Chapter 4

She went back to Homicide, then, finding a message from Feeney, went straight up to EDD to meet with its captain and her former partner in EDD's lab.

She saw through the glass he was working alone, in wrinkled shirtsleeves the color of anemic coffee. Silver sproinged its way through the bush of ginger hair topping the face of a loyal basset hound.

When she stepped in, he gave her a quick, hard study, nodded.

"This is fucked up."

"That's what I was missing. I couldn't quite put my finger on the right term. ‘Fucked up' it is."

With another nod, he walked over to the AutoChef. "I'm programming us a couple of spinach smoothies."

"I'll pass. For the rest of my natural life."

"Just what you need," he insisted, tapped buttons manually. And came out with two cups of coffee.

"It doesn't look like spinach." It only took one sniff. "Smells like coffee. Real coffee. Roarke coffee."

"I got connections. Programmed it in as spinach smoothie. Not one of my kids is going to touch that option should lives depend on it. It ain't loaded with sugar or caffeine, they ain't going near it."

"Smarts like that are why you're captain."

"Damn straight."

She looked up at the wall of screens. He had different views of the crime scene security run on each. "What can you tell me about the UNSUB?"

"Could be wearing lifts, but if not, we got a height of five-ten. Boots are Urban Hikers, chestnut, come in unisex sizes. Those are 39. That's on the high side for female, a little on the small side for a male. They're popular, middle-of-the-road footwear. Lots of delivery people wear them. Decent support, decent traction, decent price. These don't look new."

"No, they don't. There's some wear on them."

"Can't give you weight, wouldn't be close to accurate. Can't ID the gloves, not confirmed. But I've got them down to three most likelies. All common, middle-of-the-road brands."

He eased down on a stool. "We got a little piece of him, left temple. Enhanced and analyzed, the computer's split between Caucasian and mixed-race. Can't give you sex, we just don't have enough of an image. Hands and feet skew small side for male, but not much. Height tall side for female, but not much. And that could be augmented with lifts."

"So we eliminate black, Hispanic, Asian. And we've got a tall woman with biggish feet or a guy with smallish hands and feet, Caucasian or mixed race."

"Of indeterminate age. Right-handed. Probability ninety-six and change from my run on the handwriting. Used the right on the security panel, and the right to pull what we gotta figure was the stunner from the pocket. The crime lab hits about the same probability on that."

"Okay. Okay, that's more than I had when I came in. What about the vic's 'links and comps?"

"I've got McNab on them," he said, referring to Peabody's main man. "We got communications with her office, with clients—he'll have a rundown for you, with her mother and sister on Christmas, and with Discretion—that's a licensed companion agency. She ordered up an LC for Christmas."

"At her place?"

"Nope, arranged it at The Four Seasons. She booked the room herself, stayed there Christmas Eve, had the LC come at midnight."

"I'll follow up on it."

"He's going through her computers—home, office, her tablets, PPCs, the works. She did a 'link conference the day she died with her law partner and some support staff."

"Yeah, that jibes with what I got from Stern."

"Communication's light, home and office, since Christmas. Pretty usual for the holiday week. Got three v-mails, her pocket 'link, and one on the office 'link from the guys she was scheduled to meet with for dinner and got murdered instead. Pretty steamed on the third one, but that slides in, too. He'll tag me if he finds anything that zips. So far we've got no threats, no arguments, no suspicious communications or sorry, wrong numbers."

He drank some coffee. "How you holding, kid?"

"I don't know. Haven't thought about that yet. I can't figure it, Feeney, I can't turn it so I get clear focus. She didn't mean anything to me. She did her job, I did my job. I didn't like her way of doing her job, but she probably didn't like the way I do mine. And she's dead because we faced off over the jobs?"

"People kill for any damn reason, Dallas. Who knows that better than you and me? Sit down."

"I've got to—"

"Sit. I still outrank you."

"Ah, hell." She sat, sulked.

"Anybody make a move on you? A personal move?"

"What?" Her head came up. If she'd been the type to blush, she'd have been scarlet. "No. Jesus, I don't put myself in that sort of situation, and... there's Roarke."

"Webster did."

"Christ, Feeney."

"I'm not saying Webster's still pining for you—'specially since he's off-planet near as much as he's on, fiddling with that girl cop on Olympus. But he put some moves on you a while back. He's a cop, a good cop even if he went IAB, and he's no killer. But there were moves—word gets around. Anybody else?"

"No." And she really wanted to change the angle. Now.

"Women put moves on women, too." Feeney tapped his finger in the air at her. "Maybe you didn't take it that way, or notice."

