Imitation in Death

Chapter5

Knowing the security at the U.N. was tight,Eve decided to avoid a possible pissing match with guards and parked in a second-level street ramp onFirst Avenue.

The little cross-block hike would help work off the doughnuts.

They still allowed tours-she’d checked-but they were stringently regulated with the threat of terrorism always a thunderhead ready to storm. But nations throughout the world, and the recognized off-planet factions, had their meetings and assemblies, their votes and their agendas, inside the huge white building that dominated its six-block stretch.

The flags still waved, a colorful symbol,Eve supposed, of man’s willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.

Even with their names on the visitors’ list, she andPeabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always madeEve twitchy.

Their badges were scanned, their fingerprints verified.Peabody ’s bag was scanned, then hand-searched. All electronics, including ‘links, PPCs, and communicators, were taken through analysis.

They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body scanner, all before being cleared through entry level.

“Okay,”Eve declared. “Maybe they’ve got to be careful, but I’m drawing the line at a cavity search.”

“Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident.” Peabody stepped withEve and a uniformed guard into a bombproof elevator.

“Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us.”

They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were scanned, analyzed, and verified again.

They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide’s retina scan and voice command unlocked a bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.

It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-sealed and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.

A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled atEve.

“LieutenantDallas, I’mThomasNewkirk, personal assistant toMr.Renquist. I’ll escort you from here.”

“Some security you’ve got here,Mr.Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?

He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”

“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.

He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.

“You former military?”

“Captain, RAF.Mr.Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.

“Just one moment, please.”

While she waited,Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.

She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.

It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr.Renquistwill see you now, Lieutenant.”

It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with anEast River view at his back.

He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.

He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.

His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.

His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets-whatever the hell they were-to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.

“LieutenantDallas, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve read and heard quite a bit about you already.” He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician’s shake. “I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function.”

“So I’m told.”

“Please have a seat.” He gestured, and sat behind his desk. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can’t have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.

His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second ‘link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl’s face and curly hair-both fair like her father’s-and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.

She knew enough about politics and protocol to at least start out playing the game. “I’d like to thank you, for myself and on behalf of the NYPSD for your cooperation. I know you’re extremely busy and appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

“I believe strongly in assisting the local authorities, wherever I am. The U.N. is, on an elemental level, the world’s police force. In a way, we’re in the same profession, you and I. How can I help you?”

“A woman namedJacieWooton was murdered the night before last. I’m the primary investigator.”

“Yes, I heard of the killing.” He leaned back, but his eyebrows lowered. “A licensed companion, in theChinatown district.”

“Yes, sir. In the course of my investigation, I’ve had reason to research and trace a certain brand of stationery. You purchased this brand of writing paper six weeks ago inLondon.”

“I was inLondon this summer for a few days, and did, indeed, buy stationery. Several different types, as I recall. Some for personal use, some for gifts. Am I to understand that this purchase makes me a suspect in this woman’s death?”

He was cool, she thought. More intrigued than worried or annoyed. And, if she wasn’t mistaking that faint curve of mouth, he was a little amused. “In order to expedite my investigation, I need to check all the names of purchasers, and verify their whereabouts on the night in question.”

“I see. Lieutenant, can I assume this line of investigation is secure and discreet? Having my name linked, however loosely, with a licensed companion and a murder would generate considerable unwanted media attention on myself, on Delegate Evans.”

“The name won’t be made public.”

“All right. Night before last?”

“Betweenmidnight and three.”

He didn’t reach for his book, but instead steepled his fingers, watchedEve over the tips. “My wife and I attended the theater. A production of Six Weeks byWilliamGantry, a British playwright. AtLincolnCenter. We were in the company of two other couples, left the theater at about eleven, then had a post-theater drink atRenoir ’s. I believe we left there, my wife and I, aroundmidnight. We’d have been home by twelve-thirty. My wife went to bed, and I worked in my home office for perhaps an hour. It might’ve been a little longer. Following habit, I would have watched about thirty minutes of news, then retired for the night.”

“Did you see or speak with anyone after your wife went to bed?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t. I can only tell you that I was home, tending to my work when this murder took place. I’m confused how buying this paper connects me to this woman, or her death.”

“Her killer wrote a note on that stationery.”

“A note.” Now Renquist’s eyebrows lifted. “Well. That was rather arrogant of him, wasn’t it?”

“He’s not really covered for the time of the murder either,”Peabody pointed out as they walked back to the car.

“That’s the problem when somebody buys it at two in the morning. Most of the suspects are going to claim they were home, innocently tucked into their own beds. They got their own security, or a way around hotel or apartment security, it’s tough to call them a stinking liar.”

“Do you think he is a stinking liar?”

“It’s early yet.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

She trackedElliotHawthorne down on the eleventh hole of a private club onLong Island. He was a sturdy, tough man, with a shock of white hair fluttering around under a tan cap, matched by the luxurious white mustache that set off his tanned face. There were lines scored around his mouth, fanned out from his eyes, but the eyes themselves were sharp and clear as he drove the ball off the tee.

