Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(40)

“That’s one.”

“Both Ira and Lori Brinkman prefer to address this in their home, want the privacy. They’re juggling their schedules, and one of their admins will get back to me on the best time.”

“Good enough.” Eve grabbed her coat. “Let’s go.”

“Did Mira add anything we can use?”

“She says it looks like the killer has mommy issues.”

“Mommy issues?” Scrambling to keep up, Peabody grabbed her own coat out of the bullpen.

“And daddy.”

“I don’t … Oh.” Peabody’s face scrunched up as she swung on her coat. “Mira thinks the vics are surrogates for the killer’s parents. That’s just beyond the ick.”

“It gives us an angle.” When the elevator doors opened, revealed the logjam of cops, visitors, support staff, Eve simply turned on her heel and headed for a glide. “All the elements are violations, deliberate humiliations, excessive violence. But the rapes are the centerpiece. Mommy may be stepmommy, but the surrogate makes solid sense.”

“Daddy remarries—because marriage plays, too,” Peabody said. “Younger, frosty new wife—probably—and this guy wants her for his own. Or at least wants to do her. Or…”

Peabody hoofed it as Eve switched glides. “What if mommy remarried? Killer’s bent because he wasn’t enough for mommy.”

Eve angled her head. “Good. That’s good. Either way. If Mira’s right, we’re looking for a schmuck with an Edison thing.”

“Edison? Like Thomas?”

“Who’s Edison Thomas?”

“I mean Thomas Edison. The inventor?” Peabody explained. “The lightbulb?”

“No, for Christ’s sake, this isn’t about lightbulbs. Like the sicko guy who married his own mother, then whined about it.”

After a moment’s confusion, Peabody’s own lightbulb went off. “That’s Oedipus. I’m pretty sure that’s Oedipus.”

“Edison, Oedipus, platypus. Whatever.”

Peabody huffed out a laugh, then realized the strange discussion had distracted her from hopping off yet another glide and hoofing it down two flights of stairs into the garage.

Peabody put on her hat, wound on her scarf.

“Plug in the studio address,” Eve ordered, sliding behind the wheel.

Once Peabody programmed the address into the in-dash, Eve glanced at it and bulleted out of the garage. As she fought downtown traffic, she gave Peabody the main thrust of Mira’s profile.

“Same social/financial strata rings for me,” Peabody decided. “Or he could have grown up in that world—say the son of live-in staff.”

“You’ve got your thinking hat on, even if it is pink and purple. That road leads to maybe the employers are surrogates for mommy and daddy, and the vics surrogates for the employers. It’s an angle. In the world, but not of it. Resentment simmers and boils, and to maintain requires a false face. Acting. It’s not bad.”

“The Patricks have to know a lot of actors, a lot of people in the industry. But then that falls apart with the Brinkmans and the Strazzas.”

“Brinkman’s international finance. A lot of people in the entertainment industry are rich. She’s a human rights attorney. A lot of people in the industry get involved in causes. Strazza, hotshot doctor. There’s going to be a cross in there, another common factor. And the first victims are always the launch point.”

“The Patricks.” Peabody pulled out her memo book. “What I dug up is they met through a mutual friend at a party on Long Island about three years ago. At that time she was involved with someone else. A few weeks later, that ended, but he was seeing someone else. Basically they knew each other for around ten months before they started seriously dating. They got engaged about a year later—big splash—bought a house and moved in with each other last spring. Got married—even bigger splash—last June. They honeymooned in Europe—a three-week deal—and had been back for just over a week before the assault.”

“I’ll bet there was a lot of splash, too, in the gossip and society blathering about their honeymoon.”

“Yeah, I skimmed through some of it. They did Paris, Provence, Rome, Venice, London—”

“Not asking for their itinerary. They were specific targets. The assailant knew they were out of the country. If he’d just wanted to rob them, he’d have done that when they were gone. It just solidifies that the assaults, specifically the rapes, were the main objective.”

The building that housed On Screen Productions had its own underground parking. She pulled in, veered toward the visitor’s section, and wound through until she found a slot.

Without a swipe card for other floors, the elevator took them as far as the main lobby. Security and Information held the center in a space ringed with coffee shops, sundry shops, snack shops.

The coffee shops had the bulk of clientele.

Eve headed for the central counter, took out her badge. “NYPSD. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, to see Neville Patrick. On Screen Productions.”

“One moment.” The woman in an all-business black suit scanned the badge, swiped at a screen. “You’re cleared for that. Twenty-second floor would be their reception level. Take any elevator in Bank B.”