Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(86)

But it happened, she thought as a clammy sweat sprung out on her skin. Couldn’t be stopped.

“He takes off his clothes. My bet is he folds them neatly. He takes off the beard, too. No need for disguises with her.”

So she would see his face, contorted, eyes burning.

“He’s aroused now. It’s really getting him off that she knows who he is. He doesn’t need or want the disguise. Maybe he thinks he loves her after all by now. She belongs to him. She’s helpless. He’s got the power. More power because she calls him by name when she begs him to stop. But he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. He just keeps ramming himself into her. Ripping her, ramming her.”

“Hey, hey.” Shaken, Feeney squatted down, put his hands on Eve’s shoulders. Her eyes had gone glassy, her breath thick and uneven. “Come on, kid.”

“Sorry.” She closed her eyes.

“It’s okay.” He patted her awkwardly. He knew what had been done to her as a child, knew because Roarke had told him. But he wasn’t sure if Eve was aware he knew. Better, he figured, for both of them, if they pretended he didn’t know. “Sometimes you get too close, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” She had to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. She could smell the unlovely odor of sex going stale, of sweat. And, she thought, of helpless female terror.

“You want, uh, some water or something.”

“No, I’m okay. I just… I hate sex crimes like this. Let’s bag this stuff and finish going through. We might get lucky here and pick up some prints.” Steadier, she got to her feet. “Then we’ll see what the sweepers can suck up. Wait.” Abruptly, she put her hand on Feeney’s arm. “Something’s missing.”

“What?”

“Five, this is five — what is it?” She juggled the song through her mind. “Where are the five golden rings?”

They did a thorough search, every room, but found nothing that fit the pattern of jewelry left at the scene. Eve’s blood went cold.

“He took it with him. He still needs number five. But he doesn’t have his tools. I’m going to check the salon downstairs, see if he broke into it. Can you finish here and call the sweepers?”

“Yeah. Watch your back, Dallas.”

“He’s gone, Feeney. He’s back in his hole.”

But she was careful as she made her way down to the store level. She could see no signs of forced entry on the elegant doors of the salon. Beyond the glass, it was black.

Following instinct, she used her master code to disengage the locks. And drew her weapon. “Lights on,” she ordered, then blinked into the sudden glare.

When her eyes adjusted she saw the cash/credit drawer behind the reception counter standing open. And empty.

“Oh yeah, you stopped by.”

She swept the room first, eyes and weapon, then sidestepped toward the display cases. The glass was whole, and she could spot no spaces between the neat lines of products. Moving left, she walked toward the treatment rooms.

Each was empty, and surgically neat.

She uncoded another door and stepped into the staff lounge and locker area. It was, like the rest of the salon, scrupulously clean. Almost obsessively so, she decided as her blood began to hum.

She scanned the lockers, wishing for Roarke’s skill with manual locks. Her master wouldn’t get her into the compartments. She’d need a warrant for that.

The next room was storage. And here the stringent tidiness was broken. Cases of products were upended, bottles and tubes scattered. She imagined he’d rushed in, desperate to replace his supply, furious that he’d panicked and left it behind upstairs.

He’d torn into the boxes, grabbing his choices, stuffing them into a bag, or another box.

Quickly now, she went out to check each consultant’s station. Only one was disturbed, the drawers in the shiny white counter yanked out, rifled through. A thick blob of liquid of some kind had been spilled on the top and left to spread and gel.

Though she already knew, she stuck to routine and searched for the stylist’s license. When she found it, she studied the photo.

“Didn’t keep your area clean this time, Simon? And I’ve got your ass.”

She whipped out her communicator, striding quickly toward the doors to secure the scene. “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, all points required on Lastrobe, Simon, last known address 4530 East Sixty-third, unit 35. Subject may be armed and dangerous. Current photo will be transmitted immediately. Pick this guy up, suspicion of sexual homicide, multiple, first degree.”

Dispatch. Acknowledged and authorized.

“Feeney.” Eve shot a transmission to his communicator as she re-locked the doors and pulled a crime scene tag out of her kit. “Secure up there. I’m calling Peabody in to handle the sweepers. We’ve gotta ride.”

“Our guy’s a face painter. Jesus.” Feeney shook his head in disgust as Eve drove east like a bullet. “What’s the world coming to, Dallas? Swear to God.”

“Yeah, he painted their faces, their bodies, played with their hair, listened to the stories of their lives, fell in love, and killed them for it.”

“You figure he worked on all of them in that salon?”

“Maybe, but if not, he saw them. Picked them out. He could have accessed the match lists easy enough, gotten data on them.”