“I can handle anything you can. More.”
“Fine. I’ll put the list together, and we’ll get started.”
Chapter 4
“You don’t have his face.”
Eve scowled at Dickie Berenski, the chief lab tech. He might have had a smarmy smile, an attitude that had earned him the not-so-affectionate nickname of Dickhead and a personality defect that deluded him into thinking of himself as a ladies’ man, but he was a genius in his little world of fibers, fluids, and follicles.
“You called me out of the field to tell me I don’t have his face?”
“Figured you’d want to know.” Dickie pushed himself away from the station, sent his chair spinning toward another monitor. His spidery fingers danced over a keyboard. “See that there?”
Eve studied the color-washed image on monitor. “It’s a hair.”
“Give the lady a prize. But what kinda hair, you might ask, and I’m here to tell you. This didn’t come out of your perp’s head, it didn’t come out of your victim’s head, or any other area of their bodies. Came out of a wig. Expensive, human hair wig.”
“Can you track it down?”
“Working on it.” He scooted his chair to yet another post. “Know what this is?”
There were colored shapes and circles and formulas on the monitor. Eve blew out a breath. She hated the guessing games, but knew her job when it came to Dickie. “No, Dickie, why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“It’s makeup, Dallas. Base cream number 905/4. Traces of it found on the bed linens. And it don’t match what was on the dead girl. Got more.” He switched the image. “We got here traces of face putty. Stuff people use to give ’em more chin or cheekbone, whatever, if they don’t want to go for permanent face sculpting and shit.”
“And she wasn’t using any face putty.”
“Another prize for the little lady! Guy was wearing a wig, face putty, makeup. You don’t have his face.”
“Well, this is just wonderful news, Dickie. You got any more?”
“Got a couple of his pubic hairs. The real thing—medium brown. Be able to give you more on him from that before we’re finished. Got his fingerprints on the wineglasses, on the bottle, on the body, balcony doors, and rail. And here and there. You find him, we’ll box him up real pretty.”
“Send me what you’ve got. Track down those brand names. I want that data by morning.”
“Hey!” he shouted as she strode out. “You could say thanks.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Goddamn it.”
She let it play through her head all the way home, trying to see what kind of man lived inside her killer. She was afraid she did see. He was smart—smart enough to change his appearance so the security cameras and Bryna Bankhead wouldn’t identify him. But he hadn’t taken her out, or gone back to her apartment with the idea of killing her. Eve was sure of it.
He’d gone to seduce her.
But things had gotten out of hand, she mused, and he’d found himself with a dead woman on his rose petals. He’d reacted, panicked or angry, and had tossed her. Panicked rang with her. It hadn’t been temper on his face when he’d come out of the apartment.
He had money, or access to it. After more than a year with Roarke she knew the signs. She’d recognized the exclusive cut of the killer’s suit, even the pricey gleam of his shoes.
But he’d let Bryna pay for the drinks. A two for one, Eve thought. No paper trail, and a boost to his ego by having the woman pay for him.
He had solid tech skills and a knowledge of chemistry. Or again, access to that knowledge and skill.
He was sexually twisted. Perhaps inadequate, even impotent under normal circumstances. He’d be single, she decided as she approached the gates of home. Unlikely to have had any long-term or healthy relationships in his past. Nor had he been looking for one. He’d wanted complete control. The romantic trappings had been for his benefit, not hers.
An illusion, she decided, his fantasy. So that he could envision himself as lover.
Now that he’d achieved that control, he would do one of two things. He’d hole up in fear and guilt over what he’d done. Or he’d start hunting again.
Predators, in Eve’s experience, rarely stopped at one.