Calculated in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Are you sure I can’t do anything else? Bake you a cake? I’ve never baked a cake, but I’d try it.”

  “No, thanks. We appreciate the time.”

  “He really is a good boy. He’s just been so miserable the last few days. I think we’ll both take a nap, and hopefully wake up human again.”

  “Good luck.” Eve stepped back, looked across the hall.

  “Do you think he went rabbit?” Peabody asked.

  “I think he figured out we might come looking. The flying baby,” she said again. “All those vids. He couldn’t be sure somebody didn’t get his face, and we wouldn’t do just what we did with the sketch. So he took what he wanted, relocated. But he’s not in the wind, not blown far.”

  She took out her comm, ordered a canvass, a check on cab pickups, and asked Callendar to come up to go through any electronics he’d left behind.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Eve said, and pulled out her master.

  “That was good work with the kid, by the way,” Peabody said. “Scaring him into thinking you’d throw him in jail.”

  “Who said I wouldn’t have?” Eve countered and opened the door.

  THE ABSENCE IN THE ROOM STRUCK EVE first. The living area seemed exactly the opposite—a nonliving area, lending the sensation the occupant had been gone weeks rather than a single day.

  An oversized sofa, an oversized entertainment screen, a couple of tables, a single chair in the generous space made the room look lonely and lifeless. It lacked art, color, any softening or personal touches. Even the rug lay in a tired, listless gray.

  Would he sit there, she wondered, the big man on the big couch watching the big screen? Would he sit, alone and silent while all those images of people and life and movement flashed by?

  “This is taking minimalism to an extreme,” Peabody commented.

  Saying nothing, Eve moved through to the kitchen with all its shiny, glossy conveniences. She opened the refrigerator, found brew, a supply of bottled water, and sports drinks. She found energy bars and soy chips in a cabinet, and a set of four plates, four mugs, four bowls.

  A lot of space for nothing, she thought, then moved to the wall of windows.

  But he could stand here, look out, look down. Observe. Like watching a vid on his big screen.

  She opened drawers at random. Four knives, four forks, four spoons, a couple of unused memo cubes.

  “No junk,” she said. “Nothing just tossed in a drawer or shoved in a cabinet to deal with later. No waste, except it’s all waste. All this space, all this shine and he didn’t know what to do with it.”

  With Peabody she moved off and into the bedroom.

  The mattress sat on a frame, its brown spread tucked with military precision. She’d bet she could bounce a credit off it.

  Again a single chair, and a large bureau, a computer station minus the computer.

  “Check the dresser, the desk,” she told Peabody and walked to the closet.

  A generous space again, some built-in shelves and drawers. And empty.

  “Not even a speck of dust left behind.”

  “Same here.” Peabody shut a drawer.

  She found the bathroom just as empty, including the laundry hamper. “Even took his dirty underwear, assuming he had any. Scrubbed out the sink. Took everything he wanted—and everything fit into two suitcases—and cleaned up after himself.”

  “Why?” Peabody wondered. “If we’re here, we know who he is. We don’t need his prints or DNA.”

  “I don’t know. Let’s check the other room.”

  And there, in the second bedroom they found pieces of Clinton Frye.

  “Couldn’t fit this in a suitcase,” Eve stated.

  He’d set up his own gym—machines, weights, a heavy bag, a speed bag, a glass-fronted cold box filled with more bottled water and sports drinks. A tidy stack of white towels.

  Curious, she walked over to check his weight stack. “Set on three hundred pounds. Yeah, you’re a strong bastard, Frye. He spent a lot of time in here, pumping, sweating—documenting, you bet your ass—his daily reps, times. Checking himself out in the mirrors, watching his form. This is what’s important to him. This is where he lives.”

  Hands on hips, she circled. “We’ll have a team do a search, but he didn’t leave anything behind. He’s precise in his way. This equipment isn’t new, but we can still try to track it to the source. Let’s find out where he got his food—his market, his take-out places, where he bought his clothes, had them cleaned. Let’s get a sense of his routine.”

  “No electronics for EDD.”

  “The machines,” Eve corrected. “There’ll be records of his programs, his routine there. We take what we can get. It’s not the money,” she thought out loud. “Unless it’s just the holding on to it. It’s the doing, it’s the having a job, a task. That’s all he’s got. And now he’s found killing is doing.”

  “But with a purpose, right? Not killing just to do it, not bashing some guy on the street, at random. It’s still a job.”

  Nodding, Eve gave Peabody an approving look. “That’s just exactly right. Milo’s goddamn lucky he’s in lockup because whether or not Alexander ordered it, he’d be a target. A job. Cleaning up, just like he did here.”

  “He could go for Alexander.”

  “Yeah, he could, and very likely will. Dog bites master. It happens. But not yet,” Eve calculated. “He’s got us to deal with first. I’m going to work from home. I want you to have a couple of uniforms take you back to your place, and that means all the way in.”

  “Do you think he’d try to get to me like that?”

  “I think he’s gearing up for tomorrow night, but no point in taking chances.”

