Obsession in Death (35 page)

“Mmmm.” He ordered them on screen while he restarted her search.

“Really?” Eve rolled her eyes as the first image scrolled on. He’d dressed the long-legged female with short mouse-brown hair in a sheer black lace bra and G-string, added a sassy, hip-shot stance.

“We make our own fun,” he told her, then swiveled in the chair. Before she realized his intent, he snagged her hips, pulled her onto his lap. “Now, while the changes are subtle, I was able to calculate those ratios, and all the other bits and business you don’t want to hear about. This is my most likely.”

“You honestly think this homicidal lunatic wears trashy underwear?”

“Truthfully, I don’t understand why women wear any other kind. However, whatever she wears under her clothes, I think this represents the best estimation, given all known data, on her body type, her general features, her coloring.”

“Hair and eyes can change on a whim. Mavis’s official ID – her latest one – has her with pink hair. She had blue hair tonight. Just as an example.”

“It’s rare anyone has Mavis’s fluid style. Your UNSUB may certainly change those things, but I’d say this is her natural coloring – or close.”

He kept one arm hooked lightly around Eve’s waist, took a forkful of pie with his free hand. “It is good pie. Maybe a bit shy of damn good, but good all the same. It’s possible her legs aren’t this long, but again, given the best guess. She’s tall – or tallish for a woman. Even considering lifts, she shouldn’t be under five-eight. She’s fast on her feet – kept ahead of you, and yes, darling, she had a strong lead, but you said she was fast. Most probably, long legs to go with the height. And again, fast, so unlikely she carries too much excess weight if any. Strong, likely good upper-body strength.”

Because it was right there, he kissed the nape of Eve’s neck. “She blends, would that be accurate?”

“I think yes. Not one to draw attention, very likely she keeps under the radar in her work. Smart – and maybe underappreciated, at least in her own mind.”

“I’d assume she either disguises her attributes or has a slim body type. Serious curves draw attention. Those attracted to women notice serious curves. As you believe she’s unattached and likely lives alone, a more curvaceous body would draw attention.”

“She’d get hit on,” Eve concluded.

“Playing the odds. Young, single female, add curvy. Going to the least common denominator? Impressive breasts impress.”

“Tits aren’t the only reason women get hit on or draw attention.”

“No indeed, but they rank high. She’s unlikely to be visually compelling. A pleasant enough face, most likely. As real beauty or someone overtly unattractive also draws attention. So… Computer, display image two.”

Acknowledged. Displaying image two.

“Okay.” Eve nodded, would have pushed up if Roarke hadn’t held her in place.

The same body, face, coloring, hair, but wearing a dull gray suit, a little drab, a little dowdy, Eve supposed. And the sassy woman in the trashy underwear became ordinary.

“You wouldn’t look twice at her on the street,” Eve stated. “She’d blend into the scenery.”

“And now. Computer, display image three.”

Acknowledged. Displaying image three.

This time the image wore a bulky brown jacket, brown trousers, ski cap, boots.

“Yes!” Again, she started to push up, and again he kept her snuggled on his lap. “Come on. I’ve got to move.”

“Don’t I get a reward?”

She craned around, looked into those wild, amused eyes. “You got pie.”

“The pie’s nice, but the work, if I say so myself, is superior.”

She couldn’t argue, so she clamped her hands on his face, covered his mouth with hers, let some of the excitement of having a face – a strong potential – fire up the kiss.

“That’s more like it,” Roarke decided, and let her go.

“I’m going to send this to the wits, and to everyone on the list of potential targets. Ordinary sort of face, nothing stands out especially, but if it’s close, if it is, and you had this in your head, you’d recognize her.”

She turned to him. “Can you do a side-by-side, put the shades, the scarf on her? This image, just those additions.”

“Of course.”

In seconds, he had the dual images, split screen.

“It feels right, feels close.”

She closed her eyes, froze the moment when she’d looked across the street – the distance, the big bus lumbering away from the stop.

