Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(23)

“Neither was Vanessa Warwich.” Eve used her own pointer to highlight the photo. “Missing for twenty-six months, last seen leaving her apartment—here— to rehearse at the school. She’d enrolled only five weeks earlier, had a new boyfriend. Or Allegra Martin, age twenty-four, a principal dancer for the City Ballet who was starring in the role of Angel when she went missing four and a half years ago.

“Lucy Quinn, seven years missing,” Eve continued, and worked down the line. “The pattern’s clear, as is the victim type.”

“You believe Sasha Korchov is replacing his lover with these women.”

Eve nodded at Mira. “I know he is. He lost her, lost everything in one terrible moment. He left his home and is reduced to teaching others to dance, more to watching them—those young women—dance when his lover can’t, while he plays for them.”

“He plays the tune,” Mira added. “They dance. If he’s taken these women, it could be he needs them to dance for him—only him. He needs to keep them to himself, possibly to recreate the relationship he had with his fiancée, professionally and personally.”

“Could they still be alive?” Peabody asked.

“I think there could only be one at a time,” Mira told her. “One dancer, one lover, one partner if you will, or the illusion shatters. It would be more likely he’s replacing the replacements over time than adding to the number.”

“Beata’s alive.” Eve felt it in her bones. “But he’s killed Szabo to protect himself. She made it known she believed Beata was alive and close by, trapped. Underground. A Romany, a dead talker, breathing down his neck.”

She saw Baxter roll his eyes at that, stuck with logic. “He has some Romany blood. His sister and the old woman talked regularly—she’s poking around, getting too close. He’s afraid of her, superstitious. Enough so he disguises himself before he kills her. He doesn’t want her to see his true face. And now he’s had the cops at his door over it. How long can he keep Beata alive?”

“The pressure may push him to eliminate her,” Mira agreed.

“I need a warrant. We need to search that basement, his apartment, the whole damn place.”

“I can get one.” APA Reo pushed to her feet. “The pattern and connections should be enough.” She checked her wrist unit, winced at the time. “Waking up a judge or interrupting the Saturday night party isn’t going to win me a popularity award.”

As Reo left the room, Eve ordered the blueprints on-screen. “His apartment. We need to take him first, secure him so he doesn’t have the chance to panic and take Beata out. We also secure the sister and nephew. They may be involved, may be protecting him. Feeney, I want to locate everyone in the building before we go in.”

“We’ll set it up. Get you heat source imagery.”

“I need the exits secured,” she continued. “And there are a lot of them: doors, windows, fire escapes, roof access. Elevators are down. If Korchov’s in his apartment, we secure him. If he’s not, we find him. We’re also looking for the murder weapon. A dagger, seven and a quarter inches, likely a chipped tip. Renicki, Jacobson, you’re on the apartment. Baxter, Trueheart, Peabody, we’ll take the basement.” She glanced at Roarke. “We’ll take the civilian.”

A locked door, she thought, would be easier to deal with if they had a thief —former—along.

“Feeney, McNab, Callendar, you run the electronics. I want locations, movements. Once the suspect, the sister, the nephew are secured, you’ll move in.”

She went over the rest of the assignments, detailing the operation stage by stage.

This is what she did, she told herself. This was the logic, the instinct, the training. And if there was something inside her urging her, all but begging her to hurry, she had to ignore it.

“I want all of you to watch your asses,” she concluded. “This man is suspected of abducting and imprisoning at least nine women, very likely killing them when he was finished. He’s suspected of slicing up a ninety-six-year-old woman in broad daylight. Just because he used to wear tights and ballet shoes doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

“Potentially very,” Mira confirmed, “when cornered, when desperate. I’ll ride with EDD,” she added. “If any of his victims are alive, I may be able to help.”

“Appreciate it.” She looked at Morris. “And if they aren’t.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Let’s get moving. Load it up, ride it out. Father Lopez, if I could have a moment.”

She gestured him to the side of the room. “I don’t make a habit of calling a priest into an op, but—”

“I’m grateful you did in this case. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“You were there when Szabo died. You did the Last Rites thing. I figured if the old woman was Catholic, the girl probably is. Between you and Mira she’d be covered.”

“It’s kind of you.”

She didn’t know if it was—didn’t know if it had been her impulse to call him in or if she’d been directed.

“How are you, Eve?”

“Hell if I know, and I don’t have a lot of time to think about it right now.”