Midnight in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She started to refuse again, then reconsidered. Most of the data she wanted were public domain in any case. And what wasn’t was nothing she wouldn’t have shared with him if she’d been thinking it through aloud.

  Besides, he was good.

  “Okay, consider yourself a drone. But when Peabody’s got her balance, you’re out.”

  “Darling.” He took her hand, kissed it, watched her scowl. “Since you ask so sweetly.”

  “And no sloppy stuff,” she put in. “I’m on duty.”

  TWO

  The huge cat, Galahad, was draped over the back of Eve’s sleep chair like a drunk over a bar at last call. Since he’d spent several hours the night before attacking boxes, fighting with ribbon, and murdering discarded wrapping paper, she left him where he was so he could sleep it off.

  Eve set down her bag and went directly to the AutoChef for coffee. “The guy we’re after is David Palmer.”

  “You’ve already identified the killer.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know who I’m after. Me and Dave, we’re old pals.”

  Roarke took the mug she brought him, watched her through the steam. “The name’s vaguely familiar to me.”

  “You’d have heard it. It was all over the media three, three and a half years ago. I need all my case files on that investigation, all data on the trial. You can start by—” She broke off when he laid a hand on her arm.

  “David Palmer—serial killer. Torture murders.” It was playing back for him, in bits and pieces. “Fairly young. What—mid-twenties?”

  “Twenty-two at time of arrest. A real prodigy, our Dave. He considers himself a scientist, a visionary. His mission is to explore and record the human mind’s tolerance to extreme duress—pain, fear, starvation, dehydration, sensory deprivation. He could talk a good game, too.” She sipped her coffee. “He’d sit there in interview, his pretty face all lit with enthusiasm, and explain that once we knew the mind’s breaking point, we’d be able to enhance it, to strengthen it. He figured since I was a cop, I’d be particularly interested in his work. Cops are under a great deal of stress, often finding ourselves in life-and-death situations where the mind is easily distracted by fear or outside stimuli. The results of his work could be applied to members of the police and security forces, the military, even in business situations.”

  “I didn’t realize he was yours.”

  “Yeah, he was mine.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was a little more low profile in those days.”

  He might have smiled at that, knowing it was partially her connection to him that had changed that status. But he remembered too much of the Palmer case to find the humor. “I was under the impression that he was safely locked away.”

  “Not safely enough. He slipped out. The victim this morning was dumped in a public area—another of Dave’s trademarks. He likes us to know he’s hard at work. The autopsy will have to verify, but the victim was tortured premortem. I’d guess Dave found himself a new hole to work in and had the judge there at least a day before killing him. Death by strangulation occurred on or around midnight. Merry Christmas, Judge Wainger,” she murmured.

  “And that would be the judge who tried his case.”

  “Yeah.” Absently, she put her mug down, reached into her bag for a copy of the sealed note she’d already sent to the lab. “He left a calling card—another signature. All these names are connected to his case and his sentencing. Part of his work this time around would be, at my guess, letting his intended victims stew about what he has in store for them. They’re being contacted and protected. He’ll have a tough time getting to any of them.”

  “And you?” Roarke spoke with studied calm after a glance at the list, and his wife’s name. “Where’s your protection?”

  “I’m a cop. I’m the one who does the protecting.”

  “He’ll want you most, Eve.”

  She turned. However controlled his voice was, she heard the anger under it. “Maybe, but not as much as I want him.”

  “You stopped him,” Roarke continued. “Whatever was done after—the tests, the trial, the sentence—was all a result of your work. You’ll matter most.”

  “Let’s leave those conclusions to the profiler.” Though she agreed with them. “I’m going to contact Mira as soon as I look through the case files again. You can access those for me while I start my prelim report. I’ll give you the codes for my office unit and the Palmer files.”

  Now he lifted a brow, smiled smugly. “Please. I can’t work if you insult me.”

  “Sorry.” She picked up her coffee again. “I don’t know why I pretend you need codes to access any damn thing.”

