Born In Death

The ski

“Hey.” She held up a hand, then held out the credits. With her free hand she stabbed a finger at the parrot. “You. Zip it.”

Even with the illegals in his system whirling his eyes around in his head, the mope must have caught the tone of her voice. He went down to whimpers.

“Use this, gimme Pepsi.”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

Because the uniform didn’t blink at the request, Eve assumed her cold war was known throughout the department.

“What he do?” she asked with a nod toward the now sniveling parrot.

“Pushed a woman down a couple flights of stairs at his flop. She didn’t bounce.”

“Slipped. She slipped. I wasn’t even there. I hardly knew her. Cops tossed me down on the street. I’m go

“Three eyewits,” the uniform said dryly as he handed Eve her tube. “Fled the scene. Took a little spill during pursuit.”

“Who’s got it?”

“ Carmichael ’s primary.”

Satisfied Eve nodded. “Thanks.”

The squawking renewed as she walked off to take the glides to Mira’s sector.

She supposed Mira’s area would be considered more civilized than hers. You weren’t likely to see junked-up suspects being hauled around. Here there was quiet, easy colors, and a lot of closed doors.

Mira’s was open, and the admin guarding the perimeter looked relaxed, so Eve decided she wasn’t going to have to do a dance to gain admission.

Mira spotted her from her desk. “Eve. Come right in. I’m just finishing up some paperwork.”

“Appreciate the time.”

“I have a little to spare today.”

As always, Mira looked perfectly put together without being obvious about it. She was letting her sable-colored hair grow some so that it waved softly to the nape of her neck. Her suit was a monochromatic three-piece in a rich, plummy tone worn with sparkling silver chains and little glittery hoops in her ears.

She smiled easily, a lovely face with soft blue eyes Eve knew could see right through the skull into whatever secrets the brain might hold.

“Did you get a chance to look at the reports?”

“I did. Have a seat. It’s a shame, isn’t it, all that youth and optimism cut off so abruptly.” She sat back. “Their lives were just begi

“Now they’re over,” Eve said flatly. “Why?”

“Why is rarely straightforward, is it? On the profile,” she said in brisk, professional tones, “I agree, as you’d expect, with your conclusions and the ME’s, that you’re looking for one killer. Most likely male, between thirty-five and sixty-five. He isn’t impulsive, and wasn’t looking for thrills. He didn’t rape either victim because it wasn’t part of the business at hand. And, very likely, he doesn’t equate sex with power and control. He may be in a sexual relationship where he is accustomed to being subservient.”

“Rape takes time,” Eve added. “He had a schedule to keep, and priorities.”

“Agreed. But rape, or the threat of it, is often used in torture killings, as is mutilation. No sexual assault, no mutilation, no serious vandalism. He came prepared, and with a purpose. He fulfilled it, using brute force and physical – very likely emotional – torture.”

Mira spread the crime scene photos out on her desk.

“Binding the victims put them under his control, kept them helpless. Removing the tape from both victims’ mouths tells me he wanted, or needed, to see their faces. The whole of their faces as he strangled them.”

“Pride in his work.”

“Yes. A job fulfilled, and the acknowledgment of his power and his control. As he was able to overcome a man of Byson’s years and physical build, he’s likely in good physical condition himself. Utilizing weapons on scene – the robe tie, the binding cord – shows presence of mind and clear thinking. The lack of any DNA on the first scene indicates he took precautions. The fact that there was DNA on the second tells me he lost that control long enough to lead with temper.”

“Because he got clocked.”

“Exactly,” Mira said with a ghost of a smile. “Byson hurt him, and he reacted poorly to the pain. Copperfield was the primary target.

“And I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

“No, but it solidifies it.”

“This was a desperate act committed without desperation. He certainly feared them, or what they could do, but there’s no indication of panic on the bodies or on the scenes. He was in control, and illustrated that control to them, to himself, by the face-to-face strangulations.”

“Watch me kill you while I watch you die.”

“Yes. And while he may have – almost certainly – experienced some sort of thrill through that, he remained controlled enough to move quickly to the secondary target and finish his job.”

“But not a pro. It’s too messy for a professional.”

“I agree. But his focus was very tight, his preparations well thought out.”

“A good sense of self-preservation can do that.”

“It can. Following that train, he may have been protecting himself, his own interests, or someone close to him. He was very careful.”

“But didn’t know enough about forensics to know that we’d be able to get his DNA off the scrapes on Byson’s knuckles.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d judge him as educated, organized, and thorough. I’d be very surprised if he hasn’t destroyed or disposed of anything he took from the scenes, anything he used to gain entry. I expect if you interview him during the course of your investigation, he’ll be cooperative. If he knew the victims, he’ll attend their memorial with every sign of sorrow for their loss. He’ll have thought all of that through as well.”

“As well as an alibi for the time in question.”

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t have one. Some in these circumstances might deliberately avoid having an alibi to add to the thrill and excitement during the investigation. The game of it. I don’t think that’s your type here. He’d have dotted all his i’s beforehand.”

Eve nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Mira said as Eve rose.

“What’s – oh. Oh, yeah.”

With a laugh, Mira swiveled in her chair. “I’ve never known any sort of an event at your home to be less than entertaining. Mavis must be thrilled.”

“I guess. Truth? I’m kind of ducking her. We had to do the class thing – the coach class? Which was a nightmare beyond the speaking of it. I’m afraid she’s going to tag me and do, like, a quiz to make sure I was paying attention!”

“And were you?”

“You couldn’t look away. It was like watching a horror movie. Freaky,” she muttered, and had to struggle not to shudder. “Tomorrow, I’m going to be surrounded by those women who’re brewing babies. What if one of them decides to pop?”

“Unlikely, but you will have a couple of doctors on hand. I’ll be there, so will Louise.”

“Right.” The idea relieved her. “I forgot. Okay, that’s a load off. Maybe you could be sure to hang around until all of them leave. Just in case.”

“Eleven years and counting on the force, and you’ve never delivered a baby?”

“That’s right, and I’m going to keep that record intact.”

Eve’s first thought when she entered Sasha Zinka’s office was that it rivaled Roarke’s for space, for plush, for taste. The clean lines and surprising slashes of bold color against the muted made it female without being fussy.

She thought the same of Sasha herself.

The woman could have easily passed for a decade younger than her age on her official records. Honeycomb hair was swooped back and up from a heart-shaped face dominated by clear blue eyes. She wore a suit of rusty red as restrained and subtle as the jewelry she’d matched to it.

She crossed the thick silver carpet in an easy glide in ski

“Lieutenant Dallas. We met in passing at some gala or other last spring.”