In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

lighter. He enjoyed a good smokenearly as much as burning those tiny circles into his victim's skin and watching the agony scream in their eyes. The little antique bottle he'd filled with alcohol, to pour over the wounds for that extra panache.
     
     
A retractable bat, honed steel. Strong enough to break bones, shatter cartilage. And phallic enough to suit another purpose should he be in the mood.
     
     
Blades, of course. Smooth ones, jagged ones, in case he. found the woman's kitchen knives under par.
     
     
His music discs, the night-vision goggles, the hand blaster or the ministunner, his paper-thin clear gloves. He detested the texture and scent of Seal-It or any of its clones.
     
     
His own towel. White, Egyptian cotton, and his own fresh cake of unscented soap for washing up after' the -job was done.
     
     
And, lastly, the security codes, cloned the day before during, his visit to the loft. The jammer that would disengage the cameras so that he could stroll into the building without leaving a trace.
     
     
All neatly packed now, and locked into the elegant case.
     
     
One last look in the mirror, a full-length to show himself the entire effect. It had to be perfect. A flick of the finger over a lapel to remove a minute speck of lint.
     
     
Then he would stroll out the door, to begin his evening out.
     
     
"Where were you?" Roarke asked when her eyes changed, when her shoulders relaxed.
     
     
"With him." She looked over, saw he held two mugs of coffee. "Thanks," she said, taking one.
     
     
"And where is he?"
     
     
"Heading out to dinner. Soup to nuts. He'll pay cash. He always pays cash. He'll linger over it until nearly midnight, then he'll take a long walk. Marsonini didn't drive, and rarely took cabs. He'll walk here, juicing himself up, block by block."
     
     
"How did they catch him?" He knew, but he wanted Eve to say it, to talk it out.
     
     
"His intended victim lived in a loft, not so different than this. Makes sense. One of her friends had a major fight with her boyfriend, and came over to cry on Lisel's-that was her name-came over to cry on her shoulder or whatever women do."
     
     
"Eat strawberry ice cream."
     
     
"Shut up. So the friend finally cried it out and bunked on the sofa. It was the music that woke her up. She hadn't heard him come in-apparently they'd killed a bottle of cheap wine or brew. Something. Marsonini hadn't spotted her sleeping there, which was a break. So the friend goes-toward the bedroom to see about the music. Lisel wasalready bound, gagged, with a broken kneecap. Marsonini was naked. His back was to the doorway. He was climbing onto the bed, getting ready to rape Lisel."
     
     
She knew what had been in the victim's head,-swimming over the pain. She knew that the awful terror of what was to come was worse, so much worse than pain.
     
     
"The friend kept her head," Eve continued. "She ran back to the living room, called nine-one-one, then hurried back to the bedroom, picked up this bat he'd used to break Lisel's kneecap, and she whaled on him. Fractured his skull, broke his jaw, his nose, his elbow. By the time the cops got _there, Marsonini was unconscious and in a sorry state. She'd untied Lisel, covered her up, and was holding a knife to the bastard's throat, hoping-she said in her statement-he'd come around so she could stick it in his gullet."
     
     
"I'd say it stuck in his gullet that a woman stopped him."
     
     
Her lips quirked a little, because she understood. "I'm counting on it. He died in prison two, years later when an unidentified inmate or guard castrated him and left him lying in his own cage. Bled to death."
     
     
She breathed deep, found- it had helped to talk it through. "I'm going to make the rounds. You've got two hours to stretch your legs around here, then we tuck in. And we wait."
     
     
At midnight, she hauled a stool into the closet. She kept the door open to anangle that gave her a view of the bed, and Peabody's upper half.
     
     
The apartment was full dark, and silent.
     
     
"Peabody, check your communicator every fifteen, until I order radio silence. I don't want you nodding off in there." "Lieutenant, I couldn't fall asleep if you gave me a high powered soother. I'm revved."
     
     
"Do the checks. Stay icy." ,
     
     
What if I'm wrong? she asked herself. If he changed targets, changed methods, got a whiff of me? If he doesn't come tonight, will he kill randomly or just rabbit? Does he have a back door?