Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(53)

“Get him the hell in a cage. Make sure you charge him with assault with a deadly on a police officer.” She crouched down to push her face close to the knifer’s. “You can get life for that, asshole. Put in the other charges, and you’re done. You cost me a pretty nice jacket.”

“You need to go to the infirmary, sir.”

Eve looked down at the ripped sleeve, the blood. “Crap.”

Instead, she slipped into a restroom, ripped the sleeve off the jacket, and fashioned a quick field dressing. Then, with some regret as it had been a nice, serviceable jacket—shoved what was left of it in the recycler.

The steady pulse of pain from her arm joined the head throb. Home, she thought, as soon as she gave Whitney her report, she was going home, cleaning up, shutting down. Two hours’ sleep would do the trick.

At home.





At his desk when she walked in, Whitney held up a finger for silence as he finished reading a report. Eve stood where she was while behind his window a blimp lumbered through the sky with its flashing ad, a couple of shuttles zipped in a crisscrossing path, and a tram carried a payload of tourists.

Whitney tapped the index finger of his big hand on the screen, then shifted his eyes, dark, intense, to her.

“How were you injured?” he asked her.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“I asked how.”

“Sir. Some mope on the tenth level, east, lying in wait for his ex, who’d come in to SVU after he beat and raped her. He’d copped a plastic knife from the Eatery, sharpened it up. I got in the way. A Detective Manson has him in custody.”

“That’s not a proper dressing.”

“I’ll get one. I was on my way to give you my report, so—”

Again, he held up a finger, turned to his com to tag his admin. “Send a medic in here for the lieutenant. She has an injury, left forearm. Knife wound.”

“Sir, I really don’t need—”

“Report.”

“Sir.” Damn it.

She reviewed the facts, the steps taken, the various avenues of investigation addressed.

“You’ve yet to find any connection between the victims.”

“No, sir, we’ve found nothing that intersects them other than the killer.”

“And you believe both victims were killed by the same individual.”

“Detective Peabody and I have just completed first interviews with Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I believe the result of those interviews opened another avenue of investigation. I consulted with Doctor Mira on the—”

She broke off at the knock on the door.

“Come,” Whitney ordered.

Eve eyed the medic with instinctive distrust. “Commander, if I could conclude before—”

“Sit down. You can give me the rest while he works on you.”

“Carver, sir,” the medic said cheerfully. “Let’s have a look-see.”

She didn’t care for the idea of a medic named Carver, but under direct orders sat.

“Good field dressing,” Carver told her as he removed it. “Nasty little slice. We’ll fix it up.”

Several sarcastic remarks came to mind, and she swallowed them as Carver began to clean the wound she’d already damn well cleaned in the bathroom.

“There’s a connection between Dudley and Moriarity,” she began. “They’re friends, of the same social strata, and both head large corporations that came down to them through birth. Each has a—shit.”

She jerked a little, and aimed a hard glare at Carver as he replaced the pressure syringe in his kit.

“Always a little sting, but it’s better than an infection.”

“Each,” Eve said through her teeth, “has a strong alibi for the night his employee’s ID was used to lure the victim. And each has no alibi for the alternate night and time.”

“You think they’re working together? For what reason?”

“Motive may come to light as we shift angles, take a closer look at the vics with the alternate company, company head, both personally and professionally. Or it may be exactly what it appears to be on the surface. Thrill kills.”

She did her best to ignore the faint buzz of the suture wand, the vague and persistent discomfort of her skin drawing back together.

“The pattern comes through,” she continued. “The victims represent wealth, position, indulgence, the weapons unusual and showy, the kill sites public and risky. In both cases false ID was utilized, and sprang from one of the companies run by these men. An outside hack is, of course, possible, but it feels like an inside job. It plays as one.”

“And Mira’s profile?”

“They both fit. The interviews, sir? It felt like theater, in both cases. Rehearsed, with each taking a specific type of role. They’re arrogant and smug, and enjoying the fact that they’re in the middle of this. We have an additional piece of evidence from a partial image EDD was able to enhance from the Coney Island security. From it, we can estimate the height of the killer, and we were able to identify the designer and model of his shoes, and the approximate size. It’s made by Emilio Stefani—”

As he bandaged, Carver let out a low whistle. “Those’ll cost ya.”

“They retail for three thousand, to confirm Carver’s statement. Dudley bought a pair of that shoe, in the color and the size we have, in March. Only one other pair was purchased in the city, in that color and the size Detective McNab ascertained from the security image. That individual is currently in New Zealand, and at the time of the murder was on a location shoot for a major vid. That leaves Dudley.”