“Are they?” Mira queried.
“Yeah. Dudley confirmed that. Friends, but neither of them mentioned discussing this very similar situation they find themselves in with the other. That’s bogus. Both are alibied tight for the night of the murder connected to their company, and home alone on the other.”
“Mirrors then.” Mira pursed her lips, nodded. “And perhaps reflecting too close, which raised your instincts to suspect.”
“Even the alibis rang the same. Out with friends, multiple, covering the entire evening. Smarter if one of them had a woman over, or a business meeting, some wider variation. But they’ve stuck with the same pattern throughout. And they’re smug. I don’t like smug.” She shrugged it off. “I’m about to report to Whitney. I wanted your take before I did.”
“What you’re theorizing is certainly possible. I would have to conclude that, if this is the case, the two men have a deep and strong level of trust or mutual need. If either one of them had failed or changed his mind, or otherwise impacted the partnership, the other would suffer the consequences as well.”
“Okay. I’ll look into that. Thanks.”
“Eve, if you’re right, they could be finished. Each has done their part.”
“No.” She thought of the sparkle in Dudley’s eyes, the hard, superior gleam in Moriarity’s. “No, they’re not finished. They think they’ve done their parts too well to be finished.”
Organizing her thoughts, Eve made her way to Commander Whitney’s office. She recognized the low throb behind her eyes as caffeine buzz warring with fatigue. Peabody wasn’t the only one who could use a little downtime.
She stepped off the glide, turned to switch to the next, barely registering the weeping behind her. Crying, cursing, whining, shouting were all ambient noise in a cop shop. But she caught the move, the man directly in front of her drawing a hand from his pocket. She saw the eyes, the baring of teeth, the hot rage.
She laid a hand on her weapon, shifted to block him.
The knife was out of his pocket before she could clear her weapon, and slicing out at her. She felt the sting of the tip across her forearm. Heard the weeping turn to high, terrified screams.
She said, “Goddamn it,” and kicked the assailant hard in the balls even as she yanked her weapon clear. “You son of a fucking bitch.”
Since he was curled on the floor, retching, he didn’t respond.
“Lieutenant. Jesus, Lieutenant, he cut you.”
“I know he cut me. I’m the one bleeding. Why is she screaming?” Eve demanded as she lowered, put a knee in the small of the retching man’s back, then restrained him. “Let me repeat: I’m the one bleeding.”
“He was going for her when you got in the way. Way it looks. Detective Manson,” he said, “Special Victims. The asshole on the floor is her ex, who paid her a visit last night, beat the crap out of her, raped her, and told her he’d cut her heart out if she left. He went out for brew, she left. He must’ve trailed her here or something. We’ll find out.”
“How the hell did he get a knife through?” As she asked, Manson used a pair of tweezers to pick it up off the floor.
“Christ, it’s one of those plastic deals from the Eatery. He sharpened it with something. I’d say he was waiting out here to go at her. In goddamn Cop Central. Crazy bastard.”
“Get him the hell in a cage. Make sure you charge him with assault with a deadly on a police officer.” She crouched down to push her face close to the knifer’s. “You can get life for that, asshole. Put in the other charges, and you’re done. You cost me a pretty nice jacket.”
“You need to go to the infirmary, sir.”
Eve looked down at the ripped sleeve, the blood. “Crap.”
Instead, she slipped into a restroom, ripped the sleeve off the jacket, and fashioned a quick field dressing. Then, with some regret as it had been a nice, serviceable jacket—shoved what was left of it in the recycler.
The steady pulse of pain from her arm joined the head throb. Home, she thought, as soon as she gave Whitney her report, she was going home, cleaning up, shutting down. Two hours’ sleep would do the trick.
At home.
At his desk when she walked in, Whitney held up a finger for silence as he finished reading a report. Eve stood where she was while behind his window a blimp lumbered through the sky with its flashing ad, a couple of shuttles zipped in a crisscrossing path, and a tram carried a payload of tourists.
Whitney tapped the index finger of his big hand on the screen, then shifted his eyes, dark, intense, to her.
“How were you injured?” he asked her.
“It’s just a scratch.”
“I asked how.”
“Sir. Some mope on the tenth level, east, lying in wait for his ex, who’d come in to SVU after he beat and raped her. He’d copped a plastic knife from the Eatery, sharpened it up. I got in the way. A Detective Manson has him in custody.”
“That’s not a proper dressing.”
“I’ll get one. I was on my way to give you my report, so—”
Again, he held up a finger, turned to his com to tag his admin. “Send a medic in here for the lieutenant. She has an injury, left forearm. Knife wound.”
“Sir, I really don’t need—”
“Report.”
“Sir.” Damn it.
She reviewed the facts, the steps taken, the various avenues of investigation addressed.
“You’ve yet to find any connection between the victims.”
“No, sir, we’ve found nothing that intersects them other than the killer.”
“And you believe both victims were killed by the same individual.”
“Detective Peabody and I have just completed first interviews with Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I believe the result of those interviews opened another avenue of investigation. I consulted with Doctor Mira on the—”
She broke off at the knock on the door.
