Visions in Death (5 page)

Louise lifted the water bottle again, and took her time drinking. "I don't like dishing about my friends, Dallas."

"I'm a cop. I don't dish."

Louise blew out a breath. "Well, as I said, she's from a wealthy, conservative family who doesn't approve of her. It takes considerable strength of character to buck your family." She toasted herself, drank. "Her father's side is aristocratic Mexico, though he moved to Wisconsin for several years for some business or other. They live in Mexico now, and Celina bolted for New York, made it her place while we were still in college. As much, I'd say, because she wanted the city as because this particular city was several thousand miles from her family, yet on the same continent."

She shrugged, considered. "I'd say she's a straightforward, goal-oriented type. She studied parapsychology in college, and related subjects. She wanted to know everything she could about her gift. For a sensitive, she's a logical, somewhat linear woman. She's loyal. It takes loyalty to keep friends for a decade or so. Ethical. I've never known her to intrude, psychically, or to use her talent to exploit. Did she know the woman who was killed?"

"Not, she said, in this particular life."

"Hmm. I remember having discussions with her about connections, past, present, to come. Not your style, I know, but a valid and accepted theory, even in some scientific circles."

"What about personal relationships?"

"Other than friendships, you mean. She was involved with someone for a few years. Songwriter, musician. Lovely man. They broke it off a while ago. Around a year ago." She shrugged. "Too bad. I liked him."

"Name?"

"Lucas Grande. Reasonably successful. He's had a number of songs published and produced, and works regularly as a session musician. He scores vids, too."

"Why'd they split?"

"That feels like dish. How does this relate?"

"Everything relates until I know it doesn't relate."

"Basically, things cooled off between them. They just weren't happy together anymore, so they went their separate ways."

"It was mutual?"

"I've never heard Celina trash him any more than a woman does when she splits with a guy. I don't see her all that often—not enough time—but from what I could see, she handled it well enough. They loved each other, then they didn't. They moved on."

"Did she ever mention Elisa Maplewood to you?"

"That's the woman who was killed? No. I never heard the name before this morning on the news."

"Luther or Deann Vanderlea?"

"Antiques?" Louise's eyebrows lifted in interest. "I know them a little. I think one of my uncles plays golf with Luther's father, something like that. It's possible that Celina knows them, socially. Why?"

"Victim worked for them. Domestic."

"Ah. You're reaching, Dallas."

"Yeah, but you never know just what you'll grab out there."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

"You must be really proud," Peabody said as they got back into the car.

"Huh?"

"Place like that." She looked back toward
Dochas
. "What Roarke's done here."

"Yeah. He puts his money where a lot of people can't even bother to put their mouths."

As Eve started to pull out, Peabody laid a hand on her arm. "What?"

"We're partners now, right?"

"As you never fail to remind me."

"We're friends."

Dubious, Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel. "Is this going to get sloppy?"

"People have private stuff. They're entitled. But friends and partners are entitled to unload on friends and partners. You didn't want to go in there."

It shouldn't show, Eve thought. It wasn't allowed to show. "I went in there."

"Because you're aces at doing things you don't want. Things other people would walk away from. I'm just saying that if something gets over you, you can unload. That's all. And it wouldn't go beyond me."

"You see me doing anything that interferes with the job?"

"No. I only—"

"Some people have personal stuff that can't be cleared up with a nice little heart-to-heart and ice-cream sundaes." She whipped away from the curb, cut off a cab, and punched it through a yellow. "That's why it's personal."

"Okay."

"And if you're going to sulk because I'm not crying on your shoulder, you can just suck it up." She swerved down a side street without a thought to destination. "That's what cops do. They suck it up, do the job, and don't go around looking for somebody to pat their head and say, 'There, there.' I don't need you to play the understanding friend so I can dump my guts all over the floor for your perusal. So just... shit, shit,
fuck
."

She yanked the wheel, double-parked, and ignoring the furious blasts of horns, slapped on the On Duty light.

"Out of line. Out of orbit. Way out. None of that was called for. None of it."

"Forget it."

