“Lieutenant. Thanks for making time.”
“Back at you. Can’t get enough of the bullpen, Baxter?”
“Trueheart and I caught one, already wrapping it up, so I sent him home. Nikki says you caught one, too—maybe connected to one of hers.”
“Maybe. Detective Peabody will get you set up in the lounge, Detective. I need ten.”
“I know the way. Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant. Later, David.”
Olsen walked out, tossing a dark coat over her arm.
Eve lifted her eyebrows at Baxter.
“Nikki and I worked together a time or two back in the day.” He smiled, and the quick gleam in it said they’d done more than work. “She’s solid.”
“Good to know.” She left him with his wrap-up, walked back to her office.
Coffee came first. Once the mug was steaming in her hand, she sat at her desk, cleared her brain.
Then started at the beginning with her notes. Timelines, observations, facts, evidence, names, locations.
She skimmed the two case files, noted Olsen and Tredway appeared to be thorough. And yet nothing they’d unearthed connected the victims. No cross there but for the fact both couples were financially well-off, had a rung on the upper end of society.
She made more notes, added some questions—and decided her time would be better served by speaking directly with Olsen.
She walked out, signaled Peabody, who held up a finger as she spoke on her ’link.
“Thanks. We’ll check in again later. Nobel,” she told Eve as she rose. “Mrs. Strazza woke agitated and anxious—basically hysterical. He’s given her another mild sedative. She begged him not to let the devil find her, to hide her. So far that’s it. It’s all she remembers. He’s spoken directly with Mira—he’s the proactive sort—and she’s going in later today to do an evaluation.”
“Good. Maybe Mira can pull something out of her.”
They walked to the cop lounge, where Olsen sat at one of the little tables working on her PPC while something steamed in a go-cup at her elbow.
She set down the handheld. “Coffee’s better here than in my house.”
“Then your house must have stupendously bad coffee.”
“Oh, it does. Stan would be here, Lieutenant, but his niece’s wedding’s in Philadelphia—or was yesterday. A kind of family deal going on today.”
“It’s no problem. I skimmed your files, Detective, but why don’t you walk us through?”
“Sure. July last year, Rosa and Neville Patrick returned home from an evening out—dinner and theater with friends. Newlyweds—had a big society wedding the previous June, and had lived in the residence on Riverside Drive since April. Three-story townhouse, solid security. They noticed the alarm was off, but Rosa admitted—as she had met Neville at the restaurant and left the house last—she couldn’t remember if she’d activated it. In any case, they didn’t think anything of it. EDD later confirmed the alarm had been compromised, the security cameras jammed.”
She paused, sipped. “Rosa went straight up. Neville got them both a nightcap, and went up two or three minutes after her. Rosa stated a man in vampire garb—white face, black eyes, pointed incisors, black cape—grabbed her from behind, held a knife to her throat. He told her to be absolutely still, absolutely silent or he’d slash her. He snapped restraints on her wrists—behind her back—then punched her in the face. Rang her bell, LT. She was half out of it when Neville came in. He states he saw his wife, her nose bleeding, her eyes glazed. The assailant had the knife to her throat, ordered him to sit down. When Neville hesitated, the assailant gave Rosa a little taste of the knife. Neville sat, and the assailant held the knife to Rosa’s throat, forced her to put zip-tie restraints on Neville.
“Neither vic resisted, both told the assailant to take whatever he wanted. He forced Rosa to tie Neville to the chair with a rope, then put the restraints back on her, ordered her to lie facedown on the floor while he added more rope, secured the rope with tape. Once Neville was fully secured, he beat him—black leather gloved fists, a black weighted sap. Then he dragged Rosa to the bed, tore her clothes off, and raped her.”
“Tore her clothes?”
“All but shredded them. He then restrained Rosa to the headboard, punched her a few times, and demanded the combinations for the safes—he knew there were three. One in each of their closets for their personal valuables, and one in Neville’s home office. They didn’t hesitate, gave him what he wanted, but still he beat them both unconscious. When Neville came to, both he and Rosa were untied—she was still out. He called nine-one-one. The call came in just over two hours after they got home. All three of the safes were emptied and a few items—including one of Rosa’s cocktail dresses, a pair of her evening shoes, and an evening bag—were missing. There’s a list of the other missing i
tems in the file. We haven’t come across any of them being pawned or sold.”
Olsen stopped, drank more coffee. “Questions?”
“Plenty, but finish it out.”
“To wrap this one, for now, no DNA, no fibers other than from the rope and tape, no prints, no nothing. He’s not stupid. Eventually Rosa remembered he’d whispered in her ear while he raped her. ‘The best you ever had,’ over and over, and he choked her, told her to tell him he was the best she ever had or he’d kill her, then Neville. Neville stated while the fucker was raping Rosa, he looked at Neville, grinned, and laughed.”