“Come,” Whitney ordered.
Eve eyed the medic with instinctive distrust. “Commander, if I could conclude before—”
“Sit down. You can give me the rest while he works on you.”
“Carver, sir,” the medic said cheerfully. “Let’s have a look-see.”
She didn’t care for the idea of a medic named Carver, but under direct orders sat.
“Good field dressing,” Carver told her as he removed it. “Nasty little slice. We’ll fix it up.”
Several sarcastic remarks came to mind, and she swallowed them as Carver began to clean the wound she’d already damn well cleaned in the bathroom.
“There’s a connection between Dudley and Moriarity,” she began. “They’re friends, of the same social strata, and both head large corporations that came down to them through birth. Each has a—shit.”
She jerked a little, and aimed a hard glare at Carver as he replaced the pressure syringe in his kit.
“Always a little sting, but it’s better than an infection.”
“Each,” Eve said through her teeth, “has a strong alibi for the night his employee’s ID was used to lure the victim. And each has no alibi for the alternate night and time.”
“You think they’re working together? For what reason?”
“Motive may come to light as we shift angles, take a closer look at the vics with the alternate company, company head, both personally and professionally. Or it may be exactly what it appears to be on the surface. Thrill kills.”
She did her best to ignore the faint buzz of the suture wand, the vague and persistent discomfort of her skin drawing back together.
“The pattern comes through,” she continued. “The victims represent wealth, position, indulgence, the weapons unusual and showy, the kill sites public and risky. In both cases false ID was utilized, and sprang from one of the companies run by these men. An outside hack is, of course, possible, but it feels like an inside job. It plays as one.”
“And Mira’s profile?”
“They both fit. The interview
s, sir? It felt like theater, in both cases. Rehearsed, with each taking a specific type of role. They’re arrogant and smug, and enjoying the fact that they’re in the middle of this. We have an additional piece of evidence from a partial image EDD was able to enhance from the Coney Island security. From it, we can estimate the height of the killer, and we were able to identify the designer and model of his shoes, and the approximate size. It’s made by Emilio Stefani—”
As he bandaged, Carver let out a low whistle. “Those’ll cost ya.”
“They retail for three thousand, to confirm Carver’s statement. Dudley bought a pair of that shoe, in the color and the size we have, in March. Only one other pair was purchased in the city, in that color and the size Detective McNab ascertained from the security image. That individual is currently in New Zealand, and at the time of the murder was on a location shoot for a major vid. That leaves Dudley.”
“That’s good, but it won’t get you an arrest warrant much less a conviction. If you’re set on this line of investigation, get more.”
“I intend to, sir.”
“You’re all set.” Carver rose. “Want a pain pop?”
“No, I don’t want a pain pop.”
“Your choice, but it’s gonna ache for a while. I can take a look at it for you tomorrow, change the dressing. You should only need me to slap some NuSkin on it by then.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Relieved it was done, Eve got to her feet.
“Thank you, Carver.” Whitney sat back as the medic tapped a finger to his temple as salute and left.
“If the bayonet was military, and you’ve got the era, check to see if either of your suspects had an ancestor who served, and would have been issued the weapon, and push on the crossbow. One or both of them could be licensed.”
“If Moriarity used the bow, as I believe, he’s practiced. Even at that distance, he had to be confident in his shot, first time. The second killing runs the same. It was dead in the heart, which kept the bleeding light, reduced the spatter. They took time to work on their skills, or already had those skills.”
“Get more,” Whitney repeated. “And take care of that arm.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Recognizing the dismissal, Eve walked out.
As she made her way back to her office, she started the search on her PPC for the military connection. That was a line she’d missed, she admitted, and shouldn’t have. It might have something to do with being up for around forty hours, but reasons weren’t excuses.
Once again, the shift was changing as she passed through the bullpen. She spotted Baxter just pushing back from his desk.
“Here early, here late. What have you done with Baxter?”
“Ha ha. Just finished the case from this morning. PA dealt it down to Man One, but it’s closed. Report’s on its way to you.”
“Good enough.”
“Sent the boy home. He’s still dating the cutie in Records. But we’re clear if you need more hands on your double.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Heard you took a little slice,” he said with a nod toward her arm.
“Word travels.”
“Oh, and I sent you the monthly eval on Trueheart. He’s going to make a good detective. Needs a little more time, but if you give me the green light, I’m going to tell him to start boning up for the exam.”
“That’s a pretty fast track, Baxter.”
“He’s quick, unless you’re talking about with women.” He grinned at that. “He’s got good instincts, and he thinks things through. Plus, the kid’s got me for a trainer. How can he lose?”
“I’ll look over the eval, think about it.”
“He’s made for Homicide,” Baxter added as Eve turned away.
She stopped. “Because?”
“He looks at a DB and sees a person. We can forget that, just see the case. You know how it is. But he doesn’t, and not just because he’s still a little green. He’s wired that way. This is his place, that’s what I’m saying, even if you figure he needs more time in uniform.”
