Visions in Death (In Death #19)(9)

"You'll want Mira."

"Oh yeah." Eve thought of the city's top profiler. "I'm pulling her in this morning."

She'd cleaned her plate while she'd talked and got up now to dress. "We could get lucky, and this was a one-time deal."

"Why do you think it's not?"

"Too organized and precise. Too many symbols. The eyes, red ribbon, the pose. Maybe we find all these apply directly somehow to Elisa Maplewood, but I think they apply to the killer rather than the victim. They mean something to him, personally. Elisa may have been a type: physically, her location, her background, something of the sort. Or it may have been enough for her to be female and available."

"Do you want my help with the Vanderleas?"

"I might, at some point."

"Let me know. Darling, not that jacket." More resigned than appalled, he rose to take the one she'd yanked out of her closet, and after a quick study, drew out one with pale blue checks over cream. "Trust me."

"I don't know what I did before you were my fashion consultant," she told him.

"I do, but I don't like to think about it."

"I know a dig when I hear one." She sat to pull on her boots.

" Mmm." He slid his hands in his pockets, and fingered a small gray button. One that had fallen off possibly the most unattractive, ill-cut suit he'd ever seen. One she'd been wearing the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

"I've a 'link conference shortly, then I'll be in midtown most of the day." He leaned over, laid his lips on hers. Left them there for a long, satisfying moment. "Take care of my cop."

"That's my plan. You know, I hear your friends say your cop is scary, mean, and relentless. What do you say about that?"

"Lieutenant, your friends say the same. Give my best to Peabody," he added as he walked out.

"I'll keep your best," she called out, "and give her what's left over."

She heard him laugh, and decided that was every bit as good as coffee for setting her up for the day.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Setting up the appointment with Dr. Mira was her first task when she got to her office at Central. Peabody's to-do list included confirming Luther Vanderlea had been in Madrid, and ascertaining the ex-husband's whereabouts.

Eve fed the known data into her office computer and ran a check with IRCCA to search for any other like crimes.

The number of sexual homicides involving mutilation didn't surprise her. She'd been a cop too long. Even the number that involved damaging, destroying, or removing the victims' eyes didn't put a hitch in her stride.

She eliminated those where the perpetrator was in a cage, or in the ground, and spent her morning studying the unsolved or unconvicted.

Her 'link signaled a number of times—reporters on the scent. And these she easily ignored.

Letting accumulated data cook, she shifted back to the victim.

Who was Elisa Maplewood?

Standard public education, she read. No college. One marriage, one divorce, one child. Professional mother's stipend through first two years. Parents divorced when she was thirteen. Mother, also a domestic, stepfather a laborer. Father in the Bronx, unemployed and with a sheet, Eve mused. And looked more closely at Abel Maplewood.

Petty larceny, drunk and disorderlies, receiving stolen property, assaults—spousal assault, illegal gambling, public lewdness.

"Well, well, Abel, you're a little bit of a creep, aren't you?"

No sexual assaults on record, but there was always a first time. Fathers raped their daughters. She knew that only too well. They held them down, beat them, broke their bones and pushed themselves into their own flesh and blood.

She eased slowly away from the desk when she felt her heart begin to race. When she felt the memories, the nightmare of memories, begin to descend over her mind.

She went for water rather than coffee, drank it, slowly as well, standing at her single, narrow window.

She knew what Elisa had suffered during the rape—the pain, the terror that was more than pain—the degradation and shock. She knew, the way only another victim knew.

But she had to use that knowledge to find the killer, to find justice, or she was no good. If she let those memories come down too hard, blur her focus, she was no good.

Time to get back into the field, she told herself. Back in the field and do the job.

"Dallas?"

She didn't turn, and didn't ask herself how long Peabody had been there, watching her find her control. "You confirm Vanderlea?"

"Yes, sir. He was in Madrid, as advertised. He's on his way home now. Canceled his last day of business after his wife contacted him. He was at a breakfast meeting this morning—time difference, here and Europe—at seven Madrid time. Next to impossible for him to have zipped home, killed Maplewood, zipped back and made that meeting."

"The ex?"

"Brent Hoyt. He's clear. Seeing as he spent the night at the drunk tank on St. Thomas last night, he wasn't in New York."

"All right. Maplewood's father—Abel—has a sheet. We'll need to look at him. We're heading back to the Vanderleas first."