Visions in Death (7 page)

Without those pockets of solitude and sensation, you might just go mad.

She'd used sex before Roarke, for the release, the physical snap. But she'd never known, or understood, the intimacy of the act before him, the complete surrender of self to another. She'd never experienced the emotional peace that followed until he'd loved her.

"I have things to say to you," she said.

"All right."

She shook her head. "In a little while." If she stayed like this much longer, saturated with him, she'd forget there was a world out there, one she'd sworn to protect. "I've got to get up. Don't much want to, but I have to."

"You're going to eat."

She had to smile. He hadn't finished taking care of her, she thought. He never finished. "I'm going to eat. In fact, I'll get dinner for both of us."

He lifted his head, and those eyes, those brilliant blue eyes, narrowed thoughtfully. "Will you?"

"Hey, pal, I can work a stupid AutoChef as well as the next guy." She gave him a light slap on the ass. "Roll over."

He complied. "Was it the sex or the soother?"

"Was what the sex or the soother?"

"That put you in a domestic frame of mind?"

"A smart mouth won't get you dinner."

Smart mouth or not, he figured he was probably getting pizza.

She hooked a robe out of her closet, then while he watched her with some surprise, took one out of his and brought it to him. "And a smart mouth isn't always verbal. I can see sarcastic thoughts in your head."

"Why don't I shut up and get us some wine?"

"Why don't you?"

He left her contemplating the AutoChef and opened the panel to the wine rack. He assumed she needed to keep busy, keep the nightmare at bay. Thinking pizza, he selected a bottle of chianti, opened it, and set it aside to breathe.

"You'll be working tonight."

"Yeah. I have to do some stuff. I've got Mira's profile, and I want to walk through that again. Put together a progress report. I haven't done any probabilities yet either. Plus I have to scan the eye banks, transplant facilities, that sort of thing. A time waster since he didn't take them to sell them. But it's got to be eliminated."

She brought two plates over to the sitting area, set them down on the table.

"What've you got there?" he asked her.

"Food. What does it look like?"

He cocked his head. "It doesn't look like pizza."

"My culinary programming skills run beyond pizza."

She'd chosen chicken sautéed in wine and rosemary, with wild rice and asparagus.

"Well fancy that," he murmured, flummoxed. "I've opened entirely the wrong wine."

"We'll live with it."

She went back for a basket of bread. "Let's eat."

"No, this won't do." He opened the wine rack again, found a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse in the chilled section. He opened it, brought bottle and glasses to the table. "Looks lovely. Thanks."

She sampled a bite. "Pretty good. Doesn't quite measure up to the soy fries I had at lunch, but it's not bad." When he winced, as she'd intended, she laughed.

"Hopefully you'll be able to choke down whatever Charles and Louise serve when we go to dinner."

She stabbed more chicken. "Don't you think it's weird? You know, Charles and Louise, Peabody and McNab, all having a cozy dinner at Charles's place. I'm pretty sure the last time, the only time, McNab was ever over there was when he and Charles punched each other out."

"I doubt it'll come to that again, but if it does, you'll be there to break it up. And not weird, darling, no. People find each other. Charles and our Peabody were, and are, friends."

"Yeah, but McNab thinks they did the mattress rumba."

"Whatever he thinks, he knows they're not dancing now."

"I still say it's going to be weird."

"A few awkward moments, perhaps. Charles and Louise love each other."

"Yeah, about that. How can they cruise along this way? He's out there boinking other women professionally, then boinking her for love. What's with that?"

An amused smile curving his lips, Roarke sipped his wine. "You're such a moral creature, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, we'd see how open-minded and sophisticated you are if I decided to turn in my badge and become a licensed companion. I'd have a hard time working up a client list because you'd smash all their faces in."

He merely inclined his head, in agreement. "But you weren't an LC when I met and fell for you, were you? A cop, and that took some considerable adjusting on my part."

"Guess it did." And that, she thought, was as good a segue as she could ask for, considering what she wanted to say. "I know it did. But I think, under all that, you'd already done considerable adjusting. Meaning you weren't just after the main chance, however you could get it. I don't think you ever were."

"In my misspent youth, Lieutenant, you'd have hunted me down like a dog. Not that you'd have caught me, but you'd have tried."

"If I'd been hunting..." She trailed off, waved it away. "Not where I was going." She picked up her wine, took a long sip, set it down. "I went to
Dochas
today."

"Oh?" His gaze sharpened on her face. "I wish you'd contacted me. I'd have made time to go with you."

"It was work-related. I needed to talk to Louise about this psychic chick, and Louise was there today."

He waited, but she said nothing. "What did you think?"

"I think—" She set down her fork, clasped her hands together in her lap. "I love you more than I can say. I don't have the words to tell you how much. How much I love you, how proud I am of you for what you're doing there. I was trying to come up with them, but I can't."