"Fucking fuck fuck." She stood, turned around in a circle. Sat again. "No. I'd notice."

"Okay. Anybody hanging around more than they should? Just being friendly, or doing you a favor? Somebody you see, but don't see."

"Yeah, yeah." Hadn't she asked herself the same, a half dozen times already? But he was right to ask her, make her dig in and think. "No. Nothing that springs. We're covering the ground. Mira's going over correspondence with the shrink eye. I've got Dickhead looking for anybody at the lab who maybe got dinged by the vic in court."

"That's a good angle," Feeney considered.

"I've got to look at her, all the way through, like I would any vic. And I've got to look at me—try to see what I didn't see. I've got to talk to Nadine. Icove connection. Maybe somebody contacted her about me. Could be another cop, Feeney."

He only nodded, drank more coffee.

"Somebody who works crime scenes, works evidence. It was a really clean kill. And... he liked it."

Feeney nodded again. "Yeah, I got that. Damn near danced his way out. Going to want that feeling again."

"It had to take time to plan Bastwick. Maybe it buys us time before he tries it again."

"Maybe."

"Shit." She shoved to her feet, stayed on them this time. "Efficient. Being efficient, you'd already have the next lined up. Already have the pattern, the timing down. It's just a matter of when, and if you want to make an impression on a murder cop..."

"You've got to do murder. Don't let it mess with your head. We'll keep on the electronics. Anything shakes loose, you're the first."

"Thanks."

She had to think, so she closed herself in her office.

Routine first, she decided, and updated her murder board.

No suspects, no leads. No known connection between killer and victim—except for herself. No known motive—except for herself.

No known connection between herself and the killer, but there would be one. Even if that connection was only in the killer's mind.

Clean, efficient kill. Emotionless, except for the written message. There was the emotion, the need. That communication.

Romanticized, Peabody had said. Romanticized didn't necessarily mean romance—like sex, like the physical. Idealized.

And that took her back to the book, the vid.

She turned to her 'link to contact Nadine.

"I swore I wouldn't do this!" Nadine's usually camera-ready streaky blond hair blew free in a breeze. Fancy sunshades hid her eyes, green as a cat's.

Eve saw the flash of sun off water, heard the lap of waves, the jingle of music and laughter.

She could all but smell the sunscreen and coconut.

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm on the beach, on the lovely island of Nevis, where I took a gorgeous piece of eye candy entirely too young for me to ring in the new. Just got here this morning, and I swore I wouldn't pick up my 'link, my comp, my anything but this lovely and refreshing mai tai. Several of these lovely and refreshing mai tais."

"You're on vacation."

"I'm taking seven incredible days to do nothing but sit, have sex, drink many tropical drinks. It's cold there, isn't it? Cold and crowded and noisy. And here I am with warm island breezes, white sand, and my mai tai. But enough bragging—until I begin again. What's going on?"

"It can wait."

"Oh, no you don't." With a laugh, Nadine turned, smiled a sultry smile. "Bruno, darling, would you get me another?"

"Bruno? Seriously?"

"He's built like a god, is a Viking in bed, and—not that it would matter considering those two attributes—can actually hold interesting and intelligent conversations. He's twenty-eight, or will be next month. I've robbed the cradle, and I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts. Now, what's up?"

"Leanore Bastwick."

"The ice queen of criminal defense attorneys," Nadine began, then her eyebrows shot up. "Whoa. Dead?"

"As in doornail. Whatever the hell that is."

"That's a story—but the team can handle it. I'm having sex with Bruno. Very shortly now." But she tipped down her gold-tinted sunshades, and her eyes were foxy and keen behind them. "You're primary."

"Yeah. The killer left a message. For me."

"You?" Now Nadine straightened, pulled off the sunshades, and the smug smile vanished. "A threat?"

"No. This is off the record, Nadine, we're keeping the lid on it as long as we—"

"Shut up. ‘Off the record' is enough. What sort of message?"

"What you could call fan mail, indicated he or she killed Bastwick because Bastwick wasn't nice to me."

"When was the last time you and Bastwick went a round? How was she killed? What exactly did this message say? When—"

"Nadine, throttle it back. I'm tagging you to work the angle of crazy person who's got an obsession through the Icove stuff. The book, the vid. You get correspondence."

"Sure, on both, and a lot of it."

"We're going to want to cross-reference yours with mine, see if we can pinpoint someone who's contacted, or tried to contact, us both, who rings a bell for Mira. If you clear somebody who works for you to give us copies, we'll work that. Just don't tell them why."

