“I have no idea. It didn’t work out between her and my uncle. I do know that she didn’t know a thing until security shut the place down. She didn’t know the inside man. At least that’s what I got from my uncle when I asked him about it later. I could get you her name, I’m sure, if you want to try to track her down.”
“I might, but it’s probably the wrong direction. At least at this point. Tell me about the killer.”
“Well. The act, the murders themselves, aren’t his priority. They’re a by-product. His victims and his methods are different, each suiting his needs at the time. He would be most interested in his own needs. The fact that they were both women, even attractive, isn’t important. I doubt he has a spouse or serious relationship as either would interfere with his self-absorption. There was nothing sexual, despite his romancing of Tina Cobb, and that romancing was not only a means to an end but on his own terms.”
“Taking her places he preferred in order to show off his superior intellect and taste.”
“Yes. There was nothing personal in either murder. He sees the big picture, from his own narrow view. Cobb could be utilized and exploited, and so she was. He plans and considers, so it follows that he knew he could kill her when her use to him ended. He knew her, set out to know her. He knew her face, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice, may have been intimate with her physically if it moved him toward his goal, but there would be no personal connection for him.”
“He destroyed her face.”
“Yes, but not out of rage, not out of personal emotion. Out of self-preservation. Both murders were a result of his need to protect himself. He will remove, destroy, eliminate anything or anyone who gets in the way of his goal or his own personal safety.”
“There was violence in his elimination of Cobb.”
“Yes.”
“He hurt her. To extract information?”
“Possibly, yes. More likely to attempt to mislead the police, to make them think it was a crime of passion. It may have been both. He would have considered. He has time to consider. He took Cobb to crowded places, away from her own aegis. But his choices reflect a certain style. Art, theater, a trendy restaurant.”
“Reflecting his aegis.”
“He would want to be comfortable, yes.” The first salad plate slid out, and Mira set it in front of Eve. “He entered Gannon’s home when he knew she was out. He was careful to shut down the security, to take the disks. To protect himself. He brought a weapon-though he believed the house empty, he brought the knife. He prepares for eventualities, takes detours when necessary. He didn’t attempt to make the break-in and murder appear to be a burglary gone wrong by taking away valuables.”
“Because it had already been done? Because Alex Crew used that method with Laine Tavish?”
Mira took the second plate, smiled. “It reflects a powerful ego, doesn’t it? ‘I won’t repeat, I’ll create.’ And a respect for art and antiques. He didn’t vandalize, didn’t destroy the artwork, the valuable furniture. He’d consider such a thing beneath him. He has knowledge of such things, likely owns such things himself. Certainly he aspires to. But if it was only aspiration, he would have taken what appealed to his sense of aesthetic or avarice. He’s very focused.”
“He’s educated? Cultured?”
“Art galleries, museums, West Village theater?” Mira shrugged a shoulder. “He could have taken the girl to Coney Island, to Times Square, to a dozen places a young man of her same sphere might take a girl on a date. But he didn’t.”
“Because, like stealing art pieces or electronics, it would be beneath him to munch on a soy dog in Coney Island.”
“Mmm.” Mira nibbled on salad. “He isn’t looking for glory, fame or attention. He isn’t looking for sex or even wealth in the traditional sense. He’s looking for something very specific.”
“Alex Crew had a son.”
Mira’s brows winged up. “Did he?”
“A kid at the time this all went down.”
She filled Mira in, then let the doctor absorb the new data while they ate.
“I see what you’re considering. The son hears of the book, or reads it, and learns one of his father’s former partners’ ancestors is right here in New York. That she has enough information for a book, and very likely has more. That she may very well have access to the diamonds. But why, if he’s known of them all this time, hasn’t he tried to find them, or get to the Gannons before?”
“Maybe he didn’t know the whole story until the book. Maybe he didn’t know the connection.” Eve waved with her fork. “Anyway, that’s for me to figure out. What I want is your opinion. Does it follow pattern, profile, that the person I’m after is Crew’s son?”
“It could give him what he’d consider a proprietary right to them. They were his father’s property, so to speak. But if his father brought them to him when he was a child-”
“It wasn’t in the book,” Eve reminded her. “And we can’t know what Crew did or didn’t do or say or take when he paid that last visit.”
“All right. From what we know of Crew, he felt entitled to the entire booty, and killed for it. They were an obsession for him, one he pursued even though he had enough to ensure he’d live well for the rest of his life. It’s possible the son is working with the same obsession, the same view.”
“My gut tells me it comes from Crew.”
“And your gut is usually right. Does it trouble you to take that line, Eve? To play the sins of the father in your head?”
“Yeah.” She could say it here, to Mira. “Some.”
“Heredity can be a strong pull. Heredity and early environment together, an almost irresistible pull. Those who break it, who make their own despite it, are very strong.”
