Apprentice in Death (6 page)

“It's difficult to see why anyone would want to end this young woman's life. Of course, she may have been a stone bitch with a wait list of enemies.”

“Doesn't look like it. Solid family, still lived at home, doing the work/college thing, with the ice-skating a big passion.”

As she spoke, Eve circled the body—a young, slender girl who'd never known what hit her. “She was still friendly with her ex-boyfriend. I took a look through her room yesterday when I notified the parents. On the girlie side, but not crazy with it. No hidden stashes, no weird shit on her electronics—though EDD will take a harder look there.”

“A normal sort of not-quite-adult who hadn't yet determined what to do with her life, and assumed she had all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“That's how I see it,” Eve agreed, “right now anyway. Her family's going to contact you about seeing her.”

“I spoke with them last evening. They'll be in mid-morning. I'll take care of them.”

“I know you will.”

Turning away from Wyman, Eve studied the other victims. “If there was a specific target, I think it was the second victim.”

“Michaelson.”

“Yeah. But that's just theory, just gut. I've got nothing to hang it on.”

“As your gut's generally reliable, and in much better shape than Michaelson's, I'll keep that in mind when I examine him.”

“He knew what hit him. According to the wits who tried to help him, he was conscious, alive, at least for a minute or two.”

“An agonizing minute or two,” Morris added, nodding. “That would be part of the reason for your gut on him.”

“Part of it.”

“I noted in your report you're consulting with Lowenbaum. I'll copy him on all findings.”

“Affirmative. How many LDSK investigations have you worked?”

“This would be my third—and first as chief ME.” With his own goggles lowered, he gave her a friendly look out of long, dark eyes. “I've got, what, about ten years on you?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

He smiled at her, knowing that, especially for a cop, she took great care not to intrude in the personal business, or into the personal data, of colleagues.

“Roughly ten, which makes us both a bit young for any real memories of the Urbans, when such things were all too common. Technology that creates the weapons used on these three people increases what we'll call the science of the kill. And restrictions on those weapons decrease the accessibility, and the use of them for that purpose.”

“But sooner or later.”

“Yes, sooner or later. I don't know a great deal about this sort of weapon, but I'll learn.” He looked down at Ellissa again. “So we can do our best for her, and the others.”

“I'll go see if Dickhead knows as much about laser weapons as Lowenbaum says he does.”

“Good luck. Oh, Garnet tells me you're having drinks.”

“What? Who?”

“DeWinter.”

“Oh, DeWinter.” Dr. DeWinter, Eve thought, forensic anthropologist. Smart, a little annoying.

“We're friends, Dallas—without any added benefits.”

Uneasy, Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. “Not my business.”

“You were there for me when I lost Amaryllis, and being there helped me through the darkest days of my life. So while it might not be your business, I understand it's your concern. We like each other's company, particularly without the tension of ‘Will there be sex?' In fact, she and Chale and I had dinner last night.”

“The priest, the dead doctor, and the bone doctor.”

Now he laughed, and Eve felt herself relax. “Quite the trio when you look at it that way. In any case, she mentioned she'd talked you into having a drink.”

“Maybe. Sometime.” At his arched eyebrows, she hissed. “Yeah, okay, I owe her for cutting through a lot of red tape. Did she put you up to poking me on it?”

He only smiled. “You'll see her at Bella's party.”

“She's— How'd she get into Mavis's kid's deal?”

“When it comes to poking, Mavis is a charming expert. She gives me one every few weeks, just to be sure I'm not wallowing. The four of us went to the Blue Squirrel a couple weeks ago.”

“You went to the Blue Squirrel . . . on purpose?”

“It's an experience. In any case, she and Leonardo invited Garnet, and her daughter, to the party. It promises to be quite the event.”

“You say that like it's a good thing. I worry about you, Morris.”

Fairly serious about that, she left him with the dead. She was nearly
at the exit when Peabody came in, pink-cheeked from the cold and wearing her fussy-topped pink winter boots.

“I'm not late, you're early.”

“I wanted a jump on it.”

As Eve walked straight out, Peabody did a quick turnaround and followed. “Did Morris have anything?”

“He was working on the first victim. We need to corroborate with Berenski, but it looks like a military-grade weapon.”

“McNab started researching those last night.” Peabody hustled to the car, let out an audible “
Ahhh
” when she settled into the seat. “He was totally all about it. What is it with men and weapons?”

“I'm not a man. I like weapons.”

