Imitation in Death (In Death 17)

She couldn’t see now, there was only dark and those awful flashing lights. But she tasted blood, her own blood, in her mouth. And she could hear, just hear through the screams in her head, horrible things panted out in a horrible voice.

She was crying, making tiny animal sounds that turned to moans as more blows rained on her back. With a trembling hand, she reached into her pocket, fighting to stay conscious, fighting to make her numb fingers grip the gift her uncle had given her when she’d gone to work for him.

With blind instinct, she pointed it toward the sound of his voice.

He howled—a grotesque sound that told her the mugger spray had hit the mark. The panic siren attached to the device wailed. Sobbing—she thought she was sobbing, but it might have been him—she tried to crawl again.

Pain, more pain exploded inside her when a vicious kick hit her ribs, her jaw. She felt herself falling, falling, and the world was already dropping away when her head hit the pavement with a violent crack.

At four A.M., Eve stood on the sidewalk studying the blood on the pavement. Marlene Cox had been transported to the hospital an hour before. Unconscious, she was not expected to live.

He’d abandoned the rental, and his props, and left his victim bleeding on the street. But he hadn’t finished her.

Eve crouched, and with her sealed fingers picked up a small shard of white plaster. She’d fought back long enough, hard enough to chase him away.

She studied the ball cap and wig already sealed in evidence. Cheap models, she mused. Tough to trace. The sofa looked old, shabby, used. Something he picked up at a flea market. But they had the moving van, so maybe they’d get lucky.

And a twenty-three-year-old woman was dying.

She looked up as Peabody sprinted down the sidewalk. “Lieutenant?”

“Twenty-three-year-old female,” Eve began. “Identified as Marlene Cox. Lives in that building,” she said, gesturing. “Apparently on her way home from work. I’ve checked with the hospital where she was taken before I arrived on scene. She’s in surgery, prognosis poor. She was beaten severely about the head, face, body. He used this—to start, anyway.” She held up a chunk of plaster.

“What is it?”

“Plaster. I’d say from a cast, an arm cast. Poor guy’s trying to haul the sofa in or out of the truck. Probably in. He’d want to get her inside. Got a busted wing, can’t quite manage it. He looks harmless, helpless, so she gives him a hand. He was probably charming. Lots of smiles and aw, shucks. Then when she’s inside, he hits her. Goes for the head, needs to knock her down, debilitate and disorient. Keep hitting her, hard enough to smash the cast.”

She stepped up to the opening in the back of the van. Close quarters, small space. That was a mistake, Eve noted. Didn’t give himself enough room to really wind up for the hits, and the props—the couch, the packing boxes—got in the way.

The imitation was good, she decided, but the stage had been cramped and spoiled his performance.

“He didn’t move fast enough,” she said out loud. “Or maybe he was enjoying it too much. She had some mugger spray.” Eve lifted the evidence bag with the pocket bottle. “I figure she got off at least one good shot in his face or near enough to hurt him, and the panic siren tripped. So he ran. From the looks of it,” she added, nodding to the blood on the pavement, “she either fell out of the truck, or he shoved her out. Uniform that briefed me said there was so much blood from her head he thought she was DOS. But she had a pulse.”

“Ted Bundy. I’ve been boning up,” Peabody said when Eve looked at her. “Especially on the serial killers you put on your hot sheet. He used this method.”

“Yeah, and more successfully than our guy. That’s going to piss him off. Even if she dies, he’ll be pissed off. Let’s run the truck, Peabody. I’ve got some uniforms doing the knock-on-doors, and I’m about to set the sweepers loose on the rental. Let’s fucking find something on this bastard.”

Marlene was still in surgery when Eve got to the hospital. The surgical waiting area was packed with people. The nurse on duty had already warned her the patient’s family was there, en masse.

She recognized the mix of shock, fear, hope, grief, and anger on the faces as, nearly as one, they turned toward her.

“I’m sorry to intrude. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I’d like to speak with Peter Waterman.”

“That’s me.” He rose, a big, burly man with a military cut to his dark hair, and the shadows of worry in his eye.

“If you could step out here, Mr. Waterman.”

He bent to murmur to one of the waiting women, then followed Eve into the corridor.

“I’m sorry to pull you away from your family, but my information is you were the last to speak with Ms. Cox before she left fo

r home this morning.”

“She works for me, for us. I got a bar, and Marley, she waits tables a few times a week.”

“Yes, sir, I know. What time did she leave?”

“Right after two. I sprang her, did the lock up myself. Watched her walk to the subway station. It’s only a few steps from the door. She’s only got two blocks to go once she’s off. It’s a good neighborhood. My two kids, they live there with her. My own daughters live right there.”