Moved, he reached across, waited until she unclasped her hands to take his. "What's being done there wouldn't be if you weren't part of it. Part of me."

"Yes, it would. That's the thing. Maybe you did it sooner because of me. Because of us. But it was in you to do it. It always was. I'm sorry I haven't gone before."

"Doesn't matter."

"I was afraid to. Some part of me I didn't want to look at was afraid to go there. It hurt to go." She released his hand. She had to do this, say this, on her own. "To see those women, those kids. To feel that fear. Even more to feel the hope. Even more than that. It brought it back."

"Eve."

"No, you just listen. There was this girl—you know, sometimes I think fate just slaps something down in front of you and makes you deal. Her arm was in a skincast. Her father had broken it."

"Oh, Christ."

"She talked to me; I talked back. I can't remember exactly. My head was buzzing and my stomach was clenched. I was afraid I'd be sick right there, or just fucking pass out. But I didn't. I got through it."

"You don't ever have to go back again."

She shook her head. "Just wait. I dropped Peabody at home, saw Mira, came here. I needed sleep. I thought I would just sleep, but it caught up with me. It was bad, you know it was bad. But you don't know that in the nightmare, I was back there, in the shelter. With all those battered women, all those broken kids. And they're asking me why I didn't stop it, why I let it happen."

She held up a hand so he wouldn't interrupt, though she saw her own pain reflected on his face. "He was there. I knew he'd come. He said there'd always be more. More of him, more of them. I couldn't stop it. When he reached for me, I wasn't me anymore. I mean not who I am now. I was a kid. He broke my arm, just like before, and he raped me, just like before."

She had to pause, had to wet her throat with wine. "But here's the thing. I killed him, just like before. And I'll keep killing him, as long as it takes. Because he's right. There's always more of them—the brutal and the battered. There's always more, and I can't stop it all. But I can damn well do the job and stop some of it. I have to."

She let out a breath. "I can go back there. I want to go back there, because I know when I do I won't be scared or sick—or if I am, it won't be as much, as bad. I'll go there because I can see what you've done, what you're doing, is another way to stop it. Her arm was broken, but it'll heal. So will she, because you've given her a chance."

It took him a moment, a long moment, before he could speak. "You are the most amazing woman I've ever known."

"Yeah." She gave his hand a squeeze. "We're a hell of a pair."

Chapter Six

Eve took a detour to EDD. It was always a culture shock for her to walk into a division where cops dressed like partygoers or weekend loafers. Lots of airboots and neon hues, and as many people walking or trotting around talking on headsets as manning cubes and desks.

Music blatted out, and she actually saw a guy dancing, or she assumed it was dancing while he worked with a handheld and porta -screen.

She made tracks through the bullpen and directly into Captain Ryan Feeney's office, where she expected to find sanity.

She lost the power of speech when she saw him, the reliable Feeney, with his fading vacation tan, his wiry ginger hair threaded with gray. His face was comfortably creased and droopy, but instead of one of the rumpled shirts he habitually wore, he was decked out in a stiff and spotless one the color of raspberry sherbet.

And he had on a tie. A tie. The closest she could come to describing the color was what you might get if you electrocuted grass.

"Jesus Christ, Feeney. What're you wearing?"

The look he sent her was that of a man bearing up under a hideous emotional weight. "Wife said I needed to start wearing color. Bought this getup then hung over me, nagged my ears off until I put it on."

"You look... you look like a manager for street LCs."

"Tell me. Look at these pants." He shot out a leg so Eve was treated to the sight of that skinny limb wrapped in modified skin-pants in the same electric shade as the tie.

"God. I'm sorry."

"Boys out there think I look iced. What're you going to do?"

"I don't honestly know."

"Tell me you've got a case for me, something that's going to take me out in the field where I can get bloody." He lifted his fists, a boxer's pose. "Wife can't bitch if these glad rags get ruined on the job."

"I've got a case, but I've got no fieldwork in the E area. Wish I could help you out. Can't you at least take that noose off?"

He tugged at the tie. "You don't know the wife like I do. She'll call. She'll be doing a damn spot-check on me all through shift to make sure I'm suited up. It's got a jacket, Dallas."

"You poor bastard."

"Ah well." He let out a heavy sigh. "What're you doing in my world?"

"The case. Sexual homicide with mutilation."

"Central Park. Heard you caught that one. We're doing the standard on the 'links and comps. You need more?"

"Not exactly. Can I close this?" She gestured toward his door, got the nod. When she'd shut it, she went over to sit on the corner of his desk. "What's your stand on consulting with psychics on the job?"

He pulled his nose. "Not much call for it in my division. When I worked Homicide, we'd get calls now and then from people claiming they had visions, or information from the spirit world. You know that."

