by J. D. Robb
“We’re not that high.” If Eve had one phobia, it was heights. To his way of thinking, she’d feel better as soon as they landed, so why not open the ALS up and see what it could do?
“High enough to crash,” she muttered and ordered herself to think of something—anything—else. It would have taken her a great deal longer to make the trip to Bayliss’s beach hideaway in her city unit, particularly now that it was acting up.
Even if she’d used one of Roarke’s spiffy cars, the distance couldn’t have been covered so quickly by road.
The most logical solution was to draft him to fly her there. Logical, she thought, if she lived.
“Bayliss is up to something,” she said over the smooth roar of the ALS’s engines. “He was in and out of his place too fast, didn’t reprogram his house droid, and he took files.”
“You’ll be able to ask him what he’s up to yourself in a few minutes.” Testing the controls, Roarke took the sleek little streamer up another twenty feet, executed a turn.
Eve cut her eyes in his direction as he fiddled with controls, manually, then through voice command. “What are you doing?”
“Just checking. I’d say this baby’s ready for production.”
“What do you mean ready for?”
“This is just the prototype.”
She felt the color drain out of her face. Actually felt it. “As in experimental?”
With his dark hair whipping in the air blowing through his open window, he tossed her a wide, delighted grin. “Not anymore. We’re going down.”
“What?” She braced every cell in her body. “What?”
“On purpose, darling.”
If he’d been by himself, he’d have taken the streamer into a dive to check the responses, but in consideration of his wife, he kept the descent slow and smooth, targeting the road, hovering over it.
“Switch to landing mode,” he ordered.
Switch in mode confirmed. Flaps lowering. Retracting.
“Touching down.”
Touchdown confirmed. Switching to land drive.
There was barely a bump as the silver streamer set its wheels on the road. And barely, Eve noted sourly, a decrease of speed.
“Slow down, hotshot. This is a posted area.”
“We’re on official business. When the weather warms up a bit more, we can try this with the top down.”
As far as Eve was concerned, hell wouldn’t be warm enough to induce her to skim along in the fancy little two-seater without a roof. But she looked at the dash map, impressed that it not only had Bayliss’s house targeted, but that Roarke had set down less than a mile from their destination.
Logic, she thought now that she was on solid ground again, had its uses.
She could hear the water, a steady rise and slap of sound to the east. Houses, predominately of glass and recycled wood rose and spread, each seeming to try to outdo the next with how many decks they could manage to jut out toward sand and sea. The patches between them were manicured with sea oats, sand roses, and odd little sculptures that carried over the ocean theme.
Lights twinkled here and there, but for the most part, the houses were dark. This was where the rich and the privileged escaped from New York on weekends or during the long, hot summer.
“How come you don’t have a place here?”
“Actually, I do have a string of properties that rent out, but I never had a yen to stay in one. Too ordinary and obvious.” He smiled at her. “But if you’d like one . . .”
“No. It’s too much like a neighborhood or something. You’d come down to kick back and probably have to talk to people. And have, I don’t know, get-togethers and stuff.”
“Hideous thought.” Amused, he turned off and pulled into the drive behind a hulking black sedan. “Do we assume that’s his car?”
“Yeah.” She scoped out the house. Not so different from the others lining the coast. Big arches filled with glass that opened to decks and were loaded with enormous urns of enormous flowers or potted trees. The structure was blond and gleaming in the half light and came to triple points on the third level where another deck ran in a ring.
“Pretty snazzy for a cop,” she commented. “But then he’s got a rich spouse.” She glanced at Roarke. “That kind of thing comes in handy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“If he’s in there, he’s in the dark. I don’t like it.” It had been her plan to convince Roarke to wait in the car. Something she’d assumed would take some doing. Now her gut told her to try a different plan.
They got out opposite sides and walked up a narrow boardwalk to the front door. There were tall, glass panels flanking it, etched with stylized seashells. Through them she could scan the main living area with its soaring ceilings and pale walls.
