“If the killer isn’t Urich—and nothing’s that easy—then he has to look enough like him, or have made himself look enough like him to fool the vic. He could change his hair, add weight, take it off, do some face work, but there should be at least a surface resemblance. The killer’s probably Caucasian or looks it, likely in the neighborhood of five ten and a hundred seventy like Urich. Unless he’s just randomly hacking IDs for his kills, we’ll find a connection between Sweet and Urich.”
“He’s picking the top in their field for his victims,” Peabody said as she worked. “Sweet and Urich both work for important companies, and have important positions in them.”
“It’s more,” Eve said with a shake of her head. “When you think of the top companies, the wealthiest corporations, the biggest businesses, what comes to mind first?”
“Roarke.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s taken out two without crossing into Roarke’s businesses.”
“The amusement park.”
“Yeah, which Roarke has a piece of, and a part in. But it’s hard to pick a company without bumping into one of Roarke’s, and the killer didn’t go there for his cover either time. There’s going to be a connection between the men and/or their companies. It’s not random. Neither are the vics. They’re not personal, but they’re specific. We’ll run a search to see if there’s any connection between Houston and Crampton, but it’s going to be the men, the companies, not the victims.”
“I don’t find anything on this first round. None of the subsidiaries are connected or even in direct competition. They do have offices in some of the same cities, but that’s a stretch. They do each have long-running charitable foundations, but again, they veer off into different areas of interest and support.”
“It’s in there somewhere,” Eve noted.
Peabody put her head back, closed her eyes. “Maybe employees who crossed over, or interbusiness marriages, relations. So the killer has at least some data on both.”
“Possible.”
“Or somebody who knows and has a hard-on against Sweet and Urich.”
“A lot of trouble to go to, and pretty fucking extreme to take a punch at somebody. But we’ll be looking for connections between Sweet and Urich. The methods aren’t random either. They’re planned well in advance, so they’re deliberate. A bid for attention. He’s showing off. Send an alert to Mira’s office,” she said referring to the department’s top profiler and shrink. “I want a consult tomorrow. Send her the files so she can take a look.”
When she pulled up in front of the dignified old brownstone, she smiled at her wrist unit. “Bastard really works.”
She got out of the car, took a moment to study the townhouse, the neighborhood. “Nice spot. Quiet, established, monied but not flashy. Urich was married once and did it in a twelve-year stretch. He’s worked for the same company for close to twenty years. He sticks. Got a little garden going here that looks all tidy and organized. Everything all nice and settled.”
She passed through the short wrought-iron gate, to the walkway between a small, structured front garden, and up the stairs to the main door.
“Locks down at night.” She nodded toward the steady red light on the security pad before pressing the buzzer.
This residence is protected by Secure One, the computer informed her. The occupant does not accept solicitations. Please state your name and your business.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.” Eve held up her badge for the scanner. “NYPSD. We need to speak with Foster Urich.”
Your information will be relayed. Please wait.
Good security, Eve thought, but Urich kept it simple and straightforward.
It took several minutes, but the security light switched to green, and the door opened.
Urich stood in loose pants and T-shirt, his feet bare. His hair looked sleep tumbled and curled around a sharp-featured face. Fear lived in his eyes.
“Has something happened to Marilee? My daughter. Is my daughter—”
“We’re not here about your daughter, Mr. Urich.”
“She’s okay? Her mother—”
“We’re not here about your family.”
He closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them the fear died. “My daughter’s at camp. It’s her first time.” He let out a breath. “What’s this about? Jesus, it’s after three in the morning.”
“We’re sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we need to ask you some questions. Can we come in?”
“It’s the middle of the night. If I’m going to let you in, I want to know what this is about.”
“We’re investigating a homicide. Your name came up.”