Indulgence in Death (17 page)

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.”