Imitation in Death (In Death #17)(64)

"Parents divorced, father remarried and moved permanently, to Devon. England, right?"

"The last I checked, yes."

"No. adult. criminal, but I bet there's something. Something paid o f or expunged. Looks like he's done some time in a couple of snazzy rehab facilities. Let's have a closer look at the mother."

"Suzanne Smith. Age fifty-two. Young when he was born," Roarke commented. "And the marriage took place nearly two years later. Attractive woman."

"Yeah, he looks like her some. Well, lookie here. Mommy had -an LC license for a while. Street level. And she's got herself a sheet."

Intrigued, Eve started to rise, but Roarke clamped his arms around her waist. "If you can't see the screen from here, I can put the data on audio."

"Nothing wrong with my eyes. Looks like she did some grifting, and got caught with illegals, tried a little minor fraud. Pleaded them all down," she added. "Never served time. Rolled, on somebody, I bet. Held onto the license after she applied for PP status, but claimed no income. Just kept it off the books, that's all. She was still turning. Why pay the fee if you're not going to turn tricks? So, little Carmichael's sex education was likely early and hands on."

She considered, put herself in the scenario. "Let me see his medicals," she asked. "As far back as you can find."

"Am I smudging now?" ,

She hesitated, but, her instincts were humming. "Keep it to a minimum."

He gave her hip a little pat, signaling her up so he could work. While he did, she poured the last of the coffee.

"Standard exams and inoculations as an infant," Roarke said. "He appeared to become accident-prone at about two."

"Yeah, I see." She scanned die-various reports, from various doctors, different health centers. Stitches, minor fractures, one fairly serious burn. Dislocated-shoulder, a broken finger. "She knocked him around," Eve noted. "The abuse continued after the divorce, and right up until he hit the teen years and probably got too big for her to risk it. So it was the mother, the female, authority figure. She moved around enough to get away with it. Relocating here and there. in the States, doing some time in England. And look at her earned income, Roarke, as opposed to her assets."

`The first is all but nil, while the second was very comfortable."

"Yeah. I'd say she's still sucking on her little boy. Guy's bound to resent that sort of thing. Maybe enough to kill."

Chapter 13

Eve had very rational reasons for starting her shift in her home office. It was quiet. Of course anything compared to the division' at Central-including an Arena Ball match-was quiet.

She needed more thinking time. She wanted to set up a murder board here as well, so she could stare at it and study it whenever she was in the room.

And, the number-one reason for loitering there rather than heading, straight downtown was the expected arrival of Summerset. She intended-to be well away before noon, but she wanted to brood, just awhile, over the fact that once she left the house today, he would have reclaimed the field upon her return.

So she set up her board, sat, put her feet up on her desk. And drinking coffee, studied it.

There were crime-scene photos-the Chinatown alley, the Gregg bedroom. There were maps, and the notes left on scene.. photos, before and after. With them, she pinned copies ofthe original crime scenes these were based on.

Whitechapel and Boston, and two of those victims that most closely matched hers.

He'd studied those, too, she thought. Stared at those old photographs, read those old reports.

He'd be studying others now. Refreshing himself, preparing for the next act.

She had the lab reports, the ME's,' the sweepers' She had statements from witnesses, next of kin, suspects, neighbors. She had the time-lines. She had her own notes, her, own reports, and now a mountain of background data on those who remained on her shortlist.

She would go over them all again, and she would do more leg work, more interviews, She'd dig deeper, wider. Buts he would beat her to the next. Her gut told her he'd beat her in the short run, and someone else would die before she caught up.

He'd made mistakes. She sipped coffee and stared at the board. The notes were a mistake. That was pride and a kind of glee. He had a need not only to toot his own horn, but to do it with, a flourish. Notice met See how smart I am, see what excellent taste I have.

But the paper could 'be traced, could give her a list -of names to pursue.

The basket of peaches- was another. That was arrogance. I can walk right out of here, leaving-the brutalized dead behind, and eat a nice ripe peach.

There might be other mistakes. She would pick everything apart until she found them. He-would make other mistakes, because however smart he was, he was cocky.

She looked toward the open door when she heard the sound of footfalls, and her forehead creased.

"Hey," she said, as Feeney walked in: The neatly pressed shirt told her his wife had handed it to him out of the closet. The broken-in shoes said he'd gotten away from her before, Mrs. Feeney could nag him into putting on a less disreputable pair.

He'd probably combed his hair, but it was already frizzing out in its usual wiry thatch of ginger and silver. There was a little nick on his chin because he claimed a-man couldn't shave proper unless he used an actual razor.