4

 

 

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.

Marta sat behind her desk, folded her hands. “Do you have any suspects?”

“The investigation is ongoing. Did Dr. Michaelson have any problems with anyone on staff, any patients, anyone you know of?”

“Brent was well liked. He was a good doctor, a caring one, and his patients loved him. We have some who’ve moved to Brooklyn, New Jersey, Long Island. They still come here because he forged relationships. The patient mattered, Lieutenant. The wall in our break room is covered with photos of the babies he helped bring into the world. Photos of them as they’ve grown up. I worked for him for twenty years. He was a good doctor and a kind man.”

She took a breath. “I assumed, from the media reports, this was a random killing. Some lunatic.”

“We’re investigating all possibilities.”

“I can think of no one, absolutely no one, who would have wished Brent dead. I’d tell you if I did. He was a friend, a good friend, as well as my employer.”

“What will happen to his practice now?”

She sighed. “It will go to Andy—Dr. Spicker—if he wants it. Brent discussed this with me while Andy was still a resident. Andy’s parents are—were—Brent’s oldest friends. He’s Andy’s godfather, and has been his mentor. They’re all very close. Brent felt he himself could begin to cut back if and when Andy wanted to join the practice, and he felt he’d leave the practice in good hands with Andy. And with Faith—our midwife—when he decided to retire, or to simply travel more.”

“Any doctor, however good, who’s practiced for a couple decades has losses.”

“Of course.”

“Losses can cause loved ones to behave irrationally.”

“Of course,” she said again. “Several years ago Brent had a patient who lost her child, miscarried in her seventh month after her partner beat her severely. He left her unconscious on the floor, and by the time she came to, was able to contact nine-one-one, it was too late. The man who caused this threatened Brent when he was tried, when Brent testified. But that man was himself killed in prison two years ago. I assume that’s the sort of thing you mean.”

“I do. What about the woman who had the miscarriage?”

“She came back to Brent two years later when she’d conceived again with a very nice young man she married shortly after. They have a lovely daughter. Her photo’s on the wall, and the mother remains a patient. There are a few others, and like any medical practice we’ve dealt with malpractice suits. But as far as an actual threat, that’s the only one I know of.”

“Any recent firings, issues with employees?”

“None. It can be a challenging practice to manage, as Brent tended to spend more time with patients than the industry norm. I learned years ago to factor in more time between appointments. Adding a PA—eight years ago now—has helped cut back on the wait time. And plans to bring Andy on would have helped even more. But that’s a moot point, isn’t it?”

She looked away for a moment. “I have to hold the line here. We can’t fall apart. I’ve never experienced this kind of thing before. Loss, yes, everyone’s lost someone, but not like this. I can’t wrap my head around it. I know you need answers, but I don’t have them. I just can’t think of anyone, anyone at all, who’d want to do this to Brent.”

Despite the officer manager’s sensibilities, Eve took the time to speak with everyone on staff. When she felt she’d wrung that area dry, she walked out into sleet.

“Maybe I’m off,” she said to Peabody. “I’m off, and Michaelson was as random as the other two. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I get why you’re tugging that line.”

“But?” Eve prompted as they climbed up to the car.

“Well, the third vic almost had to be random. But if I wanted to zero in on one of the others, I’d go with the first.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy factor. Young, really pretty, really talented. And, in her way, flashy. Some asshole she didn’t pay enough attention to, or shut down. And she was first. If I were going to take that kind of shot, I’d want to be sure my primary target went down.”

“Reasonable points. Take her.” “Take her?”

“Turn her inside out,” Eve said. “Work, family, school, friends. Find her pattern. Where she ate, shopped, what route she usually took.

Subway? Bus? Walking? Talk to her family again, talk to her friends

—work friends, college friends, neighborhood friends. You take her, I’ll take Michaelson. And we both take the buildings. I’ll drop you at the college, you can start there while I take a pass at Michaelson’s residence. Then you take the York and First Avenue locations. I’ll take Second and Third. Reineke and Jenkinson started working east from Madison, so they should cover Madison, Park, and Lex. You start as far east as you can go without walking into the river.”

“I can do that.”

