“If you stop one, the other will self-destruct. But he may very well kill on his way down.”
She did what she did when there was too much data, too many threads, too many angles to all mix and match and tangle.
She went back to the victim.
When she used her master to uncode the police seal and unlock Bryna Bankhead’s apartment, she blanked her mind of facts, and opened it to impressions.
The air was stuffy. There was no scent of candlewax or roses now, but the faint, dusty odor left behind by the sweepers.
No music. No softly glowing light.
She ordered the lights on full, checked that the privacy screen was in place, then wandered the room while an airbus rattled across the graying sky beyond the glass.
Strong colors, contemporary art, and still essentially female. The attractive nest of a single woman of very defined style and taste who enjoyed her life and her work.
A woman young enough that she had yet to form any serious or permanent sexual relationships. And confident enough to experiment. Adventurous enough to form a fanciful attachment with a faceless man over the ’net.
She’d lived alone, both tidily and fashionably, but was friendly with her neighbors.
Very eclectic music library, Eve mused as she flipped through the discs filed orderly in the entertainment unit. She came across Mavis: Live and Kicking, and despite the grim task felt the grin stretch over her face.
Her friend, Mavis Freestone, nearly always made her grin.
But it had been classical that night, Eve remembered. His choice or hers? His, she decided. It had all been his choice.
His fingerprints on the wine bottle. He’d brought it with him, opened it, poured. His fingerprints along with hers on one wineglass, only his on the second.
Handed her the wine. Perfect gentleman.
She walked into the bedroom. The sweepers had bagged the rose petals. The bed had been stripped down to bare mattress. Ignoring it, Eve opened the balcony doors, stepped out.
The wind lifted the choppy ends of her hair, streamed it back away from her face. It was starting to rain, soft, thin drops that fell soundlessly.
Her stomach pitched but she made herself step to the rail, made herself look down. A long drop, she thought. Long last step.
What had made him think of the balcony? There was no indication he’d been to the apartment before.
She replayed the security disc in her head and watched Bryna and her killer approach the front door of the building from the street. No, he hadn’t looked up at the building, New Yorkers never did anyway. They’d been completely absorbed in each other.
Why had he thought of the balcony?
Why hadn’t he just run in panic as he had in the cyber-café? Because part of his brain had stayed cool enough to click into survival mode both times. Had he thought the chemicals wouldn’t show on a tox screen? Had he thought that far ahead?
Or just the first desperate step? He lives in the moment, Mira had said. And the moment had been shocking.
She’s dead, and I’m in such trouble. What should I do?
Self-termination ploy. Toss her away. Out of sight, out of mind. But why not clean up evidence and leave it as a potential self-overdose and buy more time to escape?
To cause confusion, she decided, as he had in the café. He could have uploaded a virus in the single unit, but programmed it to spread. And was knowledgeable enough about those who frequented such places to be sure a riot would result.
A woman splats on the sidewalk, witnesses are shocked, stunned, afraid. They might run to the body or away from it, but they don’t rush into the building looking for a killer—and the killer gains time to rush out and away.
But how did he think of the balcony?
As the rain thickened and began to plop, as her stomach churned at the height, she scanned the street, the neighboring buildings.
“Son of a bitch,” she cursed softly as she read the sign: