Imitation in Death (24 page)

Ridiculous, it was ridiculous. She knew what he looked like, and he could still turn her inside out without even trying.

He must have sensed her stare as he shifted his eyes, met hers. An absurdly handsome man with a cookie in his hand. "I think I deserve it."

Her mind blanked. "What?'

"The cookie, he said and took a bite. Then he cocked his head. "What?'

"Nothing;' Vaguely embarrassed, she turned around again and ordered her heart to settle back down. Time, she told herself, to move to the next.

Renquist, Niles, she thought. Self-important, snotty bastard. But that was just personal opinion. Time for facts.'

He'd been born in London, to a society deb who was half. Brit, half Yank. Fourth cousin to the king on her mother's side and tons of money on her father's. His father was Lord Renquist, a member of Parliament and a staunch conservative. One younger sister who'd settled in Australia with husband number two.

Renquist had the full British educational packager The Stonebridge School to Eton, Eton to Edinburg University. Served two years in the RAF, as commissioned officer, rank of captain. Fluent in Italian and French and joined the diplomatic corps at age thirty, the same year as his marriage to Pamela Elizabeth Dysert.

She had a similar background and education. Well-placed parents, high-class education,, which had included six' years at a boarding school in Switzerland. She was an only child, and had considerable money of her own.

They were, Eve supposed, what people of that class would call a good match.

Eve remembered the little girl who'd' come, to the steps while she'd been questioning_ Pamela Renquist. The. little pink-and-gold doll, Rose, who'd given the nanny's hand one impatient tug before falling in.

No, not. Nanny. She'd called her the "au pair." ' People of that ilk always had a fancy name for everything.

Wouldn't Renquist have had an au pair growing up?

His schedule, daytime,. wasn't as flexible as the others. But would an assistant or admin question him if he told them to block out a couple of, hours? She studied the ID image of Renquist on-screen, and doubted it.

No criminal on him or the wife. No little smudges as there had been with Breen and Fortney.. Just a perfect picture, all polished and shiny.

She didn't buy it.

He hadn't married until thirty, she thought. A reasonable age, if you were going the "till death" route. Plus, a man with political ambitions did better in the field if he presented the. package of wife and family. But unless he'd taken a vow of celibacy, there'd have been other relationships before the marriage.

And maybe after it.

It might be worth having a conversation with the current au pair. Who knew family dynamics better than live-in help?

She went back for more coffee. "You could shoot up the data on Carmichael Smith."

"Do you want that before the data on the Fortney nanny?" "You've got that already?"

"What can I say? I earn my cookies."

"Fortney first, smart guy. Let's keep it ordered."

"Difficult, as it appears there were several child-care providers used. It appears his mother chewed through them like gumdrops. Baby nurses, au pairs, whatever. Seven total over a period of just under ten years. None stayed on the job longer than two years, with an average stay of six months."

"Doesn't seem long enough to have any serious impact. So my thought would be the mother remained the authority figure."

"And from this data, one assumes an incendiary one. Three of the former employees filed hardship suits against her. All were settled out of court."

"I'm going to have to take a closer look at the mother." She paced back and forth in front of the screen while she ran it through her head. "Leo has a mother who's an actress,.and his current lover is in the same profession. He goes into a profession where he'll deal with actors, have some control over them be controlled, I imagine, by them. That says something. The killer is acting. Assuming a role, and proving he can play the part better than the original, and with more finesse. When -I run a probability with this data, it's' going to come out high on Leo."

She considered. "Let's go down the list before we do another layer. Find me Renquist's nanny, or whatever they call them over in England."

"Roberta Janet Gable," Roarke announced, then smiled. "I'm multitasking."

"Usually do," she replied, then looked up at the image on-screen. "Man." Eve gave a mock shudder. "Scary.,,

'This is current. She'd have been considerably younger when working for Renquist's mother, but"--having-anticipated her, Roarke called up the earlier photo-"still scary."

"I'll say." She studied the split-screen images.of a thin face with dark, deep-set eyes and an unsmiling mouth. The hair was brown in the younger, gray in the current,, and in both cases pulled severely back. The lines that bracketed the no- nonsense mouth on the earlier image had dug themselves into disapproving grooves on the older woman.

