Kindred in Death (In Death #29)(57)

“It’s where I want to be.” He stepped away from the elevators, wandering now behind the screened windows.

“The furniture’s staged to give you a feeling, an idea of one use of the space. The fact is, Drew, you could do anything with this area. Work, play, a combination. I know you said you didn’t cook, but you have to see the kitchen. It’s perfect, ultra and efficient. Maybe a girlfriend would enjoy using it.”

He grinned, wagged his finger.

“I know, no girls right now,” she said with a laugh. “Art first. But artists can entertain like minds, right? And have to eat. You can zap leftover takeout, stock the AutoChef, and there’s a built-in D and C—for checking out takeout spots, deliveries, menus.”

“Now that works for me.”

“Oh, and the security system. You can take a look at the camera zones.”

He waved that off. “Let’s see the rest first.”

“We’ll take the master bedroom then. It’s staged, too, so you’ll have an idea how it could be used. And the advantage of being on the top floor? Skylights there, too.”

She took a few steps, weaved a little.

“Okay?”

“Wow. A little light-headed.”

Concern shone in his eyes. “Why don’t we sit down a while?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m good. Just putting in a lot of late hours, trying to get everything done.”

“Right. Big day Saturday.”

“The biggest. And since we’re taking off on Monday for Honeymoon-Extraordinaire, I want to get everything cleaned up. Just need another jolt.” She took a deep swallow of coffee.

“There’s a little half bath off the second bedroom—or what I see as your studio. That would be handy for you, but the master? It’s ro cking-A.”

She walked in, then swayed as her knees buckled.

“Hey, hey.” He took her arm, her weight, walked her toward the bed. “Let’s sit down.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She all but floated down to the bed. “I feel . . . wrong. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“I don’t really think so. Here, finish this up.” He held the coffee to her lips, poured it down her throat as her eyes glazed.

“Wait.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to take my time. We’ve got all day.”

His face blurred, but for an instant, the look of it, his teeth bared in a horrible smile, she felt fear. She felt fear, then nothing.

Since he’d sealed up in the elevator, he opened his bag for the cord.

“Safety first,” he murmured, and bound her hands behind her back.

As the sellers had provided very nice high-end sheets, he used them to secure her legs by the ankles to the bright silver knobs of the footboard.

He took out the rest of his tools before he stripped, and stowed his neatly folded clothes in the bag.

He studied Karlene as he finished off his own, undoctored coffee, decided she looked peaceful. That wouldn’t last long.

The loft was soundproofed, he’d verified that. Just as he’d verified that the other two tenants in the building were at work.

Naked, he walked over to the controls to change the music to some hard, grinding thrash, bumped up the volume a bit. Satisfied, he went back to the main security controls, checked the cameras, checked all locks.

Later, he thought, when he’d sufficiently . . . softened her up, she’d give him her security number. She’d beg to give it to him. He’d log her out, shut down the cameras, and upload the virus.

But before that, well before that, he’d give her pain, and give her fear. And he’d talk to her, intimately, about her bitch of a mother. And why Jaynie Robins was responsible for her daughter’s ugly death.

He set the doctored go-cup—a ploy as he’d purchased the actual coffee blocks uptown, then transferred it—on the kitchen counter.

He went back to the bedroom, checked his to-do list to make certain he’d forgotten nothing.

When she moaned, stirred, he smiled.

Time to go to work.

Eve strode into the Homicide bullpen with a purpose. Several conversations stopped. Baxter got to his feet.

“LT—”

“Ten minutes, conference room, full briefing.” She kept going, straight into her office. She needed five of those ten to clear her head, organize her thoughts. She got coffee, turned to check the incoming on her comp.

“Media, media, media. Screw that. Talk to the liaison.” She brought up the list—Peach Lapkoff moved fast—and skimmed the performances, the dates.

“Computer, start search. Victims of rape/murder through suffocation and/or strangulation within penal system. On and off planet, including halfway houses, home detention, local, federal, global. Add factor of connection to MacMasters, Captain Jonah, as part of investigative, administrative, or arresting team.”

Acknowledged . . . length of search?

Brother, son, lover. Could be any. Could be none. “Twenty-five years.”

Warning . . . Search for data of this nature twenty years or more will delay results.

“Then you’d better get started. Command given.”

Acknowledged . . . Working . . .

“Computer, send results, year by year, to both my office and home units.”