J. Robb - Possession in Death

“We'll set it up. Get you heat source imagery.”

“I need the exits secured,” she continued. “And there are a lot of them: doors, windows, fire escapes, roof access. Elevators are down. If Korchov's in his apartment, we secure him. If he's not, we find him. We're also looking for the murder weapon. A dagger, seven and a quarter inches, likely a chipped tip. Renicki, Jacobson, you're on the apartment. Baxter, Trueheart, Peabody, we'll take the basement.” She glanced at Roarke. “We'll take the civilian.”

A locked door, she thought, would be easier to deal with if they had a thief — former — along.

“Feeney, McNab, Callendar, you run the electronics. I want locations, movements. Once the suspect, the sister, the nephew are secured, you'll move in.”

She went over the rest of the assignments, detailing the operation stage by stage.

This is what she did, she told herself. This was the logic, the instinct, the training. And if there was something inside her urging her, all but begging her to hurry, she had to ignore it.

“I want all of you to watch your asses,” she concluded. “This man is suspected of abducting and imprisoning at least nine women, very likely killing them when he was finished. He's suspected of slicing up a ninety-six-year-old woman in broad daylight. Just because he used to wear tights and ballet shoes doesn't mean he's not dangerous.”

“Potentially very,” Mira confirmed, “when cornered, when desperate. I'll ride with EDD,” she added. “If any of his victims are alive, I may be able to help.”

“Appreciate it.” She looked at Morris. “And if they aren't.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Let's get moving. Load it up, ride it out. Father Lopez, if I could have a moment.”

She gestured him to the side of the room. “I don't make a habit of calling a priest into an op, but — ”

“I'm grateful you did in this case. I'll do whatever I can to help.”

“You were there when Szabo died. You did the Last Rites thing. I figured if the old woman was Catholic, the girl probably is. Between you and Mira she'd be covered.”

“It's kind of you.”

She didn't know if it was — didn't know if it had been her impulse to call him in or if she'd been directed.

“How are you, Eve?”

“Hell if I know, and I don't have a lot of time to think about it right now.”

“If you need me — ”

“I'm hoping not to go there. No offense.”

He smiled at her. “None taken.”

“I'll need you to stay in the EDD van with Mira until we're clear.”

“Understood, even if it's disappointing not to be able to get in on some of the action.”

“This devil's my fight. Stick with Mira,” she said before she started toward Roarke.

“I can't figure out how you connected the dots.” Peabody stopped her. “The basement, all those missing women, the soft-spoken piano player. I feel like I missed a couple dozen steps.”

“Things just started falling into place. Let's just say I followed Szabo. She was already closing in. Check with Reo. See if she's got the warrant.”

She continued on to Roarke. “I need to ask you for something.”

“Are you asking your husband or your civilian?”

“Looks like you're both. I need you to stay close to me. If I start to lose it — ”

“You won't.”

“If, I think you can help me stay grounded. She's in here.” Eve touched a hand to her chest. “This is the guy who took Beata, the guy who killed her. She might want some payback. If it looks like I'd turn that way, stop me. You stop me.”

“I have every confidence in Lieutenant Dallas, but if it makes you feel easier, I won't let you do anything you'll regret.”

“Good. But be, you know, subtle about it.”

He had to laugh. “You are absolutely you. All right then, while preventing you from taking a dead Gypsy's revenge, I'll do whatever I can to preserve your dignity. How's that?”

“It'll do.”

She reviewed the blueprints again on the way to the building, checked in with her teams, focused on the work.

“We go in the front, pass the main stairs, to the right and straight to the basement access door. It's going to be locked. If the master doesn't work, we use the battering ram or” — she glanced at Roarke — “other means. If Feeney picks up images down there, we follow his lead. Otherwise, Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart, take this sector. Roarke and I this one. One of you sees a mouse riveting, everybody hears about it. We clear sector by sector. If a door's locked, take it down. Call for backup if you need it.”

She toggled to the exterior view. “Locations of cams are highlighted. I don't see anybody watching them this time of night. But there are very likely cams down there not on the blueprints.”

Think like him, she ordered herself. Not like a frantic old woman.

“He'd want to watch her, and want his area secured in and out. Can't have somebody stumbling across her, and can't let her find a way out. If Renicki and Jacobson lock him down, they can work him for more information — but we won't count on getting it. We'll bring in the others, and we'll go through every inch of that basement.

“Feeney,” she said into her mic, “give me the word.”

“Got nothing in the suspect's place. Got two in the other apartment. Everything else aboveground is clear. Got nothing for you in the basement, but there are voids down there, Dallas, either due to the thickness of walls, jammers, or sensor blocks.”

“Tucks them up tight,” she murmured. “Give me the location of the voids.”

She keyed them in, felt the adrenaline begin to pump. “We hit those first. If he's not upstairs and didn't go for a goddamn walk, he's down there with her now. We're green. All teams, we're green. Move.”

She jumped out of the back of the transport, weapon out. She prayed she hadn't missed a deeper level of security, prayed he wasn't monitoring the cameras as she used her master to access the main door.

Cops spread out to the exits, up the stairs, moving quick and quiet while she and her team rushed to the basement door.

“Master's ineffective.”

“Give me a minute,” Roarke told her. “Battering rams are crude, and they're noisy.”

She stepped back to give him room, mentally checking off each exit as her men reported them secure.

When Roarke's clever tools and fingers unlocked the door, she signaled to Peabody. “High and left,” she told her, “then straight down.”

She went in low and right — and knew immediately her instincts had been on target.

Lights burned in the ceiling, dim but activated. The old metal stairs led down to a concrete floor, thick walls, narrow corridors.

She signaled Peabody to lead her team, then set off in the opposite direction with Roarke.

They passed through a cavernous room piled with old furniture, lamps, fabrics, down another dim corridor. She heard the clink and hum of the building mechanicals as they moved through a utility area where tools were neatly stored on freestanding shelves.

“This area needs to be maintained,” she said quietly, sweeping with her weapon as Roarke did the same with the one he'd slipped out of his pocket. “Wherever he keeps them has to be soundproofed and fully secured.”

“This sector's void's west. Down that way.”

Eve started to turn, then went into a crouch, weapon up. Her muscles trembled as the ballerina blocked her way.

“I can't get out,” the woman said and held out her hands. “We can't get out. Can you help me?”

“You have to wait.”

“Eve?”

“It's Vanessa Warwich.” Eve fought off shudders as her skin shivered from the sudden cold. “You have to wait a little longer.”

“I couldn't dance anymore.” She lifted her sparkling white skirt. “He cried when he killed me.” She touched her fingers to the gaping slice across her throat. “But I couldn't dance anymore.”