“Maybe.” Eve leaned forward. No one around them would listen, but she leaned closer, lowered her voice. “You know, you can just sink down, you can sink and say it’s somebody else’s fault you’re down there in the piss and the shit of the world. But it’s just an excuse. The lawyers, the shrinks, the doctors and social reformers can say, ‘Oh, it’s not her fault, she’s not responsible. Look where she came from. Look what he did to her. She’s traumatized. She’s damaged.’ ”
Mira laid a hand over Eve’s. She knew she was thinking of herself, the child, and what the woman might have become. “But?”
“The cops, we know that the victims, the ones who are broken or shattered or dead… or dead, they need somebody to stand up for them, to say, ‘Goddamn it, it is your fault. You did this, and you have to pay for it, no matter if your mother beat you or your father… No matter what, you don’t have the right to damage the next guy.’ ”
Mira gave Eve’s hand a squeeze. “And that’s why you are.”
“Yeah. That’s why I am.”
Chapter 9
Eve viewed a session in the lab with Dickie Berenski as she did a dental checkup. You had to do it, and if you were lucky it wouldn’t be as bad as you imagined. But it was usually worse.
And like the dental techs in her experience, Dickhead exhibited a smarmy, self-righteous satisfaction when it got worse.
She swung into the lab with Peabody and pretended not to notice several techs slide looks in her direction, then get busy elsewhere.
When she didn’t see a sign of Dickie, she cornered the first tech who couldn’t skitter away fast enough. “Where’s Berenski?”
“Um. Office?”
She didn’t think she deserved the quaking voice or the frozen rictus of a smile. It had been months since she’d threatened a lab tech. Besides, they should know it was physically impossible for her to put a man’s internal organs on display by turning him inside out.
She crossed the main lab, over the white floors, around the white stations manned by people in white coats. Only the machines and the vials and tubes filled with substances best not considered had color.
All in all, she thought she’d rather work in the morgue.
She walked into Dickie’s office without knocking. He was kicked back at his desk, feet propped up as he sucked on a grape-colored ice pop.
“You got the box seats?” he asked.
“You’ll get them when I get my results.”
“I got something for you.” He pushed away from the desk, started out, then stopped to study Peabody. “That you in there, Peabody? Where’s the uniform?”
Delighted with the opportunity, she pulled out her badge. “I made detective.”
“No shit? Nice going. Liked the way you filled out a uniform though.”
He hopped onto his stool and began to ride it up and down his long white counter as he ordered up files, keyed in codes with his spider-quick fingers. “You got some of this already. No illegals in either vic. Vic one-that’s Jacobs-had a blood-alcohol level of point oh-eight. She was feeling pretty happy. Got her last meal. No recent nooky. Fibers on her shoes match the crime-scene carpet. Couple others here she probably picked up in the cab on the way home.”
His fingers danced; the screens revolved with color and shapes. “Got a couple hair samples, but says here she was clubbing prior to getting dead. Coulda picked those up in the club. If any of them are from the killer, we’ll match ’em when you nab ’im.
“Now we’ve reconstructed the wound-used her ID photo and some others to create an image of her at time of death.”
He brought it up so Eve could look at Andrea Jacobs as she had been, on screen. A pretty woman in a fancy dress, with a gash at her throat.
“Using our techno-magic, we can pretty well determine the size and shape of your murder weapon.”
Eve studied the split-screen image of a long, smooth blade, and the specs beneath it that gave her width and length.
“Good. That’s good, Dickie.”
“You’re working with the best. We concur with the investigator and the ME re the positioning of vic at time of the death blow. Came from behind. Yanked her by the hair. We got some of her hair from the scene that substantiates the scenario. Unless one of those stray hairs came from the perp, and I’m not putting money on that, we got nothing from him. Nada. He was sealed up tight.
“Now vic two-Cobb-different ball game. You sure you’re looking at the same guy?”
“I’m sure.”
“Your call. Smashed her up. Pipe, bat, metal, wood. Can’t tell you ’cause we got nothing to work with there but the shape of the breaks in the bones. Look for something long, smooth and about two inches in diameter. Probably weighted. Leg shot took her down, rib shot kept her down. But then it gets interesting.”
Shifting to another screen, he brought up the picture of Cobb’s charred skull. “You see the busted cheekbone, and… ” He revolved the image. “Your classic busted-in skull. Setting her on fire took care of most of the trace, but we got some that adhered to the bone fragments-face and head.”
“What kind of trace?”
“It’s a sealer.” He split the screen. A series of jagged shapes in cool blues came on. “A fire-retardant. Smart guy missed that step. Professional-grade. Brand name’s Flame Guard. Harry Homemaker can get it, but mostly it’s used by contractors. You seal subflooring or walls with it.”
“Subflooring. Before the finished deal goes down?”
“Yep. She had trace in the facial and head wounds. He lit her up, but this shit didn’t burn. Truth in advertising for once. Didn’t seal the bone, though, so it wasn’t wet when she made contact. Little
