Possession in Death (9 page)

“You lost your badge once,” Roarke reminded her. “What did it do to you?”

“Destroyed me. Temporarily. Cut me off from what I was. But I had you to
help bring me back, and I got my badge back. He lost his woman, too. His
woman,” she repeated. “Another dancer. And look here, they danced the
Diabolique
ballet together. The Devil was his signature role. Son of
a bitch. I should’ve seen it.”

“The building has a basement,” Roarke told her. “It runs the length and
width of the building and holds a number of rooms, listed as storage and/or
utility and maintenance on the plans.”

“Who owns the building?”

“Funny you should ask. He owns it. He made quite a bit of money during his
career and was awarded a large settlement after the accident.”

“He’s got no record anywhere. Unless it got covered up. No history of
violence.”

“Money can smooth the way.”

“Yeah.” She angled her head at Roarke. “It can. But you can usually find a
few bumps in the media. Speculation, gossip. A man might not be charged and
still be guilty.”

“I’ll see what I come across, and it’s telling, I think, that he gave no
interviews I can find, no public statements or appearances after the accident.”

“He went underground,” Eve murmured. “So to speak. Lost everything that
mattered to him? That could be it. Had his sister, and she left her home and
possibly the remains of her career to come here with him, bringing her infant
son. Dreamy eyes,” she recalled. “Medication? His medicals show extensive
injuries from the accident, the kind a man’s lucky to live through. Had to have a
lot of pain.”

More than physical, she decided, thinking of losing her badge again. Much
more than physical pain.

“He sits in that studio now playing music for others to dance to. For this
beautiful young woman who’s about the same age, the same build and coloring as
the woman he loved. She’s going to dance that same role with his nephew.

“Would that piss him off, make him sad? They go to Vegas.” She stopped as
her gut twisted. “Natalya said they go to Las Vegas to be showgirls. Maybe
Beata’s not the first.”

She strode to the auxiliary comp, started a search for missing persons,
female of the same age group, coded in ballet.

“There’s some speculation and juice regarding a young Sasha Korchov and
his temper. Storming off stage at rehearsals, berating other dancers—neither of
which is particularly unusual,” Roarke added. “And more, here and there, about
wild parties and breaking up hotel rooms and such. Before he met and danced
with Arial Nurenski. She, it’s speculated here, was balm to his troubled spirit and
other romantic analogies. She changed him, calmed him, inspired him. They
were to be married two weeks after the accident that killed her.”

“Vanessa Warwich, age twenty-two, last seen leaving a café to go to
rehearsal at the West Side School for the Arts. She was to dance the role of Angel
in their autumn gala—just like Beata. That was two years ago. There are more.”
She looked over at Roarke. “I need to cross-reference, find a connection with the
school or Barin, or the role.”

“Send me your list. I’ll take half.”

She shot the data to his computer. “Roarke, if he’s been taking these
women, holding them, trapped in a basement? He is a devil.”

They found eight.

It was no backyard barbecue, but it had nearly the same guest list. In the
conference room at Cop Central, Eve laid out what she had.

“Nine women over twenty-three years,” she began, “with a direct or indirect
connection to the school, or a connection to the ballet, have gone missing. All
were in their early to mid twenties, dark hair, slim build. All were dancers, and
all vanished without a solid explanation.”

She turned to the screen, to the images. “In some cases they’d made some
noises about leaving the city; in most there were personal items missing from
their apartments, as if they had done so.”

“The nine includes this Beata Varga.” Commander Whitney studied the
board Eve had arranged with ID shots of the missing. “Who connects to your
murder victim.”

“She’s the latest. Detective Lloyd can give you the background on that.” She
nodded at him.

Lloyd stood and walked to the board. “Last seen leaving the restaurant
where she worked. Here.” He used the laser pointer Eve handed him. “In the
company of two coworkers. They separated here, with Beata continuing south in
the direction of her apartment.”