  “Neither do I.”

  He sat down to retrieve the data she wanted, moving smoothly through the task. It was pitifully simple for him, and his mind was left free to consider. To decide.

  She’d said he wasn’t connected to this, and that she expected him to back away when Peabody was on duty again. But she was wrong. Her name on the list meant he was more involved than he’d ever been before. And no power on earth, not even that of the woman he loved, would cause him to back away.

  Close by, Eve worked on the auxiliary unit, recording the stark facts into the report. She wanted the autopsy results, the crime scene team and sweeper data. But she had little hope that she would get anything from the spotty holiday staff before the end of the next day.

  Struggling not to let her irritation with Christmas resurface, she answered her beeping ’link. “Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant, Officer Miller here.”

  “What is it, Miller?”

  “Sir, my partner and I were assigned to contact and guard APA Ring. We arrived at her residence shortly after seven-thirty. There was no response to our knock.”

  “This is a priority situation, Miller. You’re authorized to enter the premises.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood. We did so. The subject is not in residence. My partner questioned the across-the-hall neighbor. The subject left early yesterday morning to spend the holiday with her family in Philadelphia. Lieutenant, she never arrived. Her father reported her missing this morning.”

  Eve’s stomach tightened. Too late, she thought. Already too late. “What was her method of transpo, Miller?”

  “She had her own car. We’re en route to the garage where she stored it.”

  “Keep me posted, Miller.” Eve broke transmission, looked over, and met Roarke’s eyes. “He’s got her. I’d like to think she ran into some road hazard or hired a licensed companion for a quick holiday fling before heading on to her family, but he’s got her. I need the ’link codes for the other names on the list.”

  “You’ll have them. One minute.”

  She didn’t need the code for one of the names. With her heart beating painfully, she put the call through to Mira’s home. A small boy answered with a grin and a giggle. “Merry Christmas! This is Grandmom’s house.”

  For a moment Eve just blinked, wondering how she’d gotten the wrong code. Then she heard the familiar soft voice in the background, saw Mira come on screen with a smile on her face and strain in her eyes.

  “Eve. Good morning. Would you hold for a moment, please? I’d like to take this upstairs. No, sweetie,” she said to the boy who tugged on her sleeve. “Run play with your new toys. I’ll be back. Just a moment, Eve.”

  The screen went to a calm, cool blue, and Eve exhaled gratefully. Relief at finding Mira home, alive, well, safe—and the oddity of thinking of the composed psychiatrist as Grandmom played through her mind.

  “I’m sorry.” Mira came back on. “I didn’t want to take this downstairs with my family.”

  “No problem. Are the uniforms there?”

  “Yes.” In a rare show of nerves, Mira pushed a hand through her sable-toned hair. “Miserable duty for them, sitting out in a car on Christmas. I haven’t figured out how to have them inside and keep my family from knowing. My children are here, Eve, my grandchildren. I need to know if you believe there’s any chan
ce they’re in danger.”

  “No.” She said it quick and firm. “That’s not his style. Dr. Mira, you’re not to leave the house without your guards. You’re to go nowhere, not the office, not the corner deli, without both of them. Tomorrow you’ll be fitted for a tracer bracelet.”

  “I’ll take all the precautions, Eve.”

  “Good, because one of those precautions is to cancel all patient appointments until Palmer is in custody.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re to be alone with no one, at any time. So unless your patients agree to let you walk around in their heads while a couple of cops are looking on, you’re taking a vacation.”

  Mira eyed Eve steadily. “And are you about to take a vacation?”

  “I’m about to do my job. Part of that job is you. Stephanie Ring is missing.” She waited, one beat only, for the implication to register. “Do what you’re told, Dr. Mira, or you’ll be in protective custody within the hour. I’ll need a consult tomorrow, nine o’clock. I’ll come to you.”

  She broke transmission, turned to get the ’link codes from Roarke, and found him watching her steadily. “What?”

  “She means a great deal to you. If she meant less, you’d have handled that with more finesse.”