"I'm tired," she said, staring out the windshield. "Beyond protein-booster tired. And I'm edgy. And I just can't get into all the whys of it. I just can't."

"It's okay. Dallas, I'm not sulking. I'm not pushing."

"No, you're not." Hadn't been, Eve admitted. "And you're not taking a punch at me, even when I deserve it."

"You'd hit me back, and you hit harder."

With a short laugh, Eve rubbed her hands over her face, then made herself shift in the seat, meet Peabody's gaze. "You're my partner, and you're my friend. You're good in both areas. I've got... the shrinks would call them issues. I have to deal with them. If you observe something in my behavior that affects an investigation, I expect you to call me on it. Otherwise, I've got to ask you, as my partner and my friend, to leave it alone."

"Okay."

"Okay. Let's get moving before there's a riot, and they drag us out of the car and stomp us to death on the street."

"I'm for that."

She drove the next block in silence. "I'm going to drop you off at home," Eve said. "We need sleep."

"Does that mean you're going home to work on the case alone?"

"No." Eve smiled a little. "I'm going to take my meeting with Mira, then go home and crash for a while. I'll work some tonight. If you want to do the same, you could push at the ribbons some more. And verify Abel Maplewood's whereabouts on the night of."

"Can do. What are we going to do about Sanchez?"

"I'm going to sleep on it."

Since her head was messed up, Eve figured it was a really good time to see a shrink. Or a really bad time. Either way, it wasn't smart to miss or cancel an appointment with Mira.

Mira would take it fine, but her admin would punish you.

So instead of lying facedown on some flat surface, catching some much-needed sleep, she was sitting in one of Mira's cozy scoop chairs, accepting a cup of tea she didn't want.

Mira had a soft, pretty face surrounded by soft, pretty hair the color of natural mink. She enjoyed attractive, monochromatic suits. Today's was the green shade of good pistachio ice-cream. She wore a trio of beaded necklaces with it, in a darker shade of green.

Her eyes were the same blue as her scoop chairs, and while invariably kind, rarely missed a detail.

"You're exhausted. Haven't you slept at all?"

"Couple hours. I drank a booster."

"All well and good. Sleep is better."

"Next on my list. Tell me about him."

"Angry and violent, with that anger and violence targeted toward women. I don't believe his use of the red ribbon was accidental. Scarlet, the brand for whores. There's a duality in his view on women. Whores to be used and abused, yes, but the pose, the location, indicate an awe of them. A religious pose, a castle. Madonna, queen, whore. He chooses his symbols."

"Why Maplewood, specifically?"

"You believe she was specifically targeted. This wasn't random?"

"He lay in wait. I'm sure of it."

"She was alone and unprotected. She had a child, but no husband. This may play a part. She may also represent, by appearance, by lifestyle, by circumstances, the female in his life who influenced him. Sexual homicide with mutilation most often occurs when the perpetrator was abused or humiliated or betrayed in some fashion by a strong female figure. Mother, sister, teacher, spouse or lover. It's unlikely he has or has been able to maintain a long-term, healthy intimate relationship with a woman."

"And sometimes they're just fucking murdering bastards."

"Yes." Mira calmly sipped her tea. "Sometimes. But there is a root, Eve. There's always a root, whether real or fantasized. Rape is about power, more than it's about violence, certainly more than it's about sex. Penetration by force, for your own gratification while causing fear and pain. Not just forcing yourself on another person, but
into
them. Murder takes that power to another level. The ultimate control over another human being. The method, strangulation, is very personal, very intimate."

"I think he got off on it. He strangled her face-to-face. He watched her die."

"I'd agree. We can't know if he ejaculated as there was no semen, but I don't believe he's impotent. He may be so without the violence, but if he'd been unable to orgasm, we would see more injuries, pre- and post-mortem."

"Cutting out her eyes is pretty injurious."

"A symbol again. He enjoys symbols. He blinded her. She has no power against him as she can't see him—or is allowed to see him only in a manner he directs. This is a powerful symbol to him, and possibly the most important. He took her eyes away from her—not destroying them, which would have been quicker and easier—and more violent—but with some care. Eyes are important to him. They have meaning."

