Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Pretty much,” Olsen agreed. “He was, according to the wit, wearing a black cape, a white mask obscuring half his face, and what she thinks might have been a wig—longish, black, curling.”

“Where did it happen?”

“She’d gone outside.” Tredway picked up the report. “To get some air, she claimed, how it was crowded and stuffy. There’s a garden area, and eventually she confessed she’d snuck out and found a dark corner because she wanted to smoke an herbal. So the Phantom comes along, tells her they have to dance, grabs her. At first she figures drunk and obnoxious, and starts to pull away. But he clamps on, grabs her ass with one hand, and he’s got an erection. Now she struggles, and he laughs. Tells her it’s going to be the best she’s ever had. As she’s gearing up to scream, he shoves her down, swirls his cape, and runs away.”

“She went right in, told her husband, and they told security. They didn’t find him.” Olsen looked back at the board. “‘Best you’ve ever had.’ That’s the magic phrase.”

“There’s going to be more,” Eve said. “He’ll have accosted more, harassed more. Doing that helped him fill the gap between break-ins, rapes. Guest list for the party?”

“Not an invite deal. You bought tickets. A cool grand a pop. Twelve hundred plus tickets sold. You could buy a table,” Olsen added. “Plunk down ten large for a table, and bring guests.”

“People don’t pay cash for that sort of thing, so there’ll be a paper trail. Peabody.”

Peabody added the task to her handheld. “I’ll start heading down the trail.”

“And let’s see if Wright can verify his whereabouts on the night Macari was accosted. Have EDD go to the underwear shop, dig into the security. If necessary, have them get a warrant, confiscate and bring it here to work on. The four couples added should be advised to add to their own security.”

She glanced around the conference table. “Thoughts, complaints, remarks, comments?”

Trueheart started to raise his hand, caught himself. “I think he’s been inside several more houses, Lieutenant. Taken other personal items the homeowners haven’t noticed. Or if they did, put it down to their own carelessness. Lost it, left it somewhere, that kind of thing.”

“I agree. Small, intimate items belonging to the female is most probable. No valuables—that could be reported. He can fantasize, imagine, plot, and plan.”

“He has to know when to go in. He has to watch them,” Olsen added.

“Somebody with plenty of free time,” Eve agreed. “Either has money enough he doesn’t have to work every day—or at all—or has a job that allows him to go out of the office or place of business. Or a job or position that gives him access to their schedules.”

“They broadcast a lot of it.” In a world-weary way, Tredway shook his head. “Through the society channels, and on their own social media. Fricking invites a break-in, you ask me.”

“I wouldn’t argue,” Baxter said, “but even bimbos aren’t likely to broadcast they’re going to buy panties today. A combo of watching them virtually and otherwise, I’d say.”

“It started in earnest in April of last year at the Celebrate Art Gala.” Eve rose, paced to the board. “He may have harassed women before that time, and likely did. May have broken into their homes and taken panties to sniff. But what we have points to this night. Every victim on this board attended that gala. So did he.”

She closed her eyes a moment, let it circle in her mind, turned back.

“Mira profiles him between thirty and fifty. I think forty is top age. He’s younger, but old enough to have control and patience. Not as much patience as we previously thought, as he’s clearly used other avenues to satisfy his needs. Between thirty and forty, most likely white. Around five feet, eight inches tall. Average build. He’s either one of this social group or he knows how to blend with them.”

She gestured to Anson Wright’s photo.

“That doesn’t take the bartender out. An actor knows how to inhabit a role—and that’s pretty much what he told me in Interview. In fact, made a point of it. He won’t be married, won’t have a cohab or a serious relationship. He hoards. He has to have a place where he can keep all the loot he takes from his hits, as there’s no evidence he disposes of it.”

She walked from one end of the board to the other. “He takes surrogates. Married couples only, exceptionally beautiful

woman. Rape is the primary goal. And it is about sex as much as power and causing fear. Violent sex, the sort that eases—temporarily—his frustration at not having the true object of his desire. At not being able to punish and humiliate her for rejecting him, to do the same to the male for having what he couldn’t have.

“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.