“Ms. Mitchell, you had an appointment today with this man.”
Eve took a photo of Renquist from her bag.
“No,” Katie said after a quick look. Her gaze went back to, and held on Roarke’s face. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Would you please look at this picture again, more carefully, and tell me if this man was your three o’clock appointment this afternoon.”
“My three o’clock? No, he was . . . oh, wait. It is Mr. Marsonini. But he had red hair. Long red hair done in a braid. And he wore these little blue sunshades the entire time. A little affected, I thought, but he was Italian.”
“Was he?”
“Yes. He had a really charming accent. He’s relocating here, from Rome, though he’ll still have some business interests in Europe. He’s in oil. Olive oil. He needs a personal accountant to work with his corporate people. Oh my. Has something happened to him? Is that why you’re here?”
“No.” She was measuring Katie as she’d measured the loft. As she’d concluded from the data and ID picture, Katie Mitchell was the same general build and coloring as Peabody. That might come in handy.
“Ms. Mitchell, this man’s name isn’t Marsonini. It’s Renquist, and he’s suspected of murdering at least five women.”
“Oh, you must be mistaken. Mr. Marsonini was perfectly charming. I spent nearly two hours with him today.”
“There’s no mistake. Posing as a potential client, Renquist gained entrance to this loft for the purposes of cloning your security, having personal contact with you, and assuring himself that you did, still, live alone. Which I assume you do.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“He has stalked you for some time, as is his pattern with his victims, gathering information on your routines and habits. He intends to enter this residence within the next forty-eight hours, most likely when you’re sleeping. He would then restrain you, rape and torture you before using your own kitchen utensils to mutilate and kill you in the most painful way he could devise.”
Eve listened to the little choked sound that creaked in Katie’s throat, than watched the brunette’s eyes roll back in her head.
“All yours,” she said as Roarke swore and stepped in to catch Katie before she toppled over.
“You could have done that in a more sensitive and delicate way.”
“Sure. But this was quicker. When she comes to, she c
an pack what she needs. Then you get her out.”
He hefted Katie, headed with her to a sofa. “You’re not staying here alone and waiting for him to come hunting.”
“That’s my job,” she began. “But I’m calling for backup.”
“Call for it now, and I’ll have her out of your way inside twenty minutes.”
“Deal.”
She pulled out her communicator and prepared to set up the next stage of her operation.
She spent the hours until dawn sitting in the dark, waiting. A surveillance vehicle sat outside, and two armed uniforms were stationed in the living area of the Mitchell apartment. But the watch team had its orders.
Renquist, when he came, was hers.
And he sat in his quiet room in a small apartment on the edge of the Village. He’d decorated it carefully, selecting each piece so that it would have a European feel, and a rich one, rich and colorful and sexy.
So unlike the cool, stagnant home he shared with his wife when he was Niles.
When he was in this warm, deeply toned room, he was Victor Clarence. A small, amusing joke and a play on His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, who some credited with the Ripper murders of Whitechapel.
Renquist liked to believe it, enjoyed the notion of a killer prince. He considered himself no less.
A prince among men. A king among killers.