Kindred in Death (15 page)

When they reached her vehicle, Eve did a run on Risso Banks, obtained his home and work addresses.

“White male, age twenty-four. He’s kept his nose clean since his brother’s bust and unfortunate demise, and has gainful employment. Which fits the profile. Unmarried, no cohab on record. Also fits. And it doesn’t. His brother goes down—literally, as in four stories to splat. MacMasters is the boss, but not the primary, and it’s a shared bust with SVU. Cecil, the brother, worked the illegals and pedophile trades.”

“A charmer.”

“Apparently. He wasn’t raped, kicked around, smothered, or strangled. He took a header out a window while trying to avoid arrest. Still, not far out of the way.”

“A lot of it’s eliminating, isn’t it? Legwork, ’link work, details.” Obviously content, Mira settled back. “What an interesting vehicle. It looks so ordinary from the outside, but it has more hardware than my office inside. And it’s very comfortable—smooth, too,” she added as Eve wove through traffic.

“It moves like a turbo, and verticals like a jet-copter. Armored and blast proof. It was . . . sort of a favor-slash-present from Roarke.”

“A present so you wouldn’t have to continually knock heads with Requisitions. I heard about the last wreck.”

Before she could stop herself, Eve hunched her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“No, but . . . And the favor so you’d be able to accept it, and he’d be able to feel you were as safe as possible.”

“I guess bull’s-eyes like that are why you have all the initials after your name.”

“That, and I like to think knowing you and Roarke fairly well. It’s an excellent favor-slash-present. Tell me, since we have a little time, is everyone ready for the wedding? We’re looking forward to it.”

“I guess, probably.” The word wedding had a little ember of guilt and unease burning in Eve’s gut. “I’m supposed to tag Louise—people tell me—and offer to do matron-of-honor stuff. I don’t know what that is. We did the shower thing, and the dress I’m supposed to wear’s being delivered today. What else is there?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Shit.”

“I’d advise to contact Louise when you have a few free moments, and ask her if she needs anything. Very likely she won’t need anything but to talk or vent for a bit. She’s an efficient sort who knows what she wants and has certainly arranged it. But there are invariably little glitches and headaches at the last minute. All you really need to do is listen.”

Eve cut her gaze, full of cautious hope, toward Mira. “Really?”

“I’d give that an eighty-eight-point-three probability.”

Eve mulled it, relieved. “That’s decent.”

“I went by their new home last week, to take a look at Charles’s office. He’s nervous and excited, and has set up a very good area there. Of course I got a tour of the whole house. It’s coming along beautifully, I think. Urban, classic, eclectic—very them. They’re going to make a nice life there.”

“It’s good. They’re good. It’s all good. I just want to get through this wedding thing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

“No. Well, yeah.” Nervous about being nervous had Eve shifting in her seat. “What if the case is running hot, or I’m about to close it, or any of the shit that comes down on the job comes down on the day? What do you do? With Roarke, I don’t have to worry. He gets it. If I have to cancel something or I’m late, whatever, he gets it. He’s extremely frosty in that area. And I still feel guilty sometimes. But this is other. I get that this is, like, The Day. It’s major for Louise. I don’t want to screw it up.”

“You can only do what you can do, Eve. Louise understands emergencies, priorities, the demands of a vocation. She’s a doctor.”

Eve frowned over it a moment. “That’s right. She’s a doctor. If she’s got her hands in somebody’s body cavity, she’s not going to pull them out and walk off to put on a fancy dress. She’d finish first.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Okay. That’s better. It’s okay.”

“What are you wearing?”

“A yellow thing.”

Mira smiled. “Eyes straight, don’t look at me, and tell me what I’m wearing.”

“Did you forget?”

“Indulge me.”

“A suit, knee-length skirt, three-button jacket—off-white. Kind of vanilla. Square, silver buttons, lacy top. Shoes, light pink, cut-out toes, ankle-breaker heels about the width of a needle. Multicolored stone earrings, dangle style, silver, and a silver three-strand neck chain with some little stones set at various points. Humongo pink handbag, and fairly iced pink-framed sunshades—both of which match the paint on your toenails. Wedding band, fancy silver wrist unit with sparkly bracelet.