"I bet nobody called her Bobbie," Eve commented. She started to struggle with the math, and could only be grateful Roarke had gotten there before her.

"She took the job when Renquist was two, and held it until he was fourteen. He didn't board at Stonebridge, but was a day student. Headed off to Eton at fourteen, and no longer required the services of a nanny. Roberta, don't call me Bobbie, would have been twenty-eight; when she took the position, and forty when she left it to take another position as private child-care provider. She's now sixty-four and has recently retired. Never married, nor had any offspring of her own."

"She looks like she pinches," Eve commented. 'One of the providers at the state school was a pincher. She's got all the credentials, but so did that bitch who decorated my arms with bruises when I was ten. Born' in Boston, and went, back' there when she retired. Yeah, that's a New England' bedrock face, the kind that says shit like `spare the rod, spoil the child.' "

"She could be an unfortunate-looking woman with a heart of gold who keeps sugar plums in her pocket to pass out to rosy- cheeked children."

"Looks like a pincher," Eve said again, and sat on the edge of the desk. "Financially solid. I bet she saved her pennies and didn't squander them on sugar plums.' What is a sugarplum, anyway?"

He was thinking of Eve at ten, with bruises on her arms.

"I'll buy you some. You'll like them." "Odds are. I think we'll chat, and seewhat she has to say about Renquist's early childhood training. Let's see the annoying Mr. Smith."

"Come sit on my lap."

She tried a severe look, but couldn't come close to Roberta Gable's expression. "There'll be no hanky or panky during a work ' session. "

"As there was hanky on the kitchen floor followed by p ky in the shower, I think -we can shelve that activity. Come sit on my lap." He sent her a persuasive smile. "I'm lonely."

She did it, and tried not to soften too much when his lips brushed her hair.

"Carmichael Smith," he said, but he was still thinking of the child-she'd been, at the mercy of the system she now stood for. And wanted, more than anything, to lavish her with everything she'd done without. Especially love.

"Thirty-one, my ass. I bet he greased some palms to have that scat adjusted. Born in Savannah, but spent part of his childhood in England. No sibs, and his mother opted for professional parent status, right up until his eighteenth birthday. Sealed juvie record, here and abroad, which might be worth the hassle of breaking. Not rolling' in as much dough as he should be, considering. Must have himself some high expenses or habits.

"Parents divorced, father remarried and moved permanently, to Devon. England, right?"

"The last I checked, yes."

"No. adult. criminal, but I bet there's something. Something paid o f or expunged. Looks like he's done some time in a couple of snazzy rehab facilities. Let's have a closer look at the mother."

"Suzanne Smith. Age fifty-two. Young when he was born," Roarke commented. "And the marriage took place nearly two years later. Attractive woman."

"Yeah, he looks like her some. Well, lookie here. Mommy had -an LC license for a while. Street level. And she's got herself a sheet."

Intrigued, Eve started to rise, but Roarke clamped his arms around her waist. "If you can't see the screen from here, I can put the data on audio."

"Nothing wrong with my eyes. Looks like she did some grifting, and got caught with illegals, tried a little minor fraud. Pleaded them all down," she added. "Never served time. Rolled, on somebody, I bet. Held onto the license after she applied for PP status, but claimed no income. Just kept it off the books, that's all. She was still turning. Why pay the fee if you're not going to turn tricks? So, little Carmichael's sex education was likely early and hands on."

She considered, put herself in the scenario. "Let me see his medicals," she asked. "As far back as you can find."

"Am I smudging now?" ,

She hesitated, but, her instincts were humming. "Keep it to a minimum."

He gave her hip a little pat, signaling her up so he could work. While he did, she poured the last of the coffee.

"Standard exams and inoculations as an infant," Roarke said. "He appeared to become accident-prone at about two."

