Indulgence in Death (11 page)

“It looks that way. Like I said, she vetted him—or so it reads in her appointment book. How would she go about that?” With a skill that surprised Eve, Charles slid a fluffy omelet onto a plate, then poured more egg mixture into the skillet.

“Eat that while it’s hot,” he told her. “She’d have done a background check, similar to what police or private investigators would do. She’d access his criminal record, if he had one, his employment, his marital status.”

“Basic data?”

“Yeah. Then she’d do a search for articles on or by him, mentions in the media. Then, I have to assume she’d run a program that would extrapolate all the information she’d gathered and give him a rating. By the time she met him, she’d have a good idea who he was, what his habits were, his lifestyle. It’s a matter of protecting yourself, but also a method to give the LC a sense of what the client may be looking for.”

“So she’d be careful,” Eve said, “but at the same time, she was a risk taker. I saw the S&M room in her place.”

“I worked with her once or twice.” He completed another omelet. “But not in that area.”

Eve drank her coffee, and wondered how Louise could sit, eating an omelet, while her husband talked about his experiences in group sex.

When he finished the last omelet, he sat to join them.

“Charles, this is wonderful.” Smiling at him, Louise topped off his coffee from the pot on the counter. “You never said how she was killed, Dallas.”

“She was stabbed,” Eve said and left it at that for now.

“And her killer was masquerading as this other man, the man she vetted?”

“That’s right.”

“He must have looked enough like him to fool her.”

“Yeah, we’re working on that. Would she have kept the appointment, gone on with it, if she’d known this wasn’t the man who’d booked?”

“No.” Charles shook his head. “She’d have risked her license, and that she’d never have done. And going with someone you haven’t checked out is just too dangerous. She did like the edge, but not enough to put herself in that kind of situation. She liked variety in the work, but she followed the rules. When a client hires someone at Ava’s level, he or she—or they—aren’t just paying for sex. They’re paying for an experience relatively few can afford. She’d provide that, but she’d stay within the law and she’d have taken every reasonable precaution to protect herself.”

Maybe, Eve thought, but it hadn’t been enough.

W
hen Eve got back to Central, Peabody wasn’t at her desk, but most of her detectives were. Baxter, looking sleek as a fashion vid, glanced up from his.

“Took her crash time,” Baxter told her. “She’s been down about fifteen.”

“Fine.”

“Mira’s in your office.”

“Oh.”

“My boy and I are heading out. Got a floater in the pond in Central Park. Couple of kids found it.”

“Nice way to start the day.”

“Fun never ends.”

Mira sat in Eve’s ugly visitor’s chair in her pretty pale pink suit. She’d matched the suit with heels several shades deeper and a multi-chain necklace with tiny little pearls and colored stones. Her rich brown hair curled around her lovely face in a way both stylish and flattering.

Her quiet blue eyes tracked up from the screen of her PPC to meet Eve’s.

“I was just rereading your data. I had some time now so thought I’d wait for you here.”

“I appreciate you getting to it so fast.” It threw her off, just a little. Consults were usually in Mira’s airy office, and included cups of flowery tea Eve pretended to drink.

Which reminded her to offer.

“You want some tea or something?”

“Actually, I’d love some of your coffee. Dennis and I were out late last night with friends. I could use the boost.”

“Sure.”

“Have you slept?”

“Not yet. I’ll get some in when I can.” Sometime between the vic’s apartment and Central her second wind had settled in.

Maybe it was the omelets.

“He’s hit fast,” Eve said as she took the steaming mugs from the AutoChef. “Two for two. Both risky, organized, and planned.”

“Yes. He’s organized, controlled enough to spend time with, and interact with, his victims and maintain his prepared persona. Clients, both times.”

Eve turned with the coffee in her hand. “He buys his kill.”

The smile lit Mira’s face. “You could have gone into my line of work.”

“No thanks. You have to be nice to the whacked. Buys his kill,” she repeated. “That’s an interesting angle. Does he figure since he’s paid for them, they’re his to bag? Like a hunter. But you don’t hunt with a bayonet, so the hunting thing’s thin.”

