Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(98)

“Yeah, let’s see what we’ve got.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was a rambling and rather pitiful video journal. A year in a man’s life when that life shatters into pieces and begins to fall away from the core.

Eve supposed Mira would have called it a cry for help.

He referred to his mother a dozen times or more. His true love, whom he canonized in one entry and vilified in the next.

She was a saint. She was a whore.

The one thing Eve was certain of at the end was that she had been a burden, one that Simon had never shirked, and never understood.

Every Christmas she had re-boxed and re-wrapped the gold cuff bracelet she had purchased for her husband, engraved with the words “My True Love,” and placed it under the tree for the man who had left her and her young son. And every Christmas she had told her son that his father would be there on Christmas morning.

For a long time, he believed her.

For a longer time, he allowed her to believe.

Then on Christmas Eve the year before, sick of it, revolted by the men she let use her, he’d smashed the box and destroyed her illusion.

And she hanged herself with the pretty garland her son had strung around the tree.

“Not a cheerful seasonal tale,” Roarke murmured. “Poor bastard.”

“A lousy childhood’s not an excuse to rape and murder.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s a root. We grow our own way, Eve, one choice leading to another.”

“And the choices we make we’re responsible for.” She dug out an evidence bag and held it open. After a moment, Roarke ejected the disc and dropped it inside.

Taking out her communicator, Eve called McNab.

“No luck on his hidey-hole, Dallas. I traced the father. He relocated to Nexus Station nearly thirty years ago. Got a second wife, two kids, grandchildren. I’ve got data if you want to contact.”

“What’s the point?” she murmured. “I’ve got a video diary from Simon’s place. The crime scene techs and the sweepers missed it. I’ll transmit to EDD. Go in and file it, will you, McNab? Then you’re off duty. Relay that same status to Peabody. Both of you remain on call as long as subject is at large.”

“That’s affirmative. Hey, he’s got to come out sometime, Dallas. Then we’ll have him.”

“Right. Go hang your stocking, McNab. Let’s hope we all get what we want for Christmas. Dallas out.”

Roarke watched her pocket the communicator. “You’re too hard on yourself, Eve.”

“He’ll have to move tonight. He’ll need to move. And he’s the only one who knows where. And who.” She turned back to the closet. “He’s got his clothes organized — color, fabric. Even more obsessive about it than you.”

“I see nothing obsessive with organizing your wardrobe.”

“Yeah, especially if you own two hundred black silk shirts. Wouldn’t want to pull out the wrong one and make a fashion faux pas.”

“I take that to mean you didn’t buy me a black silk shirt for Christmas.”

She glanced over her shoulder, grimaced. “I kind of messed up on the shopping. I didn’t understand the deal until Feeney pointed out you’re supposed to buy in bulk for a spouse. I’ve just got this one thing.”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Do I get a hint?”

“No, you’re too good at puzzles.” She looked back in the closet. “So puzzle this. You’ve got shirts and trousers here, white to cream to whatever this color is.”

“I’d say taupe.”

“Fine. Then it goes into blues, greens. All of them hung in order. Now there’s a gap, then we pick up browns, grays to black. What color do you suppose is missing?”

“Best guess is red.”

“Right. No other red in here. Maybe he only wore red for special occasions. He had a backup suit, and he took it with him. Something else the sweepers didn’t come up with. The rest of the tokens. Six geese whatever and so on. He’s got them, too. He’ll be ready for the show. But where has he stashed it all? Where’s he keeping it, and himself?”

She circled the room. “There’s no coming back here for him. He knows that. He risked coming back because he’s got to finish, and he can’t finish without his tools, his costume, his props. But he’s too smart, he’s too organized, too f**king anal not to have had a place to go.”

“His life was here, with his mother and the memories,” Roarke pointed out. “And it was at his work.”

She closed her eyes as it struck. “God, he went back to the building. He’s in that building.”

“Then let’s find him.”

Street traffic was vicious, the road skinned with thin icy patches, but the pedestrian jam had whittled down to a trickle. People rushed over the sidewalk, hurrying home to family, to friends. The few who were desperate for the eleventh-hour gift haunted the handful of shops and stores still open.

Streetlights blinked on and offered cold pools of light. Eve watched an animated billboard Santa fly in his sleigh and wish Merry Christmas to all.

And it began to rain ice.

Perfect.

When Roarke pulled to the curb, she got out quickly, slipped out her master code, then hesitated. After a brief internal debate, she bent over and unstrapped a weapon from her ankle holster. “Take my clutch piece. Just in case.”