"Yeah, I see." She scanned die-various reports, from various doctors, different health centers. Stitches, minor fractures, one fairly serious burn. Dislocated-shoulder, a broken finger. "She knocked him around," Eve noted. "The abuse continued after the divorce, and right up until he hit the teen years and probably got too big for her to risk it. So it was the mother, the female, authority figure. She moved around enough to get away with it. Relocating here and there. in the States, doing some time in England. And look at her earned income, Roarke, as opposed to her assets."

`The first is all but nil, while the second was very comfortable."

"Yeah. I'd say she's still sucking on her little boy. Guy's bound to resent that sort of thing. Maybe enough to kill."

Chapter 13

Eve had very rational reasons for starting her shift in her home office. It was quiet. Of course anything compared to the division' at Central-including an Arena Ball match-was quiet.

She needed more thinking time. She wanted to set up a murder board here as well, so she could stare at it and study it whenever she was in the room.

And, the number-one reason for loitering there rather than heading, straight downtown was the expected arrival of Summerset. She intended-to be well away before noon, but she wanted to brood, just awhile, over the fact that once she left the house today, he would have reclaimed the field upon her return.

So she set up her board, sat, put her feet up on her desk. And drinking coffee, studied it.

There were crime-scene photos-the Chinatown alley, the Gregg bedroom. There were maps, and the notes left on scene.. photos, before and after. With them, she pinned copies ofthe original crime scenes these were based on.

Whitechapel and Boston, and two of those victims that most closely matched hers.

He'd studied those, too, she thought. Stared at those old photographs, read those old reports.

He'd be studying others now. Refreshing himself, preparing for the next act.

She had the lab reports, the ME's,' the sweepers' She had statements from witnesses, next of kin, suspects, neighbors. She had the time-lines. She had her own notes, her, own reports, and now a mountain of background data on those who remained on her shortlist.

She would go over them all again, and she would do more leg work, more interviews, She'd dig deeper, wider. Buts he would beat her to the next. Her gut told her he'd beat her in the short run, and someone else would die before she caught up.

He'd made mistakes. She sipped coffee and stared at the board. The notes were a mistake. That was pride and a kind of glee. He had a need not only to toot his own horn, but to do it with, a flourish. Notice met See how smart I am, see what excellent taste I have.

But the paper could 'be traced, could give her a list -of names to pursue.

The basket of peaches- was another. That was arrogance. I can walk right out of here, leaving-the brutalized dead behind, and eat a nice ripe peach.

There might be other mistakes. She would pick everything apart until she found them. He-would make other mistakes, because however smart he was, he was cocky.

She looked toward the open door when she heard the sound of footfalls, and her forehead creased.

"Hey," she said, as Feeney walked in: The neatly pressed shirt told her his wife had handed it to him out of the closet. The broken-in shoes said he'd gotten away from her before, Mrs. Feeney could nag him into putting on a less disreputable pair.

He'd probably combed his hair, but it was already frizzing out in its usual wiry thatch of ginger and silver. There was a little nick on his chin because he claimed a-man couldn't shave proper unless he used an actual razor.

"Got your message,"' he said.

"It was late, that's why I dumped it to voice mail. I didn't mean for you to come around this morning, go out of your way."

"It's only out of my way if there aren't any danishes back there.

"Probably are. If not there, somewhere else."

Taking that as invitation, he walked back to the kitchen. She could hear him scanning the menu, giving a grunt of approval as he found something that pleased him, calling it up.

He came back in with a pastry and an enormous mug of coffee. "So,"-he said, and sat, studying the board as she had. "He's two for two."

"Yeah, and I'm batting zero. Clipped the ball a couple times, but it keeps curving foul. Once he hits again, the media's going- to pick up the scent, and we'll have a holy mess on our hands: 'Deadly Mimic Stalking New York.' 'Chameleon Killer Baffles Police.' They love that shit."

Feeney scratched his cheek, ate more pastry. "Public does, too. Sick bastards."

"I've got a lot of data, a lot of angles. Thing is, I pull one line, and six more drop down. I can push Whitney for more manpower, but you know how it goes. I keep it low profile, and `the budget only stretches so far. Once it breaks and people start screaming, politics come into play and I can stretch it further."