Apprentice in Death (3 page)

“You should have a look yourself,” Lowenbaum told Eve. “Get a gauge.”

“I've seen your weapon, Lowenbaum. I've used a laser rifle a time or two.”

“It's more likely your shooter's using a tactical—something in that range.” Lowenbaum stepped on the elevator with them. “Three strikes like that, in that time frame? You've got someone who's got possession and training of a long-range laser rifle.”

“Law enforcement, military—or former in either. I'll get a list of collectors to add to that.”

Eve stuck her hands in her pockets as the elevator opened outside the big secured doors of Roarke's weapons room.

Roarke laid his hand on the palm plate.

When the doors opened, Lowenbaum let out a sound a man might make when seeing a naked woman.

She supposed she couldn't blame him. Roarke's collection was a
history of weaponry. Broadswords, stunners, thin silver foils, muskets, revolvers, maces, blasters, machine guns, combat knives.

The glass display cases held centuries of death.

She gave Lowenbaum a minute to wander and gawk.

“You and Roarke can play with all the shoot-it, stab-it, stun-it, and blow-the crap-out-of-it toys later. Right now . . .”

She gestured toward the display of laser weapons.

Obliging her, Roarke deactivated the locks, opened the glass, took out the Peregrine.

She'd never seen it, or its like before. And admitted, to herself, she'd like to test it out. But she said nothing as Roarke took it from its place, offered it to Lowenbaum.

“Is it charged?”

“It's not, no. That would be . . . breaking the rules.” And Roarke smiled.

With a half laugh, Lowenbaum lifted the weapon—black as death, sleek as a snake—to his shoulder. “Lightweight. Our tacticals weigh in at five-point-three pounds. Add another eight ounces if you're carrying the optimum scope. Spare batt's another three ounces. This is what, three pounds and change?”

“Three and two. It'll sync with a PPC, or you can use its infrared.” Now Roarke opened the door, took out a palm-sized handheld. “This will read up to fifteen miles. Battery life is seventy-two hours, full use, though I'm warned it will start to heat up at about forty-eight if not rested. Recharges in under two minutes.”

Lowenbaum lowered it, turned it over it his hands. “You try it out?”

“I did. Packs a recoil, but I'm told they're working on that.”

“Hit anything?”

“Simulation only. Rang the bell for me at a mile and a quarter.”

With obvious regret, Lowenbaum handed it back to Roarke. “She's
a beaut. But here's your more likely.” He gestured at the bulkier weapon on display. “A military- or police-issue tactical. They haven't changed much in the last five or six years. I'm going to say, high probability, he owns his weapon. It's not something you take home after your tour like your service weapon. These are checked in and out, every incident. Most likely, again, for three strikes in that time frame, he had it on a bi- or tripod. Moving targets, and the first strike? She was moving at a good clip. Strike from one of these from a distance of—say a mile? It takes two and a half seconds to go from weapon to target. There's wind speed to consider, but that's about what you've got.”

“You have to build that into the shot. Distance, wind speed, angle—speed of movement of the target.” Eve nodded. It told her the shooter had watched his targets for a while, judged their relative speed on the ice.

“I never used a bipod—or not since weapons training. How much weight there, how big?”

“A couple pounds, and you can scope them down to under a foot.”

“The rifle breaks down, right?”

“Sure.” He glanced at Roarke. “I can show you.”

Roarke took it down, offered it to him.

Lowenbaum checked the charge gauge, noted it was empty, but flicked the down switch anyway. “Safety first,” he said. Then he turned a small lever, separated the barrel, the charger, the scope, and had the weapon in four compact pieces in about ten seconds.

“You could fit it into a standard briefcase broken down,” Eve observed.

“Correct, but if you have any respect for your weapon, you have a case with molded slots for the parts.”

“It wouldn't get through security in a government building, a museum, that kind of public building.”

“Not a chance,” Lowenbaum said.

“Okay, so most likely an apartment building, a hotel, a retail or rental space of some kind.”

