FIVE
Two teenagers looking for a little adventure snuck out of their homes, met at a prearranged spot, and took their new scoot-bikes for a spin in Central Park.
They’d thought at first that Stephanie Ring was a vagrant, maybe a licensed beggar or a chemi-head sleeping it off, and they started to give her a wide berth.
But vagrants didn’t make a habit of stretching out naked on the carousel in Central Park.
Eve had both of them stashed in a black-and-white. One had been violently ill, and the brittle air still carried the smear of vomit. She’d ordered the uniforms to set up a stand of lights so the area was under the glare of a false day.
Stephanie hadn’t been beaten, nor had her hair been cut. Palmer believed in variety. There were dozens of long, thin slices over her arms and legs, the flesh around the wounds shriveled and discolored. Something toxic, Eve imagined, something that when placed on a relatively minor open wound would cause agony. The blood had been allowed to drip and dry. Her feet speared out at sharp angles, in a parody of a ballet stance. Dislocated.
Carved into her midriff were the signature block letters.
LET’S KILL ALL THE LAWYERS
He had finally killed this one, Eve thought, with the slow, torturous strangulation he was most fond of. Eve examined the noose, found the rope identical to that used on Judge Wainger.
Another mistake, Dave. Lots of little oversights this time around.
She reached for her field kit and began the routine that followed murder.
She went home to write her report, wanting the quiet she’d find there as opposed to the postholiday confusion at Central. She shot a copy to her commander, then sent messages to both Peabody and Feeney. Once her aide and the top man in the Electronics Detective Division woke and checked their ’links, she was pulling them in.
She fueled on coffee, then set about the tedious task of peeling the layers from Palmer’s financial records.
It was barely dawn when the door between her office and Roarke’s opened. He came in, fully dressed, and she could hear the hum of equipment already at work in the room behind him.
“You working at home today?” she said it casually, sipping coffee as she studied him.
“Yes.” He glanced down at her monitor. “Following the money, Lieutenant?”
“At the moment. You’re not my bodyguard, Roarke.”
He merely smiled. “And who, I wonder, could be more interested in your body?”
“I’m a cop. I don’t need a sitter.”
He reached down, cupped her chin. “What nearly happened to Peabody two nights ago?”
“It didn’t happen. And I’m not having you hovering around when you should be off doing stuff.”
“I can do stuff from here just as easily and efficiently as I can from midtown. You’re wasting time arguing. And I doubt you’ll find your money trail through Palmer’s official records.”
“I know it.” The admission covered both statements, and frustrated her equally. “I have to start somewhere. Go away and let me work.”
“Done with me, are you?” He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers.
The sound of a throat being loudly and deliberately cleared came from the doorway. “Sorry.” Peabody managed most of a smile. She was pale, and more than a little heavy-eyed, but her uniform was stiff and polished, as always.
“You’re early.” Eve rose, then slid her hands awkwardly into her pockets.
“The message said to report as soon as possible.”
“I’ll leave you two to work.” Alone, Roarke thought, the two of them would slip past the discomfort faster. “It’s good to see you, Peabody. Lieutenant,” he added before he closed the door between the rooms, “you might want to check the names of deceased relatives. The transfer and disbursement of funds involving accounts with the same last name and blood ties are rarely noticed.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.” Eve shifted her feet. The last time she’d seen her aide, Peabody had been wrapped in a blanket, her face blotchy from tears. “You okay?”
“Yeah, mostly.”