She got up to clear. “When we find him, we’ll find his records, logs, a journal. They’ll be meticulous and detailed.”

  With the plates in her hands, she paused at the board.

  “He didn’t feel wonder when he jammed that needle in these girls.”

  “What did he feel?”

  “Satisfaction. The kind you feel when you puncture somebody’s tires because they were mean to you. Your teacher trashed your test score because you fucked around. You don’t wait for him to come out and see the tires, you take off. Same thing with this, for him. The motive just as juvenile. It’s the method and execution that takes it over that.”

  “But he won’t brag to his mates about paying the teacher back. He has no mates.”

  “And,” Eve added, “he’s too smart. He’s so above, in his mind, the others who go on bitching and strutting. And he’s achieved a satisfaction they can only dream of. Twice.”

  “It doesn’t last, does it? That satisfaction.”

  “No. He’s already planned how and when to feel it again. And he’ll need to use that roofie on its own before much longer. He’ll need that power over the girl. ‘I’ll take what I want from you, what I’m entitled to. Then kill you.’”

  She glanced back at him. “You thought of that, too.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “He’s already planned for that, too. The where, maybe the when. But the where, he’s got that worked out.”

  Knowing her, he laid a hand on her shoulder as much in comfort as support. “I’ll take the dishes.”

  “Rules are rules. You got the food.”

  “I could begin updating your board then.”

  “Did you ever think you’d pass the time after a meal updating a murder board?”

  “Not in my wildest.”

  When she came out—she’d caved as Roarke usually did and given Galahad a handful of cat treats—he was well into the update.

  He had her system down, she thought.

  Yeah, he knew who she was, what she was, how she thought, what she felt. Sometimes, she figured he knew all that better than she did. Or at least more clearly.

  And he loved her anyway.

  She walked over, put her arms around him, hugged hard and tight.

  “This is for stuff, and especially the spaghetti, because I’m not hugging Summerset.”

  “I’ll happily be his proxy. And I’ll remind you there’s pie.”

  “I might just let you, as proxy, get your hand on my tit for cherry pie. But later, both counts.”

  With her chin on his shoulder, she studied the board.

  “I want him up there. I want him in the box. I want him in a cage. I can see him now. Doofus dooser incel psychopath who still doesn’t shave. Short guy syndrome. Rich white kid snot, on the puny side. Something not right, not quite right in his eyes, but they don’t see it. Or if they do, they figure it’s all that smart, not all that sick.”

  Drawing back, she circled the board. “The teachers, tutors, they think: If only all the students were as bright and well-mannered as this kid. Work’s always turned in on time, goes the extra mile.”

  She circled back, stood, hands in pockets. “Parent, parents, guardian, whoever’s in charge. Busy life, professional, successful. That boy never gives me any trouble. I’m so lucky. Never talks back, never misses curfew. He’ll have his pick of universities in a couple years.

  “I bet there’s a housekeeper or nanny or— Is middle teens too old for a nanny?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Something like that. Because busy, professional, successful.” Pausing, she played with that one. “Maybe that’s who buys the clothes, takes care of selecting his clothes. Maybe an older person, trustworthy. But he’s almost college age now, doesn’t need someone sitting on him. He can come and go. He’s got those exceptional grades, never misses curfew—if he has one.”

  “Wouldn’t they want to know where he is, who he hangs with, what he does with his free time?”

  “Library, study group. He’d lie smooth enough if he needs to. And he could have a way to come and go so they don’t notice he’s gone.

  “If they’ve heard about the girls, and that’s probable,” Eve concluded, “it would never cross their minds he’s responsible. Most adults just see a well-dressed, polite kid. It’s the other kids who see him for the outsider, the not one of us. He can be cerebral, not astute but smart, and still know what they think of him.”

  “Rage builds.”

  “It builds,” Eve agreed. “And I worry, not just that he’ll kill again. That’s inevitable if we don’t find him first. I worry he’ll have to escalate. The quick jab and escape, even with the media attention that follows, won’t be enough.”

  “As you said, he’ll want the girl.”

  “He’ll need the experience, what they’ve all denied him. Incapacitate the girl, rape the girl, kill the girl.”

  * * *

  He’d thought of it. Dreamed of it. But he held back.

  He’d weighed risk and reward, and wisely, he thought, concluded risk weighed more, a great deal more.

  But how would he know, for certain, conclusively, without the sample?

  Rather than alleviating the craving, the successful conclusions of his project only increased it.

  But tonight, he’d hold back again.

  He’d added the trench coat tonight. He’d seen other kids wear similar in this venue, as it tended to be cold inside, even when crowded as it would be tonight.

  Big night at the vids with the opening of what would surely be the summer’s biggest hit, yet another ridiculous, scientifically impossible installment of the Defenders franchise.

  A bunch of misfit aliens from across the galaxy, all gifted with absurd powers, who defended Earth from evil.

  And all that utter nonsense.

  Personally, he rooted for the evil, which tended to be more interesting.

  He had nothing against fiction, but science fiction simply infuriated him. But the venue, the setup, the possibilities here, tonight, outweighed his fury and disgust.