“How do you remember to stick on all that,” Eve wondered, “the sparkly things?”

“It’s called vanity,” Mira told her. “I enjoy mine. And it’s so interesting you can only recall your dress for the wedding being a yellow thing, and can describe what I’m wearing down to the width of my heels. Which, yes, are miserably uncomfortable, but so pretty.”

Mira turned her ankles to admire them. “And now that I’ve seen your closet firsthand, I don’t know how you resist decking yourself out in all those beautiful clothes every day.”

“Maybe I’m like the vehicle,” Eve decided. “Keep it ordinary on the outside, so nobody notices all the hardware inside.”

“Very good.” Mira laughed. “Very good.”

“It’s what he does,” Eve murmured.

“And we’ve circled back.”

“Keep it ordinary, every day, unobtrusive on the outside. Nobody sees what’s inside. Nobody sees a monster. When he goes to get a slice or buy shoes, nobody notices him. Or, if he wants them to, they see a nice kid, good-looking young guy. Not spectacular, that they’d remember. Just good-looking, polite, barely stirs the air. We’ve got two wits who saw him with Deena, and that’s all they gave me, nearly all. We’ll do better because Yancy’s good at digging out the details, but they didn’t think about him, didn’t check him out especially. Wouldn’t have noted him at all, most likely, except he was with her. They knew her, so they noticed him.”

She snagged a second-level spot a half block from Risso’s work address, then glanced at Mira’s heels. “It’s a short hike. Can you handle that?”

“I’m a professional.”

Halfway down, Eve cursed, sighed, then vaulted over the safety rail to the sidewalk. “Be right back,” she called out as Mira gaped at her.

She’d seen the snatch, and really the mark deserved it. Bopping along, gawking at storefronts with his back pocket bulging. Or it had been until the street thief plucked out the wallet with the classic bump and grab.

The thief continued on, unhurried, with the wallet already inside the right front pocket of his pants, under the bulk of his baggy hoodie.

Eve sprinted a quarter block to close the distance, then dropped down to a brisk New Yorker’s pace. She tapped the thief on the shoulder. “Sorry, can you help me?”

He gave her a round-eyed innocent look, just another guy on the street. “What with?”

“Well, I’ve got other stuff to do, really pressed for time, so you could help me out and just hand me the wallet you just lifted. It’s in here.” She slapped her hand on his pocket. “Oh, and any other property you’ve lifted today, too. Then we can both be about our business.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Piss it.” She felt him gather to run, grabbed his shoulder.

“You could really make this quick and simple for both of us. I don’t want to take time to—Hey!”

He ducked, pivoted, squirmed like a snake shedding skin, and left her holding an empty hoodie.

He had a squat torso on squat legs. It really wasn’t even a challenge. Despite the fact she had to dodge pedestrians when the thief was content to shove, bull, and burst through them, she caught him before the end of the block.

“Help, help!” He barked it out when she pushed him face-first into the nearest building. “Police!”

“Come on, you moron, you know I’m the police.” She cuffed his hands behind his back, kneed his legs apart to make him spread them. “If you make me chase you again, you’re going to be eating sidewalk.”

She patted him down, found no weapons and six wallets.

“Any one of these yours, asshole?”

“I found those.” Darting eyes replaced wide eyes. “I was going to find a cop and turn them in. Sweartagod.”

“Uh-huh. I saw you find this one in that guy’s back pocket. I’m sure he’s going to be really grateful.”

“I called for uniforms.” Mira hurried up on her ice-pick heels.

“Good, saves me.” She tapped the thief on the back of the head. “See? See? You just couldn’t help me out. Now we’ve both got to go through the deal. You!” She pointed at the mark who was currently one of the lookie-loos staring at the scene.

