Chaos in Death

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.”

“Not this, Dallas. Never this. Not Justin.”

“I’m going on the theory the three victims knew something about the killer. Something he killed to protect. Has Justin ever sampled product?”

“Absolutely not.”

Okay, Eve thought, as long as Louise spoke in absolutes they wouldn’t get anywhere on Rosenthall.

“How about Billingsly?”

“I can’t say. I’d certainly doubt it, but I don’t know him well.” Louise smiled a little over her wine. “That’s a deliberate choice.”

“He put moves on you.”

“He puts them on every female he finds attractive or believes can enhance his career. But Ari’s the gold ring.”

“How’d he react when you brushed him off?”

“Like it was my loss. He has a temper, but I’ve never seen anything to indicate he’s capable of murder or real violence. He’s rude and demanding, but from what I’ve heard, very good in therapy.”

“And if Arianna cut him off—from the Center?”

“He has money of his own, and should have a lot of contacts. But it would be humiliating, and he wouldn’t take it well. That’s just opinion, Dallas. I have as little to do with him as possible.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Not much help.”

“You confirmed and elaborated on Mira’s opinion on the killer’s face. You gave me a few more details on two of my suspects, and meeting you here gave me another wit who tells me the killer went up to Jane before heading toward Eighth. That’s pretty good over one drink.”

When they left, Roarke took her hand as she walked. “You did very well, managing nearly a half an hour on non-work-related topics after your interview with Louise.”

“I can talk about other stuff.”

“You can, yes, but I know it’s not easy when you’re steeped in a case.”

“The bar waitress was a stroke of luck. Heading toward Eighth. If it’s either of the doctors, he’s probably got a vehicle near there. If it’s Dickerson, he goes one crosstown block to home. Gupta, north on Eighth for a block and a half to home. Nobody at Slice or Get Straight lives in that direction—and they don’t fit anyway, but it’s another negative on that group.

“Where’s your car?” she asked when they reached the crime scene.

“I had it picked up so I could drive home with my adoring wife.”

“Good. You drive.” She took out her notebook, added the new information, new thoughts on the way home.

Roarke left her to it until she began to mutter.

“Is anybody really that good, the way everybody describes Rosenthall?”

“Some people have fewer shadows than others, fewer dark places. Others have more.”

“And illegals speak to those dark places, make more noise so they spread. Everyone on this list connects to illegals. Lost someone to them, works with them, lives with them. The killer’s a user—has to be. I don’t have enough on any of them to require a drug test. Yet. But if I asked each of them, and they’re clean, why wouldn’t they cooperate?”

“General principles,” he said as he drove through the gates of home. “But certainly worth a shot.”

“I’ll give it one tomorrow. Plus a scientist should be able to create an elaborate disguise.”

She chewed on it as they walked inside where Summerset and the cat waited in the foyer.

“A monumental day,” Summerset announced. “Home together, in a timely fashion, and unbloodied. Applause.”

“If he actually applauded, the bones in his skeletal hands would break and crumble to dust.”

Roarke just shook his head as Eve started upstairs. “The two of you really have to stop this love affair. I’m a jealous man. We’ll get dinner in the lieutenant’s office,” Roarke added to Summerset.

“I’m shocked beyond speech.”

“If only,” Eve muttered.

“But before.” Roarke took her hand again, turned her toward the bedroom. “Let’s deal with that arm.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re starting to favor it.”

“It’s just a little sore.”

“Which means it’s time for some of the physical therapy and treatment. Don’t be such a baby.”

She jabbed him with a finger. “You just want to get my shirt off.”

“Always a bonus. Peel it off, Lieutenant.” To make her smile, he leered. “And take your time.”

So okay, it twinged a little when she took off her jacket, her weapon harness. Get it over with, she thought, and began the stretching exercises, working her range of motion as Roarke ditched his jacket and tie.

Her shoulder gave a couple of clicks as she stretched, punched out.

“It’s coming along.”

“So I see. Try to avoid actually punching someone for a few more days,” he suggested as he got the topical cream from a drawer. He rolled up his sleeves as he crossed to her, then started to unhook her trousers.

“I knew it. All you think about is getting in my pants.”

“With every breath I take. But for now, I just want a look at that hip. It was the worst of the cuts. Nearly healed,” he murmured, tracing a fingertip along the edges where McQueen’s knife had sliced. “Mira does good work.”

“We’ve both had worse.”

His eyes lifted to hers, held, and said a great deal. So she leaned into him a little, touched her lips to his.

“I’m okay.”

“Nearly. Lose the tank and sit down. I’ll finish you up.”

She did as he asked, thinking he needed the tending as much as, maybe more than, she. Then his hands—he had magic hands—smoothed the cream over the ache, and she closed her eyes.

“Feels good. Really good.”

“Mira credits your constitution, and your hard head, for the healing process. A couple more days, you’ll likely be good as new. Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You’re not.”

They hadn’t made love since she’d been hurt—and she realized she should have figured why he’d been so careful with her, hadn’t touched her that way, had avoiding being touched by her.

“You’re not,” she said again and, opening her eyes, turned to him. “You won’t.” And took his hand, laid it on her breast. “Feels good,” she repeated. “Really good.”

“I only want to give you time to heal. In every way.”

“I have it on good authority I have an excellent constitution. Let’s test it out.” Going with the instinct that told her they didn’t just need the physical intimacy, but the fun that could go along with it, she tossed her leg over his lap, straddled him. “Get it up, pal.”

Smoothing those magic hands down her sides, he smiled. “You’re very demanding.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She took his mouth, gave it a nice little bite as she ground against him. “There you are,” she murmured.

“Well, you’ve left me no choice.”

“A cock’s always ready to crow.”

He laughed, wrapped his arms around her. “Crowing’s not what mine’s ready for.”

“Show me.” She went to work on his trousers.

Amused, aroused, he watched her. “In a bit of a hurry, are we?”

“I’ve got to use you and get back to work, so no dawdling.” Then she laid her hands on either side of his face. “Okay, maybe a little dawdling,” she said and brought her lips to his again.

“I’m okay.” She unbuttoned his shirt so she could press against him. Skin to skin, heart to heart. “I want you to touch me. I want you to be with me. I want you.”

He could drown in her, he thought, every minute of every day he could lose himself in what she was, what she gave him, what she took. Now, with her warm and eager against him, he could drown himself, lose himself, and set his worry for her aside.

She didn’t want him to be careful, but he would take care, of her injuries at least. He gave her the controls, took his pleasure from the rise of her passion, from the sprint of her heartbeat under his lips.

When she took him in, she laid her hands on his face again. Her eyes looked deep into his. “You’re holding back. Don’t. Don’t hold back.

So he gripped her hips, careful to avoid the healing wound. And drove her as she drove him. Over the edge of that drowning pool.

With her brow resting on his, she fought to get her breath back. If anything twinged or ached, she didn’t feel it. All she felt was peace.

“Did you really have business downtown today?”

“You’re my business.”

She lifted her head, looked at him again. “You have to stop worrying.”

“That’s never going to happen. But I will stop hovering, which I’ve been doing a bit of. I love you beyond the telling of it, Eve, and what you went through—”

“We. We went through it.”

“All right, that’s true enough. What we went through doesn’t heal as quickly as a cut or a bruise.”

“Working on it, though. Okay?”

“Yes.” He pressed his lips to her healing shoulder. “Yes.”

“Okay. Well, now that I’m done with you, I’m going back to work.”

He sat where he was a moment as she got up, pulled the tank back on. “I feel so used. I find I like it.”

She rolled her injured shoulder, nodded in satisfaction. “Always more where that came from, ace.”