Apprentice in Death (4 page)

Then why only three?

“Computer, run crime scene security video, back one minute from cue-up.”

Acknowledged . . .

Leaning back on the desk, she watched the skaters, studied the three victims as they moved on the ice. Then the first hit, the second, the last.

Some continued to skate for several more seconds, providing more targets. Others started to panic, rush, and stumble toward the exit, even over the wall. More targets. The two Good Samaritan medicals moved in, providing more targets, easier ones, she considered, than the three victims had been.

But only three, only those specific three.

The shit would hit, of course. The media would ring that gong and the killings would be top of the reports and stories for at least a few days. But take a dozen—kill or injure—that's top story for weeks.

That goes global.

Three dead meant a good chunk of people would avoid the rink, so possibly a motive against the rink itself. If she'd been holding that laser rifle and had a hard-on against the rink, she might have taken the girl in red, another target, but then she'd have taken out one of the security staff and at least one of the medicals.

“Three taken out,” she murmured, still watching the screen. “Organized, skilled, had to plan this out in advance. So three was the goal. No more, no less.”

She stopped the screen, went back to her desk to read the background on the victims yet again.

When Roarke sent her the list of collectors—in New York, all boroughs, and in New Jersey—with registered weapons that could have been used, she started backgrounds on all twenty-eight of them, searched for connections to the three victims, or the rink itself.

With more coffee, she got halfway through the list before Roarke came out.

“A collector's license for a laser rifle—any make, model, or year—is twenty-five large.”

“I'm aware.”

“Most of the licenses I've been through are to rich dudes. A couple so far grandfathered from a relative. The screening's pretty thorough, but that doesn't mean your average violent offender doesn't slip through.”

“A problem in all areas of life.” Bypassing the coffee, Roarke opted for two fingers of whiskey. “I've got your buildings.”

“Already?”

“The longest part of the process was designing a program that met the criteria. After that?” He shrugged, sipped.

“You designed a program?” About half the time, she thought, she could barely operate a program without getting pissed off.

“I did. An interesting experiment.”

“E-geeks are handy. You have the list of potential buildings?”

“I am, and I do. But I thought you'd like a visual. When your office is redone, we'll be able to do this via hologram, but for now . . .” He set down his whiskey and gestured for her to stand, took her place, tapped some keys.

A slice of Manhattan flashed on screen.

“These are the boundaries you gave me, from the crime scene back to the river, with the north and south streets. And here . . .” He tapped another set of keys, and buildings began to fade away.

“Okay, okay, I get it. High-security buildings eliminated. Excellent.”

“And buildings under four stories.”

“Right. So these building remaining are potential nests. I need—”

“There's more.” Because he was quick, and she was focused on the screen, he had her pulled into his lap before she could object.

“Working, ace.”

“So am I. What you see are buildings with a reasonably clear sight line to the targets. But—” Keeping an arm around her waist, he keyed in some more. Several other buildings faded off. “I eliminated those with mid- to high-level security. You might need to factor those in at some point, as there are always ways around security, but for now, those remaining are zero to low-level. Apartments, mid-range hotels, SROs, and flops, your occasional studio for dance or art classes or what have you, a couple of office spaces.”

“With low-level available, why risk high? But yeah, better to have them on tap if nothing else pans out. If I could—”

“Still more.”

With another tap, thin blue and red lines flashed on.

“The blue is your possible—windows or rooftop of these buildings.
Red is high probability, again factoring in your theory with Lowenbaum, from the east, low-security building.”

She started to rise to her feet to get a closer look, but got pulled back down. And considering all, relaxed into it.

“The program contains an algorithm, utilizes your crime scene footage, with calculations built in for the wind speed, temperature, probable velocity and angle, and . . . more math and calculations than you want to hear about.”

“You built a program that factors the variables with the known, and gives visual probabilities.”

“In simple terms, more or less.”

“You're not just handy. This is e-genius level.”

“Modesty doesn't prevent me from agreeing. Actually, it was an interesting bit of work.”

A lot of buildings—a hell of a lot, she considered. But also a hell of a lot less than she'd had to consider a couple hours before.

So she hooked an arm around his neck, shifted enough to look at him. “I bet it's not free.”

“Darling, your appreciation is all the payment I need.”

“And sex.”

“I thought they were one in the same.” Smiling, he kissed her.

“This probably rates appreciation sex.” But for now, she shifted again, studied the screen. “How about the buildings with high probability that also have privacy screens—standard.”

“Ah, clever girl. You'd hardly want some passerby or gawking tourist with a camera catching you poised with a weapon in a window.”

“And working windows. Why shoot through glass? Why have to cut through glass—unless the LDSK used his own office or home window. That leaves a trail to follow.”

“Give me a minute. No, I can work around you very well,” he said
when she started to get up again. “Though your new command center will simplify this as well.”

He programmed the new parameters manually, and quickly, in a way she'd never comprehend, then ordered the new results on screen.

“That took out five more—or six maybe. How many do—”

“Wait for it. Computer, split screen with identifying data on current display.”

Acknowledged. Working . . .

“So I'll be able to do this holographically?”

“You will, or I will until you get the hang of it.”

“I know how to holo.” More or less. “Even with this setup.”

“Simpler and advanced from what you can do now from here or, from my standpoint, at Central. And there you are.”

She had addresses and the types of buildings. And with each building address were the floors that fit the criteria. The tally was twenty-three buildings.

“I can work with twenty-three. And if this leads me to the nest, you can count on extreme appreciation sex.”

“Would that include costumes and props?”

She rolled her eyes. “It hasn't led me anywhere yet.”

