The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [323]
With a nod, Roarke walked over to stand with her. “It could be.”
“Image on wall screen,” Eve ordered. “I’ve done a split screen with the security cam feed from the entrance of each victim’s building. That’s Bankhead on the right. We know the killer is wearing a wig, face putty, and makeup. With this look he goes by the name Dante. On the left is Lutz, and there he goes by Dorian. The face jobs are good. Body type, height, more or less the same. Each can be altered easily enough—lifts, padding in the shoulders.”
She’d already studied the images, over and over. She knew what she was seeing now.
“Note how Dante holds her hand, kisses her fingers, holds the door open for her. The perfect dream date. Dorian’s got his arm around her waist. She’s looking up at him, starry-eyed as they approach the door. He’s not looking at her, no eye contact. It doesn’t matter to him who she is. She’s already dead.”
She switched images. “Here, Dante’s coming out. You can see the panic, the sweat. Christ, he’s thinking, how did this happen? How will I get out of it? But you see here, the exit from Grace’s place. The way he strolls out, almost a swagger, the way he looks back and smirks. He’s thinking: That was fun. When can I do it again?”
“The first theory would hold,” Roarke commented. “He’s building confidence and need and pleasure. A second would be he has different personalities for different looks, for different women. But you’ve a third theory.” Roarke looked away from the screen, looked at Eve. “You think you’re after two men.”
“Maybe it’s too simple. Maybe it’s what he wants me to think.” She sat, stared at the split screen again. “I can’t get inside him. I ran a probability on two killers. It came in just over forty-three percent.”
“Computers don’t have instincts.” He came over to sit on the edge of the desk. “What do you see?”
“Different body language, different styles, different types. But it could be role-playing. Maybe he’s an actor. Drinks at an expensive, romantic location, then the return to the victim’s apartment. He doesn’t dirty his own nest. Candles, wine, music, roses. So he uses the same staging. I haven’t got the results back on DNA, but the sweepers didn’t find any fingerprints but the victim’s and her neighbor’s in Grace Lutz’s apartment. Not on the wine bottle or the glasses, and not on her body. He sealed this time. Why is that, when he knew we’d have prints from the first murder?”
“If there are two—in reality or by personality split—they know each other intimately. Brothers of a sort,” Roarke said when Eve looked over. “Partners. And this is a game.”
“And they’d keep score. One each. They’d need a tiebreaker. I’m going to set up here to monitor some of the chat rooms where one of the screen names popped before.”
“Do it from my office. My equipment’s faster, and there’s more of it. Plus,” he added, knowing she was trying to think of a reason to refuse, “I can give you the list of the wine purchases.”
“Can you cross-reference that with purchases of Castillo di Vechio Cabernet, forty-three?”
“I can,” he agreed, pulling her to her feet. “If somebody keeps me company and has a glass of wine with me.”
“One glass,” she said and moved over into his office with him. “I may be at this for a while.”
“Just plug in the locations you want to monitor on this unit.”
She skirted the long black console, stood for a moment in front of one of his several sleek units. “I have to get them from the file.”
“Computer. Access Unit Six, Eve.” He perused the wine bottles in the rack behind his office bar. “Just enter the file name you want,” he told Eve, “and request copy.”
“Is there any point in saying that I keep official NYPSD data