Naked in Death (In Death 1) - Page 62
But you didn’t know her. Or she didn’t know you. You were just John Smith in her book, marked as a new client.
How did you choose her? And how are you going to pick the next one?
Just before nine, when Feeney knocked on her door, she was studying a map of Manhattan. He stepped behind her, leaned over her shoulder, and breathed candy mints.
“Thinking of relocating?”
“I’m trying geography. Widen view five percent,” she ordered the computer. The image adjusted. “First murder, second murder,” she said, nodding toward the tiny red pulses on Broadway and in the West Village. “My place.” There was a green pulse just off Ninth Avenue.
“Your place?”
“He knows where I live. He’s been there twice. These are three places we can put him. I was hoping I’d be able to confine the area, but he spreads himself out. And the security.” She indulged in one little sigh, as she eased back in her chair. “Three different systems. Starr’s was all but nonexistent. Electronic doorman, inoperable—and it had been, according to other residents, for a couple of weeks. DeBlass had top grade, key code for entry, hand plate, full building security—audio and video. Had to be breached on-site. Our time lag only hits one elevator, and the victim’s hallway. Mine’s not as fancy. I could breach the entry, any decent B and E man could. But I’ve got a System Five thousand police lock on the door. You have to be a real pro to pop it without the master code.”
Drumming her fingers on the desk, she scowled at the map. “He’s a security expert, knows his weapons—old weapons, Feeney. He’d cued in enough to department procedure to tag me for the primary investigator within hours of the first hit. He doesn’t leave fingerprints or bodily fluids. Not even a fucking pubic hair. What does that tell you?”
Feeney sucked air through his teeth, rocked back on his heels. “Cop. Military. Maybe paramilitary or government security. Could be a security hobbyist; there are plenty of them. Possible professional criminal, but unlikely.”
“Why unlikely?”
“If the guy was making a living off crime, why murder? There’s no profit in either of these hits.”
“So, he’s taking a vacation,” Eve said, but it didn’t play for her.
“Maybe. I’ve run known sex offenders, crossed with IRCCA. Nobody pops who fits the MO. You look at this report yet?” he asked, indicating the IRCCA transmission.
“No. Why?”
“I already tagged it this morning. You might be surprised tha
t there were about a hundred gun assaults last year, country wide. About that many accidental, too.” He jerked a shoulder. “Bootlegged, homemade, black market, collectors.”
“But nobody fits our profile.”
“Nope.” He chewed contemplatively. “Perverts either, though it’s a real education to scan the data. Got a favorite. This guy in Detroit, hit on four before they tagged him. Liked to pick up a lonely heart, go back to her place. He’d tranq her, then he’d strip her down, spray her with glow-in-the-dark red paint, top to toe.”
“Weird.”
“Lethal. Skin’s gotta breathe, so she’d suffocate, and while she was smothering to death, he’d play with her. Wouldn’t bang her, no sperm or penetration. He’d just run his eager little hands over her.”
“Christ, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, well, anyway. He gets a little too eager, a little too impatient with one, starts rubbing her before she’s dry, you know. Some of the paint rubs off, and she starts to come around. So he panics, runs. Now our girl’s naked, covered with paint, wobbly from the tranq, but she’s pissed, runs right outside on the street and starts screaming. The unit comes by, catches on quick ’cause she’s glowing like a laser show, and starts a standard search. Our boy’s only a couple of blocks away. So they catch him . . .”
“Don’t say it.”
“Red-handed,” Feeney said with a wicked grin. “Kiss my ass, that’s a good one. Caught him red-handed.” When Dallas just rolled her eyes, Feeney decided the guys in his division would appreciate the story more.
“Anyway, we maybe got a pervert. I’ll bump up the pervs and the pros. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I like the idea of that better than a cop.”
“So do I.” Lips pursed, she swiveled to look at him. “Feeney, you’ve got a small collection, know something about antique firearms.”
He held out his arms, wrists tight together. “I confess. Book me.”
She nearly smiled. “You know any other cops who collect?”
“Sure, a few. It’s an expensive hobby, so most of the ones I know collect reproductions. Speaking of expensive,” he added, fingering her sleeve. “Nice shirt. You get a raise?”
“It’s borrowed,” she muttered, and was surprised that she had to control a flush. “Run them for me, Feeney. The ones that have genuine antiques.”
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