J. Robb - Creation In Death

“Take one of the uniforms, get to her place of employment, her residence, talk to the person who reported her missing, to-”

“I know the drill, Dallas.”

“Right. Move on it, Feeney.” She clicked off. “Goddamn media.”

“You have to tell him, Dallas. You’ve got to tell Roarke about this.”

“I know, I know. I’ve got to get through this media crap first, and think. I have to think. Roarke will deal. He’ll have to deal with it.”

She’d think about that part later. At the moment, she could only think that it might be too late for Gia Rossi. She could only wonder what might have been done to her already.

H e cleansed her to Falstaff. It always put him in a happy mood-this music, this little chore. His partner needed to be absolutely clean before the work began. He particularly enjoyed washing her hair-all that lovely brown hair.

He enjoyed the scents, of course-that hint of citrus, the feminine fragrance mixed with the smell of her fear.

She wept as he washed her, blubbered a bit, which concerned him just a little. He preferred the screams, the curses, the prayers, the pleas, to incoherent weeping.

But it was early days yet, he thought.

The water he hosed her off with was icy, which turned the weeping to harsh gasps and small shrieks. That was better.

“Well now, that was refreshing, wasn’t it? Bracing. You have excellent muscle tone, I must say. A strong, healthy body makes such a difference.”

She was shivering now, violently, her teeth chattering, her lips pale blue. It might be interesting, he decided, to follow up the cold with heat.

“Please,” she choked out when he turned away to study his tools. “What do you want? What do you want?”

“Everything you can give me,” he replied. He chose his smallest torch, flicked on the flame, then narrowed it to the point of a pin.

When he turned, when her eyes wheeled toward that flame, she rewarded him with those wild, wild screams.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

He moved to the base of the table, smiled in delight at the high, elegant arch of her feet.

SHE HATED MEDIA CONFERENCES, BUT NEARLY always hated the media liaison more. It was suggested, by same, that Eve might prep for fifteen minutes with the media coach, and make use of the provided enhancements in order to present a more pleasant image on screen.

“Murder isn’t pleasant,” Eve snapped back as she strode toward the main doors of Cop Central.

“No, of course not.” The liaison jogged to keep up. “But we’re going to avoid words like murder. The prepared statement-”

“Isn’t going to be tasty when I stuff it down your throat. I’m not your mouthpiece, and this isn’t a political spin.”

“No, but there are ways to be informative and tactful.”

“Tact’s just bullshit with spit polish over it.”

Eve pushed through the doors. Tibble had opted for the steps of Central not only to show the sturdy symbol of the building, but, Eve guessed, to insure the briefing would remain short.

The March wind wasn’t being tactful.

She stepped up to the podium, and waited for the noise level to drop off. She picked Nadine out immediately. The bright red coat stood out like a beacon.

“I have a statement, then I’ll take a few brief questions. The body of a twenty-eight-year-old woman identified as Sarifina York was found early this morning in East River Park. It has been determined that Ms. York was most likely abducted last Monday evening, held against her will for several days. The method in which she was murdered and the evidence gathered so far indicates Ms. York was killed by the same individual who took the lives of four women in a fifteen-day period in this city, nine years ago.”

That caused an eruption, and she ignored it. She stood still and silent while questions and demands were hurled out. Stood still and silent until they ceased.

“The NYPSD has authorized and formed a task force. Its soul purpose will be to investigate this crime, and to apprehend and incarcerate the perpetrator. We will use every resource, every man-hour, and all the experience at our disposal to do so. Questions.”

They flew like missiles. But the fact that there were so many allowed her to cherry pick.

“How was she killed?” Eve repeated. “Ms. York was tortured over a period of days, and died as a result of blood loss. No, we do not have any suspects at this time, and yes, we are, and will continue to follow any and all leads.”

She fielded a few more, grateful her time was nearly up. She noted Nadine tossed out no questions, and had in fact moved out of the pack to talk on her ’link.

“You said she was tortured,” someone called out. “Can you give us details?”

“I neither can nor will. Those details are confidential to this investigation. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t give them to you so you could broadcast her suffering and cause yet more pain for her family and friends. Her life was taken. And that’s more than enough for outrage.”

She stepped back, turned, and walked through the doors of Central.

I t would take Nadine a few minutes to get up to Homicide and charm her way through any potential roadblocks to Eve’s office.

Besides, Eve thought, she could wait. Just wait.

First, Eve needed to speak to Roarke.

She caught the scent as soon as she stepped into the conference room, and much preferred it to the olfactory bombardment at Scentual.

Somebody, she thought, brought in gyros.

She made her way over to Roarke’s workstation, noted he’d gone for the cold-cut sub. He paused in his work long enough to pick up half the sub, hand it to her. “Eat something.”

She peered between the slabs of roll. “What is it?”

“No substance in nature, I can promise you. That’s why I said eat something.”

More to please him than out of appetite, she took a bite. “I need to talk to you.”

“If you’re after some answers on this chore you gave me, you won’t get any as yet. There are, literally, countless homes, private residences, warehouses, and other potential structures in New York, the boroughs, into New Jersey, that have been owned by the same person or persons or organization for the last decade.”

“How are you handling it?”

“Dividing into sections-quadrants, you could say. Subdividing by types of structure, then by types of ownership. It’s bloody tedious work.”

“You asked for it.”

“So I did.” Watching her, he picked up a bottle of water, drank.

“There’s something else. The lab’s identified the soap and shampoo used to wash down the vic.”

“Quick work.”

“Yeah, Dickhead’s got his teeth in it. He worked the case before.”

“Ah.”

“He uses extremely high-end products. Very exclusive. Only one outlet in New York, two locations. It’s yours.”

“Mine?” He sat back, eyes cold and hard on her face. “And so was the sheet he used.”

“That’s right.” Now, simply because it was there and so was she, Eve took another bite of mystery-meat sub. “Someone less cynical might think coincidence, particularly since you manufacture or own big, fat chunks of everything.”

“But you and I aren’t less cynical.”

“No, and so I tagged Feeney and put you into the Missing Persons search he was running. You’re not going to like it.”

“Who is she?”

“Gia Rossi.” She picked up his water, took a gulp. “She’s a trainer and instructor at BodyWorks. Do you know her?”

“No.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes a moment, then dropped them. “No, I don’t believe so. Were there any of these connects, any of these overlaps in the previous investigation to me or mine?”