She woke with a groan followed by a muttered curse.
“There she is.”
At his voice, she turned her head enough to see Roarke—jeans and a tee—sitting on the sofa with his feet up, his PPC in his hand.
“Is there a half ton of cat on my ass?”
“There is indeed. I can’t decide if he’s there to guard you from any and all intruders or just keep you down until you got some sleep.”
Reaching back, she scratched Galahad’s head before rolling him off.
“You’ve been home awhile,” she began, then checked the time. “Shit! It was supposed to be twenty minutes, thirty at the outside. I was out for over an hour.”
“And benefited from it. Hungry?”
She sat up, scrubbed her hands over her face. “I had a nosh earlier. I guess a lot earlier.”
“A nosh?”
“Jewish deli, slice of babka. It was really good. I could eat, but—”
“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“I’d say that was hitting below the belt, but it’s dead-on.”
“There’s cherry pie.”
She had a weakness for all things pie.
“Looking out for me, pal?”
“Whenever I can, but this one’s Summerset. He made it all today. He heard about the second girl. Cooking keeps his mind occupied.”
She nodded, slid out of bed. “Murder does that with mine.”
“We’ll set up in your office. Have a meal, a glass of Chianti, and you’ll tell me.”
She started to nod again, then remembered and dug a hand in her pocket. As he rose, she held out the cash she’d pulled.
He looked at it, at her, with eyes suddenly and dangerously cool.
“Why in bloody hell would you want to start a row?”
“I don’t. I’ve got too much to do to fight. So just listen, okay? Listen,” she insisted. “I know we’ve been here before, and mostly resolved things. I get you think it’s insulting, especially since you buy all my damn clothes, and whatever goes into the spaghetti I’m about to eat. But that’s just not it.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s on me. Completely on me, and I hate that I can’t at least shove a part of it on you. We could schedule a fight then, when I had more time, and”—she had to admit it—“I’d like that a hell of a lot better.”
“Should I check my book?” he asked, all too politely.
Her hackles—whatever the hell they were—went up hard when he used that tone on her.
But.
“No, because, fuck it, it’s on me. I’ve gotten careless, and that makes me feel stupid and, well, careless. I didn’t run short before you. Maybe skimmed close to it, but I paid more attention. I had to. Okay, I’ve got to sort this out so I can pay the rent, and get some crap coffee, like that. Now I don’t pay attention. Not enough. I forget to pay attention.”
“You don’t need to.”
“But I do. I do need to. Do you want me to feel stupid?”
He only lifted his eyebrow. “It would seem that’s in your hands, not mine.”
“Oh, fucking fuck.” Turning away, she tried counting to ten. Made it to five. “This money thing makes me feel stupid, and makes you feel insulted. Which would be in your hands, ace.”
He slid his hands into his pockets, felt the gray button he carried.
A cheap suit, loose threads, and she’d given him a talisman he carried everywhere.
“I suppose it is. Regardless, it should be somewhere in your Marriage Rules, that what we have, we share. The good and the bad of it.”
“It’s probably in there,” she muttered. Maybe she’d put an asterisk on that line to remove money from it—and that, she admitted, was on her, too.
“I just need to pay you back. It doesn’t mean anything to you, a few hundred. But it does to me, especially since I damn well know I’m going to get comfortable and careless again. Then I’ll feel stupid, and annoyed with both of us, when you peel off a few hundred and hand it to me like I’m…”
“My wife?”
She tried one more careful breath. “Your stupid, careless wife.”
“You’re neither of those things. Hardheaded, hard-assed come to mind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’d say we’re pretty evenly matched on that one.”
“Difficult to disagree.”
“I need to pay you back so it’s not such a big stupid deal every time, for both of us. It’s just a loan, not a ‘Here, dumbass who can’t keep enough cash in her pocket to pay for a slice of babka, let me peel off a few from the wad in the pocket of my zillion-dollar suit.’
“And it makes me feel more of a dumbass when I put the damn cash in the pocket of pants I not only didn’t have to buy, I didn’t have to think about buying. So I need to pay you back. That’s it.”
“Let me say this first. I enjoy filling your closet the way you never will. You shouldn’t begrudge me my small pleasures.”
“Only you would call that acreage of clothes in there small. And I’m standing here wearing stuff you put in there. I’m grateful for it.”