Instinctively, she hitched her jacket back so her weapon would be more accessible. And rang the bell. “You’d think the place was empty, wouldn’t you? Except for the car.”
“He might’ve taken a walk on the beach. People tend to do that here.”
She shook her head. “He wouldn’t be in the mood to stroll through the surf.” She made the decision, bent down, and took her clinch piece from her ankle holster.
“I need you to go around, cover the back. Don’t use this, okay? Do not use this unless you’re in immediate jeopardy.”
“I know the rules.” He slipped it in his pocket. “Do you think Bayliss is dangerous?”
“No. No, I don’t. But someone is. I’m going up to the second level. I’ll circle around, left to right. Watch your back.”
“Same goes.”
They separated, each confident the other could handle whatever came. Eve moved to the side, up the open steps, over the deck. The doors here were clear sheets of glass and fully secured with their privacy shields lowered. She started to the left, moving slowly, her eyes tracking.
The gleam at her feet had her pausing, crouching. Water, she mused. Someone had slopped water on the deck, a path of it, she noted as she straightened to follow the trail.
The sound of the sea rose, a sly thrash and suck. Stars were beginning to come out, adding faint light to a sky going indigo. Ears cocked, she heard the footsteps mounting the steps to her right. Her fingers danced to her weapon.
It was in her hand when Roarke rounded the building.
“There’s water on the steps,” he told her.
“Here, too.” She lifted a hand, signaled. The side doors were open.
Roarke nodded, moved to the far side of them, and she to the near. Their eyes met, she took a breath, held it. They went through. He took high, she low.
“Take the right,” she ordered. “Lights on.” When they appeared, she adjusted her eyes to the change, sidestepped left. “Captain Bayliss,” she called out. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. I have a warrant. I need you to make your location known.”
Her voice echoed off the high ceilings, off the sand-colored walls.
“Bad feeling,” she muttered. “Very bad feeling.” Sweeping with her weapon, she followed the tracking water. She saw Bayliss’s suitcase open on the bed, a jacket tossed carelessly beside it.
She glanced toward Roarke, watched him check a room-sized closet, did the same herself on the other side, then moved along the wet to a door.
She signaled again, waiting until he’d joined her. With her free hand, she turned the knob, then shoving it open went in under Roarke’s arm.
Music blared. It gave her a jolt to hear Mavis’s voice screeching out into the opulent bathroom. All white and gold, the room almost hurt the eyes with its sheer white walls, gilt pools of mirrors, twin sinks large enough to bathe in.
Under the music she heard the rumble of a motor. She crossed the floor, damp and gleaming white, to the leg of the L-shaped room.
The tub was waist high and white as the Alps, but for the wet river of blood that ran down the side, just below a single hand. Red dripped onto the badge tossed on the floor.
“Damn it. Goddamn it.” She
leaped to the tub and saw immediately it was far too late for the MTs.
Bayliss lay on the lounging level, his head pillowed on a silver cushion, his body strapped down with long ribbons of adhesive.
His eyes stared up at her, wide and horrified, and already filmed over with death.
Glinting on the floor of the tub were credits. She knew there would be thirty.
“I wasn’t fast enough. Somebody wanted him dead more than I wanted him alive.”
Roarke lifted a hand to the base of her neck, rubbed once. “You’ll want your field kit.”
“Yeah.” Her assent was a sound of disgust. “Whoever did this is gone, but be careful anyway.” She reached for her communicator. “I have to contact the locals. Protocol. Then I’m calling it in. Meanwhile, you’re drafted as aide. Seal up before you come back in, and don’t—”
“Touch anything,” he finished. “Hell of a way to die,” he added. “He’d have been kept alive, aware, strapped down there while the water level rose. The room’s soundproofed. No one would have heard him screaming.”
“The killer heard him,” Eve said and, turning away, opened transmission.
