Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(101)

“You get me the warrants, I’ll take him down.”

“You take him down, we’ll put him away. Okay if I grab some food? I’m starving. A night saying bon voyage eats up the calories.”

“Go ahead. Here come Peabody and McNab,” Eve added, recognizing the clomp and prance.

Peabody clomped into the doorway, stopped. Her mouth fell comically open. “Wow! I mean mega-wow. This is— When did you—Wow. You have all kinds of— Oooh, a balcony!”

“Command center extreme!” McNab bounced straight over.

Eve should’ve figured an e-geek would know what really mattered.

“You got holo, and multiscreen.” He wedged himself in the U with her, bending down to study controls and babbling in geek, apparently about available bytes, streaming, functions.

“Don’t touch anything,” she ordered, but got out of his way because he looked, well, aroused.

“It’s mag, Dallas.” Peabody wandered, letting her fingers skim over a chair back. “It’s a really good space, and it really, really works. For you, for the house.”

“It worked fine before.”

“Yeah—the work’s the work, right? But, jeez, the new board’s awesome ult, and it just all fits with the house instead of being, you know, sort of separate. Got some power vibes going in here.” She looked over at McNab, grinned. “He may start crying over that command center.”

“Get him, go eat. That’ll dry his tears.”

Since Eve didn’t want to tangle with McNab, she went to the buffet table for more coffee. Then had to deal with the reactions of the others as they filed in.

Baxter looked around, nodded. “Nice. Oh, yeah, very nice. This is what I call a home office. You ought to hit your office at Central like this, Dallas.”

The thought actually had a chill whipping down her spine. “Don’t even go there.”

“Swank, but not fussy,” Olsen said, taking a long scan of the room. “Serious work space with just enough pizzazz.”

“Priorities,” Tredway interrupted. “When we got the word on breakfast, I figured some half-assed Danishes, but…” He lifted the dome on a warming dish. “Holy pig meat.”

“Dig in,” Eve ordered. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

She let them mill, stuff faces, and when Roarke came in, made herself a plate because otherwise he’d make her one.

When, as she’d expected, most went back for seconds, she got the ball rolling.

“Kyle Knightly, prime suspect. If you haven’t read the report, do so.” Since she had the kick-ass wall screen, she used it, ordered Knightly’s ID image up. “The suspect is…”

She trailed off when Mira came in.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Mira, I didn’t know you planned to attend.”

“I thought I might be able to answer any questions regarding your suspect’s pathology.” She looked around as she spoke, started to speak, then stopped herself. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Eve continued, detailing Kyle’s basic data while Roarke moved to Mira, whispered in her ear. Mira shook her head, patted his arm, then moved to take a seat.

“As detailed in the report, we believe the suspect’s fixation and fantasy regarding his aunt escalated into a need to fulfill that fantasy through rape and violence. We are requesting the full incident reports and statements from his arrest at the age of eighteen for sexual assault, and any legal documents that may have been generated to persuade the complaining party to recant.”

“A million macaroons are pretty persuasive,” Baxter put in.

“Damn right, and the payment casts suspicion on the recant. Considering the length of time between that incident and the assault on the Patricks, it’s probable there were other incidents, possible payoffs, possible treatment for the suspect for his behavior. We are requesting access to his medical files, in full.”

“I can add weight there,” Mira put in.

“Any and all would be appreciated. The suspect lives alone, has never married or by all accounts had a serious relationship. He has a connection to, experience with, and a talent for the theater and screen, with access to professional makeup and costuming, as well as stage props. He is of an upper social and financial rung. Mira’s profile fit him like one of his tailor-made suits. Am I wrong?” she asked Mira.

“No. I would conclude Kyle Knightly developed an unhealthy attachment to his aunt—the sister of his own mother. A sexual desire for her. But she belonged to his uncle. He may have merely fantasized, or may at some point have made an advance, and been rejected. Whether gently or angrily, or any point in between, it wouldn’t matter. The rejection became as intense as the desire. They’re connected for him, and therefore to achieve that desire, that release, he must use force. Must negate any chance of rejection.”

“When he sees a woman who brings him that same, or very similar desire,” Eve continued, “she rejects him. More, she prefers his cousin—the son of the woman he wanted.”

“It’s enough to fuck up the already fucked-up,” Tredway commented.

“Having this woman,” Mira put in, “the one he wanted, the one who would, at the very least, serve as a surrogate for his obsession, choose his cousin? I believe that would have been the psychotic break. While he may have raped others, such as the incident when he was eighteen, he likely considered those assaults merely bending the female to his will. Giving her, in his mind, what she truly wanted. He may have used LCs—and if so, they would resemble the aunt. But when Rosa Patrick chose his cousin, forced or rough sex was no longer enough. Assaulting the female, no longer enough. The couple had to pay, the man dominated and humiliated, the woman taken sexually and—vitally—forced to give him validation.”