She took out her ’link, noted the goo dribbling down the cone. What the hell, she thought, and licked at it.
Roarke came on screen.
“I’m done here, and have a couple things to follow up on. Where—”
“You have ice cream?”
“Yeah, it was a gift.”
“I wouldn’t mind ice cream.”
“Anybody who does is just sad. I’m heading back to the car, so—”
“Why don’t I walk with you,” he said, coming out of a room on the right as she walked to the elevator. “And share your ice cream.”
“I think it’s Fudge Sludge.”
“An unfortunate name.” He leaned down, sampled. “But tasty. How’s the girl?”
“Wounded, fragile, and stronger than she thinks she is. Between her and Melinda I got matching brown leather shoes and belt—both with silver buckles, a leather knife sheath, monogrammed I.M., and a vid cam with tripod. He never used a cam before. None of the other vics mentioned being recorded.”
“A recording can be found, and would incriminate. From what I read in his file, he didn’t need that kind of thing. He doesn’t have to relive what he can simply live again.”
“Exactly. He had the girls. If he wanted a replay, he could just pick one. He didn’t document because he’s smart.”
“But he’s not attempting to hide what he’s doing this time. He’s already convicted. So he needs the vid to relive the moment, at least between victims?”
“I don’t think so. He made it for me. This thing’s dripping.”
Roarke took out a spotless white handkerchief, sacrificed it by wrapping it around the cone. And took payment in ice cream before handing it back. “For you?”
“He made her scream for me while he was raping her.”
“Christ. That’s it for my appetite.”
In agreement, she tossed the cone in a recycler. “I’m going to check the evidence list, but I didn’t see any cam or tripod on it. So he took it with him, which says he means to use it again.”
“Another girl?” At her hesitation, his jaw tightened. “No, you’re saying he means to use it with you, not for you. To record you, once he has you. Perhaps for me, perhaps just for himself.”
“It demonstrates he’s still confident. And she gave me another tidbit that confirms—in my mind—he’s still here.”
She opened the car door, slid inside.
“When his partner left the room for a snack and a hit, he talked about keeping Darlie. Not to her, she said, and I think she was right about that. This was thinking out loud, not indulging in his sick version of pillow talk. He talked about getting them a new mommy, and that reinforces the profile. The partners are Mommy, in his very, very sick version. He mentioned having Dallas at their feet. I can’t pin down whether he meant me or the city. Maybe both. But he did talk about going back to New York. Later.”
“You believe he already had his backup location set here.”
“I think he had it set for a long time. I’ve got to work it out in my head. I need to filter some of the excess out of my head and get to it.”
She pushed a hand through her hair. “Anyway.” She contacted Lieutenant Ricchio, relayed the data.
“I should go back to his place, get a better feel for it, for what he took, what he left. What he—”
“And how is adding yet more helping you sift through the extra crap in your head?”
“Shoving more in there gives me more to work through, and with. I couldn’t get a feel for the place before. It was too crowded, and . . . I wasn’t at my best.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Mira’s at the hotel.”
“I’m not ready for Mira. I’m not ready to yank my mind and guts open. I need to feel I’ve done all I can. I need to do what I’d do under any other circumstances. What I’d do is go back to the scene.”
“All right, we’ll go back to the scene. Then that’s enough, Eve. That’s bloody all for the day.”
Not if they got any sort of a hit, she thought, but didn’t argue.
“Park in the garage,” she told Roarke when they approached the building. “That’s the way he’d have gone in and out routinely.”
She got out of the car. Minimum security, but still it was there. He’d have jammed the cameras when he brought Melinda, then Darlie in. Dallas EDD would work with the discs. If they pulled anything out, she’d take a look. But for now . . .
“You know he may have kept the second ride here, right under her nose. How would she know? Why pay to store it somewhere else, and have to go get it? Plus, it’s just like him. He loves screwing with people, pulling the con, making them a fool.”
“I asked for copies of the building security. We can review them.”
“Yeah, you never know.” She studied the area, the setup, and yes, began to get the feel of it. “He’d bring them in late, reduce risk of running into another resident or visitor. But he’d jam the elevator. No one up or down but him until he was inside. He puts them in a kind of twilight sleep. Walks them right up. Uses the stairs, that’s why he likes a lower floor.”
She started up. “Quiet. Quick. Confident, but excited, too. Especially this time because it’s been so long. The partner goes out first, clears the hall.”
Roarke obliged.
“And they walk the vic right in,” Eve said, stepping out, using her master to uncode the police seal.
“Melinda, straight into the holding room. But Darlie, into the bedroom.” She crossed to it. “Put her down a little deeper, secure her hands to the headboard. It’s a form of paralytic. The vic is aware, but immobilized. He can’t have her squirming around when he does the tat. He’s a perfectionist.”
She visualized it. Stripping the girl, touching her—but just a little, not too much now. Removing his clothes, putting them away. Neat and tidy. Then the tools, the tat.
“Camera’s in the closet.” She walked over, opened it. “He took the brown shoes,” she noted. “The ones Melinda remembered. He took time to select what he’d pack. Nothing rushed or spur of the moment. Nothing carelessly discarded. Except the shirt with his partner’s blood on it.”
She studied the ties again, the duplicates, thought of Melinda’s statement. Just stood there—indecisive.
Considering, she fingered the sleeve of a jacket, a shirt. “Nice. Nice material. He must’ve hated leaving some of this, especially since he couldn’t have had time to wear a lot of it. He’ll want replacements. Will he wait until New York? I don’t know. Can’t say.”
She stepped out of the closet.
“Dallas at their feet. If he means the city, he’s got a place posher than this. He’s tired of the middle-class scene. He bought too many swanky clothes to suit this neighborhood. Not just a few select pieces like before. So, he’s planning, he’s thinking it’s time to move up, where he belongs. He’ll need to bring me there now, so it’s either set up for that or he needs to do it.”
She walked into the bath, stood there, studied, moved out and on, back into the living area where her mother’s blood stained the floor.
Did she believe herself unaffected by it, Roarke wondered. Didn’t she realize she looked at everything but the blood?
“He spends a lot of time out here. He likes the space. A cage is so confining. He can watch Melinda, then Darlie on the monitor, or catch up with some screen, listen to music, read. But he’d get itchy. He needs to be out and about. He needs the city. He’ll go out, seek out places with people. Shops, restaurants, galleries, clubs. After he sends the partner away, he’d go out. He’d want to go out, get the smell of her out of his nose. Put on a new persona, sit at a bar or a table in some trendy club. Strike up conversations, flirt with some woman. If he could run a game, so much the better. Then he’d come back, lock up, check on his ‘guests.’ Maybe have a drink while he counted up his take. Then he’d sleep like a baby.”
She walked to the kitchen, checked the AutoChef, the friggie, the cabinets. “He left a lot of this behind, and you know, there’s a lot of duplication here, too. Does anybody need a half-dozen jars of stuffed olives?”