"Yeah, still do. We waste time and manpower following them up, then go along and investigate with our measly five senses."

"Got some genuines out there." He pushed away from the desk to program for coffee. "Most departments these days have a sensitive attached as civilian consultant. More than a few carry badges, too."

"Yeah, well. We were partnered up for a long time."

He handed her a mug of coffee. "Those were the days."

"We never used a sensitive."

"No? Well, you use what you use when the tool fits."

"I've got one claims she saw the Central Park murder in a dream."

Feeney sipped contemplatively. "You check her out?"

"Yeah, and she jibes. Licensed and registered. Got a reference from Louise Dimatto."

"Doc's not an asshole."

"No, she's not. If you were me, would you bring her in?"

He lifted a shoulder. "You know the answer to that."

She frowned into her coffee. "You use what you use. Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear it from somebody who's got his feet planted. Thanks."

She set the nearly untouched coffee down. She was getting spoiled, she thought. She was finding it easier and easier to walk away from the stuff if it wasn't real coffee. "Thanks."

"No sweat. Let me know if you need somebody to dig in, get his hands, and personal attire, dirty."

"Will do. Ah, you know somebody could spill coffee on that getup. Wouldn't be your fault."

He sent her a pitying look. "She'd know. Ain't nobody more psychic than a wife."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

She rounded up Peabody. If she was going to consult with a psychic, she was going to run the possibility by her commander first. Whitney listened as she gave her oral to back up the data she'd already sent to his attention. He didn't interrupt, but sat quiet at his desk, a big man with dark skin and close-cropped silvering hair. Years of riding a desk hadn't wiped the cop out of him. It reached right down to the bone. The only change in his wide, sober face was a quick lift of eyebrows when she mentioned Celina Sanchez. When her report was complete, he nodded, then eased back.

"Psychic consultant. Not your usual style, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"The media liaison is handling the public information front for now. We'll continue to omit the exact nature of the mutilation, as well as the description of the murder weapon. If you decide to consult a sensitive, that data will also be omitted."

"She's firm on that, Commander. If I consult with her, I wouldn't feel comfortable giving her name to the liaison, or anyone beyond the active investigative team."

"Understood. The name of your sensitive sounds familiar to me. I may have met her at some time or other. Socially. I'll check with my wife, who has a better memory for that sort of thing."

"Yes, sir. Do you want me to wait to speak with Ms. Sanchez again until you've done so?"

"No. This is your call. Detective, your opinion on this matter?"

Peabody's spine snapped straight. "Mine, sir? Ah... I might be more open to extrasensory gifts, Commander. We have sensitives in my family."

"Would you be one of them?"

She relaxed enough to smile. "No, sir. I just have the basic five. I believe, as Lieutenant Dallas believes, that Celina Sanchez is worth at least a follow-up interview."

"Then talk to her. If and when the eyes leak to the media, we'll see this case blasted on and through every media outlet. We need to close it before the circus comes to town."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Celina lived in a section of SoHo that ran to high-end art, trendy restaurants, and tiny one-room boutiques. It was the land of young, well-heeled, well-dressed urbanites who liked to hold intimate, catered brunches on Sunday mornings, voted Liberal Party, and attended esoteric plays they only pretended to understand, much less enjoy.

Street artists were welcome, and coffeehouses were abundant.

Celina's two-story loft had once been part of a three-story sweatshop that had produced massive amounts of cheap, designer knockoff clothing. It, like other similar buildings in the sector, had been revitalized, rehabbed, and reclaimed by those who could afford the real estate.

From the street, Eve noted the windows were as wide as shuttle ports, and a long, narrow terrace with an ornate iron railing had been added to the third floor.

"You sure you don't want to call for an appointment?" Peabody asked.

"She ought to know we're coming."

Peabody approached the sidewalk-level front entrance beside Eve. "That's sarcasm, sir."

"Peabody, you know me too well." Eve rang the buzzer for Celina's loft. Moments later, Celina's voice drifted through the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody."

There was another sound. It might have been a sigh. "Please come up. I'll release the door and the elevator. Just ask for two."

The little security light over the door went from red to green. Locks snicked open. Eve stepped inside the entryway, scanned and observed three first-level apartments. To her left, an elevator door opened. They stepped in, requested two.

When the door opened again, Celina stood on the other side of an ironwork gate. Her hair was up today, in some twisty coil that was secured by what looked like a couple of fancy chopsticks.

She wore skin-pants that were cropped a few inches above the ankle and a snug tank that left her midriff bare. She wore no shoes, no facial enhancements, no jewelry.

She opened the gate, stepped back. "I was afraid you'd come. We might as well sit down."

She gestured behind her to a wide space furnished with a generous S-shaped sofa the color of good red wine. There was an oversized table on each curve, and on one stood a long, shallow bowl filled with what appeared to be rocks. Beside it, a tall pillar candle rose out of a hammered cup.

