J. Robb - Chaos in Death

“I can’t fault your logic. I rarely can.”

Her ’link signaled. “Dallas.”

“Dallas, I was in surgery.” Louise, still in scrubs, mask dangling, came on screen. “I just heard. I can’t quite believe it.”

“You knew them.”

“Yes. I’m actually Jen Darnell’s physician of record. I do her monthly exams. Did,” she corrected. “I’d see her often when I did a rotation at either the Center or Get Straight. And Coby, too, in the last few months. I met Wil recently. He hasn’t been in the program as long.”

“How well do you know Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood?”

“Very well. They were in Haiti helping to set up a new clinic when Charles and I got married or they’d have been at the wedding.”

“Eton Billingsly.”

Louise’s pretty face pruned. “He’s an excellent therapist and a complete jerk.”

“I need to talk to you about this.”

“I’ve got another surgery scheduled. It’s minor, but they’re already prepping the patient.”

“Have her and Charles meet us for drinks,” Roarke suggested and got a blank look from Eve.

“Here.” He simply nudged her aside. “Hello, Louise.”

“Roarke. I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Why don’t you and Charles meet us for drinks after work? You and Eve can discuss what needs to be discussed.”

“Yes, I think that would work.”

While Roarke set it up, Eve turned back to her board. She liked Louise and Charles, but wasn’t sure how she felt about her interview with a source turning into a social hour.

What the hell.

“Find somewhere to meet up near the crime scene,” Eve said, and gave Roarke the address. “I want to go back over it.”

“There.” Roarke turned away from the ’link when he’d finished. “Now you can talk to Louise, revisit your crime scene, and have a little time with friends. Interlude on West Eleventh, between Sixth and Seventh. At five, or as close as you can make it.”

He skimmed a fingertip down the dent in her chin. “It’s efficient.”

“I guess it is.”

“I’ve got a meeting shortly, so I’ll see you there.” Leaning down, he brushed his lips over hers. “Take care of my cop,” he told her, then left.

It should have weirded her out, Eve mused, sharing pizza and good-bye kisses, making dates for drinks in her office. It did, she admitted, but not as much as expected. Her gaze landed on the bakery box, narrowed.

She said, “Hmmm,” and, picking it up, walked out. She ignored the noses that came up sniffing as she passed through the bullpen, and caught a glide to Mira’s office.

The admin, busy on her comp, glanced up with a stern frown. “You’re early.”

“Then I’m not late.” Eve set the box on the desk. “Thanks for clearing time for me.”

Stern turned suspicious as the woman lifted the lid of the box a fraction, then more as she peered in. “Cookies? You brought me cookies?”

“They’re good. I had one. Is she free now?”

Still eyeing Eve, she tapped her earpiece. “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Of course. You can go right in.”

“Thanks.”

“Are these a thank-you or a bribe?” the admin asked as Eve moved to the door.

“They’re chocolate chip.” Pleased with herself, Eve stepped into the calm of Mira’s office.

Mira smiled from behind her desk. Maybe it was a shrink thing, Eve considered, thinking of Arianna. The warm looks, the pretty, feminine suits, perfect blend of color and jewelry.

“I know you don’t have much time.”

“Enough, I hope. Have a seat.” As Eve took one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs, Mira came around the desk, took the one facing. “I looked over the data, the crime-scene photos. My first question is, how sure are you there’s only one killer?”

“Very. We have a wit who saw him at the rear of the building, where he broke in. She worked with Detective Yancy.” Eve took out the sketch, offered it.

“Well.” In her placid way, Mira studied the sketch. “Now I have to ask, how good is your witness?”

“Again, I have to say very. I figure he geared himself up for it, added the drama. The wit says he danced in the streetlight, laughed his ugly ass off. My sense of the scene is frenzied glee. He had to be on something because killing three people that dead takes endurance.”

“I agree.” Mira tucked a lock of sable-colored hair behind her ear as she continued to study the sketch. “Theatrical, confident, organized. He knew where to break in, came prepared, and was able to kill, with extreme violence, three people, alone, and in a relatively short amount of time. Endurance, yes, and rage.”

She shifted, met Eve’s eyes with her own quiet blue ones. “I agree with your assessment that he has some sort of medical training. The amputations were skillfully done. I believe he’ll keep these trophies, these symbols. His victims are no longer able to see, hear, or speak of him.”

“But they had, prior to their deaths.”

“Almost certainly. They knew each other. Dancing, laughing, so yes, he enjoyed himself. He can celebrate—and in the light, perhaps hoping he’d be seen. Spotlighting after his success.

“He envied their friendship,” Mira continued. “Their bond, and their happiness. He won’t make friends easily, won’t feel that bond. He most likely lives alone, feels underappreciated at his work. He’s skilled. The elaborate disguise tells me he wants to be noticed, and doesn’t feel he is, not enough. Nothing is enough. He wants what others have—friends, family, community—and at the same time feels superior to them. He’s better than they are. ‘Take out the trash,’ he wrote, in their blood. That’s what he made them. And it amused him. He’s a series of contradictions, Eve. Two people—perhaps more—in one. You have a violent sociopath under the influence of a strong illegal. He’s both controlled and out of control, canny and reckless. He has a god complex battling with low self-esteem, a bitter envy, and has found satisfaction and personal delight in killing.”

“He’ll do it again.”

“As soon as he can.”

“This face. Under the makeup or the mask, whatever it is, could he have a deformity? The jaw’s extreme.”

“Yes, I see that, but a deformity such as this? He’d be in constant pain. It would be all but impossible for him to eat. His speech would be garbled. As someone with medical training, and connections, he would certainly have had this repaired.”

“A recent injury, accident?”

“Possibly,” Mira considered. “But again, I can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be treated. If, for some reason, he refused to have it treated and is dosing himself with painkillers and other drugs, it might explain the frenzy, the duality in his profile. But why would anyone endure the pain of this, the social stigma? And it contradicts, again, his confidence, his need to be seen as superior.”

“It must be faked. Peabody’s running down costume shops, theaters.” Eve paused a moment, changed angles. “Do you know Justin Rosenthall and Arianna Whitwood?”

“Yes. Arianna’s an excellent therapist. A bright, compassionate woman. She and her parents have done a great deal, not only in research and application on addictions and rehabilitation, but they built their Center with the purpose of treating the whole person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. They turned a personal tragedy into a great gift.”

“And Rosenthall?”

“Very skilled, remarkably gifted. More intense than Arianna, I’d say. It seems to me—though I don’t see or socialize with them often—she’s softened that intensity. Before Arianna, he was much more of a loner, and rarely stepped away from his work. Not unlike someone else,” Mira said with a smile. “With her, he remains skilled, gifted, dedicated to his work, but he’s happier. And not capable of murdering three people like this.”