Creation in Death (In Death #25)(14)

“It’s unlikely we’ll save the second one, Roarke. Barring a miracle, we won’t save her.”

“And so, you’re already afraid you won’t save the next. I know how that weighs on you, and eats at you, and pushes you. You have someone who understands you, who loves you, and who has considerable resources.”

He crossed over, just to touch a hand to her face. “His pattern may have changed little in all this time, Eve. But yours has. And I believe, completely, that it will stop here. You’ll stop it.”

“I need to believe that, too. Okay, then.” She took one more spoonful of oatmeal. “Peabody’s crib time’s up. I need to finish this report, have copies made for the team. I’ve ordered copies of the old reports, and put in requests for files from other murders attributed to him. Find Peabody, tell her I need her to pick up the cold files, and then the two of you can start setting up. I need another ten minutes here.”

“All right. But unless you have something other than the usual drudge around here in that conference room, I’m taking coffee with me.”

True to her word, Eve walked into the conference room ten minutes later. Behind her, a pair of uniforms hauled in a second board. She carted a boxful of file copies.

“I want the current case up first,” she told Peabody. “Then we’ll have our history lesson.” She pulled the files out, set them on the conference table. “I generated stills of the scene and the body. Use the second board for those.”

“On it.”

She walked over to a white data board on the wall and began to print.

Her printing always surprised Roarke. It was so precise, so perfect, while her handwriting tended toward scrawl. He saw she was printing out the victim’s name, and the timeline from the moment she’d been reported leaving the club, through her death, and the discovery of her body.

After drawing a line down the center of the wide board, she began printing out the others, beginning with Corrine Dagby.

Not just data, Roarke thought. A kind of memorial to the dead. They were not to be forgotten. More, he thought, she wrote them out for herself because she stood for all of them now.

Feeney walked in. “The kid’s cleared for this. The Newkirk kid.” His gaze moved to the board, stayed there. “His old man’s going to dig out his own notes from before. Said he’ll put in any OT you want, or take his own personal time on this.”

“Good.”

“I pulled in McNab and Callendar. McNab knows your rhythm and won’t bitch about the drone work. Callendar’s good. She doesn’t miss details.”

“I’ve got Baxter, Trueheart, Jenkinson, and Powell.”

“Powell?”

“Transferred in from the six-five about three months ago. Got twenty years in. Chips away at a case until he gets to the bones. I’ve got Harris and Darnell in uniform. They’re solid. But I’m giving Newkirk the lead there. He was first on scene and he knows the previous investigation.”

“If he’s like his old man, he’s a solid cop.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking. Tibble, Whitney, and Mira should be on their way down.”

She stepped back from the board. “I’m going to brief on the current first. Do you want to brief on the prior investigation?”

Feeney shook his head. “You take it. Might help me see it from a different angle.” He pulled a book out of his pocket, handed it to her. “My original notes. I made a copy for myself.”

She knew he wasn’t only passing her his notebook, but passing her the command as well. The gesture had something tightening just under her heart. “Is this how you want it?”

“It’s the way it is. The way it’s supposed to be.” He turned away as cops began to come into the room.

She snagged one of the uniforms, ordered him to distribute the files, then studied the boards Peabody and Roarke had set up.

All those faces, she thought. All that pain.

What did she look like, the one he had now? What was her name? Was anyone looking for her?

How long would she last?

When Whitney walked in with Mira, Eve started over. It struck her what a contrast they made. The big-shouldered man with the dark skin, the years of command etched on his face, and the woman, so quietly lovely in the elegant pale pink suit.

“Lieutenant. The chief is on his way.”

“Yes, sir. The full team’s assembled and present. Dr. Mira, there are copies of your original profile in each packet, but if there’s anything you want to add verbally, feel free.”

“I’d like to reread the original murder books.”

“I’ll make them available. Sir, do you wish to speak?”

“Lead it off, Dallas.” He stepped to the side as Tibble entered.

The chief of police was a tall man and—Eve always thought—a contained one. Not an easy man to read, but she doubted he’d have climbed the ranks as he had if he’d been otherwise. He played politics—a necessary evil—but to her mind he found a way so that the department came out on top.

Dark skin, dark eyes, dark suit—part of his presence, she decided. Along with a strong voice, and a strong will.

“Chief Tibble.”

“Lieutenant. I apologize if I delayed the briefing.”

“No, sir, we’re on schedule. If you’re ready now.”