“The luck of the gene pool, Eve. You’re too smart to think the color of your eyes means anything.”
“Screw the science, I hate it. That’s all. I saw the way she looked at me with them. She hated me, gut-deep hate. I don’t get it, I just don’t get it. I was . . . I’m not good at judging ages of little kids. Three, four maybe. But she hated me the way you hate a lifelong enemy.”
Mira wanted to go over, to enfold. To mother. But knew it wasn’t the way. “And that hurt you.”
“I wondered, I guess.” She drew in air, let it out explosively. “I guess I wondered if—even though I knew from what I remembered—I wondered if maybe, somehow, he snatched me from her at some point. Beat the crap out of her maybe, and took off with me. I wondered if, even though she was on the junk, she had some feeling for me. I mean, you cart somebody around inside you for nine months, you ought to feel something.”
“Yes, you ought.” Mira spoke gently. “Some people aren’t capable of love. You know that, too.”
“Better than most. I had this fantasy. Didn’t even know I had it until it shattered on me. That she was looking for me, worried about me. Trying to find me all this time because . . . under everything she loved me. But she didn’t. There wasn’t anything but hate in her eyes when she looked at me. Looked at the child.”
“You know it wasn’t you she hated because she never knew you. Not really. And her lack of feeling wasn’t—isn’t—your fault. It was—and is—her lack. You’re a difficult woman, Eve.”
She laughed a little, jerked a shoulder. “Yeah. So?”
“A difficult woman, often abrasive, moody and demanding, and impatient.”
“Are you going to get to my good parts anytime soon?”
“I don’t have that much time.” But Mira smiled, pleased to hear the habitual sarcasm. “But your flaws, as some might see them, don’t prevent those who know you from loving you, respecting you, admiring you. Tell me what you remembered.”
Eve blew out a breath, and ran through it with the cool dispassion and attention to detail she’d use in a police report.
“I don’t know where we were. I mean what city. But I know she whored for money and drugs, and that was okay with him. I know she wanted to ditch me, and that wasn’t okay with him because he had other plans for me. For his investment.”
“They weren’t your parents.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They conceived you—egg and sperm. She incubated you, and expelled you from her body when it was time. But they weren’t your parents. There’s a difference. You know there is.”
“I guess I do.”
“You didn’t come from them. You overcame them. There’s another difference. Let me say one more thing before my assistant chews through my door and punishes me for ruining her schedule. You’ve also left your mark, and had an impact on more lives than either of us can count. Remember that when you look in the mirror, and into your own eyes.”
Chapter 11
When Eve walked into the break room, Baxter was chowing down on an enormous sandwich that smelled too good and looked too fresh to have come out of the facility’s AutoChef, any of the vending machines, or the take-out counter at the Eatery.
It looked civilian and delicious.
Beside him at the square table, the sweet-faced Trueheart was making neat work of a leafy salad topped with chunks of chicken. Across from them, a woman who looked to have seen the dawn and dusk of a couple of centuries beamed goodwill over them.
“There now,” she said in a reedy voice, “isn’t that better than anything you can get out of a machine?”
“Glump,” Baxter responded over bread and meat in what was obviously delirious agreement.
Trueheart, who was younger, nearly as green as his salad, and whose mouth wasn’t quite as full at the time, scraped back his chair when he spotted Eve. “Lieutenant.” He shot to attention as Baxter rolled his eyes in amusement over the rookie, and adoration over his sandwich.
He swallowed. “Jeez, Trueheart, save the brownnosing until after I digest. Dallas, this is the amazing and wonderful Mrs. Elsa Parksy. Mrs. Parksy, ma’am, this is Lieutenant Dallas, the primary investigator you wanted to see.”
“Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Parksy.”
“My duty, isn’t it? As a citizen, not to mention as a friend and neighbor. Lois looked after me when I needed it, now I’ll look after her, best I can. Sit down, dearie. Have you had your lunch?”