She recorded the scene and did a preliminary sweep before the local police arrived. Knowing she had to balance authority with diplomacy, she requested rather than ordered the sheriff to send his men out to knock on doors.
“Not many people around here just now,” Sheriff Reese told her. “Come June, it’ll be a different story.”
“I realize that. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Sheriff, this is your turf, but the victim comes from mine. The killer, too. As this murder links to my ongoing investigation, it falls under my authority. But I need all the help I can get. And your cooperation.”
“You’ll have it, Lieutenant.” He studied her for a moment. “Some people might think we’re in the boondocks here, but we’re not boobs. Don’t get your city crimes too much, but we know how to handle them when we do.”
“I appreciate it.” She passed him her Seal-It. “Did you know Captain Bayliss?”
“Sure.” Reese sprayed his shoes, his hands. “He and his wife were regulars. They spent the month of August here most every year, and about a weekend a month rest of the year. Popped in now and again otherwise. Had parties, spent some money in the village. Didn’t have much to do with the locals but were friendly enough. Didn’t cause any trouble.”
She started upstairs with him. “Did Bayliss make a habit of coming here alone?”
“Not really. He’d come down on a Friday night now and again—once, twice a year—stay till Sunday. Went out on his boat, did some fishing. The wife didn’t care for fishing. You notify her?”
“My information is that she’s in Paris. She’ll be contacted. Bayliss ever bring anybody here other than his wife?”
“Can’t say he did. Some do, men bring a buddy or a side piece, you’ll pardon the expression. Women do the same. Bayliss stuck with his wife. Never heard of him bringing any . . . entertainment with him.”
She nodded, walked to the tub with him. Reese stared down, blew out a breath. “Jesus, that’s a sorry sight. I don’t mind saying I’m glad this is yours, Lieutenant.” Reese scratched his head. “If he was trying to make it look like suicide, why’d he leave the man strapped in there?”
“He wasn’t trying to mock a self-termination. He just needed the blood on the badge. It’s pattern. I’ve got the scene recorded, and now that you’ve officially witnessed it, I’m going to drain the tub, examine the body.”
“You go right on.” He stepped back and watched Roarke come in.
“My temporary aide,” Eve explained. “This is Sheriff Reese.”
“I know who you are,” Reese said. “Seen your face on-screen often enough. You own some property around here.”
“That’s right.”
“You keep it in good maintenance. We appreciate that around here. That your rig out front?”
“Yes.” Roarke smiled a little as Eve turned off the motor. “It’s a new line.”
“Slick.”
“I’ll give you a closer look before we go,” Roarke offered.
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Victim is male, Caucasian,” Eve began. “Identified as Bayliss, Captain Boyd, age forty-eight. Cause of death appears to be drowning. Single laceration in left wrist is potentially life-threatening.”
She fit on her microgoggles. “No visible hesitation marks,” she reported, then pushed them off again. “Victim is wearing a gold wedding ring and a gold wrist unit. A strong adhesive tape has been used to strap the victim to the tub at throat, left forearm, chest, torso, waist, hips, and on both thighs and ankles. No defensive wounds are evident.”
The water drained out, little sucking sounds, while she spoke. As the level lowered, Bayliss’s hair and genitals floated toward the surface.
“I need to get in to examine the body. Sheriff, will you record?” She slipped the recorder off her jacket, held it out.
“I like my job better than yours.” He fixed it to his shirt, moved closer.
She stepped onto the platform, swung a leg over the edge. Already in her mind, the scene played out. He’d have been unconscious, she was sure of that. It wouldn’t have been possible to get a healthy, well-built, adult male into the tub and restrained without signs of a struggle.
She planted her feet on either side of the body as she imagined the killer had done. Bending, she began to work at the tape. “Strong stuff. It looks like that tape used for packing cargo and heavy shipments. He used a smooth-bladed tool to cut it. No ragged edges. Probably shears or scissors. Neat, patient work. He took his time.”
