Page 92 of Obsession in Death

“Her mother?”

“Teresa Tortelli. I don’t know about yours, boss, but my mother never used such... colorful language.”

Eve thought her mother had done so much worse than spew some four-letter words. And had ended up with her throat slit for it.

“Yours, Trueheart?”

Trueheart flushed a little at Baxter’s question, but flashed a grin. “Not in my hearing.”

“She reamed you, Dallas, blames you for her daughter getting demoted, then tossing in her badge, her pension, her bennies.”

“You think the mother’s killing people to pay me back for what happened to the dirty cop she raised?”

“No, I think the mom’s got a big mouth and would probably slap you silly if she got the chance. But that’s about it there. I wonder if the dirty cop’s playing a double-back sort of game.”

Eve narrowed her eyes, considered.

“The mother claims the daughter’s twice the cop you’ll ever be,” Baxter added, “and one day she’ll prove it.”

“And the wrong cop maybe figures, hey, Mom’s right, and I’ll show that bitch. Drag her into the media center, make it look like she’s got a psycho killing people for her. She could still do the job—in a twisted way. It’s worth looking at.

“We got that and another one, Lieutenant,” Trueheart told her. “Officer Hilda Farmer—or she was Officer Farmer. She wrote you about six times, before she left the job, and after. She claims she wasn’t being used to her potential, being she had, um...”

“Tits, Trueheart,” Baxter said. “The LT’s heard the word before. My boy’s still dewy fresh,” he added. “This twist claims all the guys—and half the females—in her department hit on her or sexually harassed her. She filed a total of eight claims inside one year, none of which bore fruit, so to speak. She quit in protest. She figured you’d be able to intervene, and she should be your aide, work directly with you. Lots of the key words in her communications. Justice, disrespect, friend.”

“She works as a skip tracer now, Lieutenant,” Trueheart put in. “And she’s got a sheet—she’s racked up some assaults, destruction of property. I sent the data on both to your machine.”

“Okay, good work. I’ll follow through.”

Before she could get to her office, she got another two names from Jenkinson, three from Santiago.

It promised to be a long day in what was turning into a very long week, she thought. And found Mira in her office, sitting gingerly on the brutal visitor’s chair, drinking tea.

“I wanted to catch you as soon as you came in,” Mira said. “I hope you don’t mind I helped myself.”

“No, that’s fine.” Eve shut the door, then hit the AutoChef for coffee.

“I didn’t expect her to turn this quickly,” Mira began. “I’m inclined to believe you’re looking for a woman, or someone with female sensibilities. Her abrupt switch in the e-mail she sent you this morning tells me she’s in the middle of an intense internal struggle. Her failure last night crushed her confidence, and that, in turn, damaged her trust in you. She failed you, and her ego is so merged with her delusion of a personal relationship with you, she’s revolved that into you failing her.”

“Peabody says it’s like middle school—a twelve-year-old.”

“She’s not wrong. This person is emotionally immature, and very likely socially stunted. Smart, skilled, but shy around people even while craving attention from them. Building a relationship with you made her feel connected. Now she’s ashamed, angry, and afraid. Her bravery all along has been false, manufactured. Reflected off you.”

“She mentioned Nixie in the first communication.”

“Yes, a child—innocent, traumatized, but a survivor. She also spoke of the remains found in the Sanctuary. She relates, was abused or traumatized at a similar age. If you had been there, it wouldn’t have happened. If she had been brave and strong, it wouldn’t have happened. But justice wasn’t served—not in her mind. Now it must be. She set out to do what you were unable to do, in that way she could see herself as your friend and partner. This failure, coupled with the realization you will pursue her—not simply go through the motions, but actively pursue, using your skills—has her seeing you as flawed.”

Mira crossed her legs. The suit was rosy-pink today, worn with slate-gray heels.

“This makes her flawed. That’s a struggle for her. Together you were a perfect team, a match. You the public face, her the shadow, finishing the job you couldn’t—and avenging your good name. It mattered.”

Mira gestured toward the wall, as if the words were written there. “‘I matter.’ How can she go on if you can’t acknowledge that? If you can’t, how can she?”

“She used a master to get back into the crime scene. She registered it, not my code, but under my name.”

“Because she sees you as who she wants to be. The friendship would never be enough, even when she convinced herself it was reciprocated. She doesn’t simply admire who and what you are. She covets, Eve. I suspect when she’s home, alone, she allows herself to pretend she is you—she used first-person plural in the e-mail. She spends her time doing what she imagines you do, very likely has conversations with you that seem very real. It’s how she could spend so much of it planning the murders. She might have her hair cut like yours, or wear a wig that emulates your style.”

“Now you’re seriously creeping me out.”