by J. D. Robb
“I hope it won’t take very long,” he added as a uniform entered to take him back to a cage.
When Eve didn’t rise, Peabody walked over, poured two cups of water. “My dad used to love these old cartoon vids. I remember this one, where this talking cat was crazy. Totally bonked. Anyway, to show it, they had these little birds flying around his head and chirping.”
She drank her water while Eve stared at her own. “Anyway, that’s what I’d see with him. Little birds flying around his head, except it’s too sad and too awful for little birds.”
“Sometimes, you do the job, you close the case, but the door just doesn’t shut for you. I guess this is going to be one of those. Roarke was right. He’s just pathetic. It’s easier when they’re vicious or greedy or just downright evil. Pathetic leaves the door open a crack.”
“You should go home, Dallas. We should all go home now.”
“You’re right.” She rubbed her eyes like a tired child.
But she wrote up the report first, and filed it, hoping to close the door a little more. The department shrinks, and whatever private ones Gerry might eventually engage, would have a field day with him.
But he would never step out of that secured room again.
She detoured by the hospital to look in on Trueheart. He was sleeping like a baby, with the monitors recording the steady beat of his pulse. In the chair beside the bed, Baxter was slumped and snoring.
Quietly, she moved into the room, stood beside the bed for a moment just looking at Trueheart. His color was good, she decided, his breathing even.
Tied to the bed guard was some sort of novelty balloon that looked like giant female breasts.
Leaning down she gave Baxter’s shoulder a quick shake and his snoring cut off with a shocked snort. He jerked awake and his hand went automatically to his weapon.
“Stand down, Detective,” she whispered.
“Kid okay?” He pushed up in the chair. “Shit. I was out.”
“Tell me. The rhinoceros snoring’s going to wake Trueheart up. Go home, Baxter.”
“I was just going to sit with him awhile, make sure . . . Guess I conked.”
“Go home,” she repeated. “Catch a few hours horizontal. They’re going to release him mid-morning. You can come back and take him home. I’ll clear your personal time.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Appreciate it. He did good, Dallas.”
“He did good.”
“Stevenson?”
“He’s away.”
“Well.” Baxter got to his feet. “I guess that’s that.”
“That’s that,” she agreed, but when Baxter was gone, she sat and kept watch another hour herself.
She drove home as the sun came up. The storm had passed, and the light was almost gentle, almost pretty over the city. She supposed there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but she was too damn tired to dig it out.
But the light grew stronger as she turned toward home, and stronger yet as she passed through the gates. It showered over the house, the great house out of a sky that decided to be bright and summer blue.
It was cooler, she noted as she stepped out of the car. Cooler than it had been in days. Weeks. Maybe years. Damn if there wasn’t a nice little breeze kicking up.
She walked inside, peeled off her jacket, and just let it drop.
Roarke came out of the parlor. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“Pretty nice day out there.”
“It is.” He crossed to her, skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin, studied her tired eyes. “How are you?”
“Been better, but I’ve been a hell of a lot worse. Trueheart came out of it—they’ll release him today. He’s none the worse for wear, and Baxter was hovering over him like a mother duck. It’s kind of cute.”
“Did you put him in for commendation?”
She laughed a little. “What am I, transparent?”
“To me.” He put his arms around her, drew her in.
“How was he doing when you went by the hospital to see him?”
He smiled into her hair. “Apparently you see through me, too. He looked young and eager, if a bit tired. Baxter bought him an obscene balloon in the shape of enormous breasts. With obvious embarrassment and delight, Trueheart tied it to his bed guard.”
“Yeah, I saw it when I went by. All’s right with the world again. Or as close as it gets.”
“You’re sorry for him.”
She knew he didn’t speak of Trueheart now. “More than I want to be. He’s twisted. Maybe his mother’s death turned him, or maybe he’d have ended up that way anyhow. That’s for the head guys to figure out. I’m done. Guess I should go up and fall on my face for a few hours.”
“I imagine so. We’ll have to keep our date later.”
“What date?”
He slipped an arm around her waist, turned for the stairs. “The date we outlined for when Summerset left for holiday.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She jerked back, scanning the foyer. “He’s gone? The house is Summerset-free?”
“Left not twenty minutes ago, still limping a bit, but—”
“I must be slipping. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.”
She kicked her jacket into the air, wiggled her hips, did what might have been a cha-cha down the hall.
“You seem to have found a stored pocket of energy.”
“I am reborn!” Cackling, she whirled around, pushed off with her toes and leaped on him. “Let’s have monkey sex,” she said as she wrapped her legs around Roarke’s waist.
“Well, if you insist. It so happens I have a pint of very nice chocolate sauce in the parlor.”
“You’re kidding.”
“One never kids about monkey sex with chocolate sauce.”
She laughed like a loon, then crushed her mouth to his—hot and hard enough to make him stagger. And when they tumbled onto the floor, she thought she heard the door close, just a little more.