The tape screeched a little as it pulled away from the smooth, damp surface of the tub. She took her time with it, carefully sliding the tape into evidence bags.
With his head free, Eve lifted it, turned it. And saw no signs of a blow.
Stunned him, she thought. Used a weapon. Probably a standard police issue. Damn.
She worked her way down the body, handing Roarke the bagged tape as she freed it.
Her movements were brisk and efficient, Roarke thought. Her eyes were flat. Distancing herself, as much as she was able, focusing her mind, her skill on the job.
She wouldn’t have called it courageous, but he did. To give herself over, to stand over death and work doggedly to balance the scales, even for a man he knew she had disliked.
“Microgoggles,” she ordered, and Roarke passed them back to her.
With them on, she crouched, examining the abraded skin where Bayliss had futilely fought against the tape. Yeah, she thought, wanted him alive and awake while the water churned up. Screaming, begging, sobbing.
Did he call you by name? I’d lay odds on it.
She turned him, her hands unconsciously gentle. On his back, his buttocks, she saw faint marks where his body had pressed and rubbed against the tub.
And on his hips was a small tattoo, gold and black, a replica of the shield that was now smeared with his blood.
“A cop through and through,” she commented. “At least that’s what he considered himself. He’d have hated dying like this. Naked, helpless, and undignified.”
She gathered the coins littering the bottom of the tub. “Thirty,” she said, jingling them in her palm before dropping them into the bag Roarke held out for her. “He deviates his method but not his symbolism. Bayliss hasn’t been dead long. We didn’t miss this one by much. The blood barely started to settle to its lowest level, and what’s been spilled out there’s still wet. I need the gauge to get time of death.”
“Lieutenant.” Roarke held out the gauge. “I believe your team’s here.”
“Hmm?” She took the gauge. She heard it now, the muted voices traveling from below up the stairs and through the open door. “Okay. I’m almost done in here. An hour,” she said in disgust when she read the gauge. “We didn’t miss him by more than an hour.”
She climbed back out of the tub as Peabody strode into the room. �
�Lieutenant.”
“Record on. See that he’s bagged and transport’s arranged, Peabody. Get some sweepers started in here. Did you bring EDD?”
“Feeney and McNab are right behind me.”
“When they get here, have them start on the security, then the ’links. For what it’s worth. Thank you, Sheriff.” She held out a hand for her recorder. “This is my aide, Officer Peabody. She’ll handle the scene, if you have no objection.”
“None at all.”
“I want to go through the house. Bayliss had files with him. I need to find them.”
“First-level office,” Roarke put in, bringing her eyes to his. “I can show you where it is.”
Something in his tone told her he didn’t want to show her with company. She blocked off the automatic annoyance that he’d gone through the house without her and turned to Reese. “I’d like you to check with your men doing the door-to-doors. Also, if you could contact your patrols, inquire as to whether anyone noticed a strange vehicle in this area tonight.”
“I’ll get right on it. Outside, if it’s all the same to you. I’d like some air.”
“Thanks.” She started out with Roarke, waited until the first wave of the crime scene unit passed them on the stairs. “What’s the idea of poking around the house on your own? We’re on official business. I can’t have civilians making themselves at home.”
“I was acting in my capacity as temporary aide,” he said smoothly. “All of the other doors and windows were secured, by the way. The alarm system’s one of mine, and top of its line. It wasn’t tampered with. Whoever bypassed it had a code. And I located the security control,” he continued. “Feeney’s going to find that system was also bypassed. There won’t be a recording of tonight’s activities, in or out of the house, after seven o’clock.”
“Busy boy.”
“Me or your killer?”
“Ha ha. He doesn’t panic, he doesn’t rush, he covers his tracks. And he does all that with rage working through him. Must be a damn good cop.”
She moved through the door Roarke indicated, into a large office space with views of the sea through the glass wall in the rear.