  • • •

  She’d get more work done at home, Eve thought when she finally got into her car. And a little on the way, she decided, and contacted Mira.

  She used the time it took Mira’s admin to remind her of the doctor’s busy schedule and the fact the doctor was about to leave for the day to set up the recording.

  When Mira came on, Eve plowed right in.

  “I’d like you to look at something, give me an opinion.”

  “Of course.”

  “This is Clinton Frye’s apartment. You got the report we’d ID’d him?”

  “Yes. And I’ve glanced over his data.”

  “Good. He left his apartment yesterday, early evening with two suitcases according to his neighbor.”

  “He’s on the run?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s just changed locations. Take a look.”

  She ran the recording, through the living room, the kitchen, and through to Frye’s personal gym.

  “Solitary,” Mira said. “It’s more than a lack of style or decor, but a lack of emotion, of connection. He may, of course, have packed up any personal items along with his clothes and electronics, but two suitcases wouldn’t hold many.”

  “There’s no sign there was any. No sun-fading on the walls where he might’ve hung art, for instance. And there’s a sense in the place that this is how he lived. Alone and without connection.”

  “Except for the gym,” Mira observed, “which is fully outfitted, well-stocked, and well-organized. This is, or has been, his interest. Which fits as he was both military and in professional sports.”

  “Semi-pro,” Eve added.

  “Yes, that’s important, I think. He’s never been quite good enough, or smart enough, or clever enough. He’s never been, you could say, at the top of his game.”

  Until now, Eve thought. “The nightstands didn’t have drawers or shelves or cabinets. Just two plain tables. No place for sex aides or protection. He could have kept that elsewhere, but according to the neighbor again, she’s never seen anyone come to his place, anyone but him
leave it. The canvass of the building indicated the same. People noticed him. He’s a big guy, but they didn’t know him.”

  “That lack of connection again, of companionship. Yet he played and worked with teams in the past. Sports and military.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to do some checking there, see why he left or if he was booted. The place was clean,” Eve added. “Seriously clean. Even the drawers had been wiped out. His bed was made, right? A guy, living alone, a guy walking out and likely not planning to come back, but his bed was squared away like a bunk in boot camp.”

  “Yes. His training’s important to him. Physical training, and maintaining his area. If you’d found clothes, they would have been tidy and organized. Plain, efficient, nothing flashy. Good quality. His dishes matched. Undoubtedly he bought them in a set, but he’s kept them in that set. The fact that he took everything he could tells me he’d have been very unhappy to leave his fitness equipment behind. That means something to him. Replaceable, certainly. But it was his, something he used, enjoyed. Something that proved his strength and sense of self. He’ll blame you.”

  “Only more reason to try for me, and it’s going to be tomorrow. It’s the only logical choice left. And going with his sense of self, his comfort zone, he’ll go in as security. That’s another logical choice.”

  “I agree. But, as he’s shown, he’s a scattershot planner. He may not take the logical choice. He may jump with impulse.”

  Eve considered that as she swung through the gates. “If he manages to get his hands on a ticket and come as a guest, or as one of the staff, we’ll still spot him.”

  “He won’t come at you directly. If he’s able to infiltrate security, he’ll know its weaknesses.”

  “Yeah. But so will I. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Plan carefully,” Mira warned. “When he comes, he’ll be brutal.”

  “I’ll be covered,” she told Mira, and signed off.

  She’d take an hour first, Eve decided. Get in a solid workout. Test and tune her body, clean out her head.

  She sincerely hoped things didn’t shake out with her going up physically against a guy who could bench-press three hundred pounds, but if it did, she wanted to be ready.

  She had an insult waiting for Summerset, who she knew would comment about her being home early. She’d say it was Mortician’s Day, and she’d taken off in his honor.

  Quick and to the point.

  But when she walked in, he wasn’t on the lurk in the foyer. Out somewhere maybe, she assumed. Digging up mushrooms in some dank cellar or visiting a fellow ghoul.

  Pleased at the idea of having the house to herself, she jogged up the stairs. And when she turned toward the bedroom very nearly squealed like a girl when he walked out of it.

  Instead she said, “What the fuck!”

  “Laundry must be put away,” he said equably, “even the small collection of rags you call T-shirts.”

  The reminder he handled her clothes left her speechless. She lost any possible insult advantage when he just continued down the hall.

  The best she managed was a muttered, “Damn it,” as she walked in. Then nearly squealed again when the cat leaped out from under the sofa.

  “That’s two,” she mumbled, letting out a breath. She was jumpier than she’d realized.

  Definitely time to work out, sweat it out, tune it up.

  A quick exam of her butt in the mirror reassured her. The sickly yellow bruises no longer resembled any land mass she could think of, but more a kind of blurry constellation.

  Tits not too bad either, she decided, and gave her own sternum a poke. No thumping or twinging, not even when she tested her shoulder.

  So she’d work those muscles, remind them they had a job to do.

  She changed into a sports bra and workout shorts, and after a very short debate left the neatly folded and not ragged T-shirts in the drawer.

