Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

Back at her desk, she did that first, then poured more coffee before she cued up the next vid from McEnroy’s office.

The hotel room this time, obviously prebooked, as he’d already set up the camera. Another redhead, no surprise there, but Eve judged this one at barely legal age, and giggling high. He called her Rowan when he put on music, ordered her to dance.

Eve paused the vid, ordered magnification on the woman’s face.

“Computer, run facial recognition on female subject. Resume video.”

Acknowledged.

She ran through the dance, the striptease in case there was any useful dialogue. Noted down the run time when he added a dose from a vial to a glass of wine, offered it to her.

After she downed it, the giggling playfulness ended, turned to desperate moans, grappling. Eve switched to split screen when he shoved the woman on the bed, mounted her.

She studied the young, pretty face of Rowan Rosenburg, age twenty-one, calculated the rape had occurred only two weeks after her twenty-first birthday. A student at Juilliard, Eve noted, living in New York for the past two years and originally from Vermont.

Eve ran the vid through to the end, tuned back in when McEnroy told Rowan to get dressed—and run along now like a good girl. She looked used and confused, but wiggled back into the sparkly club dress. She nodded, eyes vague, when he told her where to walk—away from the hotel, Eve noted—to take the subway back to the club.

When she stumbled out, he picked up his ’link.

“Text to Geena. Hello, darling! I’m about to escape from this tedious meeting. I should be home within the hour. Let’s raid the kitchen, shall we, for a midnight snack. I’m famished! See you soon.”

He set the ’link aside, glanced—smirking—toward the camera.

“Camera off.”

She cued up the next.

By the time Roarke walked in, she’d reviewed six, identified the victims.

After a look at her face, he walked over to open the wine cabinet.

“I’m working.”

He said nothing, simply opened the bottle, poured two glasses.

“How many more do you have to view?”

“Too many.”

He set her wine on her command center. “I have the data for you. Why don’t I take some of the vids, run the face recognition and so forth.”

“I can’t. It’s not right.” She gave up, picked up the wine. “It’s not right to let a civilian view them, even you. These women, their privacy—well, that’s pretty much shot to shit already. But it’s not right.”

With a nod, he turned to her board. “What can I do?”

“He humiliates them.” She took a long swallow of wine. “It’s not just his ugly sexual gratification that gets him off, it’s humiliating them.”

“Of course it is. If it was just to get off, he could and would hire a professional. He could engage a licensed companion who fits his needs. But that would put her on an equal footing, as that’s a kind of partnership.”

He turned back to her. “What can I do?” he asked again.

“You could take the six I’ve ID’d, run them. Check travel, employment, if they live alone, have a spouse or cohab. You can take it down a level, see if any of them have medical—a physical issue, an emotional one—after the date of the attack. It’s a goddamn attack.”

“It is, yes.”

“She worked with somebody,” Eve muttered. “It’s damn near impossible to believe a lone woman pulled this off. She got him in a vehicle—who was driving? Could she trust using full auto? She brought him back to his residence, got him out on the sidewalk. Doing that alone? I don’t buy it. Who is she close to—another victim, a sister, a spouse, a father, a brother? Someone she trusts.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I look at them. Send them along.”