J. Robb - Creation In Death

“I was always too delicate for this, and so were you. He’s done over twenty women in the last decade, late twenties, early thirties, all of them. And all of them with brown hair, light skin. The last was found only yesterday. She worked for me.”

“Ah,” Brian said. “Well.”

“Another is missing-that’s part of his method-and she was mine as well.”

Brian sucked air through his nose. “Were you diddling with them, on the side, like?”

“No. He’d be older than we are, that’s how they’re profiling him. At least a decade older if not more. He’s very skilled. He travels. He must have enough of the ready to afford a place, a private place, to do this work. If he’s a professional, he takes this busman’s holiday every year or two. There’s no sex involved. No rape. He takes, binds, tortures, kills, cleanses. And he times how long each lasts under it.”

“I haven’t heard of anyone like this. Nasty business.” Brian pulled on his ear. “I can make some inquiries, tap a few shoulders.”

“I’d be grateful if you would.”

“I’ll be in touch if and when,” Brian told him. “Meanwhile, give Lieutenant Darling a sweet kiss from me, and tell her I’m only waiting for her to throw your worthless ass aside and come into my waiting embrace.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

After he’d ended the transmission, Roarke took the discs he’d generated and, with the machines still humming, left the office.

He found Eve where he’d expected to. Her head was on her desk, pillowed on her forearm. He noted the murder boards, the pair of them, the discs, the handwritten notes, the comp-generated ones.

The half cup of coffee, not quite cold-and the cat curled in her sleep chair.

He moved to Eve, lifted her out of the chair. She muttered some complaint, stirred, and shifted.

“What?”

“Bed,” he said as he carried her toward the elevator.

“Time is it? Jeez.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I must’ve conked.”

“Not for long, your coffee was still warm. We need to shut down, both of us.”

“Briefing at eight.” Her voice slurred with fatigue. “Need to be up by six. Need to organize first. I didn’t-”

“Fine, fine.” He stepped out of the elevator into the bedroom. “Go back to sleep, six will come soon enough.”

“You get anything?”

“Still running.” He set her on the bed, seeing no reason she couldn’t sleep in her sweats. Apparently neither did she as she crawled under the duvet as she was.

“Is there any data I can use? Anything I can work in?”

“We’ll see in the morning.” He stripped off his shirt, his pants, slid into bed with her.

“If there’s any-”

“Quiet.” He drew her against him, brushed her lips with his. “Sleep.”

He heard her sigh once-it might’ve been annoyance. But by the time the sigh was done, she was under.

IT WAS SO UNUSUAL FOR HIM NOT TO BE UP before her that Eve just stared into the Celtic blue eyes when he woke her by stroking her hair.

“You think of something?”

“Apparently, I inevitably think of something when I’m in bed with my wife.”

“Being a man-and you-you probably think of sex when you’re crossing the street.”

“And aren’t you lucky that’s true?” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But thinking’s as far as we’ll get this morning. You wanted to be up at six.”

“Oh, yeah. Shit. Okay.” She rolled onto her back and willed her body clock to accept morning. “Can’t you invent something that pours coffee into the system just by the power of mind?”

“I’ll get right on that.”

She climbed out of bed, stumbled her way over to the AutoChef. “I’m going to go down, swim a few laps. I think that’ll wake me up and work out the kinks.”

“Good idea. I’ll do the same. Give me some of that.”

She thought, crankily, he could easily get his own damn coffee, but she passed the mug to him, along with a scowl. “No water polo.”

“If that’s a euphemism for pool sex, you’re safe. All I want’s a swim.” He passed her back the coffee.

They rode down together, she bleary-eyed, him thoughtful.

The pool house was lush with plants, sparkling with blue water. Tropical blooms scented the warm, moist air. She would have liked to indulge herself with a strong twenty-minute swim, followed by more coffee and a soak in the bubbling curve of the hot tub.

And hell, since he was there, maybe just one quick match of water polo.

But it wasn’t the time for indulgence. She dove in, surfaced, then pushed off in a full-out freestyle. The dullness in her brain and body began to fade with the effort, the cool water, the simple repetition.

After ten minutes, she felt loose again, reasonably alert. She might have thought wistfully about lounging for just a couple of minutes in the hot, jetting water of the hot tub, but acknowledged the comfort of it might put her back to sleep.

Instead, she pulled on a robe. “Do you want to go downtown with me, or work from here?”

He considered as he scooped back his dripping hair. “I think I’ll stick with the unregistered, at least for the time being. If I manage to finish or find anything, I’ll contact you or just come down on my own.”

“Works.” She crossed to the elevator with him. “Any progress?”

“Considerable, but as of four a.m., nothing really useful.”

“Is that when we finished up?”

“A bit later, actually. And darling Eve, you haven’t had enough rest.” He touched her cheek. “You get so pale.”

“I’m okay.”

“And did you find anything useful?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

She told him about Summerset’s observation while they readied for the day.

“So you think it’s possible he was in one of the medical centers, in some capacity, during the Urbans.”

“It’s a thought. I did some research,” she added as she strapped on her weapon harness. “Not a whole lot of detail about it, that I’ve found so far anyway. But there were other facilities that used that same basic method. A handful here in New York.”

“Where he started this.”

“I’m thinking,” she agreed with a nod. “Something here in particular that matters. He starts here, he comes back here. There’s a wide, wide world out there and he’s used some of it. But now he repeats location.”

“Not just location. You and Feeney. Morris, Whitney, Mira. There are others as well.”

“Yeah, and I’m mulling on that. More usually if a repeat killer has a thing about cops, he likes to thumb his nose at us. Send us messages, leave cryptic clues so he can feel superior. We’re not getting that. But I’m mulling it.”

She took one last, life-affirming glug of coffee. “I’ve got to get started, or I won’t have myself lined up for the briefing.”

“Oh, I’m to tell you Brian’s waiting for you with open arms when you’re done with me.”

“Huh? Brian? Irish Brian?”

“That would be the one. I contacted him, asked him to look for torturers. He has connections,” Roarke continued. “And knows how to ferret out information.”

“Huh.” It struck her she’d married a man with a lot of unusual associates. Came in handy now and then. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

He moved to her, ran a hand over her hair again. “Take care of my cop.”

“That’s the plan.” She met his lips with hers, stepped back. “I’ll be in touch.”

I n briefing the team, Eve had everyone give their own orals on progress or lack of same. She listened to theories, arguments for or against, ideas for approaching different angles, or for pursuing old ones from a new perspective.

“If the Urbans are an angle,” Baxter put in, “and we look at it like this fucker was a medical, or he got his torture training back then, we could be looking for a guy pushing eighty, or better. That gives him a half-century or more on his vics. How’s a guy starting to creak pull this off?”