The In Death Collection 06-10 (43 page)

Eve’s face, she noted, was a bit too pale, a bit too thin. Mira hadn’t seen her since Eve’s return to duty, and her doctor’s eye diagnosed that the return had been rushed.

But she kept that opinion to herself.

“The person you’re looking for is likely a male between the ages of thirty and fifty-five,” she began. “He’s controlled, calculating, and organized. He enjoys the spotlight and feels he deserves to be the focus of attention. He may have had some aspirations toward acting or a connection to the field.”

“He showed off for the camera, played to it.”

“Exactly.” Mira nodded, pleased. “He employed costumes and props, and not just, in my opinion, as tools and disguises.
But for the flair of it, and the irony. I wonder if he sees his cruelty as irony.”

She took a breath, shifted her legs, and sipped at her tea. If she’d believed Eve would actually drink the cup she’d given her, Mira would have added some vitamins to it. “It’s possible. It’s a stage, a show. He enjoys that aspect very much. The preparation, the details. He’s a coward, but a careful one.”

“They’re all cowards,” Eve stated and had Mira tilting her head.

“Yes, you would see it that way, because to you the taking of a life is only justifiable in defense of another. For you murder is the ultimate cowardice. But in this case, I would say he recognizes his own fears. He drugs his victims quickly—not to save them pain but to prevent them from fighting, and perhaps overcoming him physically. He needs to set the stage. He puts them in bed, restrains them before cutting off their clothes. He doesn’t strip them in a rage, and he makes certain they’re bound before he goes to the next step. Now they’re helpless, now they’re his.”

“Then he rapes them.”

“Yes, when they’re bound. Naked and helpless. If they were free they would reject him. He knows this. He’s been rejected. But now he can do as he wishes. He needs them awake and aware for this so that they can see him, so they know he has the power, so they struggle but can’t escape.”

The words, the images, had Eve’s already uneasy stomach pitching. Memories danced too close to the surface. “Rape’s always about power.”

“Yes.” Because she understood Mira wanted to reach out and take Eve’s hand. And because she understood, she didn’t. “He strangles them because it’s personal, an extension of the sexual act. Hands to the throat. It’s intimate.”

Mira smiled a little. “How much of this had you already concluded?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re confirming my take on him.”

“All right then. The garland is trimming. Props again,
show, irony. They’re gifts from himself to himself. The Christmas theme may have some personal meaning to him, or it may simply be the symbolism.”

“What about the destruction of Marianna Hawley’s tree and ornaments?” When Mira only cocked a brow, Eve shrugged. “Breaking the symbol of the holiday in the tree, the eradication of purity in the angel ornaments.”

“It would suit him.”

“The pins and tattoos.”

“He’s a romantic.”

“A romantic?”

“Yes, he’s very much the romantic. He brands them as his love, he leaves them a token, and he takes the time and the trouble to make them beautiful before he leaves them. Anything less than that would make them an unworthy gift.”

“Did he know them?”

“Yes, I would say he did. Whether they knew him is another matter. But he knew them, he’d observed them. He’d chosen them and for the length of time he had them, they were his true love. He doesn’t mutilate,” she added, leaning forward. “He decorates, enhances. Artistically, perhaps even lovingly. But when he is finished, he is done. He sprays the body with disinfectant, erasing himself. He washes, scrubs, erasing them from him. And when he leaves, he is jubilant. He’s won. And it’s time to prepare for the next.”

“Hawley and Greenbalm were nothing alike physically, nor in their lifestyles, their habits, or their work.”

“But they had one thing in common,” Mira put in. “They were both, at one time, lonely enough, needy enough, interested enough, to pay for help in finding a companion.”

“Their true love.” Eve set her untouched tea aside. “Thanks.”

“I hope you’re well.” Aware that Eve was braced to rise and leave, Mira stalled. “Fully recovered from your injuries.”

“I’m fine.”

No, Mira thought, not quite fine. “You only took what, two
or three weeks off to recover from serious injuries.”

“I’m better off working.”

“Yes, I know you think so.” Mira smiled again. “Are you ready for the holidays?”

Eve didn’t squirm in her chair, but she wanted to. “I’ve picked up a couple of presents.”

“It must be difficult finding something for Roarke.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something perfect. No one knows him better than you.”

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.” And because it was in the back of her mind, she spoke without thinking. “He’s getting into all this Christmas stuff. Parties and trees. I just figured we’d hand each other something and be done with it.”

“Neither of you have the memories of childhood everyone’s entitled to—of anticipation and wonder, of Christmas mornings with pretty boxes stacked under the tree. I’d say Roarke intends to start making those memories, for the two of you. Knowing him,” she added with a laugh, “they won’t be ordinary.”

“I think he’s ordered a small forest of trees.”

“Give yourself a chance at that anticipation and wonder, as a gift for both of you.”

“With Roarke you don’t have a choice.” She did stand now. “I appreciate the time, Dr. Mira.”

“One last thing, Eve.” Mira got to her feet as well. “He’s not dangerous at this point to anyone other than the person he’s focused on. He won’t kill indiscriminately or without purpose and planning. But I can’t say when that might change, or what might trigger a shift in pattern.”

“I’ve got some thoughts on that. I’ll be in touch.”

Peabody and McNab were bickering when she walked into her home office. They sat side by side at her workstation snarling at each other like a couple of bulldogs over the same bone.

Ordinarily it might have amused Eve, but at the moment it
was only one more irritation. “Break it up,” she snapped and had both of them shooting to attention with grim, resentful faces. “Report.”

When they both began to talk at once, she seethed for approximately five seconds then bared her teeth. That shut both of them up. “Peabody?”

