doctor.
Didn’t that make an interesting triangle? Billingsly wanted her—and didn’t bother to (ha-ha) disguise it. Rosenthall had her.
And what did that have to do with the three vics?
They were Arianna’s. Her patients, her investment, her success—at least so far. Rosenthall’s, too.
Maybe Arianna had given them too much time, attention, made too big an investment. A man could resent that. She sometimes wondered why Roarke didn’t resent all the time, the attention, the investment she put into the job.
But there weren’t a lot of Roarkes in the world.
Maybe the three vics—or any one of them—overheard Arianna and the good doctor going at it over her work, that time and attention again. Hey, bitch, what about
And no, just not enough for that kind of slaughter.
Maybe the vics, or one of them, overheard the two doctorsin-love arguing because Rosenthall was sampling product. Experimenting. That’s what you did in a lab. You experimented. Maybe he’d developed a problem of his own during those experiments. Now that, combined with being found out, could lead to bloody, vicious murder. Could be Arianna didn’t know. Can’t have her find out he’s become what he’s supposed to cure.
That could play.
Or, onto Billingsly. He pushed himself on his beautiful associate, and again one or all of them saw the incident. Possible.
Or the annoying doctor fooled around with a patient, maybe—hmm—maybe tried a move on Darnell. Rejected, humiliated, worried she’d tell Arianna. He’d lose any chance with the woman he wanted, and his license to practice.
That could play, too.
But none of it played very well. Maybe she just needed to fine-tune a little.
For now, she read over Peabody’s notes on her interviews at Slice and the twenty-four/seven, the diner hangout. Nothing buzzing there, Eve thought, but continued as Peabody had started or completed a number of deeper runs on the players in those arenas.
Rising, Eve got another cup of coffee, then started deeper runs of her own on Rosenthall, Billingsly, Arianna, Marti Frank, Ken Dickerson, and Pachai Gupta.
Gupta came from some wealth, and an upper-class social strata, and she considered the fact that his parents, also doctors, had worked with Rosenthall years before.
Now Gupta had the plum position of the renowned doctor’s lab assistant on a major project. Couldn’t something like that make a career?
How would Gupta’s upper-class parents feel about him pining for a recovering addict? Possibly he wanted to keep that on the down low, and possibly Darnell wanted to go public.
Possibly.
Both Marti Frank and Ken Dickerson came from the ordinary, and in Dickerson’s case the rough, with his dead addict of an abusive father. Both had excelled in school, she noted. Frank top of her class in college—on a full scholarship. Dickerson third—accelerated path. He’d graduated high school at sixteen, college—again on scholarships—at nineteen, and straight into medical school.
And they were both still on scholarships, she noted, in the intern program at the Center.
She brought the lab setup back into her head. Working together on the project, she mused, but they’d seemed very separate, hadn’t they? With Rosenthall center. Neither Dickerson nor Frank had gone to Gupta when he’d broken down.
So not friends—not especially.
Competitors? Didn’t you have to have a competitive streak to come in first in your class, or in the top tier with acceleration?
And was it interesting, she wondered, or frustrating to learn that all six of them had sufficient medical training to have performed the amputations?
She’d eliminate the females, except one of them might have acted in collusion. Dead low on the list, she decided, but it felt too soon to eliminate.
All of them knew the vics’ location. None of them had alibis for the time in question. All of them knew and/or interacted with the vics. All of them had access to drugs and could easily put their hands on the protective gear.
She picked her way through the data on each suspect, added to her notes, her board. When the sweepers’ initial report came through, she pounced. More paint flakes, some black fibers from the window casing, some hairs—no roots. All sent to the lab.
None of the victims’ ’links had been found on scene. So he’d taken them. Taken the ’links, she mused, but not the money. Fibers on the windowsill, footprints in blood. So he’d only sealed his hands, or worn gloves.
And walking through the blood, that was just stupid. Amateur hour. If they found the shoes, they had him.
First kill, she thought. She’d make book this had been his debut.
Time to circle back.
She walked out to Peabody. “I’m going back to the scene.”
“Okay. I’m not getting anywhere anyway.”
“No, you keep at it. I’m going to talk to Louise after, then work from home.”
“I’m serious about getting nowhere.” Peabody huffed out a breath, shoved at her hair. “I’ve talked to the top costume shops—and some costume and theatrical makeup designers in the city. What I get is, sure the skin color’s no problem; hair, no big; nose, teeth, you bet. But the eyes? Every one of them tells me if they used apparatus like that—to make them bulge out, or appear to, and turn that red—it would hamper vision. Same with the jaw.”
“It was dark, even with the streetlight. Middle of the night. Maybe the wit exaggerated some.”
“Maybe. A couple of the people I talked to were all juiced up about it, trying to figure out how to make it work. I’ve got them promising to experiment, see what they can do. But nobody’s got anything like this. Not in any sort of mask, or doable with makeup and prosthetics. Nothing that would allow the person wearing it to see clearly, speak, or laugh the way the wit described.”
“Keep at it anyway, because it is doable, as it was done.”
“What if he’s some kind of freak?”
“Peabody.”
“I didn’t say demon or monster. Like a circus freak, you know? A contortionist or a freak show type. He looks like this—or something like this and he just pumped it up.”
“Circus. That’s an angle. I’ll work that at home. Not bad, Peabody.”
“You’d kick my ass if I said monster.”
“Keep that in mind if you become tempted,” Eve warned, then headed out.
She thought of makeup, freaks, altered appearances as she drove—and had a brainstorm. “Contact Mavis Freestone, pocket ’link.”
Contact initiated.
“Hey, Dallas!” Mavis’s pretty, happy face filled the dash screen. “Say hi to Dallas, Bellorama.”
Instantly, the baby’s chubby, grinning face replaced her mother’s. “Das!” she cried with absolute joy, and pressed her wet lips to the screen of the pocket ’link.
“Yeah, hi, kid. Kiss, kiss.”
“Slooch!”
“Right. Smooch.”
“Make the sound, Dallas,” Mavis said offscreen.
Eve rolled her eyes, but complied with a kissing sound. Bella squealed with yet more delight.
“Playtime.” There was some shifting, giggling, then Mavis came back on behind the film of Bella’s slobber. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Dallas?” Mavis demanded.
“I didn’t have time. It was—”
“We’re going to chit some serious chat about this.”
