She thought of Roarke and of herself. Motherless child. "What if he doesn't know her?"
"Then he forms them another way. But a man who seeks to exploit and hurt and abuse women will certainly have some female figure in his life who these represent to him."
"If I stop one, do I stop both?"
"If you stop one, the other will self-destruct. But he may very well kill on his way down."
She did what she did when there was too much data, too many threads, too many angles to all mix and match and tangle.
She went back to the victim.
When she used her master to uncode the police seal and unlock Bryna Bankhead's apartment, she blanked her mind of facts, and opened it to impressions.
The air was stuffy. There was no scent of candlewax or roses now, but the faint, dusty odor left behind by the sweepers.
No music. No softly glowing light.
She ordered the lights on full, checked that the privacy screen was in place, then wandered the room while an airbus rattled across the graying sky beyond the glass.
Strong colors, contemporary art, and still essentially female. The attractive nest of a single woman of very defined style and taste who enjoyed her life and her work.
A woman young enough that she had yet to form any serious or permanent sexual relationships. And confident enough to experiment. Adventurous enough to form a fanciful attachment with a faceless man over the 'net.
She'd lived alone, both tidily and fashionably, but was friendly with her neighbors.
Very eclectic music library,Eve mused as she flipped through the discs filed orderly in the entertainment unit. She came acrossMavis: Live and Kicking, and despite the grim task felt the grin stretch over her face.
Her friend, Mavis Freestone, nearly always made her grin.
But it had been classical that night, Eve remembered. His choice or hers? His, she decided. It had all been his choice.
His fingerprints on the wine bottle. He'd brought it with him, opened it, poured. His fingerprints along with hers on one wineglass, only his on the second.
Handed her the wine. Perfect gentleman.
She walked into the bedroom. The sweepers had bagged the rose petals. The bed had been stripped down to bare mattress. Ignoring it, Eve opened the balcony doors, stepped out.
The wind lifted the choppy ends of her hair, streamed it back away from her face. It was starting to rain, soft, thin drops that fell soundlessly.
Her stomach pitched but she made herself step to the rail, made herself look down.A long drop, she thought.Long last step.
What had made him think of the balcony? There was no indication he'd been to the apartment before.
She replayed the security disc in her head and watched Bryna and her killer approach the front door of the building from the street. No, he hadn't looked up at the building, New Yorkers never did anyway. They'd been completely absorbed in each other.
Why had he thought of the balcony?
Why hadn't he just run in panic as he had in the cybercafe? Because part of his brain had stayed cool enough to click into survival mode both times. Had he thought the chemicals wouldn't show on a tox screen? Had he thought that far ahead?
Or just the first desperate step? He lives in the moment, Mira had said. And the moment had been shocking.
She's dead, and I'm in such trouble. What should I do?
Self-termination ploy. Toss her away. Out of sight, out of mind. But why not clean up evidence and leave it as a potential self-overdose and buy more time to escape?
To cause confusion,she decided,as he had in the cafe. He could have uploaded a virus in the single unit, but programmed it to spread. And was knowledgeable enough about those who frequented such places to be sure a riot would result.
A woman splats on the sidewalk, witnesses are shocked, stunned, afraid. They might run to the body or away from it, but they don't rush into the building looking for a killer – and the killer gains time to rush out and away.
But how did he think of the balcony?
As the rain thickened and began to plop, as her stomach churned at the height, she scanned the street, the neighboring buildings.
"Son of a bitch," she cursed softly as she read the sign:
COFFEE AND A BYTE.
It was hardly more than a hole in the wall. Ten tables fitted with low-end units. Counter service for six. But the coffee smelled fresh and the floors were clean.
The counter was manned by a droid of the fresh-faced, geek variety. His hair was styled to fall in a pointed brown flap across his forehead.
Two of the tables were occupied by the same type in human form, and the waitress was young and too perky not to be another automation.
"Hi! Welcome to Coffee and a Byte. Would you like a table?"
She had poofy blonde hair and lips the color of bubblegum. Her breasts were like two ripe melons that peeked rosily out of the bodice of her snug white top.
Eve imagined the geeks had nightly wet dreams with her name on them.
"I need to ask you some questions. Both of you."
The waitress, Bitsy according to her name tag, replied, "Everything's on the menu, including specials, but either Tad or I will be really happy to explain anything."
Bitsy and Tad. Eve shook her head.Jesus, who thought of this shit?
"Sit down, Bitsy."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not supposed to sit. Would you like to hear about today's coffee beverage?"
"No." Eve pulled out her badge. "This is a police investigation, and I have to ask you some questions."
"We're programmed to cooperate fully with the police and security, the fire, the health, and the emergency medical departments." This was from Tad, who whisked his flap of hair back with his fingers.
"That's good." She sensed movement and shifted to point at the thin-shouldered man who was trying to slide invisibly from behind his table. "There's no trouble here," she told him. "Just questions. Why don't you sit back down, relax? You might be able to answer some of them."
"I didn't do anything."
"Good. Keep not doing anything," she advised.
She turned back to the droids, but kept her body angled so the tables knew she had them in her scope. "You know what happened across the street? The woman who died?"
"Oh yeah." Tad brightened, a student with the answer for the teacher. "She got tossed out the window."
"There you go." Eve took the photo of Bryna Bankhead, laid it on the counter. "Did she ever come in here?"
"No, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am."
He blinked rapidly at that, trying to process. "I'm supposed to call female customers ma'am."
"I'm a cop, not a customer." Except… She sniffed the air. "Is that real coffee?" '
"Oh yes…" His face underwent several expressions, ended up baffled.
"Lieutenant," Eve said helpfully.
"Oh yes, Lieutenant. We serve only genuine soy products, with or without caffeine additives."
"Never mind." She held up the photo so both men at the tables could see it. "Either of you ever see this woman?"
The one who'd tried to slither out the door shifted in his seat. "I guess I did. I didn't do anything."
"We got that part. Where'd you see her?"
"Around. I live a couple blocks down. That's why I come here. It's close and it's not all crowded and noisy and full of freaks and slicks."
"Slicks?"
"You know, the ones who cruise cyber-houses to pick up dates. I do serious work here."
"You ever talk to her?"
"Nah. Women like that don't talk to guys like me. I just saw her sometimes is all. Around the neighborhood. She was really pretty, so I looked at her. I didn't do anything."
"What's your name?"
"Milo. Milo Horndecker."
Doomed,she thought,from birth to geekdom. "Milo, you keep telling me you didn't do anything, I'm going to start thinking you did." She pulled out the three stills of the three faces the killer had used. "Do you know any of these men?" She laid them on the counter first for Tad and Bitsy. And got simultaneous head shakes out of them.