“I’m not sure. We think of a bayonet as a wartime weapon, when man certainly hunts man. The killer has chosen the ground, established the rules—his—selected the weapon. All in advance.”

“But in Houston’s case, he couldn’t know, not for certain, who he’d get for prey. No, that’s not right,” Eve corrected. “You don’t know which furry animal you’re going to shoot in the woods. It’s just the species—the type. You go after a type. He likes the rush.”

“In both cases, it was a fairly close-in kill, and in a location where discovery was a factor—and likely part of the excitement. He’s mature, and the esoteric nature of the weapons tells me he’s interested in the unique—in showing his knowledge and his skill.”

“Showing off, that’s how it hits me.”

“Yes. God, this is good,” Mira murmured over her coffee. “He has wealth or access to it. Excellent e-skills, or again access to them. His choice of the men whose identification he used tells me one of two things: He either resents those in authority, specifically in the corporate world, or he considers them subordinates, those to be made use of.”

Mira angled her head. “Why does that make you smile?”

“It fits in with this theory I’m playing with, which seemed a long reach. You just shortened it. We’ve looked at people who work under Sweet and Urich, particularly the immediate staff, ones who’d either know the codes and passwords or would be able to get them. As it is I’ve got one asshole I’m bringing in today on another deal just because he fits. So I thought, maybe look up instead of down.”

Intrigued, Mira nodded and gave herself the pleasure of just breathing in the scent of coffee. “Higher up the corporate level?”

“Might as well start at the top. Let’s play this.” Eve sat on the corner of the desk so she faced Mira. “He buys his kill—boy, I like that one—he feels entitled to them. They’re expensive, exclusive. They’re indulgences only people with enough scratch can have, so buying them makes him important. Now he wants more bang for the buck, isn’t that the expression? And he wants to show off his smarts, his skills, his . . . creativity. He doesn’t mess them up, no smacking around, mutilation, no sexual assault.”

“Time would have been a factor,” Mira pointed out.

“Yeah, but if you can plan it out that well, you could plan more time if you wanted to mutilate, to rape or humiliate. He doesn’t, as far as I can tell, bother with souvenirs. Crampton had a lot of jewelry on her. It only takes a second to rip off a necklace, pull off a ring.”

“He doesn’t care about what’s theirs,” Mira said. “I agree.”

“It’s not personal, it’s not passionate, it’s not even a little pissed off. It’s just plan it out, play it out, and walk away. But he leaves the weapon so we can see how frosty he is.”

“You’re considering these thrill kills. No motive other than the kill itself.”

“We haven’t found a connection between the vics. Nothing. We’ll keep digging, and when he kills the next one, we’ll look there. But we won’t find it. They’re just part of the package.”

“He’ll be mature, as I said. Educated, well spoken, able to assume roles and adapt to situations. He had to convince his two victims he was who they expected. A man of certain means planning to surprise his wife with a romantic gesture. A man, again of certain means, looking for sex and companionship after the failure of his marriage. Different types, different dynamics. He had to assume both personas long enough to position his quarry in the kill zone.”

Mira sipped more coffee, shifted so her pretty necklace caught some of the light through Eve’s narrow window. “He’s certainly outlined and researched the next victim type, location, method. The time and timing. He most likely lives alone, or with someone he dominates. Both killings took place late in the evening and took considerable time to set up. It would be difficult to do that if he has a spouse or cohab unless he isn’t questioned in the home, or manufactured careful reasons to be absent. He made no attempt to disguise what he’d done by the pretense of robbery. So I’ll add confident, and arrogant.”

Mira checked the time. “I need to go.”

“Thanks for the time.”

Mira rose, handed Eve the empty cup, then, smiling, laid her palm on Eve’s cheek. “Get a little sleep, Eve.”

“Yeah, I’ll work it in.”

But when Mira left, she turned to the work. And she smiled grimly when she scanned Peabody’s update. She and McNab had made the shoe.

“Emilio Stefani, leather loafer, high shine, sterling silver buckle detail. Retails for . . . you have got to be kidding me. Three thousand for a pair of knock-around shoes?”

It simply offended her sensibilities. But she moved on.

“This many outlets carry this bastard? What is wrong with people? Still, it’s a good lead.”