Eve eyed the sandwich, the salad, and ignored the envy that swirled in her mostly empty stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I told these boys I’d fix extra. Can’t abide food out of a machine. It’s not natural. Detective Baxter, you offer some of that sandwich to this girl. She’s too skinny.”
“I’m fine, really. Detective Baxter told me you saw a man leaving Mrs. Gregg’s apartment building on Sunday morning.”
“Did. I didn’t talk to the police before as I went straight on to my grandson’s after church and stayed overnight. Didn’t get back home until this morning. Heard about Lois on the news yesterday, of course.”
The countless wrinkles in her withered raisin of a face shifted in what Eve took for sorrow.
“I’ve never been so shocked and sad, even when my Fred, God rest him, fell under the Number Three train back in 2035. She was a good woman, and a good neighbor.”
“Yes, I know she was. What can you tell us about the man you saw?”
“Hardly paid him any attention. My eyes are pretty good yet. Got them fixed up again last March, but I wasn’t paying him much mind.”
Absently, she pulled a pack of nap-wipes out of a cavernous handbag, and passed them to Baxter.
“Thank you, Mrs. Parksy,” he said in a humbled, respectful voice.
“You’re a good boy.” She patted his hand, then turned her attention back to Eve. “Where was I? Oh yes. I was just coming out to wait for my grandson. He comes by every Sunday at nine-fifteen, to take me to church. You go to church?”
There was a quick and beady gleam in Mrs. Parksy’s eyes, causing Eve to hesitate between the truth and a convenient lie.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trueheart spoke up, his face solemn. “I like to go to Mass at St. Pat’s when I can get into Midtown on Sunday. Otherwise, I go to Our Lady of the Sorrows, downtown.”
“Catholic, are you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, that’s all right.” She patted his hand in turn, as if it wasn’t his fault.
“You saw the man come out from Mrs. Gregg’s building,” Eve prompted.
“Said I did, didn’t I? He came out just a minute after I stepped out my own front door across the street. Had on a gray uniform and carried a black toolbox. Had a blue plastic basket in his other hand, like the kind they have down at the market. Couldn’t see what was in it, ’cause it was a ways, and I wasn’t staring at the man.”
“What can you tell me about how he looked?”
“Looked like a repairman, is all. White man, or maybe mixed. Hard to tell as the sun was blasting. Don’t know how old. Not as old as me. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, that’s all the same when you hit your century mark, and I hit mine seventeen years ago last March. But I’d say thirty or forty as a best guess.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Parksy,” Trueheart said and she smiled at him.
“You’re a very nice young man. This other, he had a cap on, uniform cap, and sunglasses. Dark ones. Had mine on, myself. Sun was blazing even though it was early. He saw me. Couldn’t see his eyes, of course, but he saw me, as he sent me a big as life grin and gave me this little bow. Sassy’s what I call it, and I just sniffed and looked the other way, as I don’t hold with sass. Sorry about that now. Wish I’d watched after him more.”
“Which direction did he go?”
“Oh, he headed east. Spring in his step, like a man pleased with his morning’s work. Bad business, bad business when a man can all but skip out the door and onto the sidewalk when he’s killed a woman. Loi
s went to the market for me more than once when I was feeling poorly, and she brought me flowers to cheer me up. Always had a minute to chat. I wish I’d known what he’d done when I saw him. My grandson drove up just a minute or two later. He’s always prompt. I’d’ve told him to run that murdering bastard down on the street. As God is my witness, I would’ve.”
She worked Mrs. Parksy until she was sure she had everything the woman could give her, then passed her to Trueheart, asking him to escort her to a uniform for transport home.
“Baxter, another minute here.” She dug in her pocket and discovered she’d given Peabody all her credits earlier. “Got enough on you for a Pepsi?”
“What’s wrong with using your badge number? You over your limit?”
She gave him a disgusted look, with a sulk right on the edges. “I plug in my badge number, the machine will give me grief. The one up by our squad hates me, has a personal vendetta. And they talk to each other, Baxter. Don’t think they don’t communicate.”
He studied her for one long minute. “You need a vacation.”
