Chaos in Death (In Death #33.5)(18)

“Okay.” With Mavis, it would be okay. “But later. I need you to—can you wipe your screen off? You look like you’ve been licked by a Saint Bernard.”

“Oh, sorry. So what’s the up?” Mavis asked as she whipped out a cloth and polished the screen.

“I’m going to send you a sketch, and I need you to get in touch with Trina, show it to her.”

“Why don’t you just send it to her?”

“Because I’m busy.”

Mavis angled her head. Her hair, a curling mass of gold-streaked red today, bounced. “Coward.”

“I’m a busy coward. I don’t want her giving me grief because I didn’t rub some shit on my face, or in my hair. Or listen to her tell me I need my hair cut or whatever. I’ve got something hot, and she might be able to help.”

“Give me the goods. So I finished my gig on the vid,” she said as Eve ordered the sketch accessed and sent.

“What vid?”

“Nadine’s vid—your vid. The Icove Agenda. It’s mag to the nth they wanted me to play myself. And the chick playing you? Man, they made her a ringer. I got wigged when I—Holy shit on a flaming stick!”

“Shit,” Bella echoed happily in the background.

“Oh hell—hello,” Mavis muttered. “I swore in front of the baby. But holy you know what, this is too totally scary. I’m scheduling my nightmare right now.”

“Sorry. I need to know what it takes to make somebody look like this.”

“A pact with Satan?”

“With makeup and prosthetics, and that stuff. Trina knows that crap.”

“I’ll be passing it on—and getting it off my ‘link just in case it has the power to materialize.”

“Come on. Other angle. You did some carny work.”

“Back in the day, sure. Always plenty of marks at a carny.”

“Ever see anything like this? Freak show-wise.”

“I saw plenty of mega weird, but nothing like this. You wouldn’t ask unless it—he—whatever—killed somebody. He looks like he’s born to kill. Jes—jeepers,” she corrected. “I got bumps of the goose all over. I’ll tag Trina now, so I don’t have to wig alone.”

“Thanks. Let me know.”

Eve pulled over at the curb in front of the crime scene.

She unsealed the door, used her master. And stood inside, left the lights off. Not as dark as it would’ve been, she thought. But there was a streetlight, enough for some backwash.

Still, he’d had to know which mattress each vic slept on. He’d moved with purpose, with a plan despite the ferocity.

She moved straight through to the back, opened the window, climbed out.

And yeah, the building across the street had a good view of the window, the sidewalk, the recycler. Eve imagined the killer dancing and spinning in the spot of the streetlight, laughing.

Spinning and dancing up the street, Cynthia had said. So he didn’t care about being seen. A vehicle nearby? Or a hole to crawl into. His own place?

If he’d taken a cab, the subway, a bus? Even in New York somebody would’ve reported it. All of the lab rats lived within blocks. Both of the doctors and Arianna had vehicles.

Eve turned back to the window. He jimmies it, she thought—quiet now. No dancing and laughing, not yet. Climbs in.

She followed the steps, easing in, sliding down to her feet—left fibers behind. Opens the satchel for the protective coat.

Some boxes in here, she noted, and tidy piles of old materials—but he doesn’t bump into them. He’s been here before. And he walks right into the front.

As she did, the door started to open.

She had her weapon out, trained. Then hissed when Roarke stepped in.

“Damn it.”

“I’m the one with a stunner aimed at me. I get to say, ‘Damn it.’ ”

She shoved it back in the holster. “You’re not supposed to pick the lock on a crime scene.”

“How else would I get in? Your vehicle’s outside, and the seal’s broken. I knocked like a good civilian, but you didn’t answer.”

“I was out the back window.”

“Naturally.” He stood where he was, looking around. “What an unholy mess. The crime-scene records never have quite the same impact.”

Since he was here, she’d use him.

“He jimmied the window, rear, quietly stepped around the stuff back there—in the dark or near dark. Not much would come through the window—it’s grilled—from the streetlight. But he doesn’t wake them.”

“He’d been in here, and back there, before.”

“Yeah. Knew just how to navigate, and knew where each one slept. Leads with the bat.” She swung. “Cracks Vix across the side of the head where he lay. He’s the lucky one. I doubt he ever woke up. Changes to the knife.” She mimed switching hands. “Puts it into Bickford’s chest—two blows, and another in the gut. Fast. Bickford might’ve made some sound, tried to call out, but his lung’s punctured. Now it’s time for Darnell.”

“She’d have woken, don’t you think?”

“Bash, slice, movement. I think she woke up before he’d finished with Bickford. Got up, either tried to run or tried to fight. He uses the bat, breaks her kneecaps. Maybe she screamed—nobody heard—or maybe she just passed out or went into shock. But he went back to Vix, beat him into jelly. Blood’s flying everywhere, bones snapping, shattering. He put the protective gear on in the back room, but blood’s on his face. It feels warm, tastes hot. He loves it. He wants more, so he goes back to Bickford with the knife and stabs and hacks. Over eighty times.”