She read further, nodded again. McNab might dress like a psychotic clown, but he had a cop’s brain. He’d done some comp magic and estimated the shoe size as between ten and ten and a half, leaning toward the ten.

Now it was a damn good lead.

She ordered background checks on both Dudley and Moriarity, ordered the computer to analyze the shoe vendors and produce the three most exclusive. With that running, she arranged for a couple of uniforms to bring Mitchell Sykes and his cohab in for questioning.

Her incoming signaled, so she read Morris’s preliminary report. No surprises. She considered snarling at the lab for more information on the bayonet but decided she was too fuzzy in the brain to deal with the new, improved Dickhead.

It seemed the second wind—or the omelets—had worn off.

Thirty minutes down, she told herself, and locking her door, stretched out on the floor. “Computer, set wake-up alarm for thirty minutes.”

Acknowledged
.

It was the last thing she heard.

M
inutes later, Roarke bypassed her locks and stepped in to find her. Facedown on the floor, he thought, sprawled out like the dead she stood for.

He thought surely there was a better place for a nap, but reengaged the locks before stretching out beside her.

He fell into sleep in seconds.

Dallas, your thirty-minute rest period has ended.

“Crap. I’m up.” She opened one eye, then jerked awake. “Jesus, Roarke.”

“You’re entitled to a larger office, you know. One big enough to accommodate a couch. And I much preferred what we did together on the floor yesterday to this.”

She rubbed her gritty eyes. “Didn’t I lock that door?”

He only smiled. “I need to go into my own office for a few hours, and wanted to kiss my wife good-bye. Why didn’t you go up to the crib for your thirty-minute rest period?”

“It’s disgusting. You don’t know who’s going to walk in, or who was in there last, or what they were doing with whoever else might’ve been in there.”

“That’s a point.” He sat up so they were face-to-face. “But I’m not sure this is better.” As Mira had, he laid a hand on her cheek. “You need more sleep.”

“Skillet, pan.”

“What?”

“You know, the skillet says the pan’s the same deal.”

He thought a moment. “I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Whatever, kitchen stuff can’t talk anyway. McNab and Peabody made the shoe.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Three large for something you wear so your foot’s not walking on the ground.”

He decided against telling her how much he’d paid for the boots she was currently wearing. “You should be pleased. They’ll be easier to track than something you could pick up for a hundred at Discount Shoes.”

“True. I’ve got to screw with the little bastard—the drug pusher—then I’m going to go have a chat with The Third and The Fourth.”

“You have fun.” He leaned in to kiss her. I’ll see you at home when we get there.” He stood, pulled her to her feet, then pleased himself by drawing her into his arms. “We’ll catch up on all this, and each other, over dinner.”

“Yeah, I . . .” She leaned back, met his eyes with a smile in hers. “That’s it.”

“Is it?” he murmured and rubbed his lips to hers.

“Not that it. I went by to see Charles to talk to him about the second vic. And he’s making breakfast for Louise because she pulled an allnighter at the clinic. I mean cooking, like with eggs and that skillet thing. And we’re sitting there eating omelets—”

“You had an omelet, and I get a bag of crisps.”

“It just worked out that way. He’s talking to me about LC stuff, and how he worked with the vic a couple times. And I’m thinking isn’t this weird for her, for Louise to sit there and eat breakfast while we’re talking about sex and S&M and clients? But it’s not. It’s their deal, that’s all it is. It’s kind of like you and me talking murder over dinner. It’s just part of the package.”

“I like our package.” He tapped her on the chin. “Try not to work my cop until she falls down.”

“He’s going to kill again, and soon,” she said when Roarke walked to the door. “He’s already booked the appointment, or at the very least keyed it into his schedule. And it won’t matter who it is, but what they are. He’ll enjoy it, and that really pisses me off.”

“Then think how pissed off he’ll be when you stop him.”

“I’m counting on it. See you later.”

10

EVE GATHERED WHAT SHE NEEDED BEFORE walking out of her office into the bullpen.

“Peabody, with me,” she said, and kept walking.

Peabody scrambled to catch up. “We nailed the shoe.”