  He’d paid his entry fee in advance—in cash—one of the remote ticket sellers as soon as available. A premium price for the absurd, but well worth the investment.

  Now he stood, just another idiot kid queued up with other idiots who’d paid far too much money to sit in a cold, loud theater stuffing overpriced, slime-covered popcorn in his face and slurping a watered-down fizzy.

  Of course, he wouldn’t do any of that.

  Oh, he wanted to feel it all again. Wanted to hurry. Of course, he understood perfectly well that need to rush came from the boost he’d taken.

  Not enough REM sleep could equal sloppy work.

  He was never sloppy.

  So he controlled himself, and he shuffled on with the rest, careful to keep his head down, angle himself away from any cams—which he’d already scoped out on previous visits.

  Everyone packed together, so easy enough. He’d already picked two likely targets for his personal experiment. And entertainment.

  Either the redheaded slut or the blond whore. Unless he saw something more appealing inside the lobby.

  Neither of them would look at him twice, or if they did, with that not-worth-noticing look.

  He’d make them notice soon enough. He closed his hand over the syringe in his pocket, imagined himself just jamming it into one of them. Either of them.

  He took slow, deep breaths to bring his heart rate down.

  Inside, the noise level grew, just as he’d anticipated. He had his ’link scanned for admission. Just another brainless kid. The cops would notice if he didn’t follow through with admission.

  He slouched along toward concessions with giggling girls, boys talking too loud, music playing the Defenders theme.

  It banged in his head, reminded him of the club, of the park. The music, the memories, the booster, all revved in his system.

  He had to deliberately loosen his fingers around the syringe.

  Now they packed in for that popcorn, those fizzies, candy, chips, all that disgusting junk food.

  Somebody bumped him from behind so he almost bumped into the redhead. She glanced back at him, through him, then went back to giggling and talking too loud with the masses.

  You then, bitch. It’s you.

  And his fingers tightened again.

  He followed the plan, kept close but not too close as she and her group ordered. Then he fell in with them as if he belonged.

  Into the theater where, again as planned, the previews had already begun. He slipped off his sunshades, tucked them away. In the dark, following closer—he could smell her—her hair, her skin.

  He slid the syringe out of his pocket.

  He couldn’t wait, just couldn’t wait a minute more!

  He had to jab through her jacket, but he’d accounted for that.

  But when he pushed the needle into her, she shrieked. The sound sliced his eardrums. Sent his already raging heartbeat into a wild gallop that leaped into his throat.

  It stole his breath.

  The popcorn tub in her hand flew up; the contents rained down in a blizzard as she started to spin around. Something thudded on the floor, and liquid splashed on his shoes.

  He saw her raise her fist, and he stumbled back as cold sweat coated his skin.

  He fled, as planned, through the emergency exit. But not with the strutting satisfaction he’d imagined. He had to run, to shove, to push his way through the crowd as he heard her screaming:

  “That asshole stabbed me!”

  He was barely out the door when the houselights came up.

  With his heart pounding, his ears ringing, his stomach churning, he kept running.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Private school, Eve thought as she looked over the lists Jenkinson and Reineke had generated. The killer she saw came from money and privilege and attended private school.

  She’d start there.

  She glanced up as Roarke came in from his adjoining office.

  “How can I help?”

  “I thought you had some stuff.”

  “I did, now it’s done, so I no longer have some stuff.” Stepping behind her, he rubbed at the knots in her shoulders. “It’s near to half-nine, and I expect you want to put another hour or two in.”

  “I tapped Jenkinson and Reineke to dig into schools with a solid chemistry department, but I didn’t have a chance to start on it.”

  “You’ll want private schools, I imagine, from how you described him at dinner.”

  “That’s where I want to start. I had them pull in universities, too, but I’m pushing that down. He wants and hates what he sees. He’s not killing college girls.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-three. I can cut that back to two hundred and six by eliminating ones focused exclusively on the arts, theater, music.”

  “That would be a hundred and three for each of us.”

  “These are just in the city.” Thinking of that, she reached for her coffee. “But he’s not killing in Brooklyn or Queens. Not targeting girls in Yonkers or the Bronx.”

  “You start with the most probable.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” she repeated. “We eliminate female students, any male student under fifteen. Fourteen,” she corrected. “Better to dig through more than miss. We bump down any athletes—he doesn’t have the build or the time for that. Focus on Caucasian males, the honor students, the chemistry angle—or premed.”

  “Some of the private schools include boarding as an option, as we do at An Didean.”

  “I don’t think he’s boarding. Too much supervision with that. We’ll set that aside for the second pass. We pull up the rosters and the—what is it?—yearbook thing. That’ll have photos. If he’s not top of the class, he’s close to it. No clubs outside of his interest in chemistry.”

  Following her line, Roarke added, “He won’t hold an office—class president, student council.”

  “Definitely not. Whatever we can’t get to tonight, I’ll dump on Peabody or whoever’s clear tomorrow. Twenty each for now.”

  “I’ll use your auxiliary. And your coffee,” he added, “as it’ll go nicely with the pie.”

