Obsession in Death(95)

“That, sure, that. But she’s been in that place, knew the setup. No need to know that to scope out Mavis. We’ll get the image over there, show the owners, the staff. Maybe somebody knows her.”

She came back for her coffee.

“You lived there,” Roarke pointed out. “In that building, only a couple blocks away from that restaurant.”

“It wasn’t there, not with those people when I… She’s tuned into me. That’s my old neighborhood. I got that place because it was close enough to Central to make it smooth. Not a long haul to the morgue, to the lab.”

“Why wouldn’t she do the same?” Roarke proposed. “If she works in any of those facilities, or wishes she did, if she’s obsessed with you, why not live in the same area you did? Walk the same sidewalks, eat and drink and shop where you did.”

“She could’ve run into the Chinese place, but it has a different setup – it’s narrow and it doesn’t have that little alley off the back like the bar. She had enough of a lead to keep going, and yeah, yeah, get across the next intersection, maybe gain some distance if I got hung up with the traffic again. But she swung around that corner, never hesitated. She aimed for it.”

She sat on the desk. “Plug it in, will you? You’re faster. Narrow the search. Let’s see if we can find somebody who meets this basic description who lives within a six-block radius of my old building.”

“It’s a lot of ground,” he told her as he made the adjustments. “And unlikely to get quick results.”

“Results works well enough for now. I’m going to use the auxiliary, get the image out.”

“Take your pie,” he suggested.





19

Some risks were worth taking. It was a matter of principle.

The delivery-person gear that had served so well wouldn’t do now. But with some adjustments, the same ploy would work.

The peacoat – ordinary, simple. Not quite as bulky as the brown, and a bit shorter, but it would serve. The navy cap with earflaps and bill, pulled low, but with just a little hair from the short wig straggling out beneath it – a dull dark brown bought months before, and with cash. Still, it paid to seal it, and to remember to take care before removing it during the real work.

Couldn’t wear shades, but the bill of the cap would help there. Old black boots, already sealed, with thick black trousers bagging over them.

The makeup added a nice touch, darkening the skin on the face a few shades. And it covered the carefully applied putty that broadened the bridge of the nose. The appliance over the teeth – annoying – altered the shape of the mouth, added a distinct overbite.

That’s what a witness would remember if anyone bothered to look and see. Dark complexion, overbite, short, straggly dark brown hair.

Add the plaid scarf – navy and gray, bundled and wrapped over the chin, then the navy gloves over hands already sealed, and the bulk of a tattered black messenger bag.

She studied herself now in the full-length triple mirror, assessing every angle, every detail. Compared it inch by inch with the sketches the department had released.

Without the lifts she was nearly two inches shorter, and without the brown coat not as stocky in appearance.

No one would look at the messenger and see the delivery person.

Like going undercover, she thought. Eve would appreciate that. Eve would understand the time and trouble it took to make yourself into someone else to do what needed doing.

She’d better start appreciating.

Before strapping on the messenger bag, she checked the contents yet again. More sealant, in case, protective suit, high-powered flashlight to check the scene for trace, tweezers on the slim chance of trace, bags for sealing anything if necessary.

Clamp for the tongue, though she planned something different this time. A little addition to the routine. And another kind of message.

Thinking of it, she lifted out the thin, sharp scalpel in its protective case.

Something different, she thought again. Smiled and smiled. Something creative.

She slipped the scalpel back in place, took out the fresh marker, its backup. She wasn’t sure what she’d say this time, not like the first when she’d written so many drafts in her journal first. This time, she’d let it come to her, after the work was done.

And this time, once she was clear, she’d send a message directly to Eve from one of the false front accounts she’d been collecting.

You hurt me, she composed in her head, putting another over me who has been your loyal and unselfish friend. You came after me as if I were a common thief, a mad dog, a criminal. True justice calls for balance, so I must hurt you for us to regain our even ground. For us to understand true mutual respect.

It’s for your sake I’ve done this as the constant attention, the glory and fame has, I fear, distracted you from your calling.

To serve justice, you must be pure. I see now that you can’t be pure again until the author of this fame and attention is eliminated. It’s for the best, Eve. All that I’ve done, all that I will do, is always with your best interest in my heart.

I remain,

Your one true friend.

Yes, that was what needed to be said. Maybe she should draft it out now, while it was fresh in her mind. The work tended to cloud things. Or did it clarify them?

She’d wait. The work came first. Eve came first.