  Inspired, she took the disc of the theater’s layout, considering it as she rode the elevator down to the gym.

  It took her some time—electronics always took her some time—but she managed to program three scenarios using the layout. She’d get in a good, hard run, she thought, and familiarize herself with the area.

  She set a brisk pace. If she had to run, there wouldn’t be time to warm up. Through the lobby, up stairs, down stairs, into the maintenance level, behind the screen, through the main audience area, up again, down again.

  He was fast, she thought. She’d be faster.

  He was strong. She’d be smart.

  When Roarke came in she’d worked up a sweat.

  He studied her view screen, raised his brows. “Did you program that yourself?”

  “Yeah.” She panted it out, not ready to quit. “I can do e-stuff.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Let’s see if I can catch up.”

  “I’ve got . . . twenty-six minutes on you, and I’m taking it out to the street. You never know.”

  “You don’t, no.” He got on the machine beside hers, and in seconds had his synched with hers.

  She wanted to ask him what he’d found at Milo’s, what he knew, but realized she needed her breath to run.

  She avoided people and street traffic, both of which she’d programmed the machine to throw in at random. By the time she’d circled around to run through the theater one last time she hadn’t worked up a sweat. She was dripping with it.

  “Okay. Okay.” She slowed to a walk, sucked in air, guzzled down water. “Okay.”

  “Interesting scenarios,” Roarke commented. “More so, I think, if you were in pursuit or being pursued. Mix it up, make a bit of a game out of it.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  She walked over, lay flat on her back, and told herself she’d stretch it out in just a second. For now she’d just lie there and watch him sweat.

  God, he had the most excellent ass. She wouldn’t mind taking just a little bite. Maybe a big one. And maybe she could stretch that hour into, oh, say, ninety minutes.

  What better way to tune up?

  She watched him while she stretched her hamstrings, her quads, so tight from the long run they all but pinged. And found another inspiration.

  “I think I pulled something.” She sat, head down, rubbing at her calf.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing. I just . . .” She let out a little hiss.

  “Let me see.” He shut off the machine, came over to kneel beside her. “What did you pull?”

  “Your strings,” she said, and yanked him down on top of her.

  “Think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “Got you here, didn’t I?” She hooked her legs around him, shifted weight, rolled him under her. “Just where I want you.”

  “Did you program this scenario as well?”

  “No, this one I’m making up as I go. We’re all sweaty.” She leaned down to nip at his chin. “All worked up and wet. Why waste it?”

  “I appreciate your sense of efficiency.” He ran a hand over her butt, down the back of her thigh. “You’re still tight.”

  “Why don’t you stretch me?”

  She started to lean down again, but this time he flipped her, pressing body to slick body and mouth to mouth in an explosion of heat that quaked down to the core.

  Her system shuddered from it, then leaped toward it.

  Passion for passion, reckless and greedy.

  She dragged at his shirt, short nails scraping along his skin, fingers digging into muscle. She craved his body, the weight, the shape, the glorious feel of it pressed into hers.

  In moments she was breathless again, muscles quivering, heart slamming. Before she could catch that breath again, he drove her up and over with hands and mouth.

  He felt her go,
that shuddering release, the gasp and moan.

  It wasn’t enough, not yet, for either of them.

  He yanked off her bra, knew his hands were rough. Didn’t care. He wanted her wild, he wanted her desperate, wanted—needed—to drag her down into the madness with him.

  She went. Her body alive and eager and reckless under his. Her hands, rough as well, grasping, taking.

  No patience, no tenderness here. Not now. Only urgent, avid need gnawing to be quelled.

  He set the animal in him free, and its mate met it as ferociously.

  Crazed, careless, they stripped each other. He drove into her, hard and deep, shoved up her knees, wanting her to take more. To take all.

  To take him.

  She cried out, the pleasure tearing through her in keen, hot claws. Her hands gripped his hips as her own pistoned in response.

  Fast. Faster, until her cry of release came in desperate sobs. Until her hands slid limply to the floor.

  Until he choked out her name.

  Her breath whistled out. She wondered her raging heart didn’t jump out of her chest and dance around the room.

  “Jesus!” she managed in a voice harsh with a sudden, impossible thirst. “Holy cartwheeling Jesus.”

  “Well, that’s an image I didn’t expect.” He’d collapsed on her. He meant to roll off, give her air, and he would. In a day or two.

  “I may really have pulled something that time.”

  “I won’t be falling for that again. You’ve used me up.”

  “Good, because I don’t think I can move.”

  With considerable effort, he rolled off her, lay on his back staring at the ceiling as she did. “We can stay here.”

  “Forever?”

  “It’s an option.”

  “Crime would overtake the city, and the financial world would collapse. We can’t be responsible.”

  “I suppose not. I need water anyway. A gallon might do it.”

  “Just pour my share over me.”

  He gained his feet, realized he felt just slightly drunk. Pleasant enough, he decided as he retrieved two bottles of water. He gulped some down as he came back, then smiling down at her—her eyes closed, her face still flushed, tipped the bottle so cold water splashed on her belly.