“Me? Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“Got ID?”

“Yes. Sure. I got . . .” He reached for his back pocket. “My wallet! My wallet’s gone!”

“Isn’t that a coincidence? I’ve got it right here.” Keeping one elbow in the small of the thief’s back, she held up the wallet. “It’s like magic, isn’t it? To get it back you’ll need to wait here for the uniformed officers and file a report with them.”

“I was having a good day,” the thief muttered. “A really good day.”

“It’s in the toilet now.” She held up her badge to flash the two uniforms hustling their way.

It took time she didn’t want to spend, but in the end, she supposed, justice was served.

“You gave me such a start,” Mira said. “One second you’re there, the next you’re jumping over the rail and running.”

“Yet another reason not to wear fancy duds and ankle breakers.”

“You have a point.”

They backtracked to the store where Risso was employed.

A lot of gadgetry, she noted, all under the banner: 20% Off! This Week Only! that had probably been draped there for years.

She made Risso Banks from his ID shot, and saw him make her for a cop. He strolled over, with a redwood-sized chip on his shoulder.

“Saw you take down that mug. He didn’t have any speed.”

“He had six wallets that weren’t his.”

“Crime’s everywhere.”

He was a good-looking guy—a bit on the smirky side—with a short centurion cut that looked fresh. Dark hair, sulky brown eyes. The right height and build, but she didn’t get a buzz off him.

“Do you want to talk here, Risso, or somewhere more private?”

“If you’ve got something to say, say it. The boss knows I had some trouble a while back. I haven’t had any since. He knows that, too. I did the terms of my deal.”

“Your brother got a harder deal.”

He shrugged, then head jerked her toward the rear of the shop. “He screwed me up. Fed me illegals before I’m ten, got me hooked. I worked for him, sure. What else was there? And when it came down, he ran, and he left me for the cops. He ran, trying to save his own ass, and didn’t do anything to help me. So he got what was coming to him, as far as I can see. And I’m not shedding any tears over it. I got straight, I got work. Cops like to come around giving me the fish eye, fine. I’m clean.”

“If you give me the right answer to one question, I walk out. No harm, no foul.”

“Depends on the question.”

“You got attitude, Risso. I have to admire that. Saturday from six p.m. to Sunday, three a.m.”

“We close at six on Saturday. Me and the boss closed up, left about quarter after. You can ask him.”

“And after?”

He gave a jerky shrug that she interpreted as annoyance rather than nerves. “Went home, got cleaned up some. Eight o’clock me, the boss, and three other guys played cards like we do Saturday night, once a month. Game was at my place this round.” He grinned, with that hint of smirk. “Friendly stakes.”

“I’m not worried about the stakes. Is that your boss?” She gestured toward the potbellied man trying to sell a customer a new PPC.

“Yeah. And the guy in the back, Carmine, he was at the game.”

“Hold on a minute.”

She crossed to the potbelly, held up her badge. “Quick one. Who closed with you Saturday night, and at what time?”

“Risso, he’s over there. We closed it up about six.”

“When did you see him next?”

“At his place, a couple hours later. We had a card game. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. Thanks.”

“He’s a good boy,” the man said as Eve started to turn away. “He comes in on time, does the work, and doesn’t complain. I gave him a raise last week ’cause he earned it.”

Eve nodded. “He’s not in any trouble.”

She walked back to Risso, handed him her card. “Cops come in giving you the fish eye, let me know.”

He stared at the card. “Why?”

“Because I asked a question and you gave me the right answer. Because you’re not your brother.”

Eve walked out while he continued to stare at the card.

“That was well done,” Mira told her.

“Elimination. Just crossing the lines.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Eve shrugged and walked with Mira back to the car.

11

KARLENE ROBINS PUNCHED IN HER CODE, swiped her realty ID in the slot. She hummed to herself as security recognized both. A perfect day, she thought, shaking back her curling mane of glossy black hair. She had hopes to make it spectacular by closing the sale on the very frosty loft with her very young and well-heeled client.