She'd had blue eyes, Eve thought. Dark bluebell eyes, like her daughter. "Maybe he fixes them. Could be an eye doctor, a tech, a consultant."

Mira shook her head. "I'd be surprised if he could work with, treat, or interact with women on a day-to-day basis. It's most likely he lives alone, works at a job where he can work alone, or primarily with men. He's organized, but he's also a risk taker. And he's proud. He not only attacked and killed in a public place, but he left her there, displayed."

"Look at my work, and be afraid."

"Yes. If Elisa Maplewood was symbolic rather than target-specific, his work isn't finished. He's organized enough to have his next victim in mind already. He'd study her habits, her routines, and strategize the best way to take her."

"Her father looked like a possibility, for about ten seconds. He's got a sheet, but reports are he's out of town. Verifying that, but it doesn't feel like it was personal on that level."

"Because of the symbols." Mira nodded. "Yes, I agree, unless you find those symbols relate between father and daughter. Probabilities would be he didn't know Maplewood on that personal a level, but only what she symbolized to him."

"I'm going to run probabilities. We're tracking down the ribbon. It's a good lead." But she brooded. "What do you think of psychics?"

"Well, as I have a daughter who's a sensitive..."

"Oh yeah. Right." She brooded a moment more while Mira waited patiently. "I had a visit this morning," she began, and told her of Celina.

"Do you have any reason to doubt she was telling the truth?"

"Other than a reluctance to believe in woo-woo, no. She's checking out. It's a little annoying to admit that she's the best lead I've got."

"You'll speak with her again?"

"Yeah. Personal prejudices and reluctance don't belong on the job. If she's a lead, I'll use her."

"There was a time you were nearly as reluctant to consult with me."

Eve flicked a glance up, shrugged. "Maybe for the same reasons. You always saw too damn much to suit me."

"Maybe I still do. You not only look exhausted, Eve, you look sad."

There was a time she'd have shrugged that off as well, and walked out. But she and Mira had come a long way. "Turns out Louise Dimatto knows the psychic. Old pals. I needed to talk to her about it. She's doing duty at
Dochas
today."

"Ah."

"That's a shrink trick.
Ah.
" She set the tea aside, rising to pace the office, to jingle loose credits in her pockets. "And it works. It's an amazing thing Roarke's done, and only more amazing—to me—when you get down to the reasons he did it. Some for himself, sure, seeing as he was kicked around plenty as a kid. Some for me—more, for me—because of what I went through. But altogether more for us. Because of who and what we are now."

"Together."

"Jesus, I love him more than... it shouldn't be possible to feel this way about someone. And still, knowing what he'd done there, knowing it was important to him I have some part in it, I've avoided going there."

"Do you think he doesn't understand why?"

"Another thing that shouldn't be possible is the way he understands me. It's a good place, Dr. Mira, and the name is right on target. And I was sick the whole time I was there. Sick in my heart, in my gut. Sick and shaky and scared. I wanted to walk out, away from those women with their bruises, those kids with their helpless faces. One of them had a broken arm. One of the kids. A girl, about six. I'm not good with kids' ages."

"Eve."

"I could feel the bone snap. Could hear it. And it took everything not to just go down to my knees and scream."

"And you're ashamed of that?"

Shame? She wasn't sure. Was it shame she felt, or anger, or some nasty brew of both? "You've got to get over it, sometime."

"Why?"

Stunned, Eve turned back, stared. "Well... because."

"Overcoming and getting over are two very different things." Mira spoke briskly now because she wanted to get up, to go over, to draw Eve into a hug that wouldn't be appropriate, or understood. "Yes, you should strive to overcome. To survive, have a life, to be happy, to be productive. You've done all that, and a great deal more. But no, you're not required to get over it. To get over being beaten and abused and raped and tortured. You ask more of yourself, Eve, than you ask of anyone else in the world."

"It was a good place."

"And in this good place you saw a child someone had tried to break. It hurt you. But you didn't walk away."