If you enjoyed
Portrait in Death
you won’t want to miss
J. D. Robb’s newest novel of romantic suspense . . .
IMITATION IN DEATH
Here is a special excerpt from this provocative new novel Available September 2003 from Berkley Books!
You never saw it all. No matter how many times you walked through the blood and the gore, no matter how often you looked at the horror man inflicted on man, you never saw it all.
There was always something worse, something meaner, or crazier, more vicious, more cruel.
As Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood over what had once been a woman, she wondered when she would see worse than this.
Two of the uniform cops on scene were still retching at the mouth of the alley. The sound of their sickness echoed back to her. She stood where she was, hands and boots already sealed, and waited for her own shuddering stomach to settle.
Had she seen this much blood before? It was hard to remember. It was best not to.
She crouched, opened her field kit, and took out her ID pad to run the victim’s fingerprints. She couldn’t avoid the blood, so she stopped thinking about it. Lifting the limp hand she pressed the thumb to her pad.
“Victim is female, Caucasian. The body was discovered at approximately oh-three-thirty by officers responding to anonymous nine-one-one, and is herewith identified through fingerprint check as Wooton, Jacie, age forty-one, licensed companion, residing 375 Doyers.”
She took a shallow breath, then another. “Victim’s throat has been cut. Spatter pattern indicates wound was inflicted while victim stood against the north-facing wall of the alley. Blood pattern and trail would indicate victim fell or was laid across alley floor by assailant or assailants who then . . .”
Jesus. Oh Jesus.
“Who then mutilated the victim by removing the pelvic area. Both the throat and pelvic wounds indicate the use of a sharp implement and some precision.”
Despite the heat her skin prickled, cold and clammy
as she took out gauges, recorded data.
“I’m sorry.” Peabody, her aide, spoke from behind her. Eve didn’t have to look around to know Peabody’s face would still be pale and glossy from shock and nausea. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I couldn’t maintain.”
“Don’t worry about it. You okay now?”
“I . . . Yes, sir.”
Eve nodded and continued to work. Stalwart, steady, and as dependable as the tide, Peabody had taken one look at what laid in the alley, turned sheet white, and had stumbled back toward the street at Eve’s sharp order to puke elsewhere.
“I’ve got an ID on her. Jacie Wooton, Doyers. An LC. Do a run for me.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this. Just never seen . . .”
“Get the data. Do it down there. You’re in my light here.”
She wasn’t, Peabody knew. Her lieutenant was cutting her a break, and because her head wanted to spin again, she took it, moving toward the mouth of the alley.
She’d sweated through her uniform shirt, and her dark bowl of hair was damp at the temples under her cap. Her throat was raw, her voice weak, but she initiated the run. And watched Eve work.
Efficient, thorough, and some would say cold. But Peabody had seen the leap of shock and horror, and of pity, on Eve’s face before her own vision had blurred. Cold wasn’t the word, but driven was.
She was pale now, Peabody noted, and it wasn’t just the work lights that bleached the color from her narrow face. Her brown eyes were focused and flat, and unwavering as they examined the atrocity. Her hands were steady, and her boots smeared with blood.
There was a line of sweat down the middle back of her shirt, but she wouldn’t stumble away. She would stay until it was done.
When Eve straightened, Peabody saw a tall, lean woman in stained boots, worn jeans, and a gorgeous linen jacket, a fine-boned face with a wide mouth, wide eyes of gilded brown, and a short and disordered cap of hair nearly the same color.
More, she saw a cop who never turned away from death.
“Dallas—”
“Peabody, I don’t care if you puke as long as you don’t contaminate the scene. Give me the data.”
“Parents listed as next of kin. They live in Idaho.”
“The potato place, right?”
“Yeah.” Peabody managed a shaky smile. “Spud central. Victim’s lived in New York for twenty-two years. Previous residence on Central Park West. She’s resided down here for eighteen months.”
“That’s quite a change of venue. What she get popped for?”
“Illegals. Three strikes. Lost her top drawer license, did six months in, rehab, counseling, and was given a probationary street license about a year ago.”
“She roll on her dealer?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll see what the tox screen tells us once she’s in the morgue, but I don’t think Jack’s her dealer.” Eve lifted the envelope that had been left, sealed to prevent blood stains, on the body.
LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, NYPSD
Computer generated, she guessed, in a fancy font on elegant cream colored paper. Thick, weighty, and expensive. The sort of thing used for high-class invites. She should know, she mused, as her husband was big on sending and receiving high-class invites.
She took out the second evidence bag and read the note again.
Hello, Lieutenant Dallas,
Hot enough for ya? I know you’ve had a busy summer, and I’ve been admiring your work. I can think of no one on the police force of our fair city I’d rather have involved with me on what I hope will be a very intimate level.
Here is a sample of my work. What do you think?
Looking forward to our continued association.
Jack.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Jack. I think you’re a very sick fuck. Tag and bag,” she ordered with a last glance down the alley. “Homicide.”
• • •
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