The floor was the original wood, by Eve's guess, and had been sanded, sealed—whatever people did with old, original wood—to turn it into a glossy, honey-toned sea. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered over it, as brightly patterned art was scattered over the pale green walls.

Through archways, she spotted the kitchen, a party-sized dining area. There were open-tread, metal steps, painted a deeper green than the walls and boasting a railing that was fashioned to resemble a slim, slithering snake.

"What's that?" Eve nodded toward the only door, shut and secured.

"My consultant space. It has another entrance. I like the convenience of working at home when I can, but I also value my privacy. I don't take clients in this part of my house."

She gestured again, toward the sofa. "Can I get you something to drink? I cancelled my consults today. I don't think I'd do anyone any good. You caught me in the middle of a yoga session. I'd like some tea myself."

"No, thanks," Eve responded.

"I wouldn't mind. If you're making it anyway."

Celina smiled at Peabody. "Have a seat. It won't take long."

Rather than sitting, Eve wandered. "You've got a big space here."

"Yes. I need open spaces. I'd go crazy, for instance, in your office. You spoke with Louise?"

"She contacted you?"

"No. But you strike me as a thorough woman. I assume you checked my license, my record, my background, and spoke with Louise before deciding to talk to me again. You'd consider it necessary."

"Louise said you were the black sheep."

Celina came out, carrying a tray with a squat white pot and two fragile-looking white cups and saucers. She shot Eve a wry smile. "Yes, that's accurate. My family disapproves, and is mildly embarrassed not only by my gift but that I choose to make a living from it."

"You don't need the money."

"Not for financial security." She crossed the room to set the tray on the table. "But for personal satisfaction. In your circumstances, Lieutenant, you hardly need the salary the police department pays you. But I imagine you collect it just the same."

She poured two cups of tea, passed one to Peabody. "I can't stop thinking about Elisa. I don't want to think of her. I don't want to be part of this. But I have to."

"The NYPSD may hire and attach, at the primary's request, expert consultants, civilians."

" Mmm-hmm." Celina arched one dark eyebrow. "And did I pass the audition?"

"So far. If you're willing and able to serve as such on this matter, you'll be required to sign a contract. The contract will include a gag order, preventing you, by law, from discussing any aspect of the investigation."

"I've no desire to discuss any aspect of the investigation. If I agree to do this, I require you to sign a document insuring that my name, my association with the investigation, will not be given to the media."

"So you said before. You'll be paid a fee—standard rate." Eve held out a hand to Peabody, waited while Peabody took documents out of her bag. "You'll want to read these over. You're free to consult a lawyer or legal representative before signing."

"You're giving your word, I'm giving mine. I don't need a lawyer for that." But she crossed her legs, settled back, and read each document carefully. "I don't have a pen."

Peabody pulled one out, offered it. Celina signed both documents, handed the pen off to Eve.

"Well, that's that, isn't it?" Celina let out a breath after Eve scrawled her name on each contract.

"That's that."

"What do I do?"

"Tell me again exactly what you saw." Eve laid a recorder on the table. "For the record."

She went through it again, closing her eyes from time to time as she repeated details. Her hands didn't shake, and her voice stayed strong and steady, but Eve watched her pale, degree by degree as she recounted the murder.

"And where were you when you saw this happen?"

"Upstairs. In bed. My security was on, all night, as always. I have full alarms, and cameras on all doors. You're welcome to take the discs into evidence, check them."

"I will. It covers both of us. Have you had any visions since night before last?"

"No. Just a... a sense of dread, and a feeling of anticipation. That could be my own nerves."

"Peabody? Evidence bag."

Saying nothing, Peabody took out a length of red corded ribbon, sealed. "Do you recognize this, Ms. Sanchez?"

"Celina." Even her lips had gone white. "It looks like what he used on her."

Eve unsealed the bag, held the ribbon out. "Take it. Tell me what you see."

"All right." Celina set down her cup, then rubbed her palms nervously on her thighs. She breathed slowly, then took the ribbon.

She ran it through her fingers, kept her gaze fixed on it. "I don't... nothing comes, nothing clear. Maybe I need time to prepare, maybe I need solitude." Baffled frustration ran over her face. "I thought... I expected more. I was so sure that I'd get something since I had this connection. I know he used this to kill her. They both touched it, but I get nothing."

Eve took the ribbon, resealed it, handed it back to Peabody. "Why do you think you didn't see his face that night? You saw hers."

"I don't know. My connection must be with the victim. Maybe Elisa didn't see him clearly."

"Possible. Maybe you could try again, with the ribbon."

"I don't know what difference it would make. Maybe if you left me alone with it," she began as Peabody took out an evidence bag.