“I need a friggin’ Pepsi. You want an IOU?”
He walked to the machine, keyed in his badge number, ordered the tube.
GOOD AFTERNOON. YOU HAVE ORDERED ONE EIGHT-OUNCE TUBE OF PEPSI. IT’S ICED! HAVE A SAFE AND PRODUCTIVE DAY, AND DON’T FORGET TO RECYCLE.
He tugged it out of the slot, walked back, and handed it to her. “My treat.”
“Thanks. Listen I know you’ve got backlog. I appreciate you taking the time for the canvass.”
“Just put it in your report. I could use the shine.”
She gave a head nod toward the door, so they’d walk and talk. “Trueheart looks good. He steady enough?”
“Doc cleared him physically. Kid’s healthy as a horse. Shrink gave him thumbs-up, too.”
“I read the evals, Baxter. I’m asking you.”
“Truth is, I think what happened to him—nearly happened—a couple weeks ago shook me more than him. He’s solid, Dallas. He’s gold. Gotta tell you, I never figured on taking on a rookie, or putting on a trainer’s hat, but he’s a gift.”
Baxter shook his head as they caught a glide. “Kid loves the job. Hell, he is the job, like nobody I know except you. He bounces in each shift, raring. I tell you, he makes my fucking day.”
Satisfied, Eve headed down the hall with him.
“Speaking of trainees,” Baxter continued, “I hear Peabody’s going to take the detective’s exam in a few days.”
“Nothing wrong with your hearing.”
“Nervous, Mom?”
She shot him a narrow look. “Funny. Why should I be nervous?”
He started to grin, then they both turned at the high-pitched howl. A skinny guy in restraints broke away from the uniform escorting him, sent another to his knees with a well-placed groin kick, then came flying toward the glide, eyes wild, spittle flying.
Since her Pepsi was in her weapon hand, Eve winged it. It caught him between the eyes with an audible thud. It surprised more than hurt him, so that he stumbled, righted himself, then lowered his head and charged her like a battering ram.
She had just enough time to pivot. She brought her knee up sharply, connecting with his chin. There was a nasty crunching sound that she figured was either his jaw snapping or the cartilage in her knee shifting.
In either case, he went down hard on his ass, and was immediately tackled by two uniforms and one passing plain-clothes cop.
Baxter reholstered his weapon, scratched his head at the melee on the floor. “Want another Pepsi, Dallas?” What was left of hers was making a brown puddle on the floor.
“Goddamn it. Who’s in charge of this asshole?”
“Me, sir.” One of the uniforms staggered up. He was winded, and bleeding from the bottom lip. “I was taking him to holding for—”
“Officer, why didn’t you have control of your prisoner?”
“I thought he was controlled, Lieutenant. He—”
“Obviously, you thought incorrectly. It appears you need to refresh yourself on proper procedure.”
The prisoner bucked and kicked, and began to scream like a woman. To demonstrate proper procedure for controlling prisoners, Eve crouched, ignoring the twinge in her knee. She grabbed the screamer by a hank of his long, dark hair, jerked his head until his crazed eyes met hers.
“Shut up. If you don’t shut up, if you don’t cease resisting immediately, I will pull your tongue out of your mouth, drag it around your neck, and strangle you with it.”
She saw from his eyes that he’d been enjoying some chemicals, but the threat got through, or maybe it was the tone that warned him she meant it, literally.
When he sagged, Eve rose and gave the uniform the same cold glare. “Add resisting and assaulting an officer to our guest’s prize package today. I want to see a copy of your report before you file it, Officer . . .” She deliberately scraped her gaze down and scanned his name tag. “Cullin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lose him again, and I’ll use his tongue to strangle you. Move.”
There was a scramble as a couple of uniforms moved in, a show of solidarity, to drag the prisoner up and haul him away.
Baxter handed Eve a fresh tube of Pepsi. “Figured you’d earned this.”
“Goddamn right,” she shot back, and limped into Homicide.