“Good work. The top—when you’re talking important and exclusive—vendor in the city is the designer’s boutique on Madison. We’ll need a list of people who bought that shoe in the size range.”

“Shopping! Even if I couldn’t afford the toe of a pair of socks in a place like that.”

“Field work,” Eve corrected. “First we’re going to ruin Mitchell Sykes’s day. He’s in Interview A, and he’s mine. You’ve got the cohab in B.”

“I get to work her solo.” Peabody rubbed her hands together.

“I want you to go in like this is in the bag. We got everything we need to put her over, but the PA wants to save the taxpayers some money, and offer a deal. First one to lay it all out, verify the skim and scam, gets to plead to misappropriation of prescription drugs and a lighter sentence.”

“Because we want her to roll on Sykes.”

“We do.”

“And I get to be disgusted the PA isn’t fully backing our play because it’s all politics and crap. So here’s the deal, sister, and you better grab it before your playmate does.”

Eve rubbed her ear. “See where it takes you. If you get a sense she’s as much an asshole as he is, change your tactic. We’ll get them both on the whole shot. But I want to put this away fast. We’ve got bigger fish to bake.”

“Fry. Fish to fry.”

“Jesus, why would you care how metaphorically fish is cooked?”

Eve peeled off, stepped into Interview A. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Sykes, Mitchell. Hey, Mitch, how’s it going?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Who does?”

“Look, I told you what I know about all this already. I don’t have to be here, but Mr. Sweet’s directive is for full cooperation with the police.”

“Sweet,” she said, to amuse herself. “Have you been read your rights?”

“No. Why would I—”

“It’s routine, Mitch, everybody knows that.” She reeled off the Revised Miranda. “So, do you understand your rights and obligations?”

He let out a long, windy sigh. “Of course I do.”

“Excellent. So, since we’re both busy, let’s get right to the point. You and your cohab are deep in shit. My partner’s got her down the hall and is, right now, giving her a deal. I don’t want to give you one because I just don’t like you.”

His shoulders jerked the instant Eve mentioned his cohab. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Yeah, you do, because you’re under arrest. You and your girlfriend have been procuring drugs from Dudley and Son, and selling them on the open market. I know this, have solid evidence of same—that secret account of yours isn’t a secret anymore.”

She smiled pleasantly while a thin line of sweat formed over his top lip. “Basically what we’re doing here is just a formality, and more about my personal satisfaction.” She spread her hands. “I’ve got to squeeze in some fun now and again, right?”

“You . . . you’re making all this up.”

“Got you cold, Mitch. You and Karolea Prinz stole from your own company, then profited on the weaknesses, needs, and sickness of others by distributing what you stole.”

She leaned on the table, inching a little closer to his sweaty face. “You split the profits and set up a couple of offshore accounts under the name Sykpri Development.” She watched his face go paler, paler. “The tax guys are going to have their fun with you on that deal later. But for now, it’s all mine. Prinz is confirming the details right now with my partner in another interview room.”

“I—I don’t have anything to say. I want to talk to Karolea.”

“You don’t have to talk to me, but you won’t be talking to her either. She’s busy saving her own ass at the moment. Now we can move on because it strikes me that anybody who’d steal and sell drugs, who’d have the skill to set up an account that isn’t flagged by the usual regulations, wouldn’t have any problem screwing with his boss’s ID and credit, using that to cover his sorry ass when he killed.”

“I’m not a killer!” This time his voice squeaked, just a little ratlike sound that warmed Eve’s heart. “Good God, I never killed anyone.”

“Well, let’s see. You’re a thief, a liar, an illegals pusher, as well as being a complete dick.” She sat as if weighing the notion. “Yeah, it’s just a short step to murder. Maybe it went like this: You used Jamal’s company and services to reach a higher-income client base, then he wants a bigger cut. Or maybe has a change of heart. Can’t have that, so you have to take him out, don’t you? And why not frame your own boss—get a twofer. Maybe a nice promotion. Then—”

“No!” He leaped out of the chair, then dropped straight down again as if his legs couldn’t hold him. “I didn’t even know that man, that Jamal person. I’m not a murderer!”

