Devoted in Death

6

Traffic was a bitch, but, then again, Eve thought, so was she. She shoved, bullied and smashed her way uptown. In her own way, she enjoyed snarling at a lumbering maxibus or thinking bitter thoughts about the driver of a single-passenger Mini who wove through the narrow spaces between vehicles like a needle and thread.

She could sneer at the ad blimps cheerfully blasting out news about NEW SPRING LINES! at the fricking SkyMall when the temperature hovered at twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.

In the time it took her to travel north, she updated her notes, reviewed Trueheart’s on three interviews conducted and contacted Juilliard.

Tina R. Denton had indeed left for the day.

She found the building easily enough – a whitewashed row house she could see had been converted into four units.

Finding parking was another matter. She considered double-parking, but recalling her own traffic fight couldn’t justify it. Some of the drivers and passengers out there were innocents.

But when she spotted a space on the other side of the street, she had no compunction against hitting the sirens, boosting into vertical and crossing over above car roofs to drop into the opening.

The blast of horns didn’t bother her in the least.

She walked down to the corner, crossed over, walked up, and with a glance at the numbers on the doors, pushed the buzzer on Earnestina’s apartment.

“What do you want?”

At the impatient voice, Eve held up her badge for scanning. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Tina R. Denton.”

“This isn’t a convenient time. I’m working.”

“Hey, me too. If this isn’t convenient we’ll arrange to have you brought down to Central in the morning for questioning.”

“You can’t make me do that!”

Eve just smiled. “Watch me.”

There was an angry hiss, then the clunk of locks being disengaged.

Earnestina showed more flatteringly in her ID shot. In person, at the moment, her brown hair was scraped back from her long, edging toward horsey, face. She hadn’t bothered with facial enhancement, but obviously had enhancements of another sort.

Eve could smell the Zoner, could see its effects in the just-going-glassy look of her pale and narrow blue eyes.

“This is harassment.”

“File a complaint. Then I won’t feel obliged to ignore the illegals I can smell – along with the faint haze of Zoner smoke that’s not yet dissipated. Or you can let me in, we’ll have a conversation, then we can both go about our business.”

“A person is entitled to do as she likes in her own home.”

“No, a person isn’t entitled to engage in illegal activities, anywhere.” Feet planted, Eve met those just-getting-high eyes with cool contempt. “You want to push this one, Ms. Denton?”

“Oh, come in, then. Believe me, I’ve made a note of your name and badge number.”

“And I’ve made a note you’re uncooperative.”

The living area in the apartment showed a tendency for compulsive neatness. Nothing out of place, and a minimalist style that included no personal photos, no flowers or plants. A single sofa in dark gray faced a wall screen. A single chair in the same tone angled under a floor lamp.

Earnestina – as Eve would forever think of her – didn’t suggest they sit down, and Eve didn’t ask.

“You were acquainted with Dorian Kuper, and in fact, had an argument with him at a club called After Midnight.”

“I knew Dorian, yes. I heard today he’d been killed. That’s a great loss for opera, but has nothing else to do with me.”

“You were pretty angry with him.”

“Disgusted is a more accurate term, that a man of his considerable talents would waste them on the lowbrow.”

“He won’t be doing that anymore.”

“Nor will he transport those who value true music with his skills and comprehension.”

“Let’s move on to whereabouts. Where were you Sunday night between eleven p.m. and one a.m.”

“I was here, and would have been in bed by eleven.”

“Alone?”

“My personal life is none —”

“Alone?” Eve repeated, her tone hard as brick.

“Yes, alone. I attended an afternoon musicale, and was home by six. I had a meal, and worked until ten. You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with Dorian’s death.”

“Last night, between ten p.m. and one a.m.”

“I attended a rehearsal of La Bohème, at Juilliard. I was there from seven until after ten. Two colleagues and I went for a drink afterward to discuss areas that required improvement or change. We met until a little after midnight, then we shared a cab, and I came home.”

“Names.”

“You’re insulting.”

“Yeah, add that to your notes. Names.”

She reeled them off, chin jutted high. “I want you to leave now.”

“Heading that way. Do you own a vehicle?”

“I do not. I live in a city with excellent mass transit, and my work is a five-minute walk from my residence.”

More to needle the woman than anything else, Eve threw out one more. “Have you ever been to Nashville, Tennessee?”

“Certainly not, why would I? That’s the land of Opry, isn’t it?” She said the word as if it was the vilest expletive. “For that reason alone, I will never step foot anywhere in the state.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage without you. Thanks for your time.”