It was just what he was after. She could hardly believe her luck, and the timing. The property had fallen into her lap, just the night before, when the previous buyers broke contract.

Their loss, and she really hoped her gain.

She stepped inside the tiny lobby area, coded in for the elevator.

The commission would be a whopper, and couldn’t come at a better time. She was getting married on Saturday, and thinking of it, she did a little spin into the elevator.

She could close this deal, have all the paperwork in order in a snap, snap, snap. When she and Tony got back from their honeymoon, they’d go to settlement, she’d present the happy new loft owner with a big-ass gift basket full of fancy wines and eats—and most important—collect her big, beautiful commission.

She scanned the little elevator car, nodded approval. Good security, smooth ride, privacy. And the openwork iron doors, she thought when she reached the loft, added that funky retro touch.

They opened soundlessly into a high-ceilinged space with wide, wide windows and a double trio of skylights.

The original wood floors—and how often did you find that—were stylishly distressed. The walls, neutral tones chosen to sell, were fully soundproofed. Kitchen, she mused, wandering through, totally up-to-date. Compact, shining appliances with the fun and funky zebra-striped counters configured for maximum use of space.

The client probably wouldn’t cook for himself. He was from money, and currently trying to make a name for himself as an artist. He’d entertain though, and this was a fine space for that.

Add two bedrooms—one that would stand in very well as studio space with more skylights, more windows—and southern exposure—and what she considered a dream bathroom with jet tub, jet shower, drying tube, smoked glass walls—and he’d never do better.

The place said—no cheered, she corrected—it cheered young, fun, hip, and well-off.

She fluffed her hair, turned to check herself out in the mirror. Appearance mattered. She’d dressed carefully, groomed carefully to suit the client and the location.

He wanted SoHo, arty, a hot spot amid plenty of galleries, restaurants, clubs. And this was it. Karlene figured his real estate agent should reflect the same at a showing. She’d chosen the short black skirt, the high leopard-print heels, and the bold red top with its silver beading rather than a more sedate suit very deliberately.

It transmitted young and frost—which she was, she thought with a laugh—but for some clients you wanted to project maturity, stability, sobriety.

This guy was younger than she was.

Must be nice, she thought as she glanced at her wrist unit, and continued to wander, to fluff some of the wildly patterned pillows on the furniture staged in the living area. Barely twenty-two and able to afford a prime SoHo loft.

She and Tony had a nice place, she reminded herself. And with her eye for decorating and bargains she’d squeezed plenty of juice in it. But one day—and with commissions like this one—they’d be able to afford a big, sunny loft.

She dug into her bag, took out the scent tube she’d chosen. In the kitchen again, she crouched to plug it into the air system. In moments, the loft would smell, subtly, of sugar cookies. A good choice, she felt, for a younger client.

She crossed to the living area’s mood screen, switched it on to a lively, energetic mix of colors and shapes, then ordered the music system on—not too loud.

“Set the tone,” she said, turning in a circle to take it all in, “make it home.”

She considered opening the wall panel to display the security monitors, then decided against it. He was too young to worry overmuch there—and she’d make a point of showing him when they did the tour. Instead she walked to the wide front windows, stood looking out on what she hoped—for herself and her client—would soon be Drew Pittering’s neighborhood.

Like the kitchen, the people walking below were up-to-date. Neo-Bohemian was the tone here, the pace. Artists displaying their wares on the sidewalk, people sipping coffee drinks and having intense conversations outside of cafés and bistros. Too-iced-to-care boutiques squeezed in beside edgy little galleries.

It suited him so well. Commission aside, she worked hard to suit the client to the property, and vice versa. Before she hit thirty, she intended to have her own business. She’d already chosen the name. Urban Views.

Four years left in her goal, she mused. And she just knew she’d make it.

If Drew took the bite here, she’d be on her way.

He was running a little late, she realized. But then, client was king. She took a breath, then pulled out her ’link. She was going to be optimistic, think positive—and make reservations for her and Tony at their favorite restaurant to celebrate the sale.

