“This Sunday?” He glanced up, over. “My wife got up with Jed.”
He paused, and Eve could see the change taking place. The shock was ebbing and the interest, the enjoyment, even the pride in being considered a murder subject was rolling in.
“Most Sundays I sleep in and she takes over. She doesn’t get as much one-on-one time with him as I do. She took him to the park. They go out early and have a picnic breakfast if the weather’s good. Jed loves that. I didn’t surface till close to noon. What’s Sunday? I’m not following . . .”
Then he did. She cou
ld see it click. “The woman who was found strangled in her apartment on Sunday. Middle-aged woman, living alone. Sexual assault and strangulation.”
His eyes were narrowed now, his color back. “The media reports were sketchy, but strangulation and sexual assault, that’s not Ripper style. An older woman, at home in her apartment, that’s not Ripper style either. What’s the connection?”
At Eve’s steady stare, he scooted forward in the chair. “Listen, if I’m moonlighting as a killer, I already know so you won’t be telling me anything. If I’m just an expert on serial killers, giving me some details might let me help. Either way, how can you lose?”
She’d already decided what she would and wouldn’t tell him, but held his gaze another moment. “The sash of the victim’s lounge robe was used as the murder weapon, and tied in a bow under the chin.”
“Boston Strangler. That was his signature.” He snapped his fingers, and began to push through the piles of discs and files on his desk. “I’ve got considerable notes on him. Wow. You’ve got two killers imitating the famous? Teamwork, like Leopold and Loeb? Or . . .” He paused, took a long breath. “Not two, just one. One killer working his way down a list of his heroes. That’s why you’re looking at me. You’re wondering if the people I write about are heroes to me, and if I’m mixing up my work and my life. If I want to be one of them.”
He pushed to his feet, pacing with what looked to Eve to be energy rather than nerves. “This is fucking amazing. He’s probably read my books. That’s sort of creepy, but icy in a strange way, too. DeSalvo, DeSalvo. Different type from Jack,” Breen mumbled. “Blue collar, family man, a sad sap. Jack was probably educated, likely a member of the upper class.”
“If the information I just gave you finds its way to the media, I’ll know where it came from.” Eve paused until Breen stopped pacing and looked at her. “I’ll make your life hell.”
“Why would I give it to the media, and let somebody write about it first?” He sat again. “This has best-seller written all over it. I know that sounds cold, but in my line of work I have to be as detached as you do in yours. I’ll help however I can. I’ve got mountains of research and data accumulated on every major serial killer since the Ripper started it all, and a few interesting minor ones. I’ll make it all available to you, pitch in as a civilian consultant, and waive the fee. And when it’s over, I’ll write it.”
“I’ll think about it.” Eve got to her feet. And saw, under the mess he’d made of his desk, a box of cream-colored stationery.
“Fancy writing paper,” she commented, stepping over to pick up the box.
“Hmm? Oh yeah. I use it when I want to impress somebody.”
“Is that so?” Her eyes flashed to his like lasers. “Who did you want to impress lately?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I think I used it a couple weeks ago when I sent what my dad always called a bread-and-butter note to my publisher. A thanks for a dinner party thing. Why?”
“Where’d you get it? The paper?”
“Jule must’ve bought it. No, wait.” He rose himself, looking baffled as he took the box from Eve. “That’s not right. It was a gift. Sure, I remember now. Came through my publisher with a fan letter. Readers send stuff all the time.”
“A token from a reader, to the tune of about five hundred dollars?”
“You’re kidding! Five hundred. Wow.” He was watching Eve more carefully now as he set the box back on his desk. “I should be more careful with it.”
“I’ll want a sample of that paper, Mr. Breen. It matches the type left at both homicides I’m investigating.”
“This is just too fucking weird.” He sat, heavily. “Take it.” Several emotions seemed to run across his face as he scooped a hand through his luxurious hair. “He knows about me. He’s read my stuff. What the hell did the note say? I can’t remember, just something about how he appreciated my work, my attention to detail or something like that, and my—what—enthusiasm for the subject.”
“Do you have the note?”
“No, I wouldn’t keep it. I answer some of the mail personally, have a droid do the bulk. If it’s snail mail, we recycle the paper after it’s answered. He’s using my work as research, don’t you think? That’s horrible, and really flattering at the same time.”
Eve passed one of the sheets and envelopes to Peabody to seal into evidence. “Give him a receipt for it,” she ordered. “I wouldn’t be flattered if I were you, Mr. Breen. This isn’t research, or words in a discbook.”
“I’m part of it now. Not just an observer this time, but part of something I’ll write about.”
She could see he was more pleased than appalled.
“I plan to stop him, and soon, Mr. Breen. Things go my way, you’re not going to have much of a book.”
“I don’t know what to think about him,” Peabody said when they were outside. She turned back, studied the house and imagined the good-looking Breen swinging his handsome son onto his shoulders and taking him to the park to play. And dreaming of fame and fortune written in blood. “The stationery was right out of the blue. He didn’t try to hide it.”