She stopped, shoved at her hair.
“Shit, I probably should’ve said that sometime along the way, probably a few dozen times. I am grateful you like what I hate, and I don’t have to carve out time for something I hate, like shopping.”
“I don’t need thanks,” he began, but she shook her head.
“Yes, you do. It’s not you paying for them, because, Jesus Christ, I don’t want to think about what you paid for these boots. It’s embarrassing. Even a little horrifying. Or it would be if I thought about it, so I try not to. It’s not the money. It’s the time and thought. I’m grateful for it.”
“Darling Eve.” He sighed it out, and his eyes had gone warm again. “You intrigue me, constantly. I know who you are, what you are, how you think, how you feel, and still, you intrigue me. Constantly.”
He took a step toward her, cupped her face in his hands before brushing his lips to her.
“Take the money back, okay? I pulled enough.”
“We’ll make a deal, shall we? When you run short because you’ve been busy hunting a killer, or standing over the dead, you’ll tell me. No bloody shite about it. Then you’ll graciously accept a loan.”
“A loan I could accept. The graciously might be a tough reach.”
“Graciously,” he repeated. “Then, when you’ve had time to deal with it, I’ll graciously accept repayment.”
“No bloody shite about it?”
“None.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.” She held out a hand to shake on it. “Give me a little spread on the exact level of graciously.”
He took her hand, kissed it. “I’ll grade on the curve.”
“Did we just avoid a big, ugly fight?”
“I’d say we cut short a spat.”
“Spat’s a stupid word for actual adult people. We had a pissing match. Done now. Let’s eat.”
“Intrigued,” Roarke repeated as they walked out. “Constantly.”
She needed to do her updates, and had, by her mental schedule, fallen behind.
But he’d been right. The hour down had done its job.
The abbreviated pissing match hadn’t hurt, she realized. That cleared the air like the nap had cleared her head.
Now she’d let the spaghetti and meatballs, a little wine, do the rest before she tackled it all again.
Besides, she shared that food and wine with the most excellent sounding board she knew. Something else to be grateful for.
While they ate, she started off with the morgue, shifted to the lab, wound back to the follow-up with Jake that she hadn’t relayed to him.
“I know a lot of talented people don’t hit, but I think she would have. She had the talent, the focus, and a hell of a lot of determination. He took that from her, erased her, her potential.”
“Do you think that’s part of it?” Roarke asked. “Erasing her potential?”
“Not specifically. He didn’t know her. It wasn’t, for him, who she was, but what. Attractive teenage girl. Her parents gave me the green to give Jake a copy of the demo. I figured it’s going to make him feel worse, because he’ll hear that potential.”
She shrugged. “Anyway.”
“A very busy morning for you.”
“Oh, and not over. Consult with Mira, slice of babka.”
“That must have been brilliant babka.”
“Gotta say yeah. EDD hit—can’t really see him, but we ID’d the group he merged with, which took us to the deli and the babka. One of the wits got a glance at him. Caucasian male, teenage male. But that’s it unless something else shakes loose from the memory of that quick glance.”
“It’s more than you had.”
“A lot more.” She wound some pasta, had a moment to wonder what exactly went into noodles to make them close to the perfect food.
“Back to Mira,” she said, and ate. “I can sum up her profile and my own conclusions. We’re looking for a horny teenage boy who can’t get laid, so hates what he lusts for. Which is not only sex but attention, validation of his superiority. He has knowledge, skills, and certainly interest in chemistry and drugs, must have access to equipment. He’s a loner, the kind of kid nobody notices—except academically.”
She stabbed a meatball. “He’s going to shine there. Whoever’s in charge of him dresses him like a doofus.”
“Is that a brand name?”
She laughed, enjoyed the bite of meatball. “Clerk at L&W didn’t remember him enough to give us a description, but she remembered his clothes because you don’t see kids come in there wearing dress shirts and dress pants and tasseled loafers. Alan Stubens—she noticed the shoes when he took them off to try the Kick Its.”
“Small wonder.” Roarke handed her a slice of bread from the basket. “That’s as big a step down as I can imagine.”
“From the scuff marks we got the approximate size and the brand he wore at the club. From the clerk we’ve got his size—six and a half—and the brand he wore into the store. So far, we haven’t hit on where he got the pricey ones.”
