Imitation in Death (4 page)

"No, sir. Since I was sitting out there, I checked it out myself.,,

"Good work. You got the outlets?"

"All the knowns. Though the paper's manufactured exclusively in Britain, there are sixteen known retailers and two known wholesalers who cant' this particular style and weight. Two are in London."

"Is that so?"

"I thought, since he's copying Jack the Ripper, the London angle was the best."

"Start there. We'll pursue all the outlets, but London will be, priority. See if you can get a list for purchases of that paper"

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant, about this morning. I know I didn't do the job-"

"Peabody," Eve interrupted. "Did I say you didn't do the job?"

"No, but-"

"Has there been any time since you came under my command that I've hesitated to tell you when I felt you didn't do the job to my requirements, or that I was dissatisfied with your performance, or that you'd screwed up in any way,.shape, or form?"

"Ah, well, no, sir." Peabody puffed out her cheeks, expelled air audibly. "Now that you mention it."

"Then put it away, and get me those client lists."

At Central, she was waylaid in the detectives' bull pen with questions, rumors, speculation about the Wooton homicide. If cops were buzzing about a case, she knew the public would be screaming.

She escaped to her office, hit the AutoChef for coffee first, then called for her messages and missed transmissions.

She stopped counting the hits' from reporters when she reached twenty. But six of those. were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.

With coffee in hand, Eve sat at her desk. Drummed her fingers on it. She'd have to deal with the media sooner or later.

Later would be better. In fact, sometime in the next millennium would suit her just fine. But she'd have to make a statement. Keep it short and official, she decided. Refuse and avoid any sound bytes and one-on-ones.

That's what he wanted. He wanted her going out, talking about him, getting airtime and print, giving him some glory.

Many of them did, she reflected. Most of them did. But this one wanted to be sensational. He wanted the media shouting:

MODERN DAY RIPPER SLASHES THROUGH NEW YORK

Yeah, that was his style. Big, bold, splashy.

Jack the Ripper, she thought, and turned to her computer to make notes.

Grandfather of the modern serial killer.

Never caught, never positively identified.

Central figure in multiple studies, stories, speculations for nearly two centuries.

Subject of fascination and revulsion. And fear.

Media hype fueled panic and interest during his spree.

Copycat expects to escape detection. Wishes to instill fear and fascination, and pit himself against police. Would have studied the prototype. Would have studied medicine, formally or informally in order to commit initial crime. Classy stationery, possible symbol of wealth or taste.

Some of the main suspects in the Ripper case had been upper-class, Eve mused. Even royalty. Above the law. Considering themselves above the law.

Other speculation had run to the Ripper being an American in London. She'd always thought that bogus, but... was it possible her killer was a Brit in America?

Or maybe a--what did you call it--an Anglophile? Somebody who admired things British. Had he traveled there, walked the streets of Whitechapel? Relived it? Imagined.himself as the Ripper?

She started to type up a report, stopped, then put in a call to Dr. Mira's office and wrangled an appointment.

Dr. Charlotte Mira wore one of her elegant suits, an icy blue she'd matched with a trio of long, thin gold chains. Her soft brown hair had a few sunny highlights around her pretty face. They were new, Eve noted, and wondered if that was the sort of thing she was supposed to comment on or pretend she didn't notice.

She was never fully at ease in girl territory.

"I appreciate you making time," Eve began.

"I wondered if you'd contact me today." Mira gestured to one of her scoop chairs. "Everyone's talking about your case, your particularly gruesome case."

"The more gruesome, the more talk;"

"Yes, you're right." Because she imagined Eve had subsisted on coffee all day, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. "I don't know how much of what I've heard is accurate."

"I'm in the middle of writing my report. I know it's early to ask you for a profile, but I don't want to wait on this one. If I'm right, he's just getting started. Jacie Wooton wasn't his target, not specifically. I don't think he knew her, or she him."

"You believe it was random."

"Not exactly. He wanted a particular type of woman, an LC. A whore. A street prostitute in a poor area of the city. He had very specific requirements;. Wooton's dead because she met them. Nothing more or less than that. I'll give you everything I've got orally, then once I've worked it up, I'll send you everything in a file. But I want, I need," she corrected, "some sense that I'm going down the right road."

