound. If she showed them the wound, they’d start badgering her to have it treated there. She just needed to clean it up, slap a bandage on it. And, okay, maybe take a blocker.

When she stepped into her office, Roarke was already there.

“Let’s see it.”

“See what?”

He merely lifted his eyebrows.

“Damn Peabody. She’s got a mouth on her.” Eve pulled the lifted items out of her coat pocket, tossed them on her desk. She hung her coat on the rack, then sat and propped her injured leg on the desk.

Roarke studied the wound when she tugged up her pants leg, and hissed a little. “Bit nasty, that.”

“I’ve had worse than a nip from some half-assed sissy street thief.”

“True enough.” Still, he cleaned, treated, and bandaged the bite himself. Then leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the neat white square. “There, that’s better.”

“He tailed me.”

Roarke straightened now, and the quiet amusement in his eyes faded. “We’re not talking about the half-assed sissy street thief.”

“I made him—black sedan, couldn’t get the plate, but I think we can pop on the model, maybe the year. I might’ve been able to get more, maybe even have managed to box him in if that asshole hadn’t run out in the street. I had to control the vehicle or else crash into the limo that bumped the asshole and crashed into an ATV in front of me. A few seconds, and he was gone.”

“He wouldn’t know you made him.”

“Don’t see how, no. He’s just cautious. There’s trouble up ahead, so he slithers off and avoids it. If he’s been out and about shadowing me, he might not have seen the media reports with his face on them. But he will.”

She shifted to try to ease the throbbing in her calf. “Be a pal, would you? Get me coffee.”

He went to her AutoChef. “And your next step?”

“Meet with Whitney and Mira to discuss the possibilities of baiting a trap. Check in with the team members, input any new data. At some point I need an hour or two just to think. I need to work it through in my head, play with it.”

He brought the coffee back to her. “As a party with vested interest in the bait, I’d like to attend this meeting.”

“Just can’t get enough of meetings, can you? You’ll have to leave your buttons outside the room.”

“Sorry?”

“If your buttons aren’t there, they can’t be pushed.” She let her head lean back for just a minute, let the coffee work its magic on her system. “And to remember I’m not just bait, I’m an experienced and kick-ass cop.”

“With a sissy bite on her tightly muscled calf.”

“Well…yeah.”

“Dallas.” Peabody stepped to the door. “How’s the leg?”

“Fine, and as of now, removed from all discussion.”

“The commander and Dr. Mira will take us in the commander’s office in twenty.”

“Good enough.”

“Meanwhile, Officer Gil Newkirk’s come in. He’s in the war room.”

“On my way.”

Gil Newkirk wore his uniform well. He had a rock-solid look about him, indicating to Eve he knew how to handle himself on the street. His face bore the same sort of toughness, what she supposed Feeney might call “seasoning.”

She’d met him a handful of times over the years, and considered him to be sensible and straightforward.

“Officer Newkirk.”

“Lieutenant.” He took the hand she offered with a firm, brisk shake. “Looks like you’ve got an efficient setup here.”

“It’s a good team. We’re narrowing the field.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and wish I’d brought you something substantial. If you’ve got some time…”

“Have a seat.” She gestured, joined him at the conference table.

“You’ve got his face.” Newkirk nodded to the sketch pinned to one of the four case boards. “I’ve been studying that face, trying to put it in front of me nine years back during one of the knock-on-doors. There were so many of them, Lieutenant. That face isn’t coming up for me.”

“It was a long shot.”

“I went through my notes again, and I went over to Ken Colby’s place, he was on this. He went down five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man. His widow, she let me dig out his files and notes on the old investigation. I brought them in.” He tapped the box he’d carried in with him. “Thought they might add something.”

“I appreciate that.”

“There were a couple of guys that popped for me when I was going through it again this morning—going off what you gave me last night. But the face, it doesn’t match.”

“What popped about them?”

“The body type and coloring. And my boy and I, we’ve talked this through some.” He cocked a brow.

“I’ve got no problem with that.”

“I know you’re working the Urban Wars angle, and I remembered one of these guys told us he used to ride along in a dead wagon in the Urbans, with his old man. Pick up bodies. Worked as an MT, then kicked that when he went to some convention in Vegas and hit a jackpot. I remember him because it was a hell of a story. The other was this rich guy, third-generation money. He did taxidermy for a hobby. Place was full of dead animals.

“I pulled them out.” He passed her a disc. “In case you wanted to check them out again.”

“We’ll do that. Are you on duty, Officer Newkirk?”

“Day off,” he said.

“If you got the time and the interest, maybe you could run these through with Feeney, for current data. I’d be grateful.”

“No problem. I’m happy to assist in any way.”

Eve got to her feet, offered her hand again. “Thanks. I’ve got a meeting. I’ll check back as soon as I can. Peabody, Roarke, with me.”

She had to concentrate not to limp, and giving into her throbbing leg, headed for the small and often odorous confines of the elevator.

“Remember,” she said to Roarke, “you’re a civilian, and this is a NYPSD op.”

“That’s expert civilian to you, copper.”

She didn’t smirk—very much—then squeezed herself onto an elevator. “And don’t call the commander Jack. It negates the serious and official tone, and…it’s just wrong.”

“Yo, Dallas!”

She turned her head to see one of the detectives from Anti-Crime grinning at her. “Renicki.”

“Heard some mope took a chunk out of you, and now he’s got himself a case of rabies.”

“Yeah? I heard some LC got a taste of you, and now she’s got herself a case of the clap.”

“And that,” Roarke murmured as a number of cops hooted, “is serious and official.”

In his office, Whitney stood behind his desk, and Mira beside a visitor’s chair. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Detective. Roarke.”

“Sir, as I believe the expert consultant may be able to assist with the content of this meeting, I’ve asked him to be included.”