Echoes in Death(98)

“The ’link calls, the texts, the … putting moves on, even the break-ins to steal underwear, that’s all foreplay for him. Adds excitement, anticipation. But since he killed Strazza, everything changed, opened, expanded. He doesn’t need that kind of foreplay now—a grope in the dark, a voice over a ’link. He needs the kill, the climax. Now when he chooses his costume, does his makeup, goes in to set the stage, he knows those first performances were just—what do you call them—dress rehearsals. These are the real shows. And he just can’t fucking wait to step onstage again.”

“He won’t wait long,” Tredway agreed. “Maybe a couple of days.”

“Then we’d better find him first. We’re all going to go over the guest list, the list of staff and support staff for the gala. We’re going to cull out every man between thirty and forty, white—but it was bad light, so we need to consider mixed race. We have his approximate build. Unmarried males, no cohabs. He’s going to live alone. And when we have those, we’re going to look at his mother, a stepmother, or an older sister maybe. She’s going to be exceptionally beautiful.”

“Lieutenant?”

She gave Trueheart the nod.

“It could have been a teacher—the person he’s fixated on. I just mean to say I, ah, had a pretty hard crush on my English Lit teacher in high school.”

“You dog,” Baxter said with a laugh.

“I got over it, but for a few weeks there, it was pretty intense in my head. Or it could have been a friend’s mom, a neighbor, or—”

“Christ, you’re right. Someone he saw regularly, had a connection to, a relationship with. Enough to stick in his twisted brain. She’ll be married, and upper middle class at least. Start with mothers. We’ll work down the list of possible others. Look for any sort of complaint—even juvie. Dig in, maybe his parents sent him to therapy or rehab. Work the levels.

“Peabody, divvy it up so we’re not stepping on each other’s feet. He could be a little taller or a little shorter,” she considered. “Make it five-seven to five-ten. Let’s not let him slip through because we restricted too much.”

She glanced at her wrist unit. “I want to take another pass at Daphne Strazza. Send my list to my home office, Peabody. Anybody gives even the shortest buzz, contact me. Any questions, any new avenues to try, the same. That’s ’round the clock.”

She headed out, walking briskly toward the bullpen. She’d grab her coat, get to the hospital, maybe pull something else out of Daphne, then head home, drop straight into the work.

She should check and see if Roarke—

Her brain took a detour when she saw Rosa Patrick and Kyle Knightly step off the elevator.

“Mrs. Patrick, Mr. Knightly.”

“Oh, thank God! You’re right here.” Rosa all but launched herself at Eve. “He sent me a text, with a picture from … Oh God.”

“Hold on, Rosie.” Kyle wrapped an arm around her waist as he looked at Eve. “Is there a place we can sit down? She really needs to sit down.”

“Come this way.” She considered the lounge, but Interview A wasn’t in use, and was closer. More private.

She showed them in. “Have a seat. Tell me what happened.”

“My ’link. I answered my ’link, and— Here.” She dragged it out of her purse, shoved it toward Eve.

“Here.” Kyle took it, gently pressed Rosa’s thumb to the security pad. “I’ll bring it up, okay?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

He called up a text, handed the ’link to Eve.

An image of Rosa, bound, naked, unconscious on tangled sheets, came on screen. Above it, the text read:

Wasn’t that fun? The best you ever had. Let’s do it again!

Eve read the time sent: thirty-five minutes earlier.

“You can trace it.” Rosa clutched her hands together, knuckles white as she pressed them between her breasts. “You can do that. Can you do that? Please. You can find him.”

“Give me a second.” Eve rose, stepped away from the table, tagged McNab.

“McNab, e-whiz.”

“Interview A. Now.”

“I’m there.”

Eve came back, sat across from Rosa. “Is this the first communication you’ve received like this?”

“Yes.”

“Think back. Before the assault did you receive any kind of communication from anyone that was suggestive, overt, threatening?”

“No. I swear. Why would he do this now? Why? It’s been months.”

“He got stupid, that’s why.” Kyle gripped her shoulder. “They’ll trace that text, Rosa.”