Take the bus away, all the vehicles, she ordered herself. Just her. Just you, just her, facing each other. She fixed the moment in her mind, one isolated instant, then opened her eyes.

“The face is broader – still narrow, but not quite this narrow. Can you…” She trailed off as he was already making the adjustment. “Not that much, a little… Yeah, that’s better. Long legs, right on that. The coat today was down at her knees, but there was some length between the coat and the boots.”

She closed her eyes again, tried to bring it back. The chase, tried to edit out all the people, the noise, the movement.

“She kept the box under her arm. Can’t say what was in it, can’t judge the weight, but she kept it tucked in, like a running back with the ball heading toward the goal. Shoving with the other hand,” Eve added, making the motion herself. “Pushing, shoving, elbow jabbing, but never slowing down. Focused. Okay.”

She opened her eyes again, turned. “She knew that restaurant. Goddamn it, that wasn’t just luck. She was hauling her ass right there, knows the neighborhood, knew she could jump in there, make that end run toward the kitchen and out. She’s been in there before.”

“Scoping out Mavis’s area?”

“That, sure, that. But she’s been in that place, knew the setup. No need to know that to scope out Mavis. We’ll get the image over there, show the owners, the staff. Maybe somebody knows her.”

She came back for her coffee.

“You lived there,” Roarke pointed out. “In that building, only a couple blocks away from that restaurant.”

“It wasn’t there, not with those people when I… She’s tuned into me. That’s my old neighborhood. I got that place because it was close enough to Central to make it smooth. Not a long haul to the morgue, to the lab.”

“Why wouldn’t she do the same?” Roarke proposed. “If she works in any of those facilities, or wishes she did, if she’s obsessed with you, why not live in the same area you did? Walk the same sidewalks, eat and drink and shop where you did.”

“She could’ve run into the Chinese place, but it has a different setup – it’s narrow and it doesn’t have that little alley off the back like the bar. She had enough of a lead to keep going, and yeah, yeah, get across the next intersection, maybe gain some distance if I got hung up with the traffic again. But she swung around that corner, never hesitated. She aimed for it.”

She sat on the desk. “Plug it in, will you? You’re faster. Narrow the search. Let’s see if we can find somebody who meets this basic description who lives within a six-block radius of my old building.”

“It’s a lot of ground,” he told her as he made the adjustments. “And unlikely to get quick results.”

“Results works well enough for now. I’m going to use the auxiliary, get the image out.”

“Take your pie,” he suggested.

19

Some risks were worth taking. It was a matter of
principle
.

The delivery-person gear that had served so well wouldn’t do now. But with some adjustments, the same ploy would work.

The peacoat – ordinary, simple. Not quite as bulky as the brown, and a bit shorter, but it would serve. The navy cap with earflaps and bill, pulled low, but with just a little hair from the short wig straggling out beneath it – a dull dark brown bought months before, and with cash. Still, it paid to seal it, and to remember to take care before removing it during the real work.

Couldn’t wear shades, but the bill of the cap would help there. Old black boots, already sealed, with thick black trousers bagging over them.

The makeup added a nice touch, darkening the skin on the face a few shades. And it covered the carefully applied putty that broadened the bridge of the nose. The appliance over the teeth – annoying – altered the shape of the mouth, added a distinct overbite.

That’s what a witness would remember if anyone bothered to look and see. Dark complexion, overbite, short, straggly dark brown hair.

Add the plaid scarf – navy and gray, bundled and wrapped over the chin, then the navy gloves over hands already sealed, and the bulk of a tattered black messenger bag.

She studied herself now in the full-length triple mirror, assessing every angle, every detail. Compared it inch by inch with the sketches the department had released.

Without the lifts she was nearly two inches shorter, and without the brown coat not as stocky in appearance.

No one would look at the messenger and see the delivery person.

Like going undercover, she thought. Eve would appreciate that. Eve would understand the time and trouble it took to make yourself into someone else to do what needed doing.

She’d better start appreciating.