"Done. I want to see the message. Off the damn record, Dallas. I want to see it because it might ring for me. If there's a connection, what it says, how it says it might set off a bell."

It might, Eve considered. And when it was off the record Nadine was a vault. "All right. I'll send it to you. Don't share it with Bruno."

"I'll be sharing other things with Bruno. I'll get you the correspondence, you get me the message. And Dallas, watch your back."

"I intend to."

She started to dive right back in, but heard footsteps. Male, she concluded, brisk. Resigned, she swiveled to face the door. "Yeah, what?" she said in answer to the knock.

Kyung, media liaison, opened the door. "Lieutenant, I'm sorry to interrupt."

"Had to happen."

"It did." He stepped in, a tall, attractive man in a perfectly cut slate-gray suit. After one dubious glance at her visitor's chair, he eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. "Commander Whitney filled me in."

"Okay."

"I'll also be speaking with Dr. Mira, in the event there's anything we should be handling from the psychological or profiling end for public consumption. And I've just spoken with Detective Peabody."

"Okay again." He wasn't an asshole, she reminded herself. "I expected to have some tags from reporters, but I'm clear there so far."

"I've had all inquiries from media rerouted to my office."

She narrowed her eyes. "You can do that?"

"I can."

"Why don't you always do that?"

"Because there are only twenty-four hours in a day. We could go Code Blue," he continued, speaking of complete media blackout, "but with a victim as prominent in the media as Bastwick, that would only pique interest. Our line, at this time, is you and Peabody are fully immersed in the investigation, pursuing all leads, and can't take time away for statements or interviews—but will do so," he added before she got too happy about it, "when there is something salient to report. Meanwhile we will filter all inquiries."

"How long do you expect that to last?"

"We'll be lucky if it lasts until tomorrow. Someone will leak the message. A cop, a tech, civilian support." He shrugged his shoulders elegantly. "But it buys you some time to do what you do without the media focus shifting onto you. It will shift onto you."

"Yeah, I got that."

"And your statement would be?"

She huffed out a breath. "The full force and resources of the NYPSD will be utilized in the investigation of Ms. Bastwick's murder. As primary investigator I will diligently pursue all leads in order to bring her killer to justice."

"And when they ask, and they will, why you think the killer claims, in writing, to have killed Ms. Bastwick on your behalf?"

"Unless they pin me, I'm going to flick off that, keep it on her, off me."

"Good. If you're pinned, what's your statement?"

"Crap." She could get pinned, she admitted. "This will be an area I will actively pursue. It's a question that must be answered even as the individual responsible must answer for Leanore Bastwick's death."

Kyung nodded, curled a finger. "More."

"Shit." Now she pushed up, stood, circled the tiny office. "I didn't know Ms. Bastwick on a personal level, but a professional one. In doing our jobs, fulfilling our duties, we were opposed on the Jess Barrow criminal case. Cops and lawyers often stand on opposite sides of the line. Cops and killers always do. I stand for Leanore Bastwick as I stand for any victim—as does the New York Police and Security Department, and we will, again, use every resource available to bring Ms. Bastwick's killer to justice."

"Repeat it, again and again. Every resource available, bringing her killer to justice. Dance off the message left at the scene, and stay on your own message."

"I don't know why the fuck her killer left that message."

"But you intend to find out."

"Damn right."

"And there you are." He spread his hands. "I don't have to tell you Roarke should also cover this. His own media people should have this in hand, quickly."

"No, you don't have to tell me," she said—and thought: Shit. "I'll take care of it."

"All right. If you need anything from me, I'm available to you twenty-four/seven. I realize I'm not a part of the investigation, Lieutenant, but I need to know as soon as possible if you receive any communication from the killer, or anyone purporting to be the killer."

"I'll add you on."

He straightened, stepped to the door, paused. "Dallas? Take care."

She brooded a moment, looked around her office. She needed to go home, where she could work without interruption—and where she could speak to Roarke. She didn't want to do that by 'link or text.

Besides, she realized as she glanced at her wrist unit, she would already be late getting home.

She gathered everything she needed, pulled on her coat.

She found Peabody still at her desk in the bullpen.

"Take it home. Tell McNab I want whatever he gets as he gets it. I'll be working from home."

"I'll go up to EDD, see if I can hook up with him. The others on the list check out, travel-wise. None of them were in New York at the time of Bastwick's murder. One thing? We talked how Bastwick's murder looked professional. Maybe one of these people, or a coworker, Stern, her family—one of them hired it out. And ordered the message."

"It's an angle. We'll check financials, see if anything looks off. Take it home," Eve repeated, and walked out to do the same.