“He could’ve sold the Stubens and bought at least three decent kicks or sneaks, add in the baggies, and he’d still have cab fare.”
“So he didn’t want to risk whoever’s in charge asking him ‘Where’s your loafers?’ Mostly? I think he didn’t know any better. He’s not in the club, the normie club, much less the chill club. He doesn’t know L&W is Losers and Wheezes.”
“And what, Lieutenant, does that tell you?”
“He goes to a fancy-pants private school or he’s homeschooled with fancy-pants private tutors. Maybe a combo. Whoever’s in charge of him doesn’t see who he is. They only see what he wants them to see. He knows how to present himself to them—that’s easy. Smart, quiet, polite, well-dressed.”
“Trustworthy,” Roarke added.
“That’s key, yeah. So they’re not poking around in his stuff, demanding what he did when he went out. He can run his experiments, hell, maybe grow his own poppies.
“He’s got plenty of time to himself,” Eve murmured. “Plenty of time on his own. Nobody says, ‘Hey, let’s go grab a slice after school,’ or ‘Let’s party at my house.’”
“I’d have been lost without my mates as a boy.”
“You were getting your ass kicked daily. We both know how that feels. He’s not abused, not technically neglected. He’s just not seen. He’s cerebral, not athletic. Not that athletes can’t have good brains, but he’s short for his age. Maybe puny. Not chunky—kids notice that, too, so I think the wit would’ve said porky white kid, or something like that.”
“He had to use his feet to boost up to the window.”
Eve gestured with her fork. “Exactly. No core. He had to use his feet, enough pressure with them, to leave the marks on the wall.”
“There was cruelty in the entire thing, but an extra flourish of cruelty in the roofie and bacteria. Your sexual elements. If you’re right, and you no doubt are, and he’s particularly bright, knowledgeable, he added those for spite. He’d know the police lab would analyze the formula he used.”
“Making his point. The cops are scratching their heads, the media’s in an uproar.” Eve gestured up with her hand. “Everybody’s paying attention now.”
“He doesn’t think you’ll find him.”
After eating the last bite, Eve set down her fork. “No?”
“He’s so much smarter than you, than anyone with a badge. Cops are just low-paid public servants, after all. When they catch criminals, it’s only because the criminals are even less bright than they are.
“Add the arrogance of youth, Eve, to the rest. And all that testosterone. The only way he can satisfy his needs is using his own hand. These girls who don’t see him, don’t want him? They’re idiots who’d rather spread their legs for the barely literate jock because he can throw a football, or the bad boy in cheap boots and fake leather sneaking smokes in the loo.”
Fascinated, Eve leaned back. “Keep going.”
“You were a teenage girl. Would you have seen his type?”
“I did my best not to see anybody too close. You look too close, they look back. I didn’t even consider banging anybody until I was in the Academy.”
He blinked at her. “I don’t believe you’ve mentioned that before.”
“Not worth mentioning. But I’m not a good judge of what a typical teenage girl thinks about sex. And this is about him, and you seem to have an interesting take.”
“I knew his type back then. Not the murderous, but those who felt entitled to what wasn’t coming their way. You’re a bit obsessed with sex at that age—well, more than a bit.”
After picking up his wine, he leaned back.
“But there’s a lightness to it, an excitement, a wonder the first time you have a girl’s breast in your hand that doesn’t lessen with the next time. But for this type, the obsession darkens and hardens.”
“And the girls are to blame.”
“Of course. Who else? They’re frigid or teases or ballbusters, and their very lack of any respect only solidifies the resentment. What they want is subjugation, as the female’s inferior, a vessel for their use. So they hate and demean. But under all that, I think, is fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“The female, and their mystery, their otherness, and most of all, their power. I think, don’t you, that some of those who start out like this, when and if they find a woman, they become abusers. Because the fear’s always there, under it all. And the need,” he added, “to prove they’re in charge.”
“Yeah, some of them, but I’ve never wound it around just this way. I’m giving you some of your ‘intrigued.’ So you knew some of the type.”
“I don’t recall any being particularly bright, as this one.”
“You wouldn’t have had any trouble getting a girl’s tit in your hand.”
He smiled, sipped his wine. “And still a wonder.”
“How old were you when you got lucky?”
“You’d ask such a question when I’m trying to help you catch a murderer?”
“Satisfy my curiosity.”