“Just a thief, liar, illegals pusher, and complete dick?” She shrugged. “Convince me, because I’ve got things to do, Mitch, and this one’s looking all wrapped up with a bow on it.”

“You’re crazy.” His eyes bulged and wheeled. “It’s crazy.”

“That’s not convincing.”

“Listen . . .” He tugged at the knot of his tie, wet his lips. “Okay, fine, we skimmed some inventory.”

“Inventory, as in drugs. As a rep for Dudley, Karolea could access them.”

“Yes. Yes. All we had to do was doctor the logs, tweak the invoices. It’s not a big deal. The company builds that kind of loss into the budget. We just wanted the money. I’m entitled to some perks considering the hours I put in. Do you know how much my education cost? And I’m stuck running errands for Sweet? We didn’t hurt anyone. We . . . we provide a service. We sell at a discount.”

“You steal drugs from Dudley—”

“Karolea acquires the merchandise,” he said quickly. “She handles that area. I’m in sales.”

“I see. So she acquires the drugs, and you sell them.”

“Yes. We have regular customers. It’s not as if we’re peddling Zeus on street corners to children. These are safe medications. We’re helping people.”

“Like the guy who’s addicted to painkillers and buys from you instead of going to the medicals for rehab or assistance. Or the one who ODs on tranqs, or the ones who mix the chemicals to get high. Or the ones, you fuckhead, who resell to kids on street corners.”

“We’re not responsible for—”

“Cut the crap. You’ve confessed, on the record. I don’t need your sob stories and justifications.”

“You can’t seriously believe I killed that driver.”

“Oh, hell no. I just said that so you’d spill your guts on the rest. Good job.” She checked the time. “Now we can both get out of here. Me to work, you to your cell.”

“But . . . I want a lawyer.”

“No problem. They’ll let you contact one on your way to booking. Thank you for your cooperation. Interview end.”

She rose, opened the door, and hailed the waiting uniforms. “Walk him through, let him contact his lawyer.”

She walked into Observation and watched Peabody wrap up a weeping Karolea Prinz.

“She cried a lot,” Peabody said when they headed down to the garage. “I mean a lot. She says, or thinks, she’s in love with the asshole. Didn’t want to roll, but—”

“Push comes to shove, love goes down.”

“I guess, except when it’s really love. Do we get to go look at shoes now?”

“We’re not looking at shoes. We know the shoe already. I want to make this quick.”

“Shoes are fun.” Peabody gave a little bounce of enthusiasm on her own. “It’ll be good to have the side benefit of fun after all that crying. See, it’s a nice combo. Shutting down a small, yet profitable prescription drug scam, running down a lead on the investigation, and getting to gaze longingly at shoes I’ll never be able to afford, but imagining I could.”

“You know what happens to people who longingly imagine having things they can’t afford?”

“Happy dreams?”

“A life of crime.”

A
s she drove, Eve considered that possibility as applied to the case. “Maybe this guy gazes longingly at fancy limos and high-priced LCs, and it just pisses him off he can’t order them up like pizza. So he vents the anger and frustration by killing them. Which isn’t bad as theories go except for the shoes. When you’ve got three thousand to spend on a pair of designer loafers, you’re not hurting.”

“Maybe he stole them,” Peabody suggested. “Or got them as a gift, or blew a wide chunk of his savings just to have them for his own.”

“All possible, and ors that shouldn’t be dismissed. But he’d also have to spend a chunk on a crossbow and bolts—pricey ones, and an antique bayonet. Unless he scammed someone else’s ID to acquire those. He still has to connect somewhere to the two corporations. Otherwise, why go through all the layers on the security there?”

It kept coming back to the companies, Eve concluded. “If he’s just a homicidal hacker, he could’ve accessed any IDs and credit lines—and he could afford all the fancy limos and high-priced LCs he wanted anyway, so it doesn’t jell.”

Eve twitched her head toward the dash comp when it signaled incoming data.

“It’s from the lab,” Peabody told her. “A report on the weapon. Antique is right. It’s mid-twentieth century. Dickhead’s got make, manufacturer, even a serial number. Pretty thorough.”

“You be thorough, start a search. Find us the owner.”

