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When she’d finished her oral briefing, he nodded. “Is your block on the media going to fuel him or frustrate him?”
“With or without the media, he’s hunting again. While his victims are random, they are deliberate, and the deliberation takes time. As for the media, I’ve fed a few statements through the department liaison. They’re concentrating on the first murder. It’s flashier than the rape and murder of a sixty-one-year-old woman in her apartment. We’re not going to be pressed too hard on that end until one of them gets the connection. They will eventually, especially if he hits again, but we’ve got some room.”
“You’re misleading the media?”
“No, sir. I’m just not leading them. I’ve given my statement to Quinton Post at 75, rather than Nadine Furst, as I felt that would cool any mumbling about favoritism. He’s sharp, but still a bit green. Once Nadine gets her teeth into this, she’ll make the connection. Until then, I don’t have to answer what isn’t asked.”
“Good enough.”
“On another front, sir, I don’t think, despite his claims, he cares overmuch about the media attention. Not at this time. He wants my attention, and he has it. Dr. Mira’s profile confirms his need to dominate and destroy women. The female authority figure is his nemesis. That’s me, that’s why he picked me.”
“Are you a target?”
“I don’t believe so, not as long as he sticks to pattern.”
Whitney grunted, then steepled his fingers. “You should be aware that I’ve had complaints.”
“Sir?”
“One from Leo Fortney, who’s crying harassment, and threatening a suit against you and the department. A second from the offices of Niles Renquist, intimating . . . displeasure at having the wife of a diplomatic figure interrogated by a member of the New York Police and Security Department. And a third from the representative of Carmichael Smith, who ranted vigorously about the possibility of damaging publicity due to the hounding of his client by a . . . what was it? An insensitive, abrasive hotshot with a badge.”
“That would be me. Leo Fortney gave false information during initial questioning. He’s changed his story, somewhat, during subsequent questioning by my aide, but it still reeks. Both Niles Renquist and his wife have been questioned, not interrogated. And while both were cooperative, neither was forthcoming. As for Carmichael, if anyone leaks his involvement in my investigation to the media, it would be him.”
“You intend to pursue each of these individuals as
suspects in this investigation.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“All right.” Satisfied, he nodded. “I have no problem fielding the complaints, but walk softly here, Dallas. Each of these people has considerable power in his own way, and all of them know how to spin the media.”
“If one of them is a murderer, I’ll make the case. They can spin until they revolve to Saturn and back, but they’ll do it from a cage.”
“Wrap them up then, carefully.”
Dismissed, she got to her feet. Whitney lifted an eyebrow as she started out. “What’s wrong with the leg?”
“It’s just the knee,” she said, annoyed she hadn’t remembered to control the limp on the way out. So she smiled, a little. “I ran into something stupid,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
She left later than she’d intended, and got stuck in some bad traffic. Instead of fighting it, Eve waited it out, using the time to think, to review her notes, to think some more.
She had suspects, though she was thin on evidence. She had threads that wove through both murders. The notes, the tone of them, the imitation.
She had no DNA, no trace evidence, and no evidence that led her to believe the killer had known his victims. Witness reports described a white or possibly mixed-race male, of indeterminate age and coloring. He used accents, she thought. Because his voice was distinctive?
Renquist, with his British tones. Carmichael, with his famous ones.
Possible.
Then again, Fortney ran his mouth to the media and the public often enough. He might assume someone would recognize his voice.
Or it could just be ego again, and any one of them. I’m so important, everyone will recognize me if I don’t disguise myself.
Look for the female authority figure, she told herself. That’s the core and that’s the key. What was the phrase? Cherchez la femme. She thought that was right.
She stripped off her jacket on the way from the car to the house. The air felt close, heavy, and just a bit electric. Maybe a storm coming. Rain couldn’t hurt, she thought, and tossed the jacket over the newel. A good bitch of a storm might keep her man inside, and off the hunt.
Before she went back to work, back to her own hunt, she’d track down another man.