“If we’re in the same vicinity, I’ll pick you up. Otherwise, when you’ve covered the ground, head back to Central. We’ll conference with Jenkinson and Reineke. If any of us catches a break, we move on that.”

“Okay.” With a little sigh, Peabody looked up at the ugly sky. “I’ll take the subway from here. It’s quicker than you driving me.”

“Good.”

As Peabody walked back to street level, Eve got in the car, lifted out as she’d dropped in, and headed to Sixty-First.

D

—

r. Brent Michaelson had lived well, Eve thought when she used her master to access his dignified white brick building. Solid

security, discreetly done, including the spotlessly clean stairwell as she took that to the third floor rather than the elevator.

She’d already ordered the electronics taken in and reviewed by EDD, but wanted a sense of his living space.

A quiet hallway—only one neighbor sharing the floor. Again, good security on his apartment, which she bypassed with her master.

He had a spacious living area open to a small, neat kitchen, a dining area with a couple of never-lighted candles in a couple of chunky stands on the table.

The furnishings struck her as masculine and simple, comfortable, without fuss. One long table held a forest of photos. His daughter— various ages—his daughter’s family. Photos of Andy Spicker and, Eve surmised, Spicker’s parents. Others of his staff, a lot with babies.

Friendly, happy photos.

In the kitchen she checked his AutoChef, refrigerator, cupboards.

Nothing like food to give you a sense of how people lived, in her opinion.

The man had a weakness for ice cream—the real deal. Preferred red wine, but otherwise ate healthy.

His home office was as simply decorated and as quietly organized as the living space. As in his professional office, this also boasted a wall of photos. She imagined Michaelson sitting at his desk, doing whatever doctors did at desks, and seeing that wall of life.

Many of the babies—the really fresh ones—struck her as creepy. They either looked like fish, or really pissed-off alien life-forms. But she imagined Michaelson had taken great pride in knowing he’d been a part of bringing them into the world.

He kept a small AutoChef and a mini-friggie—fizzy water, straight juice, and herbal teas in the friggie; fruit and veggie snacks in the AC.

Not a candy bar, a caffeine source, or a bag of chips in the place. How did the man live?

“Not a problem now,” she murmured, moving out to study his bedroom.

Tall, padded headboard on a bed with a simple white duvet and a stack of sleeping pillows cased in navy blue.

And books, she noted. Again the real deal. Novels, easily a hundred of them on built-in shelves or stacked on the nightstand.

No sex toys, not in the nightstand, and no indication in the closet of a woman who stayed over and left a robe or any clothes behind for convenience. Nor a man, as a quick survey lead her to think all the clothes were Michaelson’s.

Suits, scrubs, casual clothes, gym clothes. And skates. He’d had two pair other than the ones he’d worn on his last day.

She found male sex booster pills and condoms in his bathroom— so he’d had sex, or at least had prepared for the possibility. No illegals, nothing out of the ordinary.

She finished up in a well-appointed guest room and a shining- clean powder room.

When she left, her picture of Michaelson was of a solid, dedicated doctor who had a genuine love of babies, kids, women in general.

One who took care of himself, lived quietly, liked to skate, liked to read, and valued his circle of friends.

Nowhere in that picture was a motive for murder.

Back in the car, she headed east, and considered Peabody’s points.

Ellissa Wyman. Young, very attractive, graceful, apparently happy, well-adjusted. Not particularly interested in men or relationships—at least on the surface. But yeah, somebody might have been interested in her. Rebuffed or simply not noticed.

Or, they might find, digging deeper, there were relationships or a lifestyle her family, her friends didn’t know about.

It had to be considered, just as Michaelson had to be considered.

The worst case had to be considered, too. Straight random. It hadn’t mattered who. It wouldn’t matter who the next time.

It might have been a crappy day to hike the streets, but Eve pulled into an annoyingly overpriced lot, dumped the car, and hoofed it to the first building on her list. Street-level French restaurant, men’s boutique, and a fancy-looking shop with lots of fancy-looking dust catchers. Three floors of apartments above, all topped by a dance studio and a yoga studio, and those were capped by a rooftop that could be accessed by the residents and the studios.

Roarke’s program gave the roof the highest probability, with the yoga studio next in line. So Eve started at the top.