  She’d forgotten about the pie, and now wanted it.

  She used her command center to program coffee while Roarke dealt with pie.

  “He’s not an average student,” she said over the first bite. “He’s exceptional there. But”—Eve sent Roarke his twenty—“he’ll stand out because he doesn’t stand out.

  “Were you ever in a yearbook thing?”

  “I was rarely in school in any case, and for that? I most deliberately was not.” He glanced over. “You?”

  She shrugged. “I managed to slide out of it until the last one. The senior one.”

  “That I absolutely need to see.”

  “We’re working.”

  “I’ll find time for it when we’re not.”

  She brought up the first roster, eliminated all female and nonbinary students and those outside the age group. As race wasn’t included, she began the task of matching name to yearbook photo, then the photo to the brief student bio.

  She found three potentials, none of whom hit a chord in her. But the right age, ace students, chemistry whizzes.

  She eliminated the first with a quick scan of social media showing he was spending the summer with his family on their yacht mostly in the French Riviera.

  She kicked the second off the list due to his summer courses at Oxford—England.

  Which left her one potential after one school.

  It would be a slog, she thought.

  Her comm signaled.

  Now her belly tightened along with her shoulders.

  “Dallas.”

  Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Incident at Roth’s Midtown Theaters. Female victim, age sixteen, transported to Clinton Health Center.

  “She’s alive?”

  Affirmative. Kiki Rosenburg, treated on-site prior to transport. Officers on scene. Officers at health center. Suspect believed to have fled the scene via an emergency exit. BOLO issued for Caucasian male, approximately sixteen, wearing a light-colored trench-style coat.

  “What’s the victim’s status?”

  Unknown at this time.

  She pushed up as Roarke came back into the office with the jacket she’d tossed aside in the bedroom. “Have the officers hold the scene until Peabody, Detective Delia, arrives to take over. I’ll inform her. I’ll take the victim first. Dallas out.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “For now,” Eve answered. She pulled out her ’link as they started out together.

  Peabody answered with an “I’m awake!”

  “Roth’s Midtown Theaters. He tried for another. She’s still alive. I’m heading to Clinton to talk to her. Get to Roth’s, take the lead there.”

  “She’s alive after the injection?”

  “I don’t have answers yet. Get there, get them. Take McNab. Get the security feed.”

  Outside, she jumped into the passenger seat as Roarke took the wheel.

  “The Defenders,” Peabody said. “Return of the Three—summer blockbuster. Some of us plan to go this weekend. Tonight’s the opening. Dallas, that place would’ve been packed.”

  “Pull in Baxter and Trueheart—they’re up. You need more, pull more. Suspect fled—wearing a trench coat this time. Out an emergency exit. I want that exit door gone over, every inch of it. All the security feeds, the ticket scanners.”

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I’ll tag the sweepers. We’re not tagging the morgue, Dallas.”

  “Let’s hope that holds. Get moving.”

  She shoved her ’link back in her pocket.

  “He missed. Somehow he missed. She wouldn’t have survived if he’d gotten that shit into her.”

  “It might be he bolloxed up the formula.”

  “No. No, he’s careful there. He’s exacting there. It was the execution. Some sort of fumble. The emergency exit was probably his planned escape route, but not this way. Something went wrong. He’ll be shaken, angry. But it’ll be her fault, not his.”

  “You’re worried he’ll try for her again?”

  “We won’t take chances, but no. She’s spoiled it for him. And shaken or not, he knows we’ll have cops on her. Right now, or when he can think again, he’ll hope she doesn’t make it. Delayed satisfaction’s better than none.”

  “Vid opening, and as Peabody said, a summer blockbuster.”

  “What does a vid have to do with a block getting busted? Never mind.”

  “I won’t,” Roarke assured her. “He’d have to have his ticket scanned, cross the lobby. Unless he managed to get in the way he got out.”

  “Unlikely—set off alarms. Unless it’s you. More, he’d need the time to select her, watch her, get close enough. His exit means they were in the theater. Dark, probably noisy. It’s a good plan, all in all. But something went wrong.”

  He pulled up at the center’s ER entrance. “Go, I’ll park and find you.”

  “Kiki Rosenburg,” she reminded him, and rushed to the doors.

  She hated the smell of hospitals, the sickness, fear, and despair. And the sounds, weeping, wails, the slap of crepe-soled shoes on tile.

  She grabbed the first medical she found.

  “NYPSD. Kiki Rosenburg, MTs brought her in. Drug reaction.”

  “You’ll need to see the—”

  “I’m seeing you. Find out her status and where she is, so I can find out who tried to kill her.”

  “Jesus, this is hour twelve of a double for me. I need—”

  “Got you beat.”

  The ER nurse might have worn scrubs adorned with cheerful daisies, but her eyes read tired and cranky.

  “Fine. Wait here.”

  “Why would I do that?” Eve fell into step beside her. As they approached the registration desk, she glanced down a long hall.

  And saw a uniform on a door.

  “Never mind. I’ve got her.”

  As Eve started down, the nurse called out, “Hey! You can’t just—”