“Perhaps a small advance.” He nipped lightly at the back of her neck.

“Get your brain off sex.”

“That would be beyond my programming capabilities. But until I collect my fee, you'll want to cross-search the licenses, and the victims, with the twenty-three buildings.”

“Just exactly right. Before I do that, let me ask you this: You're an LDSK—organized, skilled, controlled.”

“You assume controlled?”

“Three vics only. Literally dozens who could have been killed or injured—making a bigger impact, giving a bigger thrill. If impact and thrill are motives. So yeah, I assume controlled. Whether or not these three, or any of these three, are target specific: Would you use your own home—your apartment, even your office—as your nest?”

“Interesting question.” He picked up his whiskey again to mull it over. “The advantage there would be time. You'd have all the time in the world to observe the target area from that nest. Complete privacy, and the opportunity to take any number of dummy test strikes from the position.”

“Huh. Hadn't thought of the last one yet, but it applies. Practice, and practice from the exact spot. It weighs. Disadvantages?”

“Clever cops, such as my own, diligently working through the potentials. Risking that clever cop making a connection. And an office? Unless it's merely a front, most would have others working there, at least an assistant, building cleaning crew, and so on. Residence? Does your killer live alone, does whoever he might live with join in his desire to kill?

“I'd be more inclined to rent a space under an assumed name—which takes a bit of work,” he added, “but would be worth it. That office space, small apartment, hotel room. Then after this was done, abandon it.”

“So would I.” She nodded, as her thought process had run along the same lines. “Can't rule out the other, but so would I. I'd trade the convenience of operating out of my own space for the lesser risk of using a temporary space. Hotels, work or living spaces leased within the last six months. He's controlled, but I can't see him using a rented space for longer. Okay.”

Roarke held her in place another moment, then released her. “Why don't you do that cross-search. I'll do the other.”

She rose, as did he, but she turned to him. “When this office thing
happens, you could work in here on this kind of thing, if you wanted. Take the cop stuff out of your own space.”

“I don't mind the cop stuff in my space.”

“I know. We'll add that into the appreciation sex. I'll look at the designs again when I finish this, pick one.”

“If one suits.”

“Yeah, if that.”

She manned her desk again, solo, began the cross-search. While it ran, she managed to figure out how to send Peabody the complicated program Roarke had written and implemented in under two hours.

She imagined fellow e-geek McNab would do a happy dance.

After adding an update, she went into the kitchen to program more coffee, reminding herself that space would change, too.

No need to hold on to the old, she told herself. And in reality, even the old had changed, since Mavis and Leonardo had her old apartment.

Nothing about it looked like the Spartan and basic cop place she'd lived in, not with all the color, the clutter, the kid.

The kid.

When Bella blipped into her mind, she remembered the party. She had to go to a baby birthday party, where surely there would be more babies. Crawling or walking in that drunk way they did, making those weird noises.

Staring like dolls.

Why did they do that?

She shook the thought away, got her coffee, went back to murder.

The incoming from Roarke signaled moments before he came back.

“Hotels, including an SRO flagged for you, and several rentals in the last six months. I've put those rented to families with children and multiple-use office spaces or with staff over three on low.”

“You ran occupants?”

“That would've been next, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah. I've got a couple matches, but they don't ring. A guy from the license list who has an aunt in one of the buildings—but she's on a lower floor than works here. Plus, he's got no military or police training, doesn't actually appear to have any weapons training. We'll check him out, but this isn't our guy.”

Leaning back in her chair, she picked up her coffee, propped up her boots in her think-it-through mode.

“The other's got a big residential on Park, does some designer hunting. It doesn't strike—not much skill from my background check, but he could have downplayed that. But added to it, he lives with wife number three, has a live-in nanny for the kid with wife number three, and a teenage son from wife number two lives with him half the time. Full-time housekeeper—not a droid. Still, I bet he has a private space in his digs, so we'll check.”

She dropped her feet, pushed back. “No criminal to speak of on either. And no connection I could find to the rink or the victims.”

Rising, she approached her board. “If this wasn't his mission, just this, he'll hit again and soon. Three strikes, three down. It's too successful not to hit again. Not the rink, that's done—unless it
is
the rink.”

“You think, and I agree, if it were the rink, there would be more than three on your board.”

“Yeah, that's what I think. Another public place, another multiple strike. If that's the plan, he's already got it selected, scoped, and has his nest. Anyone, anywhere, anytime. He's holding the cards now.”

“You've plenty of your own.”

“But I can't add more to them tonight, not with what's here. Morris, Berenski, they might add more tomorrow. Peabody and McNab are working their end. I'll get a profile from Mira, see if that refines things. It's not a pro.”

She narrowed those cop's eyes at the board again. “A pro doesn't take out three unrelated targets, and they're not connected. Correction, a
working pro doesn't. We could have a pro who's gone loony, but this wasn't murder for hire—or unlikely. Client could have paid to have three hits, with two as cover. Can't disregard even that.”

“Lieutenant, you're circling.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She took one long last look at the girl in red. As Roarke said, she haunted. “Okay. Let's have another look at the design stuff.”

“You don't have to do that tonight.”

“It'll bug me until I clear it. How hard can it be to just pick something?”

“You're a rare woman, darling, as you not only actually believe that, but make it true.”

He called the first design on screen.

“I don't much like this one. The colors are kind of girlie, and the stuff's sort of . . . I don't know, sharp and . . . slick. So plain it's fancy. I don't know the word, but that's how it hits. I mean, the setup's okay—where she's got things—but the things are going to make me feel like I'm in somebody else's place.”