"Tell me what you know." Mira handed her a delicate china cup, then sat and balanced her own on her knee.

She began with the victim, giving Mira a sketch of Jacie Wooton, as she had been, as she'd been found. She described the note, her fieldwork thus far, and Morris's preliminary findings.

"Jack," Mira murmured. "Jack the Ripper."

Eve leaned forward. "You know about him?"

"Any criminal profiler worth her salt has studied Saucy Jack. You think we're dealing with a copycat?"

"Do you?"

Settling back, Mira sipped her tea. "He's certainly laid the groundwork for that conclusion. He'd be educated, egocentric. He abhors women. The fact that he chose. that particular style of killing is telling. His prototype for this crime assaulted and mutilated women in different ways. He's elected to mimic the one that attacks and removes that which makes the victim. female."

She saw by Eve's slow nod that the lieutenant had already reached that same conclusion.

"He has, essentially, desexed her. Sex is equated for him with lust, violence, control, humiliation. His relationships with women are neither healthy nor traditional. He sees himself as elite, canny, even brilliant. So only you would do, Eve."

"Do for what?"

"For his adversary. The greatest and most elusive killer of modern time couldn't settle for just any cop to pursue him. He didn't know Jacie Wooton, I agree. Or if he did, his knowing of her was only to select the right victim. But he knows you. You're as much a target as she. More. She was a pawn, a momentary thrill. You're the game."

She'd thought of that, too, and was still circling around how to make it useful. "He doesn't want me dead."

"No, at least not yet." A faint crease of concern marred Mira's brow. "He wants you alive so that he can watch you chase him. Watch the media report his deeds and your pursuit. The style of note was taunting, and he'd want to continue to taunt you. You, not just a cop, but a high-profile cop, and a female. He'll never lose to a woman, and his certainty that he'll crush you, serve you your biggest defeat, is a large part of the excitement for him."

"Then he's going to be seriously bummed when I take him down."

"He could turn on you if he feels you're getting too close, ruining his fantasy. At first it's a challenge, but I don't believe he'll tolerate the humiliation of being stopped by a woman." She shook her head. "Much of this depends on how much of the Ripper personality he's taken on, and which persona ascribed by the various theories to the Ripper he, himself, believes. It's problematic, Eve. When he said, 'sample of my work,' did that mean his first, or has he killed before and gone undetected?"

"It's his first here, in New York, but I'm going to do a check through IRCCA. Some psycho tries to emulate Jack the Ripper every now and. then, but I don't know of anywhere he wasn't caught."

"Keep me updated, and I'll work up a more substantial profile."

"I appreciate it." She rose, hesitated. "Listen, Peabody had a little trouble this morning. The vic was in pretty bad shape, and... well, she got sick. She's brooding about it. Like she's the first cop to puke on her shoes," Eve muttered. "Anyway, she's under some stress prepping for the detective's exam, and then she's hunting for a place to cohab with McNab which I don't really want to think about, but she does. So, maybe you could find a minute to pat her on the head about it or something. Whatever. Shit."

Mira let out a quick, bubbling laugh. "It's very sweet for you to be worried about her."

"I don't want to be very sweet," Eve -said with some passion. "Or to worry about her. This isn't the time for her head to be up her ass."

"I'll talk to her." Mira cocked her head. "And how are you?"

"Me? Fine. Good. No complaints. Um... things good with you?"

"Yes, they are. My daughter and her family are visiting for a few days. It's always nice for me to have them, and the chance to play Grandma."

"Uh-huh." Mira with her icy suit and pretty legs wasn't Eve's picture of anybody's grandma.

"I'd love for you to meet them."

"Oh, well-"

"We're having an informal cookout on Sunday. I'd very much enjoy it if you and Roarke could come. About two," she said before Eve could think of a response.

"Sunday." A little bubble of panic lodged in her throat. "I don't know if he's got anything going or not. I-"

"I'll check with him." There was a laugh in Mira's eyes as she set her cup aside. "It's just family. Nothing fancy. Now, I'd better let you get back to work."

