A lot of quiet blues and roses in the living area, with furniture arranged for conversation.
It didn’t look as if Cobbe worried about conversation once he got her inside.
She’d wanted him—and why not—this handsome, well-dressed guy with the lovely accent who’d laid on the charm.
Until he got her inside.
Then it was hurry up.
Maybe at first she found it exciting, all caught up in the moment, mouths and hands, and the thrill of being taken.
Then it got rough.
Eve looked around again, the female touches, the quiet colors, the pretty of it all.
“You weren’t the type for the rough, were you, Kaylee? You wanted some romance, some smooth moves, and he just wanted to bang, and bang hard.”
She walked to the bedroom again, stood in the doorway. “You just wanted him to slow it down, take a little care. But he won’t. He can’t. It’s who he is. And when you tell him to stop, to wait, he hits you. I’m betting nobody ever slammed a fist into your face before. It’s a shock—that pain, that insult, that sudden fear. So you cry out, you struggle, and he hits you again.”
Again and again, Eve thought. Again and again.
“Does he tell you to shut the fuck up, call you a whore, a bitch? Probably. He’s tearing at your pretty bra and panties, and you’re crying, you’re begging. Maybe you manage a scream. So he closes his hands around your throat to shut you up while he rams into you, squeezing and squeezing the air, the life out of you while he pumps and pushes and grunts.”
And when he’s done, when he sees what he’s done, he doesn’t feel a thing. He just puts his pants on, and walks out.
“He got what he needed.”
She took out her ’link, contacted Abernathy.
“He got another one.”
“What? Lieutenant? Who? Where?”
She gave him the name, the address. “Your aide will get you here.” Glancing back, she nodded as Peabody came in with field kits. “I have work to do.”
They’d caught breaks, Eve thought when they left the crime scene to the sweepers and the victim to the morgue team. And still.
“I’m going to write this up at home,” she told Peabody.
“I’ll write it up. I’m closer to home than you are. I’ll copy you. We couldn’t have stopped this, Dallas. And there’s nothing—Abernathy confirmed—there’s nothing in his file that compares to this. He kills for profit, he cuts and guts. This isn’t his pattern.”
“He’s not working now. This is a mission, even a kind of holiday. And he’s not controlled like he is when he’s working. And I’m saying the file’s wrong, Abernathy’s fucking wrong.”
She felt the bubbling fury in her want to boil over, had to push it down again.
“There have been others. Unsolved or closed wrong that go back to him.”
“I think you’re right. It was easy for him, just another night.”
“I can drop you back at Central or home, wherever you want to work.”
“I’ve got it. Quick subway ride. I’ll see you later tonight. McNab’s in the van—and I hear you and Roarke are, too. So I’m in.”
“All right. I’ll get the bartender’s statement, then I’m working at home.”
By the time she got back in her car, her mood hit bottom of the tank. She’d listened to the weeping dancer, the weeping bartender, the weeping parents.
Their grief rolled through her in waves.
She wanted home, she wanted Roarke, she wanted her cat. And she wanted the work. Because the work would lead her to this son of a bitch.
Then she remembered the school.
Too late, too much work, she thought. She’d go by another time. She wasn’t in the damn mood.
And muttering curses, she changed her route.
Because, damn it, it was important. It mattered.
So she’d go by, ten minutes, do a quick walk-through, then she could tell Roarke she’d seen it. No point tagging him when she’d do a quick in and out.
Of course that meant finding a damn place to park, which added more time, then hiking to the school through the flood of people who apparently didn’t want to go home.
And okay, it looked great—from the outside anyway. Dignified without being fussy and … what was the word? Staid? Weird word, but it wasn’t that.
Good, solid security, as expected. She opted to buzz rather than master, to see who answered.
She hadn’t expected Rochelle.
“Oh, I was so hoping you’d make it by!” Before Eve could react, Rochelle had her hand, pulling her right in.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“It’s a big day, and I haven’t been able to drag myself away. Wilson just left. I’m going to meet him for a celebratory dinner in an hour.”
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, no, let me show you through. I’ve laughed and cried so many times today, I’ve lost count. So forgive me if I do both. The day students are gone now, and most of the live-ins are either in the kitchen or still unpacking, fussing with their rooms.”
They went through classrooms, study areas, recreation areas—cheerful spaces, clean, bright.
Science areas, occupational areas, music rooms, a theater.
“He didn’t miss a trick, did he?” Eve mused.
“No, he didn’t. I wish you could have seen the reaction of some of the kids today, of the parents and guardians. So many of them never had a place like this, an opportunity like this. I know not all will make it, but many will. So many will.”
They went back, through the dining hall into the main kitchen. A small swarm of kids, three adults—staff—with the adults guiding the kids through making the meal.
It smelled amazing.
“We won’t interrupt. Carlo, the head chef? He’s a real find. He’ll teach the students both the art and science of cooking. We’ll educate them on nutrition, but also the fun of it.”
“Cooking’s fun?”
“According to Carlo. We also have the workshop kitchen for students who advance or have serious interests.”
Upstairs, more classrooms, more areas for gathering, for study, for specific interests.
And in what Rochelle called the video and communication area, she saw a vid of the school on-screen with Nadine and Quilla watching.
“Sorry,” Rochelle said. “We’re interrupting. I didn’t realize you were still here, Nadine.”
“Nearly done.” She gave Eve a long look with her sharp reporter’s eyes. “Quilla, start on the edits we talked about. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, but, I want to …” She rose, walked over to Eve, stuck out a hand.
Bemused, Eve shook it.
“I don’t much like hugs, either—they’re weird. I just want to say thank you.”
“Okay. You’re welcome. How’s it going?”
“It’s going freaking mag. Nadine’s going to put a clip from my vid on Now.”
“Do those edits,” Nadine reminded her. “Then we’ll discuss.”
“I’m all over it.”
“I’ll leave you to talk.” Rochelle stepped back. “Oh well, I’m sorry you don’t much like hugs.” And hugged Eve hard.