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When the door opened she saw him—hair tied back in work mode, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows—behind the wide black U of the command center with all its glittery buttons.
New York glittered, too—showing her night had fallen hard—outside the wide privacy-screened windows.
He worked a swipe screen with one hand, a keyboard with the other. Paused to glance in her direction.
“Your color’s come back a bit. And you’ve a look in your eye that tells me you’ve had more luck so far than I.”
“I’ve got names. The other two women in the painting. I’ve got them both. The younger killed herself last fall—and a little digging shows me all four of the others traveled to a suburb of Columbus for her memorial. Harvo’s working right now to verify they were in Betz’s trophy case.”
“You hit well. Give me the name of the one who’s still alive, and I’ll see what I can find.”
“Grace Carter Blake. She’s a lawyer, a Yale lawyer, who left her high-paying corporate law firm—where she was on track to make partner—about six years ago. And now? She has her own small firm that specializes in representing rape victims and battered spouses, and she serves as the legal counsel for three rape crisis centers.”
“Well now, you have been busy.”
“It’s falling into my lap at this point—and still doesn’t get me to Betz or Easterday, or the women who want them dead. I’ve got their names, I’ve got their addresses. I’m going to send someone to Blake’s residence of record and her office, but she won’t be there. She made a good living for a stretch of time, Roarke. Maybe enough she could sock some away, enough so she could buy the sort of property where you could carry out torture without worrying about security and neighbors.”
“I’ll look into that, but you need something in your system.”
“Yeah, I do, because it’s revving now, and it’s telling me it’s really empty. But I don’t want any stinking broth. And it needs to be something I can eat while I work.”
“It won’t be pizza.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. What is this, prison? No coffee, no pizza.”
“Chicken stew, with dumplings.”
She wanted to bitch, but there wasn’t time. Besides . . . “I like chicken and dumplings.”
“I know it, and we have it on tap. Why don’t you see to that for both of us while I start this next search?”
“I need to have my incomings transferred up here. I’ve got some coming in.”
Roarke shifted, playing fingers over those jewel-like buttons. “Done. You can do whatever you need—including eat—at the auxiliary.”
She programmed for two, and chose a bottle of wine—she figured he’d earned it, even if she would, for the moment, stick with water or cold caffeine. Since he was deep into it, she set the bowl and a wineglass beside him, turned to her own machine as it signaled an incoming.
Reineke’s report, she noted, and began to read.
They’d been thorough, she noted, though suicide had been clear and obvious. She read through statements from neighbors, from coworkers, from family. And from the doctor who had prescribed the sleep aid.
She’d had insomnia. She’d gone to a therapist for troubling dreams, and to a support group because those dreams had awakened a fear of men, of sex, of being raped by demons.
She’d joined a church.
Eve read the copy of the suicide note.
I’m so sorry for the pain I’m causing. I’m not strong enough, I’m not brave enough. I can’t face the demons anymore, can’t fight what they’ve done to my mind, my body, my soul. I need to make it stop, and this is the only way I know how. Please forgive me for taking the coward’s way. I love my family, and I know this will hurt you. I’m so grateful to my friends, my sisters of the soul, for all the support, for the understanding, for the clarity of vision they helped me find. But the vision is too hard, too dark, and I need to close my eyes, finally, close my eyes and rest. It gives me peace to know I can. I will. Don’t grieve too hard or too long because I truly am going to a better place. Let that comfort you as it does me.
Elsi
She hadn’t been ready to remember, Eve thought, so she hadn’t been ready to survive.
In a very real sense, those six men had killed her the night they’d raped her. And those she could find would pay. She’d make it her life’s work, if needed.
She sent Yancy the name of the last woman—confirmed for him he’d been on target with the younger.
She spoke to the uniforms she sent to Blake’s residence, and her office, tagged Reo yet again for warrants to enter and search both.