He passed the driver back to his caddy, hopped in a small white cart, then signaled forEve to join him. “Talk fast” was all he said as he sent the cart zipping forward.

She did, giving him the details asPeabody and the caddy followed on foot.

“Dead whore, fancy writing paper.” He gave a little grunt as he stopped the cart. “Used whores from time to time, never kept track of their names.” He jumped out, circled his ball, studied the lay. “Got a young wife, don’t need whores now. Don’t remember the paper. You got a young wife, you buy all sorts of useless shit.London?”

“Yes.”

“August.London,Paris,Milan. I still got my fingers in some business, and she likes to shop. If you say I bought the paper, I bought the paper. So what?”

“It’s tied to the murder. If you could tell me where you were betweenmidnight and three, night before last-”

He let out a bark of laughter, stood from where he’d crouched by the ball and gave her his full attention. “Young lady, I’m more than seventy. I’m fit, but I need my sleep. I play eighteen holes every morning, and before I do, I have a good breakfast, read the paper, and check the stock reports. I’m up every morning at seven. I’m in bed every night by eleven unless my wife drags me out to some shindig. Night before last I was in bed by eleven, and after making love to my wife-a process that doesn’t take as long as it once did-I was asleep. Can’t prove it, of course.”

He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. “Gimme the seven iron,Tony.”

She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.

FromHawthorne ’s wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.

“I’d like to speak with your wife.”

He shrugged, handed the club back to the caddy. “Go ahead. She’s over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

DarlaHawthornewas dancing around on a shaded court in a candy-pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager’s wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.

She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.

Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon-pink, natch-and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.

When she bent over to retrieve it,Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.

Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.

At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash-fluttering smile over her shoulder.

“Mrs.Hawthorne?” Before the balls could start flying again,Eve stepped onto the court.

Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. “Boots! You can’t walk on this surface without the proper foot attire.”

“I’m not here to whack balls.” She held up her badge. “I need a moment withMrs.Hawthorne.”

“Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules.”

“What’s the problem, Hank?”

“There’s a policewoman here,Mrs.H. ”

“Oh.”Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. “If this is about that speeding ticket, I’m going to pay it. I just-”

“I’m not Traffic. Can I have a minute?”

“Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty.” She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.

“Could you tell me where you were night before last? Betweenmidnight and three.”

“What?” Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face,Darla paled. “Why?”

“It’s just a routine stop in a matter I’m investigating.”

“Sweetie knows I was home.” Her eyes, mermaid-green, began to swim. “I don’t know why he’d have you investigating me.”

“I’m not investigating you,Mrs.Hawthorne.”

Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. “Any problem, Mrs. H?”

“No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else.” Dismissing him,Eve sat besideDarla. “Midnightand three, night before last.”

“I was home in bed.” She shotEve a defiant look now. “With Sweetie. Where else would I be?”

Good question,Eve thought.

She asked about the writing paper, butDarla shrugged it off. Yes, they’d been inEurope in August, and she bought a lot of things. Why shouldn’t she? How was she supposed to remember everything she’d bought or that Sweetie bought for her?

Dallascircled around for another few minutes, then stood soDarla could walk back, and be comforted by Hank. He shotEve a nasty look before leading his student toward whatEve assumed was the clubhouse.

“Interesting,”Eve stated aloud. “Looks like ourDarla was out, practicing on Hank’s balls during at least part of the time in question.”

“Definitely getting more than instruction on her backswing,”Peabody agreed. “Poor Sweetie.”

“If Sweetie knows his wife’s playing singles with her tennis pro, he could’ve used the time she was out pulling his racket to get downtown, do Wooton. You got a wife’s running cross-court on you, it pisses you off. So you not only kill a whore-and what’s your young, unfaithful wife but a whore-but you use the cheating bitch as your alibi. Game, set, match. Very neat.”

“Yeah, and I liked your tennis metaphors, too.”

“We do what we can. Anyway, it’s a theory. Let’s go see what else we can dig up onHawthorne.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

He’d been married three times, as Roarke had stated, with each successive spouse younger than the preceding one. He’d divorced both formerMrs.Hawthornes, and had nipped them off with the lowest possible financial package, as arranged through a premarital agreement. An iron-clad one from the results,Eve mused.

The man was no fool.

Would such a careful and canny man be oblivious to his current wife’s activities?

He had no criminal record, though he’d been sued a number of times in civil court for various financial deals. A quick scan told her most of them were nuisance suits, brought by unhappy and unlucky investors.

He owned four homes, and six vehicles, including a yacht, and was associated with numerous charities. His reported worth was just under a billion.

Golf, according to the various media articles and features she scanned through, appeared to be his god.

Every name on her list had an alibi corroborated by a spouse or partner or employee. Which meant none of them held much weight.

Sitting back,Eve propped her feet on her desk, closed her eyes, and took herself back into theChinatown alley.

