• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Interrogating her,” Eve said to Morris. “If it was a straight torture killing, he’d have done more. Cut her up some, broken more bones, burned her more severely and over more of her body. There’d most likely be some sexual abuse, or trauma to the breasts and genitals.”

“Agreed. He just wanted to hurt her. On the male, he skipped the interrogation portion of the program. Went from beating to strangling.”

“Because the woman told him what he needed to know, gave him what he needed to have,” Peabody concluded.

“And the second vic had to die because the first told the killer her boyfriend knew what she knew, or had seen what she’d seen. The motive’s in her,” Eve murmured.

At Central, Eve sat at her desk downing coffee and adding data and notes to her initial reports. She put in another call to the PA’s office to check on the warrant, got the runaround.

Lawyers, she thought. The accounting firm’s lawyers had knee-jerked a motion to block the warrant. Not unexpected, Eve mused, but they’d get it—not likely before the end of the business day, however.

She knee-jerked herself and called to harass the lab. The evidence had been gathered, was being processed. They weren’t miracle workers. Blah, blah.

What she had was two DBs—a couple—killed in their separate homes a few blocks apart, about an hour apart. Female first. Same employer, different departments. Violent deaths, missing comp units and data discs.

No known enemies.

The killer had to have personal transportation, she mused. Can’t go hauling d-and-c units from murder scene to murder scene.

Frowning, she checked her incoming to see if Peabody had determined the types of units the victims owned. And found her efficient partner had copied her the list of units registered to both. Two desk units, two PPCs.

And that didn’t include the memo books—no required registration with CompuGuard—they must have owned, which, like the comps, hadn’t been on either scene.

Good equipment and fairly compact, she thought as she took a look at the models, but she couldn’t see the killer hauling Copperfield’s machines up Byson’s emergency evac.

No, he’d had a vehicle to transport them, to lock them safely away while he finished his night’s work.

Where did he park? Did he live close to either scene? Did he work alone?

Brought the binding tape with him, and probably the stunner, the laser pointer or whatever tool he’d used for the burns—preparation. Used weapons on hand for the killings. Opportunistic.

Knew female vic’s building lacked security cams, alarms. And that the second scene had better security. Scoped them out first, preparation again. And/or had personal knowledge of the scenes.

Had he been inside before the murders?

Prior personal contact with the victims?

She rose, set up her board, then sat again, angling her chair so she could study the faces of her dead.

“What did you know, Natalie? What did you have? What did you figure out? Had you worried, whatever it was.”

Called in sick the morning of the murder. Put on an extra lock, security peep, in a place you were moving out of in a few months. Yeah, you were worried.

But not enough to tell the sister, or the boss she was allegedly friendly with.

But Bick went into work that morning. Maybe not as worried, maybe to keep an ear to the ground.

And not worried, not scared enough to have the boyfriend come over, stay the night.

Not scared for your life, Eve concluded, despite the knife in the bedroom. Shook, upset, nervous—careful. But not scared for your life. Probably felt stupid, even a little embarrassed when you brought that knife into the bedroom with you. But you’re not scared enough to call the cops, even move in with the fiancé for a few days.

Maybe working on something. Liked your space, your quiet. But it gets dark, you’re a little wiggy.

To refresh herself, she called up the replay from Palma’s pocket ’link, reviewed the transmission to her sister.

Hey, Nat!

Palm. Where are you?

Somewhere over Montana. Vegas/New York runs,