“I’ll think it over.”
She got what she needed from her office and joined the end-of-shifters on the exodus.
She set her vehicle on auto so she could let her mind drift.
Baxter and Trueheart, she thought. Some would have seen it as an odd pairing, the slick, often brass detective and the shy, sweet-natured rookie.
She hadn’t, and that was why she’d assigned Trueheart as Baxter’s aide. She’d believed they’d complement each other, and that Baxter’s style would ripen and toughen the rook.
It had, but the partnership had also . . . softened wasn’t the word, she thought. Maybe opened was better. It had opened Baxter. He’d always been a solid cop—smart, smart-mouthed, competitive. And, in her opinion, mostly out for number one.
Trueheart had changed that so that now they were much more partners than trainer and aide.
They understood each other, communicated with and without words. They trusted each other. A cop couldn’t go through the door with a partner unless there was absolute trust.
A man didn’t kill with a partner unless there was absolute trust. Trust, knowledge, understanding, and a common goal.
What was the common goal?
How had they developed the trust and understanding? How and when had they decided to kill?
Friendships, she thought, took all kinds of forms, and formed for all kinds of reasons. But they stuck, didn’t they, out of genuine affection, genuine need, or the solid base of common ground?
Considering, she used the dash ’link to contact Mavis Freestone.
“Dallas! Belle and I were just talking about you!”
Since Belle was about six months old and mostly said “ga!,” Eve figured it had been a short conversation. “Yeah? Listen, I—”
“I was just telling her all the things she could be when she grows up. You know like president or goddess of all she surveys, or a vid star like Mommy, a designer like Daddy. How she could be the total of totality like Roarke or a kick-ass supercop like you.”
“There you go. I was just . . . are you wearing a crown?”
Mavis lifted a hand to the sparkly gold crown perched on a mountain of hair—currently a bold grass green. “We were playing dress-up.”
“Mavis, you’re always playing dress-up.”
Mavis laughed, a bright, happy giggle. “Being a girl is the frostiest. Oh! Oh! Look. You’ve got to see!”
Eve blinked when Mavis swung the ’link screen—in that second or two the world was a swimming blur of color and shape. Then in the middle of it, the chubby blond baby motored across the floor on all fours toward some sort of red animal. A bear, a dog, a species of undetermined origin, Eve wondered. In any case, Belle zeroed in like a blaster stream, grabbed the animal, then plopped down on her butt and chewed on it vigorously.
“Is that mag or what?” Mavis demanded. “Our Bellamia is growing up so fast.”
“Don’t cry. Jesus, Mavis.”
“It just makes me go all fountain. She’s crawling already and see how she knows just what she wants and goes for it? This morning she crawled over and picked out her pink sandals with the stars all by herself.”
“Amazing.” Maybe it was—how would she know? One thing she did know, common ground wasn’t the base of her friendship with Mavis. The grifter and the cop hadn’t had anything in common, not on the surface. Eve supposed what had cemented them was a kind of recognition.
“Where’s Leonardo?”
“Oh, he had a fitting. He’s picking up some yums on the way home.”
“With who, a regular client?”
“Ah, yeah.” Mavis bent, scooped up Belle and the red mammal. “Carrie Grace, the screen queen. You need him?”
“No. But I’m working on a case—”
“Shockamundo! Right, Bella?” Bella giggled, much like her mother, and waved the red thing in the air by its drooled-on ear.
“The thing is somebody
’s killing people who provide what we’ll call fancy or exclusive services. Expensive services, and at the top of their line.”
“I don’t—oh. Oh! Like my honey bear?”
“Yeah, like your honey bear, and like you, Mavis. Just do me a favor, and don’t take any solo appointments or meetings until I close this up. Same for your honey bear. No new clients.”
“You got that squared. Our Bellarina needs her mommy and her daddy. I’ve got that gig in London at the end of next week. We were kind of thinking about adding on some hoot time.”
“Hoot time?”
“Time for having a hoot. Fun. Vacation.”
“Why don’t you do that? Go have a hoot. Let me know one way or the other.”
“Hell, I’m packed five minutes from now. Do you really think somebody could try to hurt us?”
“Probably not. But I don’t take chances with you guys.”
“Aw, I love you, too.”
“Why is that? Why do we love each other?”
“Because we are what we are, and we’re both okay with it.”
And that, Eve thought as she drove through the gates, pretty well nailed it.
When she opened the car door, the heat knocked her back on her heels. And when she had to brace a hand on the door because her head spun, she had to admit sleep had to be the first order of business. She steadied herself and walked inside to the blissful, quiet cool.
“Have you been brawling again?” Summerset wondered. “Or is this some kind of fashion statement?”
She remembered the bandage on her arm, and the lack of a jacket to conceal it. “Neither. I lost a bet and had to get your name tattooed on my arm. So I carved it out with a penknife.”
A little lame, she thought as she went upstairs, but the best she could do when her brain wanted so desperately to check out.
Two hours, she told herself. Two hours down to recharge, then she’d go at the whole thing fresh.