Chaos in Death

“Did you learn any more from this re-creation?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“Then you can tell me about it over the drink I find I want very much right now.”

Seven

Eve looked around the bar as they went in. Quiet and cozy, with a neighborhood feel, she observed. A couple of guys sat at the bar, deep in their brews and conversation. She bet they were regulars, bet the seats of the stools all but carried the imprint of their asses.

The bartender, bright, young, female, joined in with them, idly swiping the bar with a rag as she laughed at something they said. A couple sat at a table—had a first-date, drink-afterwork-to-see-how-it-goes look about them. Another four had a booth, scarfing down bar chips while they held one of those quick, coded conversations of intimate friends.

Roarke took a booth, smiled at her over the table. “Satisfied?”

“About what?”

“That you won’t have to arrest anyone in here.”

She smiled back. “You never know.”

She opted for a beer when the waitress came over, and Roarke held up two fingers. “Now, as we’re a bit early, tell me what you learned back there.”

“It was the girl. It was Jen. She was the primary motive. He wanted her to see what he did, how he killed the others, took away what mattered most to her in the cruelest way. She was the easiest kill of the three, but he saved her for last because she was the most important. Then he killed her with his hands, so she could see his face and he could see hers. The others didn’t matter as much, except for their connection to her. He wanted her, and she said no—or worse, didn’t see him as a man.”

“He didn’t rape her. I looked at your board.”

“It had gone past sex or rape as power and control, and he got off on the killing. But taking the body parts— they’d seen or heard something he couldn’t afford them to talk about. Whatever it was, it was recent.”

She waited until the waitress served the beers. “See that group over there.” She lifted her chin toward the booth of four. “Two guys, two girls. But they’re not couples.”

“Aren’t they?” Roarke said, enjoying her.

“Look at the body language. They’re tight, but it’s not sexual. Pals. And they never run out of conversation. Blah, blah, blah. They talk all the time, hang all the time. When they’re not together, they tag each other. He took their ’links because he got that, he knew they connected that way when they weren’t together, and had to conclude they’d talked about whatever they’d seen or heard via ’link.”

“All right.”

“He worked alone. He doesn’t connect, he doesn’t have that closeness with anyone. So that bumps the two female suspects down the list for me. It wasn’t Arianna Whitwood or Marti Frank. They may know something, may not know they know it, but this one had to have all the fun for himself. He’s smug, and a show-off, which is why I like Billingsly just on principle.”

“Arianna said no to him,” Roarke pointed out.

“But he still believes he can get her. She’s also on his level. How humiliating would it be for a man like that to want an addict, a squatter, a nothing, and be rejected by her?”

“That’s a great deal for a second look at the crime scene.”

“But not enough. Here’s Louise and Charles.”

Roarke stood, greeting Louise with a kiss, Charles with a handshake.

As Charles, former licensed companion turned sex therapist, slid in beside his wife, he grinned at Eve. “How’s it going, Lieutenant Sugar?”

“I’ve got three bodies and a short list of suspects. It could be worse. Sorry,” she said to Louise. “Insensitive.”

“No. We both deal with death all too often, but at least I come into it when there’s still a chance.”

“You look tired,” Roarke commented.

“Long day. Good day,” she added, “as I didn’t deal with death.”

Both she and Charles ordered a glass of the house white.

“What can I tell you about your short list of suspects?”

Eve drew out the sketch, laid it on the table. Puzzled, Louise leaned closer. “We’ve still got a month till Halloween.”

“This is who the witness saw outside the crime scene.”

“It’s a hell of a disguise,” Charles commented. “Why would anyone want to dress up, be that noticeable when doing murder?”

“Maybe it added to the thrill. We’re not having any luck on replicating the disguise, and Mira says it’s unlikely he could tolerate the jaw—broken or dislocated that way.”

“Now you have two doctors telling you that. This is extreme.” Louise tapped a finger, tipped in pearly pale pink, on the sketch. “There would be airway blockage, difficulty breathing, speaking, eating. There should be considerable swelling, but I don’t see any in this sketch. The pain would be enormous. And the eyes certainly aren’t natural. Not just the color. Hyperthyroidism can cause the eyes to bulge, but I’ve never seen anything that severe. And the skin? I’d diagnose multiple organ failure at worst, anemia at best. He had to fake all this.”

“Hey, I saw that guy.” The waitress paused as she served the wine.

“When?” Eve demanded. “Where?”

“Last night. Well, this morning. You don’t forget a face like that,” she added with a laugh.

“Exactly what time? Exactly where?” Eve drew out her badge, laid it next to the sketch.

“Oh. I guess he wasn’t just a weirdo. I had the late shift last night, so I didn’t leave until after two. I live on Jane, right off Greenwich Street. I did some yoga when I got home. It relaxes me. I don’t know exactly, but it was probably about three fifteen, three thirty or thereabouts, when I finished. I heard this weird laughing, and went to the window. I had it open, and I saw this dude here sort of skipping down the sidewalk across the street. You see all kinds, you know, so I didn’t think anything of it. I saw him jump up, swing on the pole of the streetlight, waving this black bag. I just thought, weirdo, shut the window, and went to bed.”

“Which way was he going?”

“East, toward Eighth, it looked like. What’d he do?”

“Enough so if you see him again, contact the police.” She hitched up a hip, dug out a card. “Contact me.”

“Sure. Wow, a lieutenant. Homicide. Wow. He killed somebody?”

“Yeah. I’d like your name and address.”

“Sure. Sure.” Once she’d given it, the waitress hurried away.

“You scared the hell out of her,” Charles said.

“She’d be smart not to walk home alone, and to keep her windows closed.” She put the sketch away, sipped at her beer. “Do you know any of Rosenthall’s lab people?” she asked Louise.

“No.”

“Okay, we’ll set them aside for now. Did Rosenthall ever move on you?”

“No! He was with Arianna when we met, then I was with Charles not long after. He’s in love with Ari, and added to that, his work doesn’t give him a lot of time for moving on other women.”

“It doesn’t take that much time. She’s the one backing his research and work—or the Group is. If she cut him loose, it’d be a big loss.”

“She’s in love with him, and they’re bonded over the work,” Louise began. “If something went wrong between them, it would be a blow for both of them, personally and professionally.”

“But scientists are easier to find than backers like the Whitwood Group. If his work’s important to him.”

“Essential, I’d say.”

“Then he’d do a lot to protect it.”