  “I don’t have much finesse at the best of times. Let’s have the codes.” When he hesitated, she sighed and replied, “Okay, okay, fine. She means a lot, and I’ll be damned if he’ll get within a mile of her. Now give me the goddamn codes.”

  “Already transferred to your unit, Lieutenant. Logged in, on memory. You’ve only to state the name of the party for transmission.”

  “Show-off.” She muttered it, knowing it would make him grin, and turned back to contact the rest of the names on Palmer’s list.

  When she was satisfied that the other targets were where they were supposed to be, and under guard, Eve turned to the case files Roarke had accessed.

  She spent an hour going over data and reports, another reviewing her interview discs with Palmer.

  Okay, Dave, tell me about Michelle Hammel. What made her special?

  David Palmer, a well-built man of twenty-two with the golden good looks of the wealthy New England family he’d sprung from, smiled and leaned forward earnestly. His clear blue eyes were bright with enthusiasm. His caramel-cream complexion glowed with health and vitality.

  Somebody’s finally listening, Eve remembered thinking as she saw herself as she’d been three years before. He’s finally got the chance to share his genius.

  Her hair was badly cut—she’d still been hacking at it herself in those days. The boots crossed at her ankles had been new then and almost unscarred. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

  Otherwise, she thought, she was the same.

  She was young, fit. An athlete, Palmer told her. Very disciplined, mind and body. A long-distance runner—Olympic hopeful. She knew how to block pain, how to focus on a goal. She’d be at the top end of the scale, you see. Just as Leroy Greene was at the bottom. He’d fogged his mind with illegals for years. No tolerance for disruptive stimuli. He lost all control even before the application of pain. His mind broke as soon as he regained consciousness and found himself strapped to the table. But Michelle…

  She fought? She held out?

  Palmer nodded cheerfully. She was magnificent, really. She struggled against the restraints, then stopped when she understood that she wouldn’t be able to free herself. There was fear. The monitors registered her rise in pulse rate, blood pressure, all vital physical and emotional signs. I have excellent equipment.

  Yeah, I’ve seen it. Top of the line.

  It’s vital work. His eyes had clouded then, unfocused as they did when he spoke of the import of his experiments. You’ll see if you review the data on Michelle that she centered her fear, used it to keep herself alive. She controlled it, initially, tried to reason with me. She made promises, she pretended to understand my research, even to help me. She was clever. When she understood that wouldn’t help her, she cursed me, pumping up her adrenaline as I introduced new pain stimuli.

  “He broke her feet,” Eve said, knowing Roarke was watching behind her. “Then her arms. He was right about his equipment back then. He had electrodes that when attached to different parts of the body, or placed in various orifices, administered graduating levels of electric shock. He kept Michelle alive for three days until the torture broke her. She was begging for him to kill her toward the end. He used a rope and pulley system to hang her—gradual strangulation. She was nineteen.”

  Roarke laid his hands on her shoulders. “You stopped him once, Eve, you’ll stop him again.”

  “Damn right I will.”

  She looked up when she heard someone coming quickly down the corridor. “Save data, and file,” she ordered just as Nadine Furst came into the room. Perfect, she thought, a visit from one of Channel 75’s top on-air reporters. The fact that they were friends didn’t make Eve any less wary.

  “Out paying Christmas calls, Nadine?”

  “I got a present this morning.” Nadine tossed a disc on the desk.

  Eve looked at it, then back up at Nadine’s face. It was pale, the sharp features drawn. For once, Nadine wasn’t perfectly groomed with lip dye, enhancers, and every hair in place. She looked more than frazzled, Eve realized. She looked afraid.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “David Palmer.”

  Slowly Eve got to her feet. “What about him?”

  “Apparently he knows what I do for a living, and that we’re friendly. He sent me that.” She glanced back down at the disc, struggled to suppress a shudder. “Hoping I’d do a feature story on him—and his work—and share the contents of his disc with you. Can I have a drink? Something strong.”

