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“Don’t put yourself through this.” He touched her cheek. “It hurts you.”
/> He was being careful, she noted, not to mention her father. The beatings, the rapes, the terror she’d lived with until she was eight.
“They all hurt if you let them,” she said simply, and turned back to look at Darlene French. “I won’t turn her over to someone else, Roarke. I can’t. She’s already mine.”
chapter two
The suite was registered to one James Priory of Milwaukee. He’d checked in that afternoon at three-twenty, and had booked his accommodations three weeks in advance with a planned two-night stay.
Payment for the room, and any incidentals, was to be made through his debit card, which had been recorded and verified at check-in.
In the parlor of that suite while the crime scene unit and sweepers handled the crime scene, Eve watched the security disc Brigham had sent up to her.
The check-in recording showed Priory to be a mixed-race male, mid to late forties, dressed in the conservative dark suit of the successful businessman who could afford a high-priced suite in a high-priced hotel for a couple of nights. An expense account look, Eve noted.
But under the natty suit and well-styled hair, she saw thug.
He was burly, wide-chested, and easily weighed twice what his victim had. His hands were square, the fingers long and blunted. His eyes were the color of the scrim that forms on street puddles in January. A cold and dirty gray.
His face was square as well, with a blocky nose and a thin mouth. The dark brown hair, carefully styled and graying at the temples, struck her as an affectation. Or a disguise.
He made no attempt to conceal his face, even managed a brief smile for the desk clerk before he let the bellman lead him to the elevators.
He had a single suitcase.
With the next disc, she watched the bellman open the door to his suite and step back to let Priory enter first. According to the logs, he did not leave the suite again before the murder.
He used the AutoChef in the kitchenette for a meal—steak, rare, white potato, baked, sour dough roll, coffee, and cheesecake—rather than contact room service.
The service bar in the parlor had been lightly used, some macadamias and a soft drink.
No liquor, Eve noted. Clear head.
The next disc showed Darlene French wheeling her maid’s cart to the door of 4602.
A pretty girl in a spiffy uniform and sensible shoes who had a dreamy look in big brown eyes. Delicate build. Small hands that played with the little gold heart on a thin gold chain she tugged from under her blouse.
She buzzed, idly rubbed the small of her back, then buzzed again. Slipped the heart and chain neatly under her blouse. Only then did she slide the passcode from her apron pocket into the slot, press her right thumb to the Identi-pad. She opened the door, called out cheerfully, then gathered fresh towels from her cart.
She closed the door behind her at 8:26 P.M.
At 8:58, Priory, suitcase and towels in hand, stepped out of the room. He closed the door behind him, neatly dropped the towels inside the cart before he skirted around it. Then strolled—like a man without a care in the world—to the door leading to the stairs.
It had taken him only thirty-two minutes to beat, rape, and murder Darlene French.
“A clear head,” Eve said aloud. “A cold, clear head.”
“Lieutenant?”
Eve shook her head, held up a hand to hold her aide off a moment longer.
Peabody zipped her lip, waited. She’d been working homicides with Eve for a year, and believed she had her lieutenant’s rhythm.
Her eyes, nearly as dark as her straight chin-length hair, shifted to the screen where Eve continued to study the frozen image of a killer.
Looks mean, Peabody thought, but said nothing.
“What have you got for me?” Eve said at length.