“If you harass me again, I’ll have a lawyer.”

“The only way I’ll come back is if you lied to me about any of this. If that turns out to be the case, you’ll need a lawyer.”

And now, Eve thought as she stepped out into what felt like beautifully fresh air – and Earnestina slammed the door behind her – she needed a drink.

At least the traffic fight comprised a much shorter distance, and she drove through the gates of home not long after the sky went to indigo and the streetlights spread pools of white.

The deeper silhouette of the house that Roarke built, the house that had become hers, rose and spread castle-like with its fanciful turrets and towers. Lights glowed in too many windows to count.

She wanted home more than she wanted that drink. Home, where she would find peace, space, time to clear her head. A place to set up fresh for murder.

She left her car out front, pushed her way through the wind that had decided to kick up its heels again, and went in the front door.

She knew he’d be there, the skeletal build in funereal black with the pudge of a cat at his feet.

Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo, raised his eyebrows. “A completed first day back with no apparent injury or damage. How long can it last?”

“It could end right now if I decide to kick that stick you’re so fond of any farther up your ass.”

“And the day wouldn’t be complete without such an observation.”

She tossed her coat over the newel post because it was handy – and because it annoyed him. And with the cat now rubbing a feline welcome at her leg, started up the stairs.

Stopped.

“I bet you’re a big fan of the opera. That would be right up your alley.”

“I enjoy many of the arts, including opera. I’ve heard Dorian Kuper play, at the Met, at After Midnight, and other venues. I heard of his death shortly ago. To lose someone who’s young and so vibrantly talented is tragic.”

“All murder’s tragic.”

“And some felt more keenly than others. He’s in your hands now? The report didn’t name the primary.”

“He’s mine now,” Eve said and continued upstairs.

She went straight for the bedroom and the locator.

“Where is Roarke?”

Roarke is not in residence at this time.

Not home yet, she thought, and remembered to check her ’link. Sure enough, she found a text from him.

Lieutenant, I hope your day’s going well. She stripped off her jacket as she listened to his voice, to the Irish whispering through it. I’ve a need to make an unscheduled trip to Detroit, but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be home by half-seven if not before. Until then, take care of my cop.

That gave her some time, she thought. She could get her board set up in her office here, start reviewing notes and reports.

Or, she considered while Galahad wound through her legs like a furry snake, she could clear her head first.

She sat, removed her boots, rubbed the cat who jumped up beside her. Then she changed into workout gear.

When she started for the elevator the cat sat, stared at the opening doors with his suspicious bicolored eyes.

“I’m not a big fan of the moving box, either, but… I’ll be back,” she said as the door closed.

She hadn’t had time, not really, to fully appreciate Roarke’s Christmas gift as the dojo had been completed while they were away.

Now she stepped out into it and took one long, relaxed breath.

The floors, soft gold, gleamed. The space boasted its own little garden where white flowers fanned over the stones of a quietly bubbling water feature in the far corner. Sliding panels concealed a small kitchen area, fully stocked with bottles of spring water and energy drinks.

Coffee was banned, which didn’t seem right in any world, but she’d had to accept the edict.

More panels opened to a dressing area fully stocked with white towels, with mats, with gis of black or white. And the door within would lead to the shower, and through that she could access the gym if that space was more to her taste.

He’d even thought of art – but, then, the man thought of everything. Serene gardens, arching cherry blossoms, green hills misted with morning.

The space spoke of peace and discipline, and simplicity.

And was a fully operational holoroom.

The gift had been twofold. The dojo, and Master Lu. When time allowed she could go to the master for instruction, or schedule a session in her own dojo.

And when it didn’t, she could call him up holographically.

She did so now, eager for a good, strong workout with a master of martial arts.

His image shimmered on in the center of the room. He wore his hair in a long queue, and a plain black gi over his sinewy body.

He clasped one hand over the other, bowed. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Master Lu. Thank you for this honor.”

“I am pleased to have a worthy student.”

“I only have thirty minutes, but —”

“Then we must make each count.”

“Your flying spin kick is, well, almost unbelievable. I’ve never been able to get that height, or that form. If —”

“You are very kind. This will come. For this our first lesson, you will learn to breathe.”

“To… ‘breathe.’  ”

“Breath is the beginning of all. Breath,” he said as he approached her, “then breath and movement. Hands.”

He took her hands, pressed one palm to her belly, the other to her heart with his dark eyes locked on hers. “Breath is life. You are not the pebble washed to shore by the wave, but the fish that swims in the wave. Breathe in to fill, to draw in the light. Slow,” he told her, “with awareness. Breathe out to empty. And pause, hold in that space between. Now in to fill.”