He drank more wine, and she saw what rarely showed on his face. Discomfort.
“Well, I didn’t know my age as an exact thing.”
“Ballpark it.”
“Round about fifteen, I suppose. Give or take.”
“For the tit or the whole bang?”
He smiled again. “Well now, one thing leads to another, doesn’t it now? And if that’s of any use, the type we’re talking of tended, in my experience, to hang together. Feed each other’s resentments. There are all manner of places in life, online, that feed that same resentment and attitude.”
“He wouldn’t join a group. Online, possibly, but I see him as more of a lurker. He doesn’t participate. As much as he wants attention, he’s too smart to go online and brag about what he’s done, is doing.”
She got up to clear. “When we find him, we’ll find his records, logs, a journal. They’ll be meticulous and detailed.”
With the plates in her hands, she paused at the board.
“He didn’t feel wonder when he jammed that needle in these girls.”
“What did he feel?”
“Satisfaction. The kind you feel when you puncture somebody’s tires because they were mean to you. Your teacher trashed your test score because you fucked around. You don’t wait for him to come out and see the tires, you take off. Same thing with this, for him. The motive just as juvenile. It’s the method and execution that takes it over that.”
“But he won’t brag to his mates about paying the teacher back. He has no mates.”
“And,” Eve added, “he’s too smart. He’s so above, in his mind, the others who go on bitching and strutting. And he’s achieved a satisfaction they can only dream of. Twice.”
“It doesn’t last, does it? That satisfaction.”
“No. He’s already planned how and when to feel it again. And he’ll need to use that roofie on its own before much longer. He’ll need that power over the girl. ‘I’ll take what I want from you, what I’m entitled to. Then kill you.’”
She glanced back at him. “You thought of that, too.”
“I did, yes.”
“He’s already planned for that, too. The where, maybe the when. But the where, he’s got that worked out.”
Knowing her, he laid a hand on her shoulder as much in comfort as support. “I’ll take the dishes.”
“Rules are rules. You got the food.”
“I could begin updating your board then.”
“Did you ever think you’d pass the time after a meal updating a murder board?”
“Not in my wildest.”
When she came out—she’d caved as Roarke usually did and given Galahad a handful of cat treats—he was well into the update.
He had her system down, she thought.
Yeah, he knew who she was, what she was, how she thought, what she felt. Sometimes, she figured he knew all that better than she did. Or at least more clearly.
And he loved her anyway.
She walked over, put her arms around him, hugged hard and tight.
“This is for stuff, and especially the spaghetti, because I’m not hugging Summerset.”
“I’ll happily be his proxy. And I’ll remind you there’s pie.”
“I might just let you, as proxy, get your hand on my tit for cherry pie. But later, both counts.”
With her chin on his shoulder, she studied the board.
“I want him up there. I want him in the box. I want him in a cage. I can see him now. Doofus dooser incel psychopath who still doesn’t shave. Short guy syndrome. Rich white kid snot, on the puny side. Something not right, not quite right in his eyes, but they don’t see it. Or if they do, they figure it’s all that smart, not all that sick.”
Drawing back, she circled the board. “The teachers, tutors, they think: If only all the students were as bright and well-mannered as this kid. Work’s always turned in on time, goes the extra mile.”
She circled back, stood, hands in pockets. “Parent, parents, guardian, whoever’s in charge. Busy life, professional, successful. That boy never gives me any trouble. I’m so lucky. Never talks back, never misses curfew. He’ll have his pick of universities in a couple years.
“I bet there’s a housekeeper or nanny or— Is middle teens too old for a nanny?”
“I would think so.”
“Something like that. Because busy, professional, successful.” Pausing, she played with that one. “Maybe that’s who buys the clothes, takes care of selecting his clothes. Maybe an older person, trustworthy. But he’s almost college age now, doesn’t need someone sitting on him. He can come and go. He’s got those exceptional grades, never misses curfew—if he has one.”
“Wouldn’t they want to know where he is, who he hangs with, what he does with his free time?”
“Library, study group. He’d lie smooth enough if he needs to. And he could have a way to come and go so they don’t notice he’s gone.
“If they’ve heard about the girls, and that’s probable,” Eve concluded, “it would never cross their minds he’s responsible. Most adults just see a well-dressed, polite kid. It’s the other kids who see him for the outsider, the not one of us. He can be cerebral, not astute but smart, and still know what they think of him.”