But on the way she stopped by the crime scene.

She broke the seal, walked through and into Bastwick's bedroom.

And spent a long time reading the writing on the wall.

···

On the drive home she ignored traffic, ignored pedestrians thronging the crosswalks. Ignored the horns, the revving engines, the wall of noise, the lights flashing and sparkling.

She kept herself back in that bedroom. Elegant, stylish, quiet colors, rich fabrics.

Bastwick's sanctuary? she wondered. Or had she taken work there, too? Reading over case files in bed, planning strategies, studying the style of opposing counsel. Studying information on any witnesses for the prosecution.

A woman who seemed to prefer her own company to the company of others, who was skilled, dedicated, ambitious—and who enjoyed the media spotlight when she could get it.

Yeah, she'd taken work into her sanctuary.

Had the killer known her?

More and more Eve doubted that genuine personal link.

Known of her, yes. Researched and studied her just as Bastwick researched and studied. Watched her.

Had to know, had to be certain the target was alone.

Some way of accessing her calendar?

That could take it back to a coworker again, or support staff at the law firm. And that took it back to personal, didn't it?

It didn't feel personal.

Set up the board and book at home, she told herself as she drove through the gates. Start fresh, start over. Back to the beginning.

The house dazzled, the rise and spread of gray stone with its towers and turrets all sparkling with lights, draped with greenery. It reminded her they'd barely finished Christmas, were days away from a new year.

And a planned getaway. To the warm, Eve thought as she parked and stepped out into the bite of the wind. To the quiet, just the two of them, on an island surrounded by blue water, as far away from murder and business as they could get.

A place she could have mai tais of her own, if she wanted.

And now...

She had an UNSUB—no gender, no age, no face, only the probability of race. And the only tangible motive was herself.

Blue water, white beaches, and solitude weren't looking very likely.

She stepped inside the lofty foyer, sparkling like the exterior with lights of the season. And spotted Summerset, naturally, in his funereal black, with their pudge of a cat sitting at his feet.

Both eyed her coolly.

"Ah, you remembered your home address."

"I thought if I stalled long enough, you'd crawl back in your coffin. No luck there," she added as the cat padded over to wind through her legs like a fat ribbon of fur.

"It's a pity you didn't have the luck to remember to make contact when you intend to be late, particularly on an evening when plans are in place."

She had her coat half off, stopped dead. "What plans?"

"If you bothered to consult your calendar—ever—you'd be aware you and Roarke are booked to attend a benefit at Carnegie Hall in..." Deliberately he looked at his wrist unit. "Thirty-six minutes."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," she said a third time as she tossed her coat over the newel post. She started to rush up the stairs, stopped herself.

He irritated the marrow from her bones, but that was beside the point. Or could very well be a dangerous point.

"You get deliveries here all the time, right?"

"We do, yes."

"Until I say different, you don't open the door to any delivery person. You don't open the gates unless you're expecting said delivery and verify the identification of the delivery company and the individual or individuals making that delivery."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I don't want to have to actually bury that coffin I suspect you sleep in. No exceptions," she added, and hurried upstairs with the cat racing behind her.

She arrowed straight toward the bedroom, struggling to think how she could toggle around from cop to Roarke's wife in thirty minutes.

When it came to public appearances, she could barely manage it with thirty days' notice. Which, of course, she'd had. And forgotten.

Carnegie Hall—a benefit for... Oh, what the hell did it matter? She'd screwed up, again.

She dashed into the bedroom to see her husband completing the knot on his elegant black tie.

Christ, he was gorgeous. All that silky black hair framing a face artists and angels wept over. Madly blue eyes, full, sculpted mouth, bones that would keep him deliriously handsome after he hit the century mark.

He looked as if he'd been born wearing a tux. No one could look at him and see the Dublin street rat he'd once been.

"There you are." Ireland wafted through his voice as he smiled, as those magic eyes met hers in the mirror.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No need." He turned, moved to her—a living poster for tall, dark, and handsome. He cupped her chin, brushed his thumb over the shallow dent in it before he lowered his head to kiss her. "Being a bit late isn't a crime—and I'll be with a cop in any case."

"Right. Well, I'll..." What? she wondered. What would she do?

"Your gown, shoes, bag, appropriate coat are all in the front of your closet. Jewelry, unless you want something else, in the boxes on your dresser."

"Okay, right." She got as far as the sitting area, then just dropped down on the sofa. Galahad changed directions from his journey to the bed and leaped up beside her.

"I have a feeling I'm overdressed for what we'll be doing this evening," Roarke commented.