He went over the time lines, the other particulars, reviewed his interview
statements. “Up to the point she went missing, she had regular contact with her
family. Her work hours weren’t regular, as her employers scheduled her around
her classes and auditions and rehearsals, but when she was scheduled to work,
she showed up, and statements from her employers, coworkers, customers
corroborate she was responsible. Happy. Dedicated to forging her career. She’d
just landed a part in an off-Broadway musical. She wasn’t the type to just take
off.”

“Neither was Vanessa Warwich.” Eve used her own pointer to highlight the
photo. “Missing for twenty-six months, last seen leaving her apartment—here—
to rehearse at the school. She’d enrolled only five weeks earlier, had a new
boyfriend. Or Allegra Martin, age twenty-four, a principal dancer for the City
Ballet who was starring in the role of Angel when she went missing four and a
half years ago.

“Lucy Quinn, seven years missing,” Eve continued, and worked down the
line. “The pattern’s clear, as is the victim type.”

“You believe Sasha Korchov is replacing his lover with these women.”

Eve nodded at Mira. “I know he is. He lost her, lost everything in one
terrible moment. He left his home and is reduced to teaching others to dance,
more to watching them—those young women—dance when his lover can’t,
while he plays for them.”

“He plays the tune,” Mira added. “They dance. If he’s taken these women, it
could be he needs them to dance for him—only him. He needs to keep them to
himself, possibly to recreate the relationship he had with his fiancée,
professionally and personally.”

“Could they still be alive?” Peabody asked.

“I think there could only be one at a time,” Mira told her. “One dancer, one
lover, one partner if you will, or the illusion shatters. It would be more likely
he’s replacing the replacements over time than adding to the number.”

“Beata’s alive.” Eve felt it in her bones. “But he’s killed Szabo to protect
himself. She made it known she believed Beata was alive and close by, trapped.
Underground. A Romany, a dead talker, breathing down his neck.”

She saw Baxter roll his eyes at that, stuck with logic. “He has some Romany
blood. His sister and the old woman talked regularly—she’s poking around,
getting too close. He’s afraid of her, superstitious. Enough so he disguises himself
before he kills her. He doesn’t want her to see his true face. And now he’s had
the cops at his door over it. How long can he keep Beata alive?”

“The pressure may push him to eliminate her,” Mira agreed.

“I need a warrant. We need to search that basement, his apartment, the
whole damn place.”

“I can get one.” APA Reo pushed to her feet. “The pattern and connections
should be enough.” She checked her wrist unit, winced at the time. “Waking up a
judge or interrupting the Saturday night party isn’t going to win me a popularity
award.”

As Reo left the room, Eve ordered the blueprints on-screen. “His
apartment. We need to take him first, secure him so he doesn’t have the chance
to panic and take Beata out. We also secure the sister and nephew. They may be
involved, may be protecting him. Feeney, I want to locate everyone in the
building before we go in.”

“We’ll set it up. Get you heat source imagery.”

“I need the exits secured,” she continued. “And there are a lot of them:
doors, windows, fire escapes, roof access. Elevators are down. If Korchov’s in
his apartment, we secure him. If he’s not, we find him. We’re also looking for
the murder weapon. A dagger, seven and a quarter inches, likely a chipped tip.
Renicki, Jacobson, you’re on the apartment. Baxter, Trueheart, Peabody, we’ll
take the basement.” She glanced at Roarke. “We’ll take the civilian.”

A locked door, she thought, would be easier to deal with if they had a thief
—former—along.

“Feeney, McNab, Callendar, you run the electronics. I want locations,
movements. Once the suspect, the sister, the nephew are secured, you’ll move
in.”

She went over the rest of the assignments, detailing the operation stage by
stage.

This is what she did, she told herself. This was the logic, the instinct, the
training. And if there was something inside her urging her, all but begging her to
hurry, she had to ignore it.

“I want all of you to watch your asses,” she concluded. “This man is
suspected of abducting and imprisoning at least nine women, very likely killing
them when he was finished. He’s suspected of slicing up a ninety-six-year-old
woman in broad daylight. Just because he used to wear tights and ballet shoes
doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

“Potentially very,” Mira confirmed, “when cornered, when desperate. I’ll
ride with EDD,” she added. “If any of his victims are alive, I may be able to help.”