She wrote her own report, and hand-carried it to Commander Whitney. He gestured her to a chair, which she took, grateful to get off her aching knee.
When she’d finished her oral briefing, he nodded. “Is your block on the media going to fuel him or frustrate him?”
“With or without the media, he’s hunting again. While his victims are random, they are deliberate, and the deliberation takes time. As for the media, I’ve fed a few statements through the department liaison. They’re concentrating on the first murder. It’s flashier than the rape and murder of a sixty-one-year-old woman in her apartment. We’re not going to be pressed too hard on that end until one of them gets the connection. They will eventually, especially if he hits again, but we’ve got some room.”
“You’re misleading the media?”
“No, sir. I’m just not leading them. I’ve given my statement to Quinton Post at 75, rather than Nadine Furst, as I felt that would cool any mumbling about favoritism. He’s sharp, but still a bit green. Once Nadine gets her teeth into this, she’ll make the connection. Until then, I don’t have to answer what isn’t asked.”
“Good enough.”
“On another front, sir, I don’t think, despite his claims, he cares overmuch about the media attention. Not at this time. He wants my attention, and he has it. Dr. Mira’s profile confirms his need to dominate and destroy women. The female authority figure is his nemesis. That’s me, that’s why he picked me.”
“Are you a target?”
“I don’t believe so, not as long as he sticks to pattern.”
Whitney grunted, then steepled his fingers. “You should be aware that I’ve had complaints.”
“Sir?”
“One from Leo Fortney, who’s crying harassment, and threatening a suit against you and the department. A second from the offices of Niles Renquist, intimating . . . displeasure at having the wife of a diplomatic figure interrogated by a member of the New York Police and Security Department. And a third from the representative of Carmichael Smith, who ranted vigorously about the possibility of damaging publicity due to the hounding of his client by a . . . what was it? An insensitive, abrasive hotshot with a badge.”
“That would be me. Leo Fortney gave false information during initial questioning. He’s changed his story, somewhat, during subsequent questioning by my aide, but it still reeks. Both Niles Renquist and his wife have been questioned, not interrogated. And while both were cooperative, neither was forthcoming. As for Carmichael, if anyone leaks his involvement in my investigation to the media, it would be him.”
“You intend to pursue each of these individuals as
suspects in this investigation.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“All right.” Satisfied, he nodded. “I have no problem fielding the complaints, but walk softly here, Dallas. Each of these people has considerable power in his own way, and all of them know how to spin the media.”
“If one of them is a murderer, I’ll make the case. They can spin until they revolve to Saturn and back, but they’ll do it from a cage.”
“Wrap them up then, carefully.”
Dismissed, she got to her feet. Whitney lifted an eyebrow as she started out. “What’s wrong with the leg?”
“It’s just the knee,” she said, annoyed she hadn’t remembered to control the limp on the way out. So she smiled, a little. “I ran into something stupid,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
She left later than she’d intended, and got stuck in some bad traffic. Instead of fighting it, Eve waited it out, using the time to think, to review her notes, to think some more.
She had suspects, though she was thin on evidence. She had threads that wove through both murders. The notes, the tone of them, the imitation.
She had no DNA, no trace evidence, and no evidence that led her to believe the killer had known his victims. Witness reports described a white or possibly mixed-race male, of indeterminate age and coloring. He used accents, she thought. Because his voice was distinctive?
Renquist, with his British tones. Carmichael, with his famous ones.
Possible.
Then again, Fortney ran his mouth to the media and the public often enough. He might assume someone would recognize his voice.
Or it could just be ego again, and any one of them. I’m so important, everyone will recognize me if I don’t disguise myself.
Look for the female authority figure, she told herself. That’s the core and that’s the key. What was the phrase? Cherchez la femme. She thought that was right.
She stripped off her jacket on the way from the car to the house. The air felt close, heavy, and just a bit electric. Maybe a storm coming. Rain couldn’t hurt, she thought, and tossed the jacket over the newel. A good bitch of a storm might keep her man inside, and off the hunt.