Imitation in Death

“Yes, sir.”

“Lose him again, and I’ll use his tongue to strangle you. Move.”

There was a scramble as a couple of uniforms moved in, a show of solidarity, to drag the prisoner up and haul him away.

Baxter handed Eve a fresh tube of Pepsi. “Figured you’d earned this.”

“Goddamn right,” she shot back, and limped into Homicide.

– -«»--«»--«»--

She wrote her own report, and hand-carried it to Commander Whitney. He gestured her to a chair, which she took, grateful to get off her aching knee.

When she’d finished her oral briefing, he nodded. “Is your block on the media going to fuel him or frustrate him?”

“With or without the media, he’s hunting again. While his victims are random, they are deliberate, and the deliberation takes time. As for the media, I’ve fed a few statements through the department liaison. They’re concentrating on the first murder. It’s flashier than the rape and murder of a sixty-one-year-old woman in her apartment. We’re not going to be pressed too hard on that end until one of them gets the co

“You’re misleading the media?”

“No, sir. I’m just not leading them. I’ve given my statement to Quinton Post at75, rather than Nadine Furst, as I felt that would cool any mumbling about favoritism. He’s sharp, but still a bit green. Once Nadine gets her teeth into this, she’ll make the co

“Good enough.”

“On another front, sir, I don’t think, despite his claims, he cares overmuch about the media attention. Not at this time. He wants my attention, and he has it. Dr. Mira’s profile confirms his need to dominate and destroy women. The female authority figure is his nemesis. That’s me, that’s why he picked me.”

“Are you a target?”

“I don’t believe so, not as long as he sticks to pattern.”

Whitney grunted, then steepled his fingers. “You should be aware that I’ve had complaints.”

“Sir?”

“One from Leo Fortney, who’s crying harassment, and threatening a suit against you and the department. A second from the offices of Niles Renquist, intimating… displeasure at having the wife of a diplomatic figure interrogated by a member of the New York Police and Security Department. And a third from the representative of Carmichael Smith, who ranted vigorously about the possibility of damaging publicity due to the hounding of his client by a… what was it? An insensitive, abrasive hotshot with a badge.”

“That would be me. Leo Fortney gave false information during initial questioning. He’s changed his story, somewhat, during subsequent questioning by my aide, but it still reeks. Both Niles Renquist and his wife have been questioned, not interrogated. And while both were cooperative, neither was forthcoming. As for Carmichael, if anyone leaks his involvement in my investigation to the media, it would be him.”

“You intend to pursue each of these individuals as suspects in this investigation.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“All right.” Satisfied, he nodded. “I have no problem fielding the complaints, but walk softly here, Dallas. Each of these people has considerable power in his own way, and all of them know how to spin the media.”

“If one of them is a murderer, I’ll make the case. They can spin until they revolve to Saturn and back, but they’ll do it from a cage.”

“Wrap them up then, carefully.”

Dismissed, she got to her feet. Whitney lifted an eyebrow as she started out. “What’s wrong with the leg?”

“It’s just the knee,” she said, a

She left later than she’d intended, and got stuck in some bad traffic. Instead of fighting it, Eve waited it out, using the time to think, to review her notes, to think some more.

She had suspects, though she was thin on evidence. She had threads that wove through both murders. The notes, the tone of them, the imitation.

She had no DNA, no trace evidence, and no evidence that led her to believe the killer had known his victims. Witness reports described a white or possibly mixed-race male, of indeterminate age and coloring. He used accents, she thought. Because his voice was distinctive?

Renquist, with his British tones. Carmichael, with his famous ones.

Possible.

Then again, Fortney ran his mouth to the media and the public often enough. He might assume someone would recognize his voice.

Or it could just be ego again, and any one of them. I’m so important, everyone will recognize me if I don’t disguise myself.

Look for the female authority figure, she told herself. That’s the core and that’s the key. What was the phrase? Cherchez la femme. She thought that was right.

She stripped off her jacket on the way from the car to the house. The air felt close, heavy, and just a bit electric. Maybe a storm coming. Rain couldn’t hurt, she thought, and tossed the jacket over the newel. A good bitch of a storm might keep her man inside, and off the hunt.

Before she went back to work, back to her own hunt, she’d track down another man.

The home locator told her Roarke was on the rear patio, off the kitchen. She couldn’t figure out why he’d be out in the nasty air when the house was blissfully fresh and cool, and provided a room for any possible activity.

But she walked the long stretch of it, and out the kitchen to find him. Then simply stood, struck speechless.

“Ah, good, you’re here. We can get started.”

He was wearing jeans-not his usual around-the-house attire-and a white T-shirt. He was barefoot, and a little sweaty, which appealed to her. The fact was, he would have appealed to her, or any woman, regardless of his attire, or the fact that he was standing on a sun-baked patio on a September evening where the air-quality index had simply waved the white flag and surrendered the field.

But at the moment, she was more interested in the enormous, shiny silver contraption beside him.

“What is that thing?”

“It’s an outdoor cooking system.”

Warily, relieved she was still wearing her weapon just in case, she approached. “Like a barbecue deal?”

“That, and more.” He stroked one of his beautiful hands over the lid, as a man might stroke a woman who bewitched him. “Gorgeous, isn’t she? Just arrived an hour ago.”

It was massive, and the glare of the sun off its surface nearly blinding. There was, she noted, more than one lid as it had extensions on either side, and some doored compartment beneath the main unit.

There were countless buttons, controls, dials. She wet her lips. “Um. It doesn’t look exactly like the one the Miras used.”

“Newer model.” He opened the main lid and revealed another gleaming surface, this one full of shiny bars, with a bunch of silver cubes beneath, and a side surface of solid metal. “No reason not to have the latest.”

“It’s really big. You could almost live in it.”

“After a couple of practice runs, I thought we might have a barbecue of our own. In a few weekends perhaps.”

“By practice run, I don’t guess you mean you’re going to drive it somewhere.” She gave one of its big, sturdy wheels a quick, testing kick.

“Totally under control.” He crouched, opened one of the doors. “Refrigerator unit. We’ve got steaks, potatoes, some vegetables we’ll put on these skewers.”

“We will?”

“It’s just a matter of shoving them on.” He assumed. “And a bottle of champagne, to christen it. Though I thought we’d drink it rather than whack the unit with the bottle.”

“I can get behind that part. Have you ever cooked a steak?”

He sent her a mild look as he opened the champagne. “I read the tutorial and I watched how it was done at the Miras’. It’s hardly rocket science, Eve. Meat, heat.”