It gave Eve a few minutes of quiet. Who was next on his list? she wondered. What type? Maybe a top-drawer salon tech, private shuttle pilot, some hot, exclusive designer.

She thought of Leonardo, her oldest friend’s husband. And Mavis herself, Eve thought with a clutch in her belly. Famous music vid star. She’d make a point of checking in with them, putting them on alert.

No private gigs until she cleared it.

“It’s not registered.” Peabody looked up as Eve hunted for a parking spot. “It hasn’t been sold by any legit vendor in the last twenty years. Something that old could’ve been bought twice that long ago, before weapons of that kind had to be registered. It could’ve been passed down through a family or something. It’s military, and there’s no way to trace the original owner back a hundred years. There’s no records on that kind of thing.”

“Okay.” She hit vertical, causing Peabody to yelp, and squeezed into a second-level spot. “So he already owned it, skipped the registration—thousands do—or he picked it up on the shady side. More thousands do.”

They walked down to street level, and the half block to the shoe boutique. As they passed the display window Peabody let out a distinctive yummy noise.

“Don’t do that. For God’s sake, you’re a cop on a homicide investigation, not some tourist window-shopping.”

“But look at the blue ones with the silver heels with the little butterflies.”

Eve gave the shoes a narrowed stare. “Ten minutes on the feet, two hours in traction.” She pushed through the door.

The air smelled like the sort of flowers shoe butterflies probably rocked on. Shoes and bags were displayed under individual sparkling lights, like art or jewelry. Seating spread in chocolate-colored low-backed sofas and cream-colored chairs.

Customers or lookie-loos browsed while others sat, a few surrounded by colorful rivers of shoes. Some of the few wore expressions that put Eve in mind of chemi-heads on a high.

One woman strutted from mirror to mirror in a pair of towering heels the color of iridescent eggs.

The staff stood out from the browsers and strutters as everyone was stick thin and dressed in snug urban black.

Eve heard the gurgle sound in the back of Peabody’s throat, and snarled.

“Sorry.” Peabody tapped her collarbone. “It’s reflex.”

“You’ll have another reflex when you’re on the ground with my boot on your neck.”

“Ladies.” The man who strolled over boasted a blinding smile and a jacket with sleeves that ended in points as sharp as razors. “What can I do to make your day special?”

Eve pulled out her badge. “Funny you should ask. You can give me the customer list on this shoe, size ten or ten and a half.” She held up the printout.

“Really? Is it evidence? How exciting!”

“Yeah, we’re thrilled. I want to know who bought this shoe in either of those sizes.”

“Absolutely. What fun. How far back would you like me to go?”

“How far back is there?”

“That particular shoe debuted in March.”

“Okay, go back to March.”

“This store or citywide?”

Eve gave him a cautious stare. “Aren’t you the cooperative shoe guy.”

“Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had all day.”

“Citywide to start.”

“Citywide it is! Give me a few minutes. Have a seat. Would you like some sparkling water?”

“No, we’re good.”

“That’s why people who can afford magilicious shoes shop in these places and pay the full freight.” Peabody nodded after the salesman. “You get offered fizzy water by people who look like vid stars.”

“And who are so freaking bored they’re delirious with joy when you tell them to do a customer search.”

“But that’s good for us.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Peabody clasped her hands together. “Please, you don’t need me until he comes back. Five minutes is all I ask to worship at the altar of the shoe.”

“Don’t drool on any of them.” Eve turned her back, and for the hell of it, tried out her wrist unit in a tag to EDD.

“Any progress?” she asked Feeney.

“We’re going to be able to give you that projection on the rest of the killer’s face. But there’s nothing on the other discs at this point.” He pursed his lips. “You got a new ’link.”

“Sort of.”

“Trans is crystal.”

“It’s my wrist unit.”

“Get out. Those kinds of toys have crap trans.”

“New model.”

“Roarke didn’t mention it. I want a look at that when you come in.”

“Maybe.” She saw the salesclerk walking back, a little spring in his step. “Gotta go.”

“And here we are.” He handed her a disc. “We sold a pair in that color choice in size ten last March, by the way, and another pair in a ten and a half just last month. In Raven, we sold—”

“I didn’t ask about Raven. You sold two pair of those in four months?”