Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(47)

He always woke her—if she wasn’t awake—when he brought breakfast. Why was this different?

She started to sit up, and the ugly headache had her letting out a moan.

Her brain felt too big, and somehow clogged.

But she remembered, at least a little.

He’d brought her dinner—chicken fingers, some kind of fake chicken, with soy fries, green beans. Well, more gray than green. A tube of water, a cup of tea.

Then he’d sat in the bolted-down chair. He’d actually asked if she’d had a good day.

She’d wanted to hurl the food back at him, but she’d eaten the food—stay strong!—even complimented it, which made him beam at her.

She tried telling him how the wrist cuff hurt. But he’d just smiled and said she had to wear it to stay safe. She’d pushed a little, as carefully as she could manage. But he’d gotten that look in his eyes, the one that warned her.

She would have dumped the tea, but he sat, and sat, and gave her no choice.

And she’d felt the world slipping away.

Now her head hurt from whatever he’d put in the tea, and she felt vaguely sick to her stomach. It was sore, too, and when she started to press a hand against it, she felt a dull pain. And the silver ball in her navel.

He’d pierced her! He’d violated her body while she’d slept—helpless under his goddamn drugs.

The outrage shot her to her feet, pain screaming. She nearly grabbed the ball, ripped it out. Then she stopped herself, stood, breath heaving. She’d hurt herself—then he’d hurt her. He’d put it back in.

Then she saw the two little cups—like they put meds in for people in the hospital. One held some sort of white cream, the other a clear liquid. Her hand shook as she reached for the carefully handwritten note beside them.

Mommy, use the cream on your pretty butterfly spreading its wings on your back. Use the other on your pretty new earrings and belly button when you turn them. Be gentle!

I knew you needed your beauty sleep, so I left you breakfast. Have a good day! Your baby darling.

“Oh my God, oh my God, what butterfly?” But her hands shot first to her ears. He’d pierced her there, too. Multiple times. She felt the soreness as she clamped her hands over the little studs.

Tears spilled as she shifted, tried to run her hands over her back. She felt the slight difference, traced it as best she could.

“Jesus, it’s huge. He pierced me, he tatted me. He’s making me her.”

But he wouldn’t. She wouldn’t become somebody else no matter what he did.

She was Mary Kate Covino.

The tears fell and she went through her routine of naming off her family, her friends, what she did, what she liked. And she used the hydrogen peroxide on the piercings, did her best to smear the cream on the tattoo she couldn’t see.

Then she banged on the pipes, banged and banged until she finally heard the answer.

Not alone.



* * *



Eve decided to take the roommate first. When you lived with someone, they knew stuff. Often things family might not.

A good building, she noted. Again Lower West Side. Definitely his territory. The obviously well-rehabbed redbrick building had door cams, an intercom for buzzing in, and required a swipe and a code for entry otherwise.

“She’s a subway ride or a fifteen-to-twenty-minute walk from her workplace,” Eve calculated. “The boyfriend’s bar’s only about two blocks away. So he stalked her coming and going from the bar. Tells me she must’ve had some sort of routine.”

She walked to the door, mastered in. “Let’s see if the roommate confirms that.”

“Sixth floor, 608.”

Since Eve judged the elevators in the small lobby, recently cleaned from the smell of it, likely reflected the maintenance of the building, she pressed a call button.

“Family’s in Queens. Data says she’s lived here for three years—with the same roommate. Worked for the marketing firm for going on four—right out of college. No criminal bumps.”

They stepped into the elevator—one that didn’t make strange noises—and Eve called for the sixth floor.

Peabody read off the data. “Roommate, Cleo Bette. Sous chef at Perfecto. That’s like a block from the bar—upscale place.”

They got out on six.

Good soundproofing, Eve thought. Or everybody was out. She buzzed at 608.

“Margie, I said I’d let you know when—” The woman who yanked open the door stopped. “Sorry. I thought you were my neighbor a couple floors down. Look, it’s not a good time, so—”

She broke off again when Eve held up her badge. “Oh, thank God.” She grabbed Eve’s arm, all but pulled her into the apartment. “Did you find her? Is she okay?”

“I’m sorry, we just got the report. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.”

“Oh. I was hoping … Wait, wait. I know those names. We saw the vid. Mary Kate and I. Oh Jesus, you do murders.”

“Ms. Bette.” Peabody stepped up in her soothing mode. “We don’t know that anything’s happened to Mary Kate. We’re here to help find her. Maybe we could sit down.”

“Okay, yeah, sorry.” She closed her eyes a moment, a tall, mixed-race woman with a lot of curly brown hair bundled back. She wore gray sweatpants, a black tank top, and looked terrified.