She wandered, thinking, as Lowenbaum competently reassembled the weapon.

“Who's best at this sort of reconstruction at the lab?” she asked.

“It's going to be Dickhead,” Lowenbaum said.

“Come on, does it have to be?” They called the chief lab tech Dickhead for a reason.

“It does. You give him the push, I'll work with him when I can.”

“I won't turn that down. Thanks.”

“No thanks needed, because unless I'm way off, Dallas, you've got yourself an LDSK.”

“An LDSK?”

Eve turned to Roarke. “Long-distance serial killer.”

“Cops,” he murmured. “Who else would have the acronym at hand?”

“Wouldn't need one if people weren't so fucked-up. Who do you know who could make those three strikes?”

Lowenbaum puffed out a breath. “I could. I've got a couple guys on my team who could. And yeah, I get you need to run them, but there's no way. I know a few other guys, and I'll make you a damn list. I'm going to say I know a few who could make the strikes. I don't know anybody who would.”

“Names would help anyway.”

“And it could be a pro, Dallas. You can pull up a list there as easy as I can.”

“I will. But who'd hire a pro to kill a part-time student/part-time barista—female vic. An OB/GYN—vic two. A high school history teacher?”

“People are fucked-up,” Lowenbaum reminded her.

“Yeah, they are.”

“You're the murder cop. You do what you do there, and I'll do what I can on the tactical end. Three strikes like that?” The way he shook his head transmitted both admiration and concern. “The shooter's feeling pretty fine right now.”

“And feeling pretty fine, he'll want to feel pretty fine again.”

—

A
fter Lowenbaum left, Eve set up her murder board, then sat to put together her notes and observations.

“You'll eat,” Roarke said—firmly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“It's the stew you like.” He solved the issue by pulling her out of her desk chair. “You can eat and think, and tell me what you know or what you think.”

It helped when she did—and the stew thing smelled really good.

“You know, before I caught this, I was in my office thinking, Hey, quiet evening at home. A little wine, a little dinner, maybe a vid, a little sex.”

Because he knew how much coffee she'd drink in the next few hours, he pushed her water glass toward her. “We'll fit some of that in, won't we?”

“The girl, Ellissa Wyman. I already had the gut feeling, but as soon as I reviewed the security feed, I knew. The way she flew. Had to be high impact, and nobody on the rink or around saw anything. You don't get off three streams without somebody seeing something. You sure as hell don't get them off when a cop reviews the tape, byte by byte, and sees nothing. The odds of me finding where those strikes initiated? I wouldn't bet on me.”

He reached over, covered her hand with his. “I would.”

“Yeah, but you're rich, and soft on me. I'm hoping Lowenbaum can help narrow down the area, but even then . . .”

She shook her head, ate. The stew tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “The girl? Nineteen, lived at home. Solid middle class. No current boyfriend. Ex is in college in Florida. No animosity between them. In fact, they tried the long-distance thing for almost a year before they drifted apart. Still friendly. She dates a little, but nothing serious. Skates for the joy of it, hoping to join a troupe—started when she was about eight, and fell in love. She's a regular at the rink, so I have to consider her as a specific target.”

“She stood out,” Roarke said. “Her grace, the look of her.”

“Yeah, she did. Can't say the same about the first male: Brent Michaelson. Ordinary-looking guy, nothing flashy. But he's another regular. Not as often as the girl, but regular, routine. Divorced, but years ago. Civil relationship with the ex-wife. Tight with the daughter, enough that they'd all get together for dinner at the ex-wife's for birthdays and holidays—no drama. He liked to take his grandkids skating now and then. He's skated for years, nothing fancy. Said it helped him keep in shape, helped reduce stress.”

“And the last?” Roarke said. “The one who was killed while holding his wife's hand.”

“Yeah. You pay attention. Today's their anniversary. Five years. They were re-creating their first date. Some people knew they were going to the rink, but from what I can gather not many—it was more a personal thing. And what time they'd be there wasn't laid out.”