“Right. Anyway. He was researching the weapon, or possible weapon, and started doing the math. The math I get, because geek, then you sent over that program Roarke wrote up. It was like Christmas and hot sex and chocolate pudding for him all together. Like having hot sex covered with chocolate pudding on Christmas. Hmm.”

“Don't go there.”

“Already did, but saving it for later. So he's playing with that, and I started on the wit list. Like I said in my report, the poor little guy with the broken leg and his parents didn't see a thing until they hit the ice. Then all they really saw was the kid, and the girl. It happened so fast. They were about to exit the rink when it happened, were looking the other way, and
bam!
”

“We'll finish the list, but it's not going to come down to wits at the rink on this. The strike came from too far away. I haven't found any connection between the victims, and I don't think there's going to be any.”

“If this was completely random . . .” Peabody glanced out at the people on the street, at the buildings and all the windows rising up.

“I didn't say I'm convinced it was random. I want Morris's full results,
and we're going to start checking the buildings on the short list Roarke worked out. The first victim, middle of the back, high-powered strike with echoes.”

“I know what that means! McNab ran it for me last night.
Echoes
means the strike's designed to spread once it hits the target.”

“She wouldn't have survived it—at least low odds—anyway. Nearly severed her spine. So that tells me the kill was imperative, not just the strike. And maybe that's why he stopped at three. Panic's starting, people heading for cover, or bunching up, ducking down. You're going to get some solid strikes, but maybe not solid enough for a kill. This way, he's three for three.”

“Don't take chances, lower your percentage.” Peabody blew out a breath as Eve turned toward the lab. “How many buildings on the short list?”

“Enough that I'm pulling in whoever's not working a hot to help check them out.”

Inside, in the warren of the lab, Eve headed straight for Dickhead.

While most of the techs wore white lab coats, the slick of dark hair on his egg-shaped head made him easy to spot as he huddled over his long work counter.

She imagined his spidery fingers working over a keyboard or on a screen. The man was a creepy pain in the ass, but he had skills. And she needed them.

He glanced up as she approached, and nearly knocked her off her stride. The poor excuse for facial hair he'd been trying to grow now resembled an anemic caterpillar over his mouth, and a tattered spiderweb on his chin.

If he'd developed the new look to lure women—and luring women was his greatest wish—Eve predicted brutal disappointment.

“LDSK,” he said, with what might have been pleasure.

“That's right.”

“We don't get those every day. Long-range laser rifle—Lowenbaum's right on the model, I figure.”

“It has to be military grade. Morris said the first vic—as far as he'd gotten this morning—had damage to internal organs.”

“Yeah, yeah, echoes. I figured it.” He zipped down the counter on his stool, tapped a screen.

“See here? CGI sim of a strike with a Tactical-XT, military grade. Laser beam in red, range here is a thousand yards. Trigger to strike? One-point-three seconds. See the red hit the body, how the strike pinpoints, then spreads? That's your echo. See, it hits, then it blooms.” He lifted his hands, upturned palms cupped, then drew them apart. “You ain't walking away from that.”

“I have three people in the morgue who didn't walk away from that.”

“You're on the dead. I'm on the weapon. ME says military grade, echoes, that caps that for me, as that's what I'm seeing on the security feed. Talked with Lowenbaum, and we're agreed on it.”

“I'm not arguing it.”

He just waved that away. “You gotta figure the range of a military-grade Tact-XT is—known record—three-point-six miles.”

“I got that, Berenski, I need—”

“In the right hands, these strikes could've been made from a barge in the fricking East River. You gotta get
that
. But I want to meet the son of a bitch who could make that strike, that strike in New York, considering sight lines, wind variance, temperature, not to mention the movement of the targets.”

“When I nail the son of a bitch, I'll introduce you.”

“I'll hold you to it. But I don't figure we're talking full range, okay? I'm working on narrowing it. Working on a program to narrow it down, given the angles, speed, and so on.”

“I've narrowed it down. I've got a program.”

“The one we've used isn't—”

“I've got a new program.”

He stopped waving her away, scowled at her instead. “What program?”

“Peabody.”

“I've got it here on my PPC. And now,” she said, after a few commands, “it's on your unit.”

He ran it through once, hunched forward. Ran it through a second time. “Where'd you get this? NSA?”

“Roarke.”

“Huh. How long's he had people working on this?”

“Just Roarke, last night.”

He swung around on his stool. “You bullshitting me?”

“What for? I got three dead people, for God's sake.”

“This is fricking genius.” Running it yet again, Berenski rubbed the back of his neck. “I can see it could use a little fine-tuning.”

