Born in Death (In Death 23)

apart, about an hour apart. Female first. Same employer, different departments. Violent deaths, missing comp units and data discs.

No known enemies.

The killer had to have personal transportation, she mused. Can’t go hauling d-and-c units from murder scene to murder scene.

Frowning, she checked her incoming to see if Peabody had determined the types of units the victims owned. And found her efficient partner had copied her the list of units registered to both. Two desk units, two PPCs.

And that didn’t include the memo books—no required registration with CompuGuard—they must have owned, which, like the comps, hadn’t been on either scene.

Good equipment and fairly compact, she thought as she took a look at the models, but she couldn’t see the killer hauling Copperfield’s machines up Byson’s emergency evac.

No, he’d had a vehicle to transport them, to lock them safely away while he finished his night’s work.

Where did he park? Did he live close to either scene? Did he work alone?

Brought the binding tape with him, and probably the stunner, the laser pointer or whatever tool he’d used for the burns—preparation. Used weapons on hand for the killings. Opportunistic.

Knew female vic’s building lacked security cams, alarms. And that the second scene had better security. Scoped them out first, preparation again. And/or had personal knowledge of the scenes.

Had he been inside before the murders?

Prior personal contact with the victims?

She rose, set up her board, then sat again, angling her chair so she could study the faces of her dead.

“What did you know, Natalie? What did you have? What did you figure out? Had you worried, whatever it was.”

Called in sick the morning of the murder. Put on an extra lock, security peep, in a place you were moving out of in a few months. Yeah, you were worried.

But not enough to tell the sister, or the boss she was allegedly friendly with.

But Bick went into work that morning. Maybe not as worried, maybe to keep an ear to the ground.

And not worried, not scared enough to have the boyfriend come over, stay the night.

Not scared for your life, Eve concluded, despite the knife in the bedroom. Shook, upset, nervous—careful. But not scared for your life. Probably felt stupid, even a little embarrassed when you brought that knife into the bedroom with you. But you’re not scared enough to call the cops, even move in with the fiancé for a few days.

Maybe working on something. Liked your space, your quiet. But it gets dark, you’re a little wiggy.

To refresh herself, she called up the replay from Palma’s pocket ’link, reviewed the transmission to her sister.

Hey, Nat!

Palm. Where are you?

Somewhere over Montana. Vegas/New York runs, remember. We’re loaded with them today. Back and forth, full shuttles. I’m getting into New York late. Still okay if I crash with you, right?

Sure. I really want to see you. I’ve missed you.

Me, too. Hey, something wrong?

No. No. Just a lot on my mind.

You had a fight with Bick.

No. We’re fine. I’m just…there’s a lot going on. It’s…listen, you’re off tomorrow, right?

After a shift like this, you bet. Want to ditch work and have a girl day?