“You see him as random. They all may be, but you're more certain he was. If one of the others was specific, then potentially two of them were no more than cover, so all would appear random.”

“I think all or two out of three. I have to hope for two out of three, because then it's done. Or probably done. Like Lowenbaum said, the shooter's feeling pretty fine. More, if one is target specific, I'll damn well find out who and why. But if all three were pulled out of a damn hat . . .”

“If it was all random, why the rink?”

He thought like a cop, but since he was being so helpful, she wouldn't insult him by mentioning it. “Public, big impact. Media frenzy. That would be a high motive for an LDSK. Maybe he has a problem with the rink itself. Maybe his wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever, dumped him there. Maybe he used to skate but sustained an injury so he's pissed at skaters.”

She brooded over it—so many maybes. “She's pregnant. The wife of the third vic. She just found out, hadn't even told him yet. Was going to tell him over the first-date lunch re-creation.”

Roarke let out a sigh. “The ripples go on and on, don't they? It's never just the victim, just the dead, you stand over. It's also those they leave behind.”

“Her father's Irish—a little more of an accent than you, but just a little. I think he and the ex have the civil, but I doubt they have holiday meals together, you know? But they were a unit around the daughter. And he—the father—stayed back with me for a minute, talked about his son-in-law. You could see he loved him.

“It matters,” she said, reaching for her water, “because I think he's going to be the least of it. If one of the others was target specific, he'll be the least. An afterthought.”

“Not for you, Eve.”

“She was first. The girl in red. Couldn't miss her, like Lowenbaum said. Wouldn't you take out the target first, make sure you did the job? Part of me leans there. But then, I think, how cocky are you, you bastard? And it seems to me somebody who can do this, who does this, that's plenty cocky.”

“So you bookend the target—one before, one after.”

“Just another maybe.”

“How can I help?”

She looked over at him. “You were working when I got home.”

“No, actually, I'd just finished what I was doing when those designs came through. I was looking at them a second time when you came home. I've nothing I need to do.”

He took her hand again. “I'm sorry for the wife, the parents, and all the other ripples. But it's the girl, that girl in red, who'll haunt me for a while. She had such joy on her face, such freedom in her movements. He ended that. I'd like to help you find who ended that.”

Home, she thought again. Him. Where she could lean and not lose who and what she was.

“Collectors. Of the tactical, since Lowenbaum figures most likely there, but of anything that could make those strikes from outside the park.”

“That's easy enough. Give me something a bit more challenging.”

“Okay. Buildings, east of the park, let's say between Fifty-Seventh and Sixty-First. All the way back to the river. We'll eliminate any with solid screening. It's going to be a long enough list. And Lowenbaum said above, so buildings over four floors. We can jog that up or down if they can pinpoint angles more closely.”

She ate more stew, cocked her head. “How many of them do you figure you own?”

He picked up his wine, smiled. “Won't it be interesting to find out?”

—

W
ith Roarke in his adjoining office, Eve settled down to the routine that was never really routine. Running backgrounds on the victims and witnesses, on staff, running probabilities. She wrote up a comprehensive report, read it over, added more.

Then she sat back, fresh coffee in her mug, boots on her desk, and studied her board.

Why only three? That stuck in her gut. The speed and accuracy said this shooter could have taken a dozen, or more, within minutes. If the motive, as the general rule applied to LDSKs, was panic and fear: Why only three?

And why these three?

The girl in red made a bright target. The color, her youth, her skill, her speed and grace. Maybe a specific target, but all those attributes leaned Eve toward of the moment.

The third victim, part of a couple—and not regulars. Their plans to be on the ice on that day, at that time, not widely known outside a tight circle.

Of the moment again.

But the second victim. The obstetrician, the regular. That rink, that time, that day of the week habitual.

If there had been a specific target, her personal probability index rated Brent Michaelson high.

But it was a big
if
.

All random?

She rose with her coffee and circled her board, studied the positions of the bodies.