She breathed.

When she took the elevator back up, she had to admit her brain had cleared out. Who knew there were so many ways to breathe?

When the elevator opened to the bedroom, and Roarke stood there unbuttoning his shirt, well, she lost her breath.

His hair fell nearly to his shoulders, a black silk frame for a face created to steal the breath, to weaken the knees, to capture the heart. It had done all to her, and more.

There were times like this when he looked at her, just looked, and those perfectly sculpted lips curved, those eyes – wilder, bluer than any sea – lit with what she knew was love, it wasn’t just more. It was all.

“A session with Master Lu?”

“Yeah.” She stepped in so the door could close behind her. “I’ve been learning how to breathe. I thought I already knew, being alive and all, but apparently not. Did you know you can breathe into your toes? I think I did it. It sounds like bullshit, but I think I breathed into my toes.”

He laughed and, putting his hands on her hips, drew her to him. “You were the fish, not the pebble. I reviewed the first couple of lessons.” His hands slid around her waist. “Here’s what I missed today.” He pulled back, kissed her – slow and deep, like breathing. “I got used to being able to do that at any time of the day or night.”

“Back to reality. Detroit?”

“Just a few bolts that needed tightening, and my hand on the spanner – wrench,” he corrected. “And you, I hear, a murder already?”

“They probably had a few while I was gone, too.”

“Undoubtedly. Dorian Kuper, the cellist.”

“Did you know him?”

With a shake of his head, Roarke stepped back, took off his shirt. “By reputation only, and I’ve heard him play. How was he killed? The reports were very thin – deliberately so, I assume.”

“He was tortured for two days before they – and it was they – sliced open his belly and let him bleed out.”

Roarke pulled on a gray sweater, and made Eve wonder why the color had looked so dull and stiff in Earnestina’s apartment, and was so rich and soft over Roarke’s torso.

“Back to reality, indeed,” Roarke murmured. “  ‘They’? You’ve identified his killers?”

“Not yet, but there are two, and he wasn’t their first. He was a long way from their first.”

“It sounds as if we should have a glass of wine, a meal, and you should tell me.”

“I could use a glass of wine. Sexual sadists,” she began as they walked out of the bedroom together. “With a twist.”

She ran it through for him as she would for another cop. He might’ve winced at the comparison, but he could – and did – think like a cop.

While she arranged her board, he put a meal together. Which meant she wouldn’t get pizza, but compromises had to be made. It was in the marriage rules. He certainly made them, she thought, just by having the meal in her office at the little table with murder and death on full display.

“You believe New York was their destination.”

“Long-term, can’t say, but you’ve only got to look at the map, see their kill spots. It’s not an arrow from point to point, but any time they veered off, then shifted right back – north and east.”

She took the wine he offered, gestured with it to the map. “Detours, that’s how it looks to me. Maybe you need fuel for your vehicle, for yourselves, or there’s some attraction, or someone you know, so you jog off a few miles.”

“But come back,” he said, nodding, “to that same direction. What do they take from their victims?”

See, she thought. Cop thinking. “Cash and jewelry if there is any. A vehicle, or in some cases parts from a vehicle. Most – not all – of their known victims run in the high-risk area. LCs, the homeless, but they target others. Often remote areas. A woman in her seventies living alone. They used her residence as their torture/kill zone, took her easy-to-transport valuables. A guy in his twenties heading home on the back roads, late – from a bar. They used some vacant cabin for him.”

“And no trace?”

“They wipe it clean – maybe they seal up, maybe the forensics have been sloppy.” Too many to know, she thought, too many to pick over, step-by-step. “I can’t say for certain. But at least one of them’s organized enough to be careful. They haven’t found all the kill zones. The killers don’t leave the body where they work as a rule. They use dump sites, and generally a fair distance off. And plastic tarps.”

“So, someone might think they’ve had a break-in, but without the blood, the gore, not report a possible murder.”

“Exactly. And by the time they’ve put some of it together, the crime scene’s been thoroughly compromised. Lucky,” she mused. “Some of it’s just luck. Organized, careful, but lucky.”

“Come eat.” He took her hand, drew her over to the table.

The square white plates held a line of pork medallions drizzled with some sort of sauce, a golden huddle of roasted potatoes flecked with herbs, and a colorful medley of winter vegetables.

He had a much more creative hand with the AutoChef, she considered, than she ever would.

“The heart, the initials,” he began.

