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Sirens were screaming, and the lights from the emergency vehicle whirled as it sped by. Someone was in trouble.
But Alicia Dilbert had no more need for sirens or whirling lights; her trouble was over.
The scene was already cordoned off, with cops doing their busy work. The morning was beginning to steam, with the hot breath from the subway belching up through the sidewalk vent adding another layer.
On the corner, an enterprising glide-cart operator was set up and doing a brisk business selling coffee and fried egg sandwiches to cops and health workers—both of whom should have known better.
Eve smelled the stink of fake eggs sizzling on the grill, the body odor from men who’d been at work too long, and the medicinal scent of hospital that clung to the crowded air.
If the dog days of August didn’t take a breather soon, the city was going to parboil in its own sweat.
She sealed up, and crouched with Feeney by the body.
“Got word you were back, so I held off having her bagged.” He nodded toward Roarke who stood at the edge of the barricade. “Quick trip.”
“Yeah. We’re fine. He’s fine. Shit, Feeney. Shit. I should’ve been here.”
“Wouldn’t have made a damn, and you know it. He didn’t get past us. Van hasn’t been touched. Nobody approached it.”
“She’s still dead, so he got past us one way or another.” She fixed on microgoggles and studied the neat heart wound. “He keeps things orderly, stays on pattern.” With the goggles in place, she could see the thin, faint line of bruises around the wrists.
“He posed her. When Morris gets her in, he’ll find other marks from the wires he uses.”
“Yeah. Dallas. He went a little off pattern this time around.” Though his face was cold and set, there was a little flare of fury in his eyes as he reached in his evidence bag and took out a sealed note.
“She was holding this. He had it taped to her fingers.” He turned the bag to show Eve the envelope, and her name printed on it.
Eve took the evidence bag, turned the note to read.
Lieutenant Dallas. You don’t understand. How could you? Your scope is limited. Mine is expanded. You see here a victim, but you’re wrong. She has been given a gift, a great gift, and by a small sacrifice offers that gift to others.
You think I’m a monster, I know. There will be those who agree with you and curse my name. But there will be more, many more, who will see, and finally understand the art, and the beauty, and the power I’ve discovered.
What I do is not simply for myself, but for all mankind.
Her light was brilliant, and is brilliant still. I hope one day you will know it.
You see too much death. One day there will only be life. And light.
It is almost done.
“Yeah, it’s almost done,” she muttered. She slid the note into her bag. “My scope’s limited, Feeney, but what I see here is a pretty black girl, around twenty years of age, dressed in a medical uniform. About five-five, a hundred and thirty. No defensive wounds.”
She bent close again, turned the girl’s right palm up. “Slight round mark, consistent with pressure syringe, on her right palm. Hi, how you doing, nice to see you again. And the bastard tranqs her with a handshake. Dressed for work, so she was coming or going. We know which?”
“Med student, doing rotation here. Off shift at ten. We got statements from some of the staff who saw her clock out.”
“Mmm.” She continued to study the girl. Pretty face, high, sharp cheekbones. Glossy black hair, curly and drawn tidily back with a band at the nape of her neck. A trio of studs along the lobes of each ear.
“Pretty busy around here. Big risk to scoop her up right outside a health center at ten at night. You got her home address?”
“Got that, and the rest.” Though he remembered, he pulled out his e-pad. “Alicia Dilbert, twenty. Student at NYU, Medicine. Residence on East Sixth, puts her place three blocks north of here. Next of kin’s a brother, Wilson Buckley.”
“What?” Her head came up. “What did you say?”
“Buckley, Wilson, next of kin.”
“Damn.” She massaged the back of her neck. “Goddamn, Feeney, we know him.”