“Appreciate it.” She looked at Morris. “And if they aren’t.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Let’s get moving. Load it up, ride it out. Father Lopez, if I could have a
moment.”

She gestured him to the side of the room. “I don’t make a habit of calling a
priest into an op, but—”

“I’m grateful you did in this case. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“You were there when Szabo died. You did the Last Rites thing. I figured if
the old woman was Catholic, the girl probably is. Between you and Mira she’d be
covered.”

“It’s kind of you.”

She didn’t know if it was—didn’t know if it had been her impulse to call
him in or if she’d been directed.

“How are you, Eve?”

“Hell if I know, and I don’t have a lot of time to think about it right now.”

“If you need me—”

“I’m hoping not to go there. No offense.”

He smiled at her. “None taken.”

“I’ll need you to stay in the EDD van with Mira until we’re clear.”

“Understood, even if it’s disappointing not to be able to get in on some of
the action.”

“This devil’s my fight. Stick with Mira,” she said before she started toward
Roarke.

“I can’t figure out how you connected the dots.” Peabody stopped her. “The
basement, all those missing women, the soft-spoken piano player. I feel like I
missed a couple dozen steps.”

“Things just started falling into place. Let’s just say I followed Szabo. She
was already closing in. Check with Reo. See if she’s got the warrant.”

She continued on to Roarke. “I need to ask you for something.”

“Are you asking your husband or your civilian?”

“Looks like you’re both. I need you to stay close to me. If I start to lose it
—”

“You won’t.”

“If, I think you can help me stay grounded. She’s in here.” Eve touched a
hand to her chest. “This is the guy who took Beata, the guy who killed her. She
might want some payback. If it looks like I’d turn that way, stop me. You stop
me.”

“I have every confidence in Lieutenant Dallas, but if it makes you feel easier,
I won’t let you do anything you’ll regret.”

“Good. But be, you know, subtle about it.”

He had to laugh. “You are absolutely you. All right then, while preventing
you from taking a dead Gypsy’s revenge, I’ll do whatever I can to preserve your
dignity. How’s that?”

“It’ll do.”

She reviewed the blueprints again on the way to the building, checked in
with her teams, focused on the work.

“We go in the front, pass the main stairs, to the right and straight to the
basement access door. It’s going to be locked. If the master doesn’t work, we use
the battering ram or”—she glanced at Roarke—“other means. If Feeney picks up
images down there, we follow his lead. Otherwise, Peabody, Baxter, Trueheart,
take this sector. Roarke and I this one. One of you sees a mouse riveting,
everybody hears about it. We clear sector by sector. If a door’s locked, take it
down. Call for backup if you need it.”

She toggled to the exterior view. “Locations of cams are highlighted. I don’t
see anybody watching them this time of night. But there are very likely cams
down there not on the blueprints.”

Think like him, she ordered herself. Not like a frantic old woman.

“He’d want to watch her, and want his area secured in and out. Can’t have
somebody stumbling across her, and can’t let her find a way out. If Renicki and
Jacobson lock him down, they can work him for more information—but we
won’t count on getting it. We’ll bring in the others, and we’ll go through every
inch of that basement.

“Feeney,” she said into her mic, “give me the word.”

“Got nothing in the suspect’s place. Got two in the other apartment.
Everything else aboveground is clear. Got nothing for you in the basement, but
there are voids down there, Dallas, either due to the thickness of walls, jammers,
or sensor blocks.”

“Tucks them up tight,” she murmured. “Give me the location of the voids.”

She keyed them in, felt the adrenaline begin to pump. “We hit those first. If
he’s not upstairs and didn’t go for a goddamn walk, he’s down there with her
now. We’re green. All teams, we’re green. Move.”

She jumped out of the back of the transport, weapon out. She prayed she
hadn’t missed a deeper level of security, prayed he wasn’t monitoring the
cameras as she used her master to access the main door.