She walks in ahead of him. She leads theJohn. Her feet hurt. She’s got a bunion. Shoes are killing her. Two in the morning. Hot, airless. Not much business tonight. Only two hundred in her cash bag.

Gives her four, maybe fiveJohns on this circuit, depending what they wanted.

Been in the game a long time, knows to get payment up-front. Did he take it back, or didn’t he give her a chance to take it? No chance, she decided. He’d want to move fast. Spins her around. Wants her facing the wall.

Does he touch her? Run his hand over her breast, her ass, slide it over her crotch?

No, no time for that. Not interested in that. Especially after the blood gushes out on his hands.

Warm blood. That’s what got him off.

Against the wall. Tug her head back by the hair. Left hand. Slice the scalpel over her throat with the right. Left to right, slight downward path.

Blood gushes, splashes on the wall, splashes back at her face, her body, his hands.

She’s alive for a few seconds, just a few, shocked seconds when she can’t scream, and her body jerks a little as it dies.

Lay her down, head toward the opposite wall. Get out your tools.

A light, some sort of light. Can’t do that sort of precision work in the dark. Laser scalpel, use the light from the laser scalpel to guide the way.

Put what you came for in a leak-proof bag, clean off your hands. Change your shirt or take off what you were wearing over it. Everything in a bag or case now. Check yourself, make sure you’ll pass on the street.

Take out the note. Smile at it, amuse yourself. Place it carefully on the body.

Walk out of the alley. Fifteen minutes, maybe. No more than fifteen, and you’re walking away. Carrying your prize back to your car. Excited, but controlled. Need to drive carefully. Can’t risk a routine stop when you smell of death and have that part of her with you.

Back home. Reset security. Shower. Dispose of your clothes.

You did it. You’ve imitated one of the great killers of the modern age, and no one’s the wiser.

She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling. If it was one of her five current candidates, he’d have to dispose of the body part as well, or have a very secure place to keep it as a souvenir.

Would a regular household recycler handle that sort of thing, or would you need something that handled medical waste? She’d need to check on that.

Bringing up a map on-screen, she calculated time and distance from the murder site to each of the suspects’ residences. Giving fifteen minutes in the alley, the time to hunt the victim-likely scoped out at some point earlier-clean up, drive home. Any of them could have done the job in under two hours.

Straightening up, she began to type up a report, hoping inspiration would strike. When it didn’t, she read over the facts, finished it off, and filed it.

She spent another hour learning about recyclers and the availability of laser scalpels. And decided to go back to the scene.

The street did a decent business during the day. A couple of bars, a storefront eatery, a market, and a money exchange were the closest businesses to the alley.

Only the bars had been open aftermidnight, and both of them were at the far ends of the block. Though the neighborhood had already been canvassed, she swung through each place again, running the routine, asking the questions, coming away empty.

She ended up standing at the mouth of the alley again with the beat cop, the neighborhood security droid, andPeabody.

“Like I said,” the cop namedHenley told her, “I knew her, the way you know the local LCs. She never caused any trouble. Technically, they’re not supposed to use the alley or any public access for work, but most of them do. We roust them now and again for it.”

“She ever complain about anyJohn getting rough or hassling her?”

“Wouldn’t have.”Henley shook his head. “She steered clear of me, and the droid. Give me a little nod if we passed each other on patrol, but she wasn’t the friendly sort. We get some rough stuff in this sector-johns andjanes slapping an LC around. You got some mopes coming through mugging them, and sometimes they wave a sticker around. Had some use ‘em, but not like this. Never had anything like this.”

“I want a copy of any reports where they used a sticker, any kind of blade.”

“I can get that for you, Lieutenant,” the droid told her. “How far back do you want to go?”

“Give me a full year. Keep it to attacks on women, with LCs the priority. Maybe he practiced first.”

“Yes, sir. Where should I transmit?”

“Send it to me at Central.Henley, where’s the safest place to park in this area? Street or underground, not a surface lot or port.”

“Well, you want quiet, lower crime, probably you’d go west, maybeLafayette. You want busy, so there’s too much going on for anybody to mess with your ride, you could hike it up the other side of Canal, into Little Italy. Restaurants stay open late.”

“Okay, we’re going to try this. One of you take from here toLafayette, the other head north. Ask residents, merchants who might have been around at that time of night, if they noticed a guy alone carrying a bag. Some kind of bag, good-sized one. He’d’ve been moving along pretty quick, no meandering, and going for a car. Talk to the LCs,” she added. “One of them may have tried to hustle him and got brushed off.”

“Long shot, sir,”Peabody said when they’d split off again.

“Somebody saw him. They don’t know it, but they saw him. We get lucky, jog a few memories.” She stood on the sidewalk, baking in the heat as she scanned the street.

“We’re going to have to see how much we can stretch the budget for added security and surveillance for a square mile around this scene. He’ll stick to the mile, stick to the script. And it played too well for him the first time-he’s not going to want to wait too long before act two.”