“Don't mess with it.”

“I ain't going to mess with it, I'm saying if he or his people fine-tuned it, he could sell it for . . . Guess he doesn't need to.”

“It's not about need,” she muttered.

“You show this to Lowenbaum?”

“I sent it to him, but it was late last night. He may not have seen it yet.”

“When he does, he's going to say same as me. You got as close to accurate as you're going to. See here, he calculated the wind variance at the time of the strikes, temperature, humidity, the angle of the strikes, the time between, the elevation, the sight line. It's all here. You're going to be humping for weeks clearing these buildings, but you've got a solid direction.”

“Take out mid- to high-level security buildings.” Eve glanced at Peabody again.

“Can I?” Without waiting, Peabody leaned over the counter, took the program to the next phase.

“Sweet. Yeah, yeah, hard to get that kind of weapon through security.”

“For now, eliminate multi-person offices, residences with families.”

He nodded as more buildings faded. “Okay. If he didn't use a suppressor, you're going to find somebody who heard three high-pitched discharges. Have you ever heard a laser rifle?”

“I've fired one.”

“Then you know. If he did use one, that would cut the range a bit, but nobody heard anything. It's going to depend how he wanted to go, that's all. You're sure as hell after somebody who knew what they were doing. That's skill, Dallas. Serious skill. That last strike? That wasn't only skill. That was fucking cocky.”

Though it pained her a little to agree with Dickhead, Eve had thought the same. “Cocky gets sloppy.”

“Maybe.”

“Work with the program, and if you can eliminate any more areas, I need to know.”

Since he was already running the program again, she left him to it.

“You didn't have to threaten or bribe him.”

“Because I gave him geek porn, and he's having too much fun.” Eve had to admit, to herself, she kind of missed the bribe dance.

Eve drove straight to Cop Central. She needed to set up her board, snag whoever she could to start clearing buildings—and she hoped to slide in a quick consult with Mira.

It would mean battling Mira's hard-eyed admin, but a consult with NYPSD's top profiler and shrink was invaluable.

The minute she stepped into the bullpen, she scanned. No Baxter and Trueheart, which told her they were likely in the field. The way Carmichael sat on the edge of Santiago's desk indicated a consult rather than gossip.

Jenkinson scowled at his comp as he worked—and Reineke strolled out from the break room with a mug of cop coffee.

“Nothing hot?” she asked Jenkinson.

“Paperwork. I lost the flip.”

“My office in five. Peabody, catch them up.”

In her office, she opened Roarke's program, then set up her board,
centering the three victims. To circumvent Mira's dragon, she sent a brief e-mail to Mira directly. A text might hit the admin first.

She stood, real coffee in hand, and studied the screen when Jenkinson and Reineke came in.

She'd have sworn the light changed in the glare of Jenkinson's tie. From his standpoint, she supposed the gold-and-green dots on screaming red struck him as classic, even subtle.

“You're going to start in this sector, work east from Madison. Peabody's going to give you the target buildings based on this program. It's a crapshoot.”

“Sniper type,” Reineke said. “You figure working alone.”

“Most likely. I'm working on a consult with Mira, but going with percentages and probabilities, a single male, military or police training. A loner. You don't make these strikes without training and practice, so you hit wits on that. At hotels, flops, you're looking for somebody who came in light. He'd need the carry case for the weapon, but I don't see him hauling around much more. He'd need a window that opened—or he damaged it to make the strike. He'd want privacy screening. Unsuppressed, a weapon like this emits a whine—three strikes, three whines, rapid succession.”

“Odds of somebody hearing that—”

“Next to zilch,” Eve said with a nod to Jenkinson. “Maybe in a flop, or a low-rent apartment, someplace with no soundproofing.”

“And of finding somebody who gives a crap when a cop asks.”

“And that,” Eve agreed.

“Could've used his own place,” Reineke speculated. “Starts obsessing on the rink for whatever fucked-up reason, decides to do some duck hunting.”

“Let's find out. Peabody and I will start at the sector farthest east, work in toward you. We'll probably be an hour behind you. We need to hit the second vic's office, and—”

She broke off as her incoming signaled, turned to her desk. “Okay, Mira's just coming into Central, and she'll stop by here. If she adds anything we can use, you'll hear it. Get going.

“Peabody, refine our list geographically, and contact Michaelson's office, tell them we're coming in to interview.” She checked her wrist unit. “I want a quick one with Feeney before we head out. I can go to him.”

“I'm on it.”

