Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Yes, he could achieve release by reenacting the experience, though that will become more difficult, more frustrating. He’s probably between thirty and fifty. Old enough for control, for planning rather than impulse, for patience. He’ll continue to plan—he has no desire to be caught, to be stopped. And he’ll continue to escalate, to attack at shorter intervals.”

“And he’ll kill again now.”

“Yes, almost certainly. He didn’t plan on murder, but he will with the next. Eventually, he’ll kill both mother and father figure.”

“Not if I find him first. Thanks. I’ve got a picture.”

“Will you tell me how you feel?”

Eve glanced away from her board, into those soft blue eyes. “What?”

“Eve. Clearly there are similarities between what happened to you and to Daphne Strazza.”

“I’m dealing with it. It’s not in my way.” But she pushed up, stuck her hands in her pockets, paced to her skinny window. “Won’t get in the way. I can empathize, sure. I’m not where I was a couple years ago. I don’t shake as easy on things like this. It gave me some bad moments, and may give me more, but I can handle it.”

“I don’t doubt you can handle it. You’re strong, and always have been. Even then, Eve, even at eight, you had strength or you’d never have survived it.”

“Plenty of cracks. Less of them now.” Eve turned back. “You get credit for some of that.”

“I’ll take it.” Mira rose. “And tell you to remember that if you need to lean, need to talk, just need someone to listen.”

“I do remember it. And if I start to shake, I’ll come to you.”

“Good.” Mira rose, gathered her coat. “I’ve got an early session, but I’m available if needed.”

“Thanks.”

Eve turned back to her board, studied the hard, handsome face of Anthony Strazza, the bloody broken body she’d recorded.

She had a strong instinct that he’d been a mean son of a bitch. But he was her victim.

She wouldn’t shake.

Moments after Mira clicked out of the office, Peabody clomped in.

“I’ve got Neville Patrick, at his office at his studio. I made a push to speak to his wife at the same time, and he balked about speaking to her at all. But given the choice of us going to his house, he’s going to talk to her about coming into the studio this morning.”

“That’s one.”

“Both Ira and Lori Brinkman prefer to address this in their home, want the privacy. They’re juggling their schedules, and one of their admins will get back to me on the best time.”

“Good enough.” Eve grabbed her coat. “Let’s go.”

“Did Mira add anything we can use?”

“She says it looks like the killer has mommy issues.”

“Mommy issues?” Scrambling to keep up, Peabody grabbed her own coat out of the bullpen.

“And daddy.”

“I don’t … Oh.” Peabody’s face scru

nched up as she swung on her coat. “Mira thinks the vics are surrogates for the killer’s parents. That’s just beyond the ick.”

“It gives us an angle.” When the elevator doors opened, revealed the logjam of cops, visitors, support staff, Eve simply turned on her heel and headed for a glide. “All the elements are violations, deliberate humiliations, excessive violence. But the rapes are the centerpiece. Mommy may be stepmommy, but the surrogate makes solid sense.”

“Daddy remarries—because marriage plays, too,” Peabody said. “Younger, frosty new wife—probably—and this guy wants her for his own. Or at least wants to do her. Or…”