It wasn’t jinxing it, she told herself. It was anticipating it. Visualizing it. Tonight, they were going to drink champagne and toast the future.

Once done, she ran back through her appointment book to make certain she had the rest of her week—her last week as a single woman—in order. Final fitting, final consult with the caterer and planner, the full day of spa and salon treatments for herself and her wedding party.

Check, check, check.

When her ’link beeped, she checked the display and had one moment of concern. “Please don’t be calling to cancel,” she muttered, then answered with a cheerful tone. “Hello, Drew! I’m standing here looking out your front window. It’s a very frosty view.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m running late. I got caught up with the work and lost track. But I’m nearly there. Heading down the block now.”

“That’s mag.” Relief had her barely resisting a dance. “I’ll clear you in so you can come right up. You have the address.”

“Right here. I love this neighborhood, Karlene. It’s just what I want.”

“Wait until you see the space.” She walked over to shut down security for him. “I swear, if you don’t snap this up, I’m buying it myself.”

“Just tell me nobody else is looking at it yet. I’ve got a good feeling.”

“I contacted you first, as promised. Nobody’s due to see it until tomorrow as I told you. We’ve got a jump on it.”

“Perfect. I’m on my way up. Hey, love the elevator. Ten seconds.”

She laughed, closed the ’link. And greeted him with a stunning smile.

“Really sorry I kept you waiting,” he said as he came in. “But I brought a makeup gift.” He offered her one of the two go-cups of coffee he had in a takeout bag.

“You’re forgiven.” She toasted him with the cup. “Where should we start?”

“Let me just stand here a minute.” He shifted the bag on his shoulder, looked around the open living area. “This is . . . look at the light in here.”

“That’s what made me think of you, straight off. So much natural light. Tailor-made for an artist. You could use this whole space for your work. But if you actually wanted to use it for living, for entertaining, the second bedroom has the same exposure, and skylights.”

“Privacy screens? I don’t like to feel anyone watching me while I work.”

“Of course.” She held up a finger. “Computer, engage privacy screens, all windows.”

With a quiet hum, the clear screens lowered. “As you can see, they’re top-grade. They don’t affect the light. You can darken them if you want to cut the sun.”

“Perfect.” He smiled at her. Young, charming, attractive. “Absolutely perfect. How’s the coffee?”

“The same.” She took another sip. “To move to location for a minute, you’ve got it all. Restaurants, galleries, clubs—and mag coffee shops as you’ve already discovered.”

“It’s where I want to be.” He stepped away from the elevators, wandering now behind the screened windows.

“The furniture’s staged to give you a feeling, an idea of one use of the space. The fact is, Drew, you could do anything with this area. Work, play, a combination. I know you said you didn’t cook, but you have to see the kitchen. It’s perfect, ultra and efficient. Maybe a girlfriend would enjoy using it.”

He grinned, wagged his finger.

“I know, no girls right now,” she said with a laugh. “Art first. But artists can entertain like minds, right? And have to eat. You can zap leftover takeout, stock the AutoChef, and there’s a built-in D and C—for checking out takeout spots, deliveries, menus.”

“Now that works for me.”

“Oh, and the security system. You can take a look at the camera zones.”

He waved that off. “Let’s see the rest first.”

“We’ll take the master bedroom then. It’s staged, too, so you’ll have an idea how it could be used. And the advantage of being on the top floor? Skylights there, too.”

She took a few steps, weaved a little.

“Okay?”

“Wow. A little light-headed.”

Concern shone in his eyes. “Why don’t we sit down a while?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m good. Just putting in a lot of late hours, trying to get everything done.”

“Right. Big day Saturday.”

“The biggest. And since we’re taking off on Monday for Honeymoon-Extraordinaire, I want to get everything cleaned up. Just need another jolt.” She took a deep swallow of coffee.

“There’s a little half bath off the second bedroom—or what I see as your studio. That would be handy for you, but the master? It’s ro cking-A.”