Risking one smug sidelong glance at her nemesis, Peabody began. “We have three matches with the cosmetics. Two from Hawley’s list and one from Greenbalm’s. One from each bought the works, from skin care to lash dye. The second from Hawley’s purchased eye and brow pencils and two lip dyes. We got a hit on what was used on Greenbalm’s mouth. That’s Cupid’s Coral. All three purchased that shade.”

“Problem.” McNab lifted a finger like an instructor halting an overzealous student. “Both Cupid Coral lip dye and Musk Brown lash enhancer are routinely given as samples. In fact,” he gestured to the counter where the samples Eve had been given were lined up, “you have both here.”

“We can’t track every stupid sample,” Peabody said with a dangerous edge to her voice. “We have three names, and a place to start.”

“The Fog Over London eye smudger used on Hawley is one of the pricier products and it isn’t given out as a sample. You only get it as a separate or when you buy the whole shot in the deluxe package. We follow the smudger, we’ll be closer to the mark.”

“And maybe the son of a bitch lifted the smudger when he was buying the rest of the stuff.” Peabody turned on McNab. “You want to track every shoplifter in the city now?”

“It’s the only product we can’t trace so far. So it’s the one we have to find.”

They were nose to nose when Eve stepped forward and gave them both a shove. “The next one who speaks, I’m taking down. You’re both right. We interview the matches, and we look for the eye gunk. Peabody, get the names, go down to my vehicle, and wait for me.”

Peabody didn’t have to speak, not when a ramrod-stiff spine and hot eyes could say volumes. The minute she stalked out, McNab shoved his hands in his pockets. But when he opened his mouth, he caught the warning glint Eve shot him, and closed it again.

“You run Personally Yours again, client and personnel, find who on there bought that smudger, and see how many more of the products used on the victims you can match.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Say yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Good. While you’re at it, McNab, see if you can wiggle into Piper and Rudy’s credit account. Let’s find out what brand of enhancements they use.” She waited, brows still high. One thing McNab wasn’t was slow.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“And stop pouting,” she ordered as she strode out.

“Females,” McNab muttered under his breath, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spotted Roarke standing in the open doorway between the offices, grinning at him.

“Marvelous creatures, aren’t they?” Roarke stepped in.

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“Ah, but you’ll be a hero, won’t you, if you can match your product with the right name.” He strolled over, scanned the lists and documents that they both knew were official business, and none of his. “I find I have an hour or two free. Want some help?”

“Well, I . . .” McNab glanced toward the door.

“Don’t worry about the lieutenant.” Roarke pleased himself and sat at the computer. “I can handle her.”

Donnie Ray Michael wore a ratty brown bathrobe and a silver nose ring with an emerald cabochon. His eyes were a bleary hazel, his hair the color of butter, and his breath ferocious.

He studied Eve’s badge, expelling air in a yawn that nearly knocked her flat, then scratched his armpit.

“What?”

“Donnie Ray? Got a minute?”

“Yeah, I got plenty of minutes, but what?”

“I’ll tell you after we come in, and you gargle with a gallon or two of mouthwash.”

“Oh.” He went slightly pink and stepped back. “I was asleep. Wasn’t expecting visitors. Or cops.” But he waved them inside, then disappeared down a short hallway.

The place was as tidy as your average pigsty, with clothes, empty and half-empty take-out containers, overflowing ashtrays, and a litter of computer discs strewn over the floor. In the corner beside a threadbare sofa was a music stand and a brightly polished saxophone.

Eve caught a drift in the air of very old onions and the shadow of an illegal usually consumed by smoking. “If we decide a search is in order,” Eve told Peabody, “we’ve got probable cause.”

“What, suspicion of toxic waste?”

“There’s that.” Eve toed what might have been underwear aside. “He’s been pumping Zoner, probably as a bedtime soother. You can just smell it.”

Peabody sniffed. “I just smell sweat and onions.”

“It’s there.”

Donnie Ray walked back in, his eyes slightly clearer, his face red and damp from a quick splash. “Sorry about the mess. Droid’s year off. What’s this about?”

“Do you know Marianna Hawley?”

“Marianna?” His brow wrinkled in thought. “I dunno. Should I?”

“You matched with her through Personally Yours.”

“Oh, the dating gig.” He kicked clothes out of the way then dropped into a chair. “Yeah, I gave that a shot a few months back. I was in a drought.” He smiled a little, then shrugged. “Marianna. Was she a big redhead—no, that was Tanya. We hit it off pretty well, but she moved to Albuquerque for Christ’s sake. I mean what rocks there?”

“Marianna, Donnie Ray. Slim brunette. Green eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, now I get her. Sweet. We didn’t click, too much like, well, a sister. She came to the club where I was blowing and heard me, we had a couple of drinks. So?”

“You ever watch the screen, read the paper?”

“Not when I’ve got a steady gig. I’m booked with a group downtown at the Empire. Been doing the ten-to-four slot for the last three weeks.”

“Seven nights on?”

“No, five. You blow seven nights, you lose the edge.”

“How about Tuesday night?”

“I’m off Tuesday. Mondays and Tuesdays are clear.” His eyes were focused now and just beginning to go wary. “What’s the deal?”

“Marianna Hawley was murdered Tuesday night. You got an alibi for Tuesday from nine to midnight?”

“Oh, shit. Shit. Murdered. Jesus H.” He sprang up, stumbling over debris as he paced. “Man, that bites. She was a sweetheart.”

“Did you want her to be your sweetheart? Your true love.”

He stopped pacing. Eve found it interesting that he didn’t look frightened or angry. He looked sorry. “Look, I had a couple of drinks with her one night. A little talk, tried to convince her to take a harmless roll, but she wasn’t into it. I liked her. You couldn’t help but like her.”

He pushed his fingers against his eyes, then ran them back into his hair again. “That was, hell, six months ago, maybe more. I haven’t seen her since. What happened to her?”