warm looks, the pretty, feminine suits, perfect blend of color and jewelry.
“I know you don’t have much time.”
“Enough, I hope. Have a seat.” As Eve took one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs, Mira came around the desk, took the one facing. “I looked over the data, the crime-scene photos. My first question is, how sure are you there’s only one killer?”
“Very. We have a wit who saw him at the rear of the building, where he broke in. She worked with Detective Yancy.” Eve took out the sketch, offered it.
“Well.” In her placid way, Mira studied the sketch. “Now I have to ask, how good is your witness?”
“Again, I have to say very. I figure he geared himself up for it, added the drama. The wit says he danced in the streetlight, laughed his ugly ass off. My sense of the scene is frenzied glee. He had to be on something because killing three people that dead takes endurance.”
“I agree.” Mira tucked a lock of sable-colored hair behind her ear as she continued to study the sketch. “Theatrical, confident, organized. He knew where to break in, came prepared, and was able to kill, with extreme violence, three people, alone, and in a relatively short amount of time. Endurance, yes, and rage.”
She shifted, met Eve’s eyes with her own quiet blue ones. “I agree with your assessment that he has some sort of medical training. The amputations were skillfully done. I believe he’ll keep these trophies, these symbols. His victims are no longer able to see, hear, or speak of him.”
“But they had, prior to their deaths.”
“Almost certainly. They knew each other. Dancing, laughing, so yes, he enjoyed himself. He can celebrate— and in the light, perhaps hoping he’d be seen. Spotlighting after his success.
“He envied their friendship,” Mira continued. “Their bond, and their happiness. He won’t make friends easily, won’t feel that bond. He most likely lives alone, feels underappreciated at his work. He’s skilled. The elaborate disguise tells me he wants to be noticed, and doesn’t feel he is, not enough. Nothing is enough. He wants what others have—friends, family, community—and at the same time feels superior to them. He’s better than they are. ‘Take out the trash,’ he wrote, in their blood. That’s what he made them. And it amused him. He’s a series of contradictions, Eve. Two people—perhaps more—in one. You have a violent sociopath under the influence of a strong illegal. He’s both controlled and out of control, canny and reckless. He has a god complex battling with low self-esteem, a bitter envy, and has found satisfaction and personal delight in killing.”
“He’ll do it again.”
“As soon as he can.”
“This face. Under the makeup or the mask, whatever it is, could he have a deformity? The jaw’s extreme.”
“Yes, I see that, but a deformity such as this? He’d be in constant pain. It would be all but impossible for him to eat. His speech would be garbled. As someone with medical training, and connections, he would certainly have had this repaired.”
“A recent injury, accident?”
“Possibly,” Mira considered. “But again, I can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be treated. If, for some reason, he refused to have it treated and is dosing himself with painkillers and other drugs, it might explain the frenzy, the duality in his profile. But why would anyone endure the pain of this, the social stigma? And it contradicts, again, his confidence, his need to be seen as superior.”
“It must be faked. Peabody’s running down costume shops, theaters.” Eve paused a moment, changed angles. “Do you know Justin Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood?”
“Yes. Arianna’s an excellent therapist. A bright, compassionate woman. She and her parents have done a great deal, not only in research and application on addictions and rehabilitation, but they built their Center with the purpose of treating the whole person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. They turned a personal tragedy into a great gift.”
“And Rosenthall?”
“Very skilled, remarkably gifted. More intense than Arianna, I’d say. It seems to me—though I don’t see or socialize with them often—she’s softened that intensity. Before Arianna, he was much more of a loner, and rarely stepped away from his work. Not unlike someone else,” Mira said with a smile. “With her, he remains skilled, gifted, dedicated to his work, but he’s happier. And not capable of murdering three people like this.”
“Everyone’s capable,” Eve stated.
“Yes, you’re right. All of us are capable under certain circumstances of extreme and violent behavior. We control it, channel it—in some cases medicate it. Justin’s a doctor, dedicated to healing, a scientist and man of reason. The person who did this rejects reason and humanity. He’s given himself a monster’s face. Humanity means little to him.”
“Okay. How about Eton Billingsly?”
“A skilled therapist, and an enormous pain in the ass.”
Eve had to grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call anybody a pain in the ass.”
“I don’t like him so it’s hard to be objective. He’s a pompous snob who sees himself as perfect. He’s rude, annoying, and full of himself.”
“A god complex?”
Mira’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I’d say. You wonder if he’s capable. I don’t know him well enough. He’s skilled— he has an MD, and would have done some time with a scalpel before he focused on his specialty.”
“Hypno-voodoo.”
Mira let out a quick, exasperated laugh. “I know you’re suspicious of the technique, but it’s valid, and can be very effective. Billingsly certainly wants to be noticed and rewarded and praised. But . . .” She studied the sketch again. “It’s very difficult for me to envision a man like him deliberately making himself hideous. He’s also vain.”
“Something to think about, though. I appreciate the time.”
“I’m happy to give it. Tell me how you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been back long. How’s your arm?”
Eve started to dismiss it, then settled on the truth. “A little sore in the morning, and by the end of the day. Mostly good, though.”
“That’s to be expected with that kind of injury. Nightmares?”
“No. Maybe just being back in New York’s enough. At least right now. Isaac McQueen’s back in a cage where he belongs. That doesn’t suck. I’m not thinking about my mother, what happened there,” she said before Mira could ask. “Not yet. It’s done, and right now I’m okay with it.”
“When and if it’s not, you’ll talk to me?”
“I know I can. That’s a pretty big start, right?”
“Yes, it is.”
Eve got up, started for the door. “Is she like you?” she asked. “Arianna Whitwood?”
“Like me?”
“That’s the sense I got from her. She made me think of you. Not just because she’s an attractive female shrink. It was . . . I don’t know, a sense. If she is like you, then she’s got no part in this. And thinking that, I hope to hell Justin Rosenthall doesn’t, because you believe she loves him. I hope he’s clear.”
“So do I.”
“I’ll let you know,” Eve said, and left.
Six
Eve glanced over at Peabody as she walked back into the bullpen, got a shake of the head.
So no luck, yet, on masks or makeup. She went into her office, got coffee, then sat at her desk, put her boots up, and studied the board.
Everybody liked Rosenthall; nobody liked Billingsly. Instinct dictated a push on Billingsly—and she intended to listen. But she’d give a little push on the good doctor as well.
Arianna Whitwood. Beautiful, rich, smart, dedicated, caring. The good daughter, and again, the good