The wind bit; the ice stung. But when Eve pulled field glasses out of her pocket, adjusted her position, she found an excellent view of the rink. A hell of a long way off, but a stronger scope? Yeah, she could see how it could be done.

No sleet and ice the day before, she remembered. Not so much wind. Maybe part of the reason for the timing.

Standing there she put herself into the mind of the shooter. Might have to wait awhile. A stool, some sort of lightweight, retractable seat. Rest the weapon on the ledge that way. Keep everything steady.

She crouched down, mimed sitting on a stool, her hands on an imaginary weapon, her eye on the scope. From that position she took stock of neighboring buildings.

No cover, she considered, and too many windows, too much risk of someone looking out. Lunatic or not, why take that kind of chance?

Still, she took out microgoggles, went carefully over the wall, the concrete, looking for marks. Finding nothing, she went back inside, tried the yoga studio.

She found a group in session with people—mostly female—in colorful skin suits twisting into weird positions on colorful mats. All while facing a slim and stunning woman with a perfect body, impossibly perfect form, and a wall of mirrors.

She had to give the group props just for showing up.

Soft, tinkling music played under the instructors soft, tinkling voice.

Eve decided she’d probably want to wrap the woman’s legs around her neck, tie her ankles in a knot, before the end of a single session.

But that was just her.

Eve stepped back, tried the adjoining dance studio.

Another wall of mirrors, more music played low. But this time, the music had a fierce, hard beat, and the lone woman in the room covered the floor to it—feet flying, legs flashing, hips rocking.

She executed three whipping spins, bounced into a one-handed handspring. And ended, right on that beat, with her arms thrown up, head back.

She said, panting but enthusiastically: “Shit!” “Looked good to me.”

The woman, black skin wet with sweat, grabbed a towel, swiped off as she studied Eve.

“Missed the count twice, forgot the damn head roll. Sorry, are you looking for a class?”

“No.” Eve pulled out her badge. This time the woman said: “Uh-oh.”

“Just a couple questions. Let’s start with who are you?” “Donnie Shaddery. It’s my studio—I mean I rent the space.” “Did you have classes yesterday?”

“Every day, seven days a week.”

“My background indicates no classes yesterday between three and five _P.M.”

“That’s right. Morning classes. Seven to eight, eight-thirty to nine- thirty. Ten to eleven, eleven to twelve—break twelve to one. One to one-thirty’s sort of freestyle, then afternoon class from one-thirty to two-thirty. Then except for Fridays, I break until five.”

“You’re the instructor?”

“There are two of us. I had morning and afternoon yesterday, my partner had evening. Why?”

Not the place, Eve thought, with the schedule that tight. But. “I need to know if anyone was here, or in the studio next door,

between three and four _P.M.”

“I was here. I’ve got a call-back—for a new musical—today. I’ve been working on the damn routine every chance I get. I was here from about six-thirty yesterday morning until five.”

“What about the yoga studio?”

“I know Sensa was here before seven. And she did her afternoon meditation about three—at least she always does, I didn’t actually look in. She’s got two other instructors, and one of them—that’s Paula—came in around three, after the afternoon class, because she’s a dancer, too, and she came over and watched me practice for a while.”

“So, basically, someone was in the space all afternoon.” “Yeah.”

“Did anyone else come in during that time frame?” “Not that I saw. Or heard. Should we be worried about

something?”

“I don’t think so.” Eve walked over to the windows. “Seven days a week,” she repeated. “And someone’s generally here—on the floor— in the afternoons.”

“That’s right. If we leave, we lock up. We have a sign—Sensa and I split the rent for the floor, and we share an excuse for an office, and keep some stuff in here. Extra mats, some costumes—we co-teach a belly-dancing class on this side twice a week. It’s not much to steal, but we lock up. Was there a break-in?”

Eve scanned the space again. It just didn’t fit. “No, I don’t think so. One more question. Why ‘break a leg’? How the hell can you dance if you break a leg?”

“Sorry, I— Oh, the saying. Theater suspicion. Saying ‘good luck’ is bad luck. So you say ‘break a leg’ when you mean ‘good luck.’”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nope.” Donnie gulped from a water bottle. “But that’s showbiz.”