J. Robb - Dead Of Night

No, Eve thought, there wouldn’t be. He didn’t take her there. “Start an immediate search in a five-block radius. Repeating description. Subject is female, Caucasian, age thirty-four, black and brown, last seen wearing black pants, black shirt, red jacket.”

Eve ended the transmission, stared out the windshield. “I know it,” she said, though Roarke had said nothing. “I know it. He didn’t leave her alive.”

Eve scanned sidewalks, the buildings as they approached Allesseria’s apartment. It was a tough, low end of the lower-middle-class neighborhood. Most self-respecting muggers would hunt for scores a few blocks away in any direction.

Pickings would be slim here, and the population willing to fight for what they carried in their pockets. Street level LCs would troll for johns elsewhere, too. All in all, the handful of blocks were safe simply because they were poor enough not to warrant much trouble.

But Allesseria Carter hadn’t been safe.

Eve’s gaze zeroed in on a subway exit. “Pull over, park wherever you can. She’d take the subway, wouldn’t she? Cheap and quick. If she did, this would’ve been her route home.”

She slammed out of the car the minute Roarke stopped, then pulled out her ’link to replay the message. Looked for landmarks. “It’s dark, and it’s mostly her face, but…” She held up her own ’link as if relaying a message, then looked over her left shoulder. “See here, could be that building in the background.”

She kept walking, studying the screen, the street. “Here, he took her right about here. Somebody would’ve picked up her ’link by now, or he did, but it was right about here he attacked.”

She scanned again, focused on a narrow building sagging between a Thai market and a boarded-up storefront. It was plastered with graffiti, and what looked like an old, torn CONDEMNED sign.

Eve took out her communicator, requested backup at the location. Then drawing her weapon, she started toward the door. “You carrying anything besides half the wealth of the world in your pocket?”

“Burglary tools, though this won’t require them.”

She nodded, reached down, and took her clutch piece out of its ankle holster. “You’re deputized, ace.” She sucked in a breath, kicked in the door.

She went in low and to the right while he took high and left in a routine they’d danced before. Sunlight dribbled through the broken windows, striking off shards of glass, filth, vermin droppings.

And blood.

Eve could smell it-not just the blood, but the death. That heavy human stench.

Roarke took out a penlight, shone it on the trail of smeared red.

He’d left her splayed on the floor, arms and legs spread out so her body formed a gruesome human X. Most of her clothes had been torn off, leaving only ragged remnants of black clinging to skin mottled with bruises.

Her blood spread out in a pool from the puncture wounds in her throat. Her eyes hadn’t lost their horror with death, but stared at the ceiling in a fixed expression of abject terror.

“Didn’t take her blood with him this time,” Eve said quietly. “Didn’t come prepared for that. But he made sure to hurt her plenty before he bled her out. Got off on her pain, got off on the power. See how he spread her out? Motherfucker.”

Roarke touched a hand to Eve’s shoulder. “I’ll get your field kit.”

She worked the scene; it’s what she did. What she had to do. She could follow the trail of blood, of smeared footprints, and see Allesseria being dragged inside.

Kicking, Eve thought, her work shoes thudding hard against the broken concrete steps. Hard enough to cut through the cheap canvas before he’d hauled her inside.

He’d punctured her throat immediately, only steps inside the door. There was spatter against the dirty wall where she’d gushed. Where she’d collapsed. Dragged her unconscious from there, she noted. Gave himself a little more room to work. To beat her with his fists, to rape her. All while the blood ran out of her.

But he’d taken some, too. Ingested it, bottled it. She’d find out.

“Time of death oh-three-thirty,” she said for the record. “Took her about an hour to die.” She sat back on her haunches. “A block and a half from home.”

She looked over at Roarke. He stood, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The morning air fluttered in the broken windows, stirred his dark hair. And lifted the smell of ugly death all around them.

“He could’ve taken her in the club, anywhere in the underground. She might never have been found, and we’d never prove a thing if she’d been murdered down there.”

“He wanted you to find her,” Roarke agreed. “He’s making a statement.”

“Yeah, oh, yeah, because he didn’t have to do this. Even if she recants, he’d find ten others to back his alibi. Ten others he’d bribe or intimidate. He didn’t have to kill her, and certainly not like this.”

“He enjoyed it.” Roarke shifted his gaze, met Eve’s eyes. “Just as you said. Payback was secondary to the killing.”

“And he wanted it to be me who found her,” Eve added. “Because of that click last night, that mutual recognition. But he’s too cocky for his own good. There’ll be DNA again, and he’ll have picked up some of this dirt. Shoes, clothes. He’ll have transferred some of this dirt, this blood, and the sweepers will find it.”

“He attacked her while she was on the ’link-to you, Eve.” Reaching out, Roarke took her hand, lifted her to her feet. “That’s another statement.”

“Yeah, and I’m hearing him. Just like he’s going to hear me, really soon.” She looked over as Peabody came in.

“Nothing on the canvass so far,” Peabody reported. “I got in touch with the ex-husband. He lives a few blocks from here. He’s on his way.”

“We’ll take him outside. He doesn’t need to see this.” Nobody needed to see what cops had to see. “Body can be bagged and tagged. There’s nothing else she can tell us here. Let’s see what she says to Morris.”

She went out, grateful for the sunlight, and for the smell that was New York rather than death. She started to reach for her ’link to nag the lab yet again, when she spotted a six-and-a-half-foot black man with a body like a linebacker sprinting across the street against the light.

He wore short dreads, sweatpants, and a T-shirt, and an expression of fear in his topaz eyes. When he tried-and was well on his way to succeeding-shoving past the uniforms at the crime-scene barricade, she called out, went over.

“Rick Sabo?”

“Yes. Yes. My wife-my ex-wife. A detective called and said…”

“Let him through. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Sabo. I’m sorry about your ex-wife.”

“But are you absolutely sure it’s her? She had a panic button, a ministunner. She knew how to handle herself. Maybe-”

“She’s been identified, I’m sorry. When did you-”

She broke off when he just crouched down, dropped his head in his hands as a man would if pierced by a sudden and unspeakable pain. “Oh, God, oh, God. Alless. I can’t…I told her to quit that goddamn job. I told her.”

“Why did you tell her to quit her job?”

He looked up, but since he didn’t straighten, Eve hunkered down with him. “She worked in this cult club-vampire shit-which is bad enough. But it was underground, off Times Square. It wasn’t safe, it’s not safe down there, and she knew it.”

“Then why’d she work there?”

“Made three times what she made on street level. Sometimes four with tips. No doubles. She wanted to buy a house, a little house, maybe in Queens. We’ve got a boy.” His eyes watered up. “We got Sam, and she wanted a place out of the city. We share custody of Sam. But, Jesus, I told her it wasn’t worth it. I went down to check it out right after she took the job. Goddamn pit in a goddamn sewer. Alless.”