“She had to put her back into both. Pulling back on the wire so it cut that deep? Her arms probably trembled with the effort. Jamming the cue into Ledo? She had to push down, both hands, give it her weight. She needed to feel the kill, feel responsible for it, in control of it. But the second time she’s a little, just a little, less controlled.”
“Shouldn’t she be more? More confident?”
“But she knows how good it feels now, and that adds anticipation on a different level. Not just duty—as she sees it—but pleasure, too. Or at least satisfaction. Plus, she got my attention, but it wasn’t exactly what she wanted. She wanted approval,” Eve said as the killer wrote on the grimy wall. “And some fucking gratitude. She’s trying to convince herself she saw all that in the media conference. That I somehow signaled that to her. But the words I said—and words matter—aren’t the right ones.”
“You think she’d already started to turn on you?”
“She started to turn when she walked out of Bastwick’s apartment feeling joyful. Because it became about her—it always has been, but she let herself see it. It’s about what she wants, who she is. I’m an excuse. An important one, and she needs that excuse. Run final program.”
This was interesting, Eve thought. When you watched the progression, it solidified. There were so many other ways to get to Hastings. Or to someone else, someone more like Ledo who’d be easy pickings. But Hastings was more . . .
“Daring,” she said aloud. “She’s taking more physical risk here, going up those stairs. Yeah, sure, who lo
oks up?”
“Tourists, foreigners,” Peabody began, and Eve turned to grin at her.
“Bingo. People who don’t live here look up all the time. Wow, look how tall that building is! Look, there’s a sky tram—we should take one. She dared that. Good odds, really, because even if somebody saw her, it’s just somebody carrying a box up the stairs. But . . .”
“She didn’t have to take the risk, I get it. She wanted to. To impress you, maybe?”
“Maybe, and to add a little thrill to the kill. She likes the thrill now. And waiting, buzzing. If she’s studied Hastings, she knows he’s capable of telling her to fuck off without opening that door, but she wants it so bad, needs him to open that door.
“And he does.”
Eve listened to his explosive cursing, felt an odd fondness for him. Watched the close-in stun—closer than with Bastwick—knock him back, body jiggling, then crashing to the floor.
Set the box down, start to close the door, and Matilda calls down the stairs, comes down the stairs. Wine bottle flies; stun goes wide.
“Yeah, some of that wine splattered on the coat. It had to. But here’s the thing. A couple things. End program.”
Eve turned to Peabody.
“First, if she really studied Hastings, why didn’t she factor in creativity? He might’ve had a shoot, browbeat the models, the team into working late until he got what he wanted. Factor out the idea of a girlfriend and a sexy dinner, but he’s volatile, demanding, weird. He’s a bad target, at least this way.”
“But an impressive one. If she can get to him, take him out—and she would have if Matilda hadn’t been there—it’s a lot more of a wow than Ledo,” Peabody pointed out. “Even than Bastwick. And it’s number three—which would’ve officially made her a serial killer. More impressive if you take out a successful photographer/imaging artist instead of another junkie.”
“Take out a second junkie, people say ho-hum. Second point. She had an unarmed, half-naked woman, but didn’t pursue. To finish it. She doesn’t think—ha ha—outside the box, didn’t account for thinking and acting on her feet. Matilda was off script, and all she could do was run.”
“You said, from the start, she’s a coward.”
“It’s more than that.”
And seeing the three reconstructions in succession made that clear.
“The first two went smooth,” Eve pointed out. “Everything happened the way she’d expected it to happen. She needs order and logic. Matilda was out of order. Matilda wasn’t logical.”
“So she didn’t know what to do,” Peabody concluded. “Didn’t have the instincts to act off that script.”
“Exactly. Instead of charging after the half-naked, unarmed woman, steadying it up, taking another shot, she ditched it all.”
Your allotted time has expired. Please log out and exit the facility.
“Fine. Computer, send program to my home and office comp—Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. She goes back to wherever she feels safe,” Eve continued as they started out. “And tries to calm down. She starts writing me an apology. ‘Eve, I failed. I failed you.’ But the whole thing keeps running through her head. It shouldn’t have gone wrong. I should’ve been more grateful in the first place. Whose fault is it really, when she had it all perfectly orchestrated? She trusted me, above all, and this is what she gets in return.”
“What does that tell you?”
“She’s not a cop. Or is/was a piss-poor one. Any cop worth dick who’s been on the job two days learns how to think on their feet. Cops pursue, run after, not away. You’re armed, target isn’t? You sure as hell don’t run away. Not a cop. A wannabe, maybe. In law enforcement in some capacity, yeah, but not on the job.”