“Their signature.”

“Yes, but also a declaration, don’t you think? Not only we did this together, but we are together.”

“True love.”

“Wouldn’t they think so? The heart holding their initials symbolizes just that. Add the fact they don’t use their victims sexually.”

“Because they’re committed to each other, and that would be cheating.”

“Without the heart, what would you have concluded?”

Considering, she ate – whatever the drizzle of sauce was, it had some kick. “I would probably have concluded team. It’s possible for one killer to select, lure, overcome and torture with varied strokes. But it’s more likely two, given the range of the victims. A woman’s less likely to stop on the side of the road for a strange man, or open the door to one at night. Two of the LCs weren’t licensed for same sex – not that they wouldn’t have potentially gone off menu, but best probability: The client was male. Easier, too, for a lone woman to lure a single male with the will-you-give-me-a-hand-with-this-heavy-object ploy.”

“So your most likely conclusion would be a two-person team: one male, one female.”

“Most likely. I wouldn’t have ruled out a single, but most likely. But…” She nodded as she ate. “Without the heart I wouldn’t have seen them as a couple, as romantically linked. Sex, sure, but not romantically.”

She nodded again. “And they want to be acknowledged as that. Interesting.”

“Where’s the trigger?”

She smiled now, and though they were always low on her list, sampled the vegetables. “You know, not all criminals think like a cop.”

“The successful ones – even reformed – do.” He picked up his wine, studied her over it. “It’s unlikely they woke up one morning and decided. Well now, what do you say we take a ride out today, find ourselves someone to torture and kill – at least not without what they saw as cause. One of them may have killed in a rage or in defense of the other – the romantic angle again – or even by accident.”

“Which could have set them off,” Eve agreed. “Or they discovered torture as a sexual stimulant by happy accident during the commission of another crime. Or one brought the other in on his/her perverted hobby.”

Roarke glanced toward the board. “It appears they’re skilled hobbyists.”

“Yeah, and that’s a hitch for me. How do you get good at anything?”

“Innate ability and true interest lay a foundation. But it’s practice, isn’t it, that hones a skill. They didn’t start with the victim currently first on your board.”

“I don’t think so. You can see they’ve escalated, gradually. Less time between – but then a longer gap. Consistently they kept the victim alive longer until they settled on the two-day period. But the teamwork seems too smooth to have started where we have them now. And those gaps?”

“Victims not yet found or identified as such.”

“There the FBI and I are in disagreement. Their profilers think the twenty is it – or close. Twenty-one now with Kuper. I think those gaps are most likely as-yet-unfound vics. Killers like this don’t de-escalate unless they’re forced to stop for a period of time. They lean in my direction with the longer gaps, but they’re focused on this group, this route. They have a low probability of a vic before the woman in Nashville. And they’ve spent too much time debating if they’re serial or spree killers.”

“I doubt the terminology matters to the victims, or those who loved them.”

“Yeah. You fill in these gaps with vics – no cooling-off period. You consider the victimology – no specific type, chosen at random. You’ve got spree killers, sexual sadists who can feel, but only for each other. Most likely a man and a woman, most likely somewhat attractive, nonthreatening in appearance and demeanor. In none of the interviews or canvasses, including my own, has anyone remembered an individual or individuals who stood out, who seemed off.”

“So they do neither.”

“Ordinary enough not to stick out. Smart enough not to do anything that draws attention. A couple, that lowers suspicion right there. Having drinks at a bar, checking into a motel, renting a cabin. Switching vehicles regularly, so by the time we’re looking for one, they’re in another.”

“It’s early to be frustrated, isn’t it?”

“For Kuper, yeah, but when you look at the whole picture, they’ve had a hell of a streak. I’ve got a hell of a lot of data, but nothing that pins them.”

“What do you do next?”

“Keep pushing on Kuper. Why did they choose that neighborhood? Was it completely random, or was there a specific reason? We have one wit who saw the vehicle, so we push there. Dark all-terrain or van, and he was leaning toward a van. We do what we can do for Kuper, but we need to find the first. We have to work back from the first known, look at missing persons, at unsolveds, at what was deemed accidental death. Everything rays out from the first.”

“Aren’t the feds doing just that?”

“They’ve got somebody poking, but primarily they’re focused from the first known and forward. I need to reach out to local law enforcement south and west of the first known. Missing persons,” she continued. “Runaways, accidents, unsolveds.”

“Won’t that be fun?”

“Not even close.” She blew out a breath, picked up her wine. “I’m going to run probabilities, using the current route, working back from the first known.”