“Rage builds.”
“It builds,” Eve agreed. “And I worry, not just that he’ll kill again. That’s inevitable if we don’t find him first. I worry he’ll have to escalate. The quick jab and escape, even with the media attention that follows, won’t be enough.”
“As you said, he’ll want the girl.”
“He’ll need the experience, what they’ve all denied him. Incapacitate the girl, rape the girl, kill the girl.”
He’d thought of it. Dreamed of it. But he held back.
He’d weighed risk and reward, and wisely, he thought, concluded risk weighed more, a great deal more.
But how would he know, for certain, conclusively, without the sample?
Rather than alleviating the craving, the successful conclusions of his project only increased it.
But tonight, he’d hold back again.
He’d added the trench coat tonight. He’d seen other kids wear similar in this venue, as it tended to be cold inside, even when crowded as it would be tonight.
Big night at the vids with the opening of what would surely be the summer’s biggest hit, yet another ridiculous, scientifically impossible installment of the Defenders franchise.
A bunch of misfit aliens from across the galaxy, all gifted with absurd powers, who defended Earth from evil.
And all that utter nonsense.
Personally, he rooted for the evil, which tended to be more interesting.
He had nothing against fiction, but science fiction simply infuriated him. But the venue, the setup, the possibilities here, tonight, outweighed his fury and disgust.
He’d paid his entry fee in advance—in cash—one of the remote ticket sellers as soon as available. A premium price for the absurd, but well worth the investment.
Now he stood, just another idiot kid queued up with other idiots who’d paid far too much money to sit in a cold, loud theater stuffing overpriced, slime-covered popcorn in his face and slurping a watered-down fizzy.
Of course, he wouldn’t do any of that.
Oh, he wanted to feel it all again. Wanted to hurry. Of course, he understood perfectly well that need to rush came from the boost he’d taken.
Not enough REM sleep could equal sloppy work.
He was never sloppy.
So he controlled himself, and he shuffled on with the rest, careful to keep his head down, angle himself away from any cams—which he’d already scoped out on previous visits.
Everyone packed together, so easy enough. He’d already picked two likely targets for his personal experiment. And entertainment.
Either the redheaded slut or the blond whore. Unless he saw something more appealing inside the lobby.
Neither of them would look at him twice, or if they did, with that not-worth-noticing look.
He’d make them notice soon enough. He closed his hand over the syringe in his pocket, imagined himself just jamming it into one of them. Either of them.
He took slow, deep breaths to bring his heart rate down.
Inside, the noise level grew, just as he’d anticipated. He had his ’link scanned for admission. Just another brainless kid. The cops would notice if he didn’t follow through with admission.
He slouched along toward concessions with giggling girls, boys talking too loud, music playing the Defenders theme.
It banged in his head, reminded him of the club, of the park. The music, the memories, the booster, all revved in his system.
He had to deliberately loosen his fingers around the syringe.
Now they packed in for that popcorn, those fizzies, candy, chips, all that disgusting junk food.
Somebody bumped him from behind so he almost bumped into the redhead. She glanced back at him, through him, then went back to giggling and talking too loud with the masses.
You then, bitch. It’s you.
And his fingers tightened again.
He followed the plan, kept close but not too close as she and her group ordered. Then he fell in with them as if he belonged.
Into the theater where, again as planned, the previews had already begun. He slipped off his sunshades, tucked them away. In the dark, following closer—he could smell her—her hair, her skin.
He slid the syringe out of his pocket.
He couldn’t wait, just couldn’t wait a minute more!
He had to jab through her jacket, but he’d accounted for that.
But when he pushed the needle into her, she shrieked. The sound sliced his eardrums. Sent his already raging heartbeat into a wild gallop that leaped into his throat.
It stole his breath.
The popcorn tub in her hand flew up; the contents rained down in a blizzard as she started to spin around. Something thudded on the floor, and liquid splashed on his shoes.
He saw her raise her fist, and he stumbled back as cold sweat coated his skin.
He fled, as planned, through the emergency exit. But not with the strutting satisfaction he’d imagined. He had to run, to shove, to push his way through the crowd as he heard her screaming:
“That asshole stabbed me!”
He was barely out the door when the houselights came up.
With his heart pounding, his ears ringing, his stomach churning, he kept running.