“I have one on tap who can serve as both.”
“I don’t want some—”
“Dr. Mira.”
The defensive look on his face eased away. “Dr. Charlotte Mira?”
“That’s right. Objections?”
“Not only none, but I’d be grateful for her.”
“She’ll contact you. Set it up. If any of those missing pieces shake loose, I want them asap.”
“You’ll have them. I’ll feel a lot better myself when the bastard who did this is in a cage.”
With a nod, Eve left him contemplating another mug of terrible coffee.
“Get me a meet with Mira,” she told Peabody as they walked. “And see who in the bullpen can handle some interviews. Odds of it being a party guest are pretty slim at this point, but they have to be covered. We’ll take the caterer.”
“On it. Hey, wait, wait. I got a sort of something on the like crimes.” Hustling to keep up, Peabody studied her screen. “We got a pair of assaults, rapes, beatings. In-home deal, same as this. First one last summer, and the vics said he looked like Dracula. Second this November. Described assailant as a ghoul.”
“Mask or makeup?”
“Unsure, both cases. And in both cases he restrained the male, beat him with fists and a sap, beat and choked the female, raped her. He put on sound effects. Howling wolves in the first, screams and rattling chains in the second. Added lights in the second. A strobe light.”
Peabody glanced up quickly as they moved into the elevator. “Had a knife in the second attack, cut both vics a little, threatened to slit their throats if the male didn’t give him the combo of the safe, and the female didn’t shout he was the best. That she wanted more. He left all vics alive, releasing them—evidence indicates—he took the contents of the safe, a few other items, and raped her a final time.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Detectives Olsen and Tredway, Special Vics Unit.”
“Reach out. We need everything they have.”
4
Morning traffic thickened with loaded maxibuses lumbering, cabs and cars inching along the black ribbons of roads, and pedestrians pouring onto sidewalks.
Ad blimps blasted their relentless hype. Their current focus beat the retail drum for Valentine’s Day.
Eve didn’t get it, just didn’t get it. Who the hell decided everyone was supposed to go mad with romance and gift buying on some random day in February? Hadn’t everybody just gone mad with good cheer and gift buying in December?
When would it end?
When she said as much, snarling her way through the next vehicular tangle, Peabody sent her a sad, sad look.
“But it’s for sweethearts.”
“Oh, bollocks. It’s just another scam designed so restaurants and shops can con people into spending money on expensive dinners, bunches of flowers, and the sparkly things some poor schnook buys on credit thinking he’ll get lucky. You want to be sweethearts, stay home and bang your brains out.”
“It’s kind of nice doing that after a special night out.”
“Eat in bed, bang more. I caught this case a few years back. Couple’s doing the V-Day deal, big-time, retro, dinner and dancing at the Rainbow Room.”
“Romantic, classic.”
“Yeah, and while the guy’s dropping about two grand on overpriced pork medallions, the wife goes off to the john. While she’s in there, her ’link signals—left it or forgot it on the seat of the booth—and he takes a look. Turns out it’s a text from the guy she had a romantic room-service lunch and hotel sex with that same afternoon. So the husband takes a closer look, finds lots of sexy texts between his wife and hotel-sex guy where they have a couple of good chuckles about her clueless husband and his substandard banging.”
“Ouch.”
“So—” Eve spotted her chance, zipped to the curb in front of a massive delivery truck, which expressed its annoyance with a barking horn. “This caterer place should be about a block and a half west.”
She got out and, after judging the traffic, Peabody managed to nip out of the passenger side and squeeze between bumpers to the curb.
“What did the husband do?”
“He asked for the bill, signed for it. When the wife got back, he gave her the ’link, said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, bitch,’ and stabbed her in the neck with his dinner knife.”
“Holy shit. He killed her, right in the Rainbow Room?”
“They had a candlelit corner booth. Nobody noticed this woman bleeding out while her husband polished off the rest of the champagne. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“To me?”
“Stay home and bang.”
Peabody, muffled in her scarf, aimed a suspicious look. “You made all that up.”
“Elina and Roberto Salvador, 2055 or ’56—not quite sure. You can look it up.”
The minute they stepped into Jacko’s, the siren scent of yeast and sugar assailed them. Peabody audibly moaned.
“I didn’t know it was a bakery.” Peabody closed her eyes, drawing in the scent. “I didn’t know.”
Not just a bakery, Eve noted. Through a side opening, tables and chairs, a bar, and a hostess podium stood in the dark. But here, in this section, the lights were on and sparkling on glass displays of muffins and pastries, coffee cakes and breads with drizzles of white icing.
Staff in white smocks bagged, boxed, and rang up purchases briskly. Customers waited while others carried out those fragrant bags and glossy boxes.