She walked in, then swayed as her knees buckled.

“Hey, hey.” He took her arm, her weight, walked her toward the bed. “Let’s sit down.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She all but floated down to the bed. “I feel . . . wrong. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“I don’t really think so. Here, finish this up.” He held the coffee to her lips, poured it down her throat as her eyes glazed.

“Wait.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to take my time. We’ve got all day.”

His face blurred, but for an instant, the look of it, his teeth bared in a horrible smile, she felt fear. She felt fear, then nothing.

Since he’d sealed up in the elevator, he opened his bag for the cord.

“Safety first,” he murmured, and bound her hands behind her back.

As the sellers had provided very nice high-end sheets, he used them to secure her legs by the ankles to the bright silver knobs of the footboard.

He took out the rest of his tools before he stripped, and stowed his neatly folded clothes in the bag.

He studied Karlene as he finished off his own, undoctored coffee, decided she looked peaceful. That wouldn’t last long.

The loft was soundproofed, he’d verified that. Just as he’d verified that the other two tenants in the building were at work.

Naked, he walked over to the controls to change the music to some hard, grinding thrash, bumped up the volume a bit. Satisfied, he went back to the main security controls, checked the cameras, checked all locks.

Later, he thought, when he’d sufficiently . . . softened her up, she’d give him her security number. She’d beg to give it to him. He’d log her out, shut down the cameras, and upload the virus.

But before that, well before that, he’d give her pain, and give her fear. And he’d talk to her, intimately, about her bitch of a mother. And why Jaynie Robins was responsible for her daughter’s ugly death.

He set the doctored go-cup—a ploy as he’d purchased the actual coffee blocks uptown, then transferred it—on the kitchen counter.

He went back to the bedroom, checked his to-do list to make certain he’d forgotten nothing.

When she moaned, stirred, he smiled.

Time to go to work.

Eve strode into the Homicide bullpen with a purpose. Several conversations stopped. Baxter got to his feet.

“LT—”

“Ten minutes, conference room, full briefing.” She kept going, straight into her office. She needed five of those ten to clear her head, organize her thoughts. She got coffee, turned to check the incoming on her comp.

“Media, media, media. Screw that. Talk to the liaison.” She brought up the list—Peach Lapkoff moved fast—and skimmed the performances, the dates.

“Computer, start search. Victims of rape/murder through suffocation and/or strangulation within penal system. On and off planet, including halfway houses, home detention, local, federal, global. Add factor of connection to MacMasters, Captain Jonah, as part of investigative, administrative, or arresting team.”

Acknowledged . . . length of search?

Brother, son, lover. Could be any. Could be none. “Twenty-five years.”

Warning . . . Search for data of this nature twenty years or more will delay results.

“Then you’d better get started. Command given.”

Acknowledged . . . Working . . .

“Computer, send results, year by year, to both my office and home units.”

Warning . . . Extracting data by year will delay results.

“Can’t be helped. Command given.”

She topped off her coffee and left for the conference room while the computer worked.

She’d hoped Peabody would be back so she could palm off the setup on her partner. Instead, she loaded the data in the room comp, began updating the board.

She muscled out a second board and began to write.

Crime mirrors previous event?

Connection—MacMasters to killer—killer to person unknown killed by same MO. Search in progress.

UNSUB—organized, focused, ability to acclimate.

She continued, listed the salients of Mira’s profile.

Two wits with possible sightings of UNSUB currently working with Detective Yancy.

Columbia connection. Student and staff files accessed.

Shoes ID’d by wit, Columbia sweatshirt, long shots.

Attendance with vic, Columbia public performances and/or lectures, long shot.

She was still writing when Baxter and Trueheart came in.

“Report.”

“Neighborhood canvass, zip. If we get a sketch, I think we’d have better luck. We hit her known haunts, got zip there. Kids in and out, who pays attention? Plenty who recognized her, but nobody who put her with a guy who matches what we know.”