28

Armitage, Ancha
Dieron Military District, Draconis Combine
15 September 3136

There was a cop’s butt parked on every available stool in the diner, but they snagged the last vacant table, tucked in a far corner. An overweight blonde with hair from a bottle arrived with two heavy white porcelain mugs and a pot of fresh-brewed coffee. Thereon ordered cherry pie; Loveland chose lemon chess. He watched as the waitress chunked out a wedge and then laid his plate on the table without it making a sound. Prolonging the moment, Loveland inhaled, smelled lemon and buttermilk and sugar, then forked off a bite into his mouth. The tartness made him moan.

Thereon just ate. He was a man who understood that food was fuel, and that was it.

Loveland was on his second piece of chess pie when he said, ‘‘So what do you think?’’

Thereon’s smoke-gray eyes fixed him over the rim of his coffee mug. ‘‘I think Petrie bagged us a cold hit that matches the hit on our Jane Doe. I think we got some kind of armor lubricant is what I think.’’

‘‘Yeah, but those are facts,’’ Loveland said, his mouth full of pie. ‘‘And what the hell sense does body armor make?’’

Thereon shrugged as he pulled out his noteputer. ‘‘It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s a finding awaiting an explanation. We know our unsub is methodical. He plans. We now know for sure that he’s got surgical experience because he had to strip Petrie’s hands without making a mistake, and the arterial supply to Petrie’s skin was both cauterized and knotted. Throwing a surgeon’s knot with suture isn’t easy.’’

‘‘Meaning our guy could be a surgeon. Or a lab tech. A surgical nurse. Even a forensic pathologist.’’ Loveland stared moodily at his unfinished pie then slid the plate away with his thumb. He’d lost his appetite. ‘‘Man, I don’t want to think about that.’’

‘‘We’re going to have to because not only is this guy smart, he’s changed, a lot. The common denominator for the women on Towne was location. Now, since that Proserpina killing last February, they’ve all been prostitutes, all dark-skinned, most of them tall.’’ He waggled his noteputer. ‘‘Do me a favor. Beginning with the Proserpina killing, when he went strictly to darker women, chart out the murders in sequence. Eliminate Towne; eliminate the outliers on Devil’s Rock and Irian.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Loveland fished out his noteputer, thumbed it to life and tapped in data. ‘‘What am I looking for?’’

‘‘With this many dots, there’s got to be a connection. Up to now, we’ve looked at the victims. But maybe it’s something about the sequence we’re not seeing.’’

Loveland watched as his computer icon told him how hard the computer was working and he’d just have to hold his horses. ‘‘Like what?’’

‘‘If I knew, I’d tell you. But I was thinking about what that old lady said. That guy in the wheelchair not having a face. Remember that?’’

‘‘What? You think our guy stripped off the face like he did Petrie’s hands?’’

‘‘No, I don’t think that’s it. What I want to know is why he took that person but left the wheelchair. This is a guy who only takes what he needs.’’

‘‘So you’re saying maybe he needed this guy.’’

‘‘But not his wheelchair. He left that for us. He knew we’d eventually find Petrie. What if Wheelchair Guy was dead? Dead weight’s heavy, but we already know our unsub is big because Petrie was big. He lifted weights; he was in shape. And that lubricant, it’s for armor, right? So what if Edwina Jeffries couldn’t see a face because it was behind a visor or helmet?’’

Loveland opened his mouth to reply, but his noteputer dinged. ‘‘Okay, all I got here is a bunch of dots. What am I supposed to be seeing?’’

‘‘Have your noteputer connect the dots sequentially.’’

Loveland’s brows knit. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Just a hunch. Try it.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Loveland shrugged, poked buttons, watched as his noteputer drew a straight line from Towne to Murchison to Halstead Station, and then another line that began at Proserpina and swooped like a scythe, cutting through David, Galatea and back to Murchison, then arcing through Galatea III . . . ‘‘What am I supposed to be seeing?’’

‘‘What does the figure look like?’’

‘‘Well, it’s a line, then an arc, then . . .’’ His voice died. ‘‘Holy shit.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Thereon’s voice was flat. ‘‘You see it?’’

‘‘It’s a K. A cursive, goddamned, capital K.’’ Loveland uncapped a pen, snatched up a napkin and quickly scratched out an elongated capital K in black ink. ‘‘The murders follow the sequence of strokes required to make a K.’’

‘‘K—for Kappa.’’

‘‘No,’’ Loveland said, ‘‘not just Kappa. Who’s been to all these planets? Who uses armor, battlearmor?’’ He didn’t wait for Thereon to answer. ‘‘That’s a K for Katana: Katana Tormark and the Fury. Because what about her is the same as our murder victims?’’

‘‘My God.’’ Thereon stared. ‘‘Skin color. Tormark’s skin color is . . . was roughly the same as every single victim’s since Proserpina. And Petrie . . .’’

‘‘Told his wife he was going to Halstead Station where Tormark’s people are headquartered,’’ Loveland said. ‘‘Jesus Christ, Thereon. Kappa, our unsub . . . he’s one of them.’’