Alone, she stepped to her window, looked out. She'd judge herself a decent marksman with a laser rifle. Better, a lot better, with a hand weapon, but okay with the long one.

And calculating, figured she could kill, maim, or injure an easy dozen from her skinny office window inside a minute.

How the hell did you protect anyone?

She turned back as she heard Mira coming. Those quick clicks that indicated some sort of classy heels.

The classy heels were on classy red booties in some sort of textured pattern that matched a skinny and useless belt on a suit in what—for some reason—they called winter-white.

Mira's soft sable hair curved in a smooth bob today that showed off little earrings where a tiny pearl dripped from a red stone.

How did anybody think clearly enough in the morning to coordinate that exactly—and not look like a fashion droid, but accessibly human?

“Thanks for stopping,” Eve began.

“The price is some of that coffee. I was going to tap you for tea, but then I smelled your coffee.”

Mira set aside her coat, her purse—white with a surprisingly bold red center stripe—and stepped to Eve's board.

“I saw the media reports, and read your report. Still no discernible connection among the victims except being on the skating rink?”

“None, and only a few people knew the third victim would be there, and even that's vague on timing.”

“Killers of this type often choose randomly. The who doesn't matter. It's the kill itself, the panic it causes. A public place, from a distance— Thank you,” Mira added as Eve passed her the coffee. “The three are diverse. Two men, one girl. The two men straddle two generations in age. One was alone, one part of a couple. It isn't a particular type of target, which again leans random.”

“The first and third would have been dead instantly, or close enough. First, in the spine, nearly severing it. Third head shot. But the second, mid-body, and he was conscious for at least a minute or two, bleeding out. One and three didn't know what hit them. Two did.”

“I see. And that leads you to suspect the second victim was target specific.”

“That, and the fact the shooter had to be set up for this in advance—and the third victim's presence wasn't set in stone. The first victim . . . it's just long odds seeing her as target specific. Unless we go back to pure random. The red outfit, the skill on the ice.”

“All right.” Mira leaned a hip against Eve's desk. “You already know he's organized, skilled, a planner, which means controlled, at least situationally. To add to that, the purely random LDSK has a grudge against society or a political agenda, an anger at a kind of place—a military base, a school, a church. The goal would be to kill or injure as many as possible, to cause panic and alarm, and often to die as a martyr for the cause that drives him.”

“‘As many as possible.' These strikes took serious skill, and he only takes three? I keep coming back to that,” Eve said. “So I'm low on the anger or grudge against the place when he stopped at three. In about twelve seconds—that's all it took. And yeah, suicide by cop or self-termination after the damage is done. But not this guy, at least not yet.”

“He may not be finished with that agenda or grudge.”

“Yeah.” Eve blew out a breath. “Yeah, I keep coming back to that, too.”

“I agree with your leanings toward a more specific target, or targets,
due to the low body count.” Studying death as Eve did, Mira sipped her coffee. “And now with the strike on the second victim not being instantly fatal as were the others? If he meant the second victim to suffer, that adds more weight.”

“It could just be the nature of the strike, given the distance, the movement, but it sticks out for me.”

“If the victim was specific, the killer chose this public arena, killed others to cover the specificity, and chose a difficult kill. We both know there are much more direct and simple ways to end a life, but the method is part of the purpose and pathology. He's not just skilled but the skill is part of his self-worth, his ego.”

“There you go,” Eve murmured, adding that to the picture she needed to build in her head.

“I would say causing panic, causing the media fury was certainly part of the motive. Also, the distance—not just the skill involved, but the actual distance—adds dispassion. A target, not a human being. As a military sniper must think, or a professional assassin.”

“I haven't eliminated a pro, but it's low on my list. And if it's a pro: Who hired him and why? It goes right back to: Why these three? And for my gut: Why Michaelson?”

“He was a doctor?”

“Yeah, a, you know, woman doctor deal. Checking the works, delivering babies, and like that.”

“All right. You might check on mortality. A patient who didn't survive treatment, or a woman who died in childbirth, a baby who didn't survive. It's extremely rare, but it happens, particularly in emergency situations. Or if the patient went against medical advice.”

“Cross that with someone connected to her—spouse, lover, brother, father.” Eve nodded, adding to the picture. “Or, rare but not impossible, we're dealing with a female shooter. If we draw those lines, this could be it. Why kill again—except . . .”

“It went so very well, didn't it?”

Eve looked back at her board. “Yeah, really good day. We're heading to Michaelson's office now. Maybe we'll hit something. Otherwise.”

“You expect another strike.”