Before strapping on the messenger bag, she checked the contents yet again. More sealant, in case, protective suit, high-powered flashlight to check the scene for trace, tweezers on the slim chance of trace, bags for sealing anything if necessary.

Clamp for the tongue, though she planned something different this time. A little addition to the routine. And another kind of message.

Thinking of it, she lifted out the thin, sharp scalpel in its protective case.

Something different, she thought again. Smiled and smiled. Something creative.

She slipped the scalpel back in place, took out the fresh marker, its backup. She wasn’t sure what she’d say this time, not like the first when she’d written so many drafts in her journal first. This time, she’d let it come to her, after the work was done.

And this time, once she was clear, she’d send a message directly to Eve from one of the false front accounts she’d been collecting.

You hurt me,
she composed in her head,
putting another over me who has been your loyal and unselfish friend. You came after me as if I were a common thief, a mad dog, a
criminal.
True justice calls for balance, so I must hurt you for us to regain our even ground. For us to understand true mutual respect.

It’s for your sake I’ve done this as the constant attention, the glory and fame has, I fear, distracted you from your calling.
 

To serve justice, you must be pure. I see now that you can’t be pure again until the author of this fame and attention is eliminated. It’s for the best, Eve. All that I’ve done, all that I will do, is always with your best interest in my heart.
 

I remain,
 

Your one true friend.
 

Yes, that was what needed to be said. Maybe she should draft it out now, while it was fresh in her mind. The work tended to cloud things. Or did it clarify them?

She’d wait. The work came first. Eve came first.

Cozy in her flannel pants covered with fluffy kittens – something she wore
only
when alone – Nadine read another batch of reader/viewer mail. She’d already had a couple of assistants separate it into correspondence that dealt with her weekly news show,
Now
, correspondence about the vid, correspondence about the book, and correspondence that mixed some of those together.

She had a selection of news channels running on her screen muted, and music blaring to keep the energy pumping. If anything caught her eye on screen, she’d mute the music, unmute the screen.

She had a pot of coffee – real coffee now that she could afford it, thanks to
The Icove Agenda
. Which meant thanks to Dallas.

Or thanks to the Icoves – or the clones who’d killed them.

Was it strange to be grateful to a mad scientist and his selfish son – or more accurately to be grateful they’d been murdered?

Something to ponder another time, but she knew she secretly hoped one of the clones would eventually contact her, agree to a one-on-one.

Of course, she got contacts constantly from people claiming to be an Icove clone, but so far, not a single one had checked out. Attention-seekers, she thought now. Or crazies.

But one day, just maybe.

What was it like knowing you’d been created in a secret lab, programmed from inception to look a certain way, to have certain skills, to fulfill specific purposes?

How many of them had survived, and now lived lives with their secret? Working, sleeping, eating, having sex.

She’d wondered if one of the clones, out of a weird sense of gratitude and connection, was the killer Dallas hunted. But it didn’t fly, or not high enough. To really fly she’d have found some correspondence that clicked with Dallas’s from the killer.

And while that could be an interesting follow-up, she didn’t want to spend all her time and energies on the Icove business. She’d moved on. What she should be doing, she thought, as she lit an herbal, let some stress slide out with the smoke, was working on the draft of her true follow-up.
The Red Horse Conspiracy
.

Not sure about the title, she thought. Maybe
Legacy
would be better.
The Red Horse Legacy
, as it had proven to be just that.

She’d think about it, she told herself while she brought up the next e-mail. The title would be important, of course, but the story, that was the real winner. Mass murders brought on by delusions. The virus created by an Urban War cult leader, and brought into the here and now by his ambitious sociopath of a grandson.

Yes, maybe legacy said it better.

She still needed to pin Dallas down, shoehorn more details out of her, but she had more than enough for the first draft. And she’d get back to it once she’d gone through another hour – tops – of correspondence.

Of course, she should still be basking in the sun – or starlight – warmed by island breezes and Bruno. But work came first.

She and Dallas had that in common. Work ethic – maybe workaholism, she admitted – and a bone-deep belief in truth, in justice, had formed their friendship.