Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(22)

“How do you lose that?” she murmured. “Lose that energy, that passion, that fierceness? It must be almost like death or losing someone to death. Something breaks, something more than a leg, an arm. Something gets crushed, more than a foot, more than ribs.”

How do you get over the anger—that’s what she’d asked Lopez about survivors, about families who lost someone to murder.

“You lost your badge once,” Roarke reminded her. “What did it do to you?”

“Destroyed me. Temporarily. Cut me off from what I was. But I had you to help bring me back, and I got my badge back. He lost his woman, too. His woman,” she repeated. “Another dancer. And look here, they danced the Diabolique ballet together. The Devil was his signature role. Son of a bitch. I should’ve seen it.”

“The building has a basement,” Roarke told her. “It runs the length and width of the building and holds a number of rooms, listed as storage and/or utility and maintenance on the plans.”

“Who owns the building?”

“Funny you should ask. He owns it. He made quite a bit of money during his career and was awarded a large settlement after the accident.”

“He’s got no record anywhere. Unless it got covered up. No history of violence.”

“Money can smooth the way.”

“Yeah.” She angled her head at Roarke. “It can. But you can usually find a few bumps in the media. Speculation, gossip. A man might not be charged and still be guilty.”

“I’ll see what I come across, and it’s telling, I think, that he gave no interviews I can find, no public statements or appearances after the accident.”

“He went underground,” Eve murmured. “So to speak. Lost everything that mattered to him? That could be it. Had his sister, and she left her home and possibly the remains of her career to come here with him, bringing her infant son. Dreamy eyes,” she recalled. “Medication? His medicals show extensive injuries from the accident, the kind a man’s lucky to live through. Had to have a lot of pain.”

More than physical, she decided, thinking of losing her badge again. Much more than physical pain.

“He sits in that studio now playing music for others to dance to. For this beautiful young woman who’s about the same age, the same build and coloring as the woman he loved. She’s going to dance that same role with his nephew.

“Would that piss him off, make him sad? They go to Vegas.” She stopped as her gut twisted. “Natalya said they go to Las Vegas to be showgirls. Maybe Beata’s not the first.”

She strode to the auxiliary comp, started a search for missing persons, female of the same age group, coded in ballet.

“There’s some speculation and juice regarding a young Sasha Korchov and his temper. Storming off stage at rehearsals, berating other dancers—neither of which is particularly unusual,” Roarke added. “And more, here and there, about wild parties and breaking up hotel rooms and such. Before he met and danced with Arial Nurenski. She, it’s speculated here, was balm to his troubled spirit and other romantic analogies. She changed him, calmed him, inspired him. They were to be married two weeks after the accident that killed her.”

“Vanessa Warwich, age twenty-two, last seen leaving a café to go to rehearsal at the West Side School for the Arts. She was to dance the role of Angel in their autumn gala—just like Beata. That was two years ago. There are more.” She looked over at Roarke. “I need to cross-reference, find a connection with the school or Barin, or the role.”

“Send me your list. I’ll take half.”

She shot the data to his computer. “Roarke, if he’s been taking these women, holding them, trapped in a basement? He is a devil.”

They found eight.

Chapter Nine

It was no backyard barbecue, but it had nearly the same guest list. In the conference room at Cop Central, Eve laid out what she had.

“Nine women over twenty-three years,” she began, “with a direct or indirect connection to the school, or a connection to the ballet, have gone missing. All were in their early to mid twenties, dark hair, slim build. All were dancers, and all vanished without a solid explanation.”

She turned to the screen, to the images. “In some cases they’d made some noises about leaving the city; in most there were personal items missing from their apartments, as if they had done so.”

“The nine includes this Beata Varga.” Commander Whitney studied the board Eve had arranged with ID shots of the missing. “Who connects to your murder victim.”

“She’s the latest. Detective Lloyd can give you the background on that.” She nodded at him.

Lloyd stood and walked to the board. “Last seen leaving the restaurant where she worked. Here.” He used the laser pointer Eve handed him. “In the company of two coworkers. They separated here, with Beata continuing south in the direction of her apartment.”

He went over the time lines, the other particulars, reviewed his interview statements. “Up to the point she went missing, she had regular contact with her family. Her work hours weren’t regular, as her employers scheduled her around her classes and auditions and rehearsals, but when she was scheduled to work, she showed up, and statements from her employers, coworkers, customers corroborate she was responsible. Happy. Dedicated to forging her career. She’d just landed a part in an off-Broadway musical. She wasn’t the type to just take off.”