“That’s your answer, isn’t it?”
She bought Peabody a glide-cart lunch, indulged in her own loaded dog washed down with Pepsi. You might as well drink battery acid as cart coffee, in her opinion.
From there they headed back downtown to talk to the street hookers, the beat cops, the LC trainers and certifiers, the useless desk clerk at the flop. They spent two hours recrossing her detectives’ boot prints, and couldn’t shake out anything fresh.
Still Eve circled back again to the sad little room where Rosie Kent died.
A single bed with a lumpy mattress covered with questionable sheets. It wasn’t meant for sleeping, after all. A closet-size bathroom with a pitted wall-hung sink, a toilet no one in their right mind would plop their ass on, a spotty mirror.
Ceiling light in the bedroom, no lamp. A small table that wobbled, no dresser. Bare floors, a window that leaked in cold air and walls of sickly gray. A key-operated time clock hung beside the door. The LC keyed in the time allotted, and when it ran out, the clock buzzed.
The hall door locked from the inside, but could be bypassed with a standard master.
“They may have settled on the deal, the details, on the street, but it’s January, it’s cold. It’s time to party, so she says let’s go. Details are worked out as they head to the flop. How much time, the standard fee.
“With this settled, she logs in downstairs, takes the key. They walk up. She brings him/her in, locks the door, keys in the time. Puts the key on the table there. She’s new, maybe she gives him some sex talk, puts on some moves. It’s an adventure, and she’s in charge. She thinks she’s in charge.”
But she’s not, Eve thought. It’s a scene that’s played out countless times in this sad room. But this time, the killer had written a lethal ending.
“He’s brought a bottle with him, wants to have a drink, relax first. Fine with her, she gets paid whatever they do. Can’t drink out of the bottle, can’t drink from the same bottle or they’d both pass out. So he has to have a glass for her. At least one glass, maybe two. A case? A briefcase? A purse?”
Eve circled the room. “Go freshen up a little for me—that’s one way to get her into the bathroom so he can add the tranq to her glass. He’s got both glasses when she comes back, hands her the doctored one. Maybe he pretends he’s nervous, maybe he asks her to start to undress while they have the wine.”
Easy to imagine it, Eve mused, easy to see it. Unless you’re inside the scene, and think you’re in charge.
“She’s the center of attention. She likes it. Does her little striptease, tries to do the sexy while she drinks. It takes a few minutes for the tranq to start to kick in. A little dizzy, a little off. Sweepers didn’t find any wine spilled in here, so he doesn’t let her drop the glass. Maybe he gets a little more in her before he puts her down.”
“She’s new at it,” Peabody added. “Anyone experienced would have tried to bolt, would have struggled the minute she felt off. But there wasn’t any sign of a struggle.”
“No, she was easy pickings. He just led her to the bed. Time to lie down, sure, lie down, and let me do what I do. Take the rest of her clothes off, watch her go under. Get the sash out of that briefcase or purse or bag. Here’s the moment. Does he call her by the character’s name? I bet he does. She does, because whatever gender the killer is, for this scene it’s a woman who wraps the sash around Pryor’s neck. A woman who pulls it tight, tighter, watches the eyes flutter and roll, the struggle of the body for air, hears that last choked breath expel. A woman who tests the pulse to be sure the heart’s stopped beating, then ties the pretty bow, angles it.
“Then it’s just get the glasses, cap the bottle, fold the clothes neat just like in the book. Unlock the door, peek out to be sure no one’s around. Walk out, walk away.”
“And scene,” Peabody murmured.
“What?”
“It’s what they say.”
“It’s all about the scene. He might have been a man under it, but for this scene, for this killing, he posed as female. Rosie, like Pryor in the book, was certified for either, so the killer dressed as a woman, either way. The killer bought her as a woman, and killed her as a woman. That’s the fresh here. That’s the new angle.”
“If that’s true, the killer came to the vids as a man.”
“That’s right. It’s what plays through. It’s
the scene reenacted.”
A scene, she thought as she circled the room, reenacted on a sad, ugly stage.
Maybe that made it more real to the killer.
“It’s not that hard to pose either way,” Eve continued, “but it’s unlikely we’re talking about a big guy. Even world-weary LCs are likely to notice an unusually large woman trolling for action. Average to small build likely as a male killer, average to tall build as a female. That’s basic probability. Maybe a wig for this. The sweepers didn’t find any fibers or hair, but maybe.”
“A female dressed as a male for the vids is also possible,” Peabody put in. “If so, she’s unlikely to be busty, curvy. Could’ve kept outdoor gear on, but it’s still noticeable if you’re, you know, zaftig. Anyway, it’s generally easier for a woman to pass as a man than the other way. And for the vids, you could just wear regular unisex clothes. The man’s in your head, right?”
“That’s just right. The point is the killer has to, and is capable of, sliding into the role. But it’s not theater. It’s his or her personal reality.”
Eve turned one more circle. “Let’s get out of this dump. I want to write this up, send it to Mira. And we’re going to start looking at DeLano’s communications with an eye for one person who can play a lot of parts.”