“I can do that for you, and faster. You don’t have any financial data searches to entertain me. The geography and navigation should.”

“It’s all yours, ace. Thanks.” She cut a small bite of pork. “This couple, they came from somewhere, that’s another key. They grew up with parents or fosters, had some education, some source of income. And, given their profile, one or both of them probably has a sheet and some history of violent behavior.”

“History together?” Roarke wondered. “That bond.”

“I don’t see long-term history, unless we find the killings go back years. And I don’t see them getting away with this for years before it hit the radar. They’re not kids,” she continued. “People tend to notice kids. Yeah, I saw a couple of kids hanging out around there. Why aren’t they in school? What trouble are they getting into? Plus anybody skewing teens, early twenties, isn’t likely to have the control needed to target a vic, have a place to hold one, wipe everything. Probably not out of their thirties, either.”

“And why is that?”

“How do you squash these impulses that long? They’re in there – they just needed the right trigger. Everybody’s capable of killing, given the right circumstances. Not everybody’s capable of torture. Add the heart in again? Not everyone’s capable of enjoying or romanticizing torture.”

She nudged her plate aside. “Would you kill for me?”

“I would, yes, of course.”

“Jesus, don’t say it without even a second’s thought.”

“I don’t need a second’s thought. Consider who we are, Eve. We’re both capable of killing, and have done so. But there’s… criteria. Would I kill to protect you, to save your life, to save you from harm? Without hesitation. Would I kill because you said, Do me a favor, I’d like this person dead? I don’t have to give it a second thought as you’d never say that, want that, ask that.”

“If I did.”

He polished off his wine. “I think we’d have to have quite a conversation.”

“Okay.” That satisfied her. “Would you torture someone for me?”

His brow lifted. “We are stepping into odd territories. All right, then, I’ll follow you in. To save or protect you from harm, if I believed torture – of any nature – would accomplish that, then, yes, I would. Would I – or you in the same circumstances – find that increased sexual passion, no. Deliberately causing pain is an ugly business. We’ve both been used physically, emotionally, and know how ugly it is.”

“That’s right. Some people who’ve experienced abuse become abusers. So I need to look at that, too. Somebody hurt her – a parent, authority figure, spouse, partner. Now you’re the one in control. You’re the one who gets to deliver the pain and the fear.”

She rose, wandered to the board. “But not for payback, not right out anyway. Because it feels good. Who knew how good, how exciting it could be to cause the pain, the fear? And now that you know it, you can’t stop.”

“An addiction.”

“Exactly. And again that’s why it didn’t start here.” She tapped the board, the image of the first victim. “This wasn’t the first taste. They knew what it was going to feel like here. The first? That was a surprise. Maybe what you’d call a revelation. I know what they are. I’ve got a pretty good sense of what they are already. But who, and why. I can’t see it.”

He rose as well, came over to stand behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, brushed his lips over the top of her head. “And it worries you because you know there’ll be another.”

“New York’s the biggest urban area they’ve been in, that we know. And when I look at the map, the route, that holds true. Here, they can pick and choose like nowhere else. That has to be exciting. And motivating.”

“So they’ll want another quickly.”

“If they don’t already have one, they will within another day. I’d be surprised if it took any longer. Two days to play with the victim before the kill. The last two, Kuper and the vic in New Jersey, barely a week between the grabs. Addicts always need more and quicker. It won’t be long before they need another.”

“As who they are and when they started are key, I’ll work up your probabilities.”

“Thanks. You put the meal on the table, I’ll take care of the debris.”

“Fair enough.” He tipped her face up to his a moment, tapped the shallow dent in her chin. “All and all – considering who we are – it’s good to be home.”

When he went into his adjoining office she carted the dishes into the kitchen, stacked them in the washer. They made a good team, she thought, worked well together – the cop and the (former) criminal. The ridiculously rich man with his roots in the alleyways of Dublin, and the woman who’d squeezed out a life on a cop’s salary who’d grown up in the system after the nightmare of her first eight years.

Few – including herself – would have predicted they’d match and mesh as they had. That they’d become all to each other.

She doubted the killers she sought seemed so ill-matched on the surface. People noticed such things, too. They looked right together, she believed. Looked as people expected a couple to look.

And they sure as hell worked well together.

She thought of Roarke again, and how easily she’d agreed to accept his offer of help on an official investigation.

Trust, she realized. Not just attraction, not just passion, not just a mutual goal. There had to be trust to work as a team.

With that in mind she went back to her desk to review her notes.