"I'm sorry. I need a minute." She scrubbed her hands over her face, then just left them there.

"Eve." Amused resignation shifted to concern as Roarke went over, sat on her other side. "Is someone hurt?"

"Bastwick. Leanore Bastwick. She's dead."

"Yes, I heard that on the media bulletin, assumed you'd caught it, and that's why you were late. But you barely knew her."

"It's not her. Of course it's her," Eve corrected. "But it's me. I didn't let it hit me until just now. It can't get in the way."

"What can't?"

"It doesn't make any sense. But that's nothing new, is it? You have to remember a lot of the time it doesn't make sense."

"You're not." And that concerned him. "Tell me."

"Better show you." She pulled out her PPC, then glanced at the wall screen. "Put this up on there, will you? You'll do it faster."

"All right."

He took her handheld, keyed in a few commands. The wall screen went on.

And the image of the message from the crime scene flashed on.

"This was on the wall, over her bed. She'd been garroted. Fully dressed. Slight stun burns, center mass. No other signs of violence. No defensive wounds. She—"

"Hush," he muttered, eyes cold as he read the message.

So she said nothing more, just sat.

"Has Whitney seen this?"

"Sure. I went straight to him with it."

"And Mira?"

"And to her. The media liaison's handling the media liaisoning. You'll need to alert your people on that. Once this leaks, reporters are going to go batshit."

Hating that, just hating it, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.

"That's a simple matter to deal with."

"There has to be a solid wall of—"

"We'll deal with it," he snapped. "Have you had any other communication from this person?"

"No. I don't know," she corrected. "Mira's looking over correspondence, looking for tells. If she finds anything, we'll follow up. We're looking at her law partner, other people in the firm, personal acquaintances, lovers, family. Nothing's shaken loose there yet, but—"

"And is unlikely to. Has anyone sent you gifts, tokens, made any sort of advances?"

"No, Jesus." Rather than embarrass, as it had coming from Feeney, the question irked coming from Roarke. "Who's the cop here?"

"You are. You're my cop. You're standing for her, that's your job. But I stand for you, and you're the target here. The murder was a gift to you. As brutal and bloody as a cat dropping a dead mouse at your feet."

Scowling, Eve looked down at Galahad.

"Not this cat," Roarke said. "It's that feral, Eve. You're the target," he repeated, "and sooner or later the feral will turn on you. I'll change, and you'll bring me up to date."

"I'm not going to turn down the help, you're too good at it. And I could use another set of eyes, another viewpoint. But if you're going to be pissed about it—"

"Pissed?"

Rising, he pulled off the tie, the jacket. She felt another quick pang when she watched him carefully remove the little lapel pin she'd had made for him for Christmas.

Her wedding flowers—white petunias in mother-of-pearl.

"Why would I be pissed just because some murderous bastard's got a crush on my wife?"

"Could be a murderous bitch," Eve said evenly. "And your wife's a murder cop."

"Doesn't make her less mine, does it? The bastard—or bitch, if you prefer—claims to have given you justice. Now tell me how you spent your day."

"How I—" She got to her feet. "How the hell do you think I spent my day? Doing interviews, following leads, consulting, writing reports. Doing my damn job."

"Exactly." He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, his socks—as outwardly cool as she was hot. "But to the killer's mind, he did the job for you. Justice was served. You're demeaning the gift, Lieutenant, and no one enjoys having their gift go unappreciated."

"So, what, I should've said thanks?"

"You could have passed the investigation on—of course you didn't, and couldn't, being you." He walked into his enormous closet as he spoke. "I imagine the killer's quite torn. On one hand, you're doing exactly what he purports to admire about you, and on the other, he wants your gratitude for the gift."

"I don't give a rat's ass if he's torn. I'm doing my job."

"And by doing it, you'll eventually twist the crush into rage or despair. I'd think either could be deadly." Roarke stepped back out wearing jeans and a black sweater. "On some level you know that, and you're already wondering how you can turn it quicker. Because until you do, and the rage or despair turns on you alone, someone else stands to be the next gift."

"How the hell do you know what he thinks, feels, wants?" she demanded.

"He's infatuated with you. And so am I."

The anger dripped away into a kind of grief. "He's killing for me, Roarke. It makes me sick inside."

"He—or she—is killing for himself." Roarke came back to her, framed her face with his hands. "You're an excuse. And you'll do better work when you fully accept that, and put all the blame—every bloody bit of it, Eve—where it belongs."

He kissed her again. "Now, we'll go into your office, and you can tell me all of it."