“If there's an agenda, he's already chosen the next location, and scouted out his nest. You want panic, media fury? Hit again, and fast. Keep the momentum going.”

“I have to agree.”

“If he sticks with three, that's going to tell me three means something to him. Otherwise, he'll take out more next time. It's ego, right?”

“Yes, ego plays a part.”

“When it plays too big a part, it leads to mistakes. Maybe he's already made one. I just have to find it. I should get started. I appreciate the time.”

“And I the coffee.” Mira handed the empty cup back to Eve, smiled. “I love that jacket.”

“This?” Since she'd already forgotten what she was wearing, Eve looked down.

“I love those earthy tones. I can't wear them, but they're so perfect for you. I don't want to keep you,” Mira said as she gathered up her things. “I'm available when you need me on this—and I want to add we're looking forward to Bella's party. It'll be so good for Dennis. That kind of color and joy.”

Eve shuffled the actual party out of her mind. “How's he doing?”

“He'll grieve for the cousin he loved, even though that man ceased to exist, if he ever did, long before his death. But he's doing well. I was going to nudge him into taking a trip, a little time for us away, but realized he needs home and routine right now. So the party adds to it. What's happier than a first birthday party?”

“I could make a list.”

On a laugh, Mira shook her head. “Good luck today.”

With Peabody, Eve drove back toward Midtown and Michaelson's practice right off Fifth Avenue at East Sixty-Fourth.

A healthy walk to the rink, she thought, and an easy walk to his residence only a couple blocks away on Sixty-First.

She accepted the challenge of finding a parking slot, vertical lifted into a tight second level on the street. Peabody didn't breathe until the car clunked into place.

Then she cleared her throat. “Office manager is Marta Beck. In addition, he has a receptionist, a billing clerk, a physician assistant, a midwife, two nurses, and a pair of part-time rotating nurse's assistants.”

“Good-sized staff for one doctor.”

“He's been in this location for twenty-two years, and does a stint at the local free clinic twice a month.”

Together they walked down, clanging on the metal steps, to street level while sleet slickened every surface.

“Basic background shows a good rep, professionally, and nothing that pops out personally.”

On the main door of the trim townhouse was a simple plaque that read
DR. BRENT MICHAELSON,
and beneath his was one that read
FAITH O'RILEY
.

“O'Riley's the midwife,” Peabody said as Eve stepped inside the quiet, surprisingly homey reception area.

The area was occupied by three pregnant women—one with a toddler perched on what was left of her lap, a thin woman in her mid-twenties, who looked bored as she scrolled through her PPC, and a couple who huddled together, hands clasped.

Eve went straight to the reception counter and, considering all the hormones in the room, kept her voice low.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Officer Peabody to see Marta Beck.”

The receptionist, a pretty woman with skin the color of melted gold, bit her lip. Her eyes filled. “If you'd come through the door on the right,
please.” She swiveled in her chair to speak to a man in a blue lab coat. “George, would you tell Marta the . . . her appointment is here?”

The man had eyes the same color as his coat. He didn't bite his lip as his eyes filled, but pressed them together and slipped away.

The door led to a corridor with exam rooms—the sort of rooms that always tightened the muscles of Eve's stomach. The receptionist stepped into the corridor.

“I'll show you back. We—all of us, we're . . . It's a hard day.”

“You didn't close.”

“No, we have Dr. Spicker taking Dr. Michaelson's patients, and Ms. O'Riley seeing hers and others. We're going to try to see everyone who's booked. Dr. Michaelson and Dr. Spicker were talking about Dr. Spicker joining the practice, so Marta felt . . .”

They passed an offshoot with a couple of chairs, counters with clipboards and tubes and cups, and a scale where someone else in a lab coat—with flowers all over it—weighed another pregnant woman.

“How long did Dr. Michaelson know Dr. Spicker?”

“Oh, since Dr. Spicker was a boy. They're family friends, and Dr. Spicker just finished his residency. Marta—Ms. Beck's office is . . .”

She trailed off as a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a black suit stepped out of a doorway.

“Thank you, Holly.” She stuck out a hand. “Marta Beck.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve accepted the brief shake. “Detective Peabody.”

“Please come in. Would you like some tea? I can't offer coffee. We don't have any in the offices.”

“We're fine.”

Marta quietly closed the door. “Please sit.”

Eve took one of the straight-backed chairs in the ruthlessly organized room. Not unfriendly, she supposed, with a couple of thriving green plants, a row of fancy teacups, even a small sofa with fancy pillows.

But you knew business was king here.