She walked to the door, opened it, and all but scooted Eve out. Then.she leaned back on the door and laughed. It delighted her, absolutely, to see that slightly horrified and completely baffled expression on Eve's face when confronted with the idea of a family cookout.

She checked the time, then hurried to her desk'link. She'd just contact Roarke immediately and box Eve in before she could find an escape hatch.

Eve was still horrified, still baffled when she reached the Homicide Division again. Peabody leaped out of her cube and hot-footed after her. "Sir. Lieutenant. Dallas."

"What do you do at a cookout?" Eve muttered. "Why are you cooking at all, much less out? It's hot out. There are bugs. I don't get it."

"Dallas!"

"What?" Brows lowered, Eve spun around. "What is it?"

"I've got the customer lists. It took some fast talking, but I convinced the two outlets to give me the names of purchases, those on record, for the stationery found with Jacie Wooton."

"Did you run the names?"

"Not yet. I just got them."

"Let me have them. I've got to do something to get my brain back in gear."

She snatched the disc out of Peabody's hand and plugged it into her desk unit. "I don't have a cup of coffee in my hand," Eve commented as the names began to scroll. "And I'm sure I need it, immediately."

"Yes, sir, you certainly do. Did you see? There's a duchess and an earl, and Liva Holdreak, the actress, and "

"The coffee isn't in my hand. How can this be?"

"And Carmichael Smith, the international recording star, has a standing order for a box of a hundred sheets and envelopes, every six month." As she spoke, Peabody put the mug into Eve's outstretched hand. "His music's too wanky for me, but he, himself? Totally iced."

"I'm glad to know that, Peabody. It's important for me to know he's both wanky and iced should I arrest him for the murder of this very unfortunate LC. We need to keep these things in the forefront."

"Just saying," Peabody grumbled.

She scanned the names, shuffling those with only European residences on record to the bottom. She'd hit the one with secondary residences in the States first.

"Carmichael Smith keeps an apartment on the Upper West Side. Holdreak has a U.S. residence, but it's in New L.A. We'll just drop her down a notch or two."

She started a standard run, studying the names. "Mr. And Mrs. Elliot P. Hawthorne, Esquire. Ages seventy-eight and thirty-one, respectively. You wouldn't think Elliot would be out cutting up LCs at this age. Married two years, third time around. Elliot likes them young, and I just bet he likes them stupid, too."

"Doesn't seem stupid to marry a rich old guy," Peabody replied. "Calculating."

"You can be stupid and calculating at the same time. Keeps houses in London, Cannes, New York, and Bimini. Made his money the old-fashioned way. Inherited it from his father. No criminal record, no nothing much. Still, we'll see if he's in New York at the moment. Could have servants, staff, assistants, crazy relatives hanging around him with access to his fancy paper."

She continued on down. "Take the names, Peabody. See if you can find out if any of them are in New York."

Would it be that easy? she wondered. Would he be that arrogant to leave something so easily traced back to him? Maybe, maybe. She'd still have to prove it, even if she targeted him through his fancy writing paper.

"Niles Renquist," she stated. "Thirty-eight. Married, one child. Brit citizen with residences in London and New York. Currently chief of staff for the U.N. delegate from Britain, Marshall Evans. Got yourself digs on Sutton Place, don't you, Niles. Fancy stuff. No criminal on you either, but you're worth a look-see."

She sipped coffee, thought vaguely about food.

"Pepper Franklin. What the hell kind of name is Pepper? Actress? Of course you are. Brit actress currently starring in Broadway revival of Uptown Lady. No criminal. Nothing but squeaky-clean on this list."

It was a little depressing.

But she hit with Pepper Franklin's cohabitation partner, Leo Fortney.

Sexual assault, indecent exposure, sexual battery.

"Bad boy," Eve reprimanded. "Bad and busy boy."

When Peabody came.back, Eve already had her list in order of priority and was shrugging back into her jacket.

"Carmichael Smith, Elliot Hawthorne, Niles Renquist, and Pepper Franklin are all in New York, or reputed to be in New York at this time.

"Suit up. We're going to go pay some of our English friends a visit." She started out. "Is the U.N. in session?"

"U.N.? As in United Nations?"