  Roarke came around the desk and eased her into a chair. “Sit down. You’re cold,” he murmured when he took her hands.

  “Yeah, I am. I’ve been cold ever since I ran that disc.”

  “I’ll get you a brandy.”

  Nadine nodded in agreement, then fisted her hands in her lap and looked at Eve. “There are two other people on the recording. One of them is Judge Wainger. What’s left of Judge Wainger. And there’s a woman, but I can’t recognize her. She’s—he’s already started on her.”

  “Here.” Roarke brought the snifter, gently wrapped Nadine’s hands around the bowl. “Drink this.”

  “Okay.” She lifted the glass, took one long sip, and felt the blast of heat explode in her gut. “Dallas, I’ve seen a lot of bad things. I’ve reported them, I’ve studied them. But I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t know how you deal with it, day after day.”

  “One day at a time.” Eve picked up the disc. “You don’t have to watch this again.”

  “Yes.” Nadine drank again, let out a long breath. “I do.”

  Eve turned the disc over in her hand. It was a standard-use model. They’d never trace it. She slid it into her unit. “Copy disc and run, display on screen.”

  David Palmer’s youthful and handsome face swam onto the wall screen.

  “Ms. Furst, or may I call you Nadine? So much more personal that way, and my work is very personal to me. I’ve admired your work, by the way. It’s one of the reasons I’m trusting you to get my story on air. You believe in what you do, don’t you, Nadine?”

  His eyes were serious now, professional to professional, his face holding all the youth and innocence of a novitiate at the altar. “Those of us who reach for perfection believe in what we do,” he continued. “I’m aware that you have a friendly relationship with Lieutenant Dallas. The lieutenant and I also have a relationship, perhaps not so friendly, but we do connect, and I do admire her stamina. I hope you’ll share the contents of this disc with her as soon as possible. By this time she should already be heading the investigation into the death of Judge Wainger.”

  His smile went bright now, and just a little mad at the edges. “Hello, Lieutenant. You’ll excuse me if I just c
onclude my business with Nadine. I want Dallas to be closely involved. It’s important to me. You will tell my story, won’t you, Nadine? Let the public themselves judge, not some narrow-minded fool in a black robe.”

  The next scene slipped seamlessly into place, the audio high so that the woman’s screams seemed to rip the air in the room where Eve sat, watching.

  Judge Wainger’s body was bound hand and foot and suspended several inches from a plain concrete floor. A basic pulley system this time, Eve mused. He’d taken time to set up some of the niceties, but it wasn’t yet the complex, and yes, ingenious, system of torture that he’d created before.

  Still, he worked very well.

  Wainger’s face was livid with agony, the muscles twitching as Palmer burned letters in his chest with a hand laser. He only moaned, his head lolling. Nearby, a system of monitors beeped and buzzed.

  “He’s failing, you see,” Palmer said briskly in a voice-over. “His mind is moving beyond the pain, as it can no longer endure it. His system will attempt to shut down into unconsciousness. That can be reversed, as you’ll see here.” On screen, he flipped a switch. There was a high whine, then Wainger’s body jerked. This time he screamed.

  Across the room a woman shrieked and sobbed. The cage she was in swung wildly on its cable and was only big enough to allow her to crouch on hands and knees. A dark fall of hair covered most of her face, but Eve knew her.

  Stephanie Ring was Palmer’s.

  When he turned, engaged another control, the cage sparked and shook. The woman let out a piercing wail, shuddered convulsively, then collapsed.

  Palmer turned to the camera, smiled. “She’s distracting, but I have only so much time. It’s necessary to begin one subject before completing work on another. But her turn will come shortly. Subject Wainger’s heart is failing. The data on him are nearly complete.”

  Using the ropes, he manually lowered Wainger to the floor. Eve noted the flex and bunch of muscles in Palmer’s arms. “Dave’s been pumping,” she murmured. “Getting in shape. He knew he’d have to work harder this round. He likes to prepare.”