The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “No,” he said pleasantly.

  “Roarke—”

  “Would you prefer I lied to you, Eve?” He picked up the hard copy while she fumed, handed it to her. “Go to work. I’ll make a few calls. I’d think by the end of the day I should have a complete list of Tommy’s associates, professional and personal, his enemies, his friends, his lovers, his financial status, and so forth.” He was leading her across the room as he spoke. “It’ll be easier for me to accumulate the data, and it’ll give you a clear picture.”

  She managed to hold her ground before he pushed her out the door. “I can’t stop you from accumulating data. But don’t step out of line, pal. Not one inch.”

  “You know how it excites me when you’re strict.”

  She struggled back a laugh and nearly managed a glare. “Shut up,” she muttered, and shoved her hands in her pockets and she strode away.

  He watched her, waited until she’d disappeared at the stairs. Cautious, he turned to the security monitor and ordered view. The laughter was gone from his eyes as he watched her jog down the steps, snag the jacket Summerset had laid back over the newel post for her.

  “You’re forgetting an umbrella,” he murmured, and sighed when she walked into the thin drizzle unprotected.

  He hadn’t told her everything. How could he? How could he be certain it was relevant, in any case? He needed more before he risked tangling the woman he loved in the ugliness of his own past, his own sins.

  He left his office, heading for the communications room that was both expansive and illegal. Laying his palm on the security screen, he identified himself then entered. Here, the equipment was unregistered and any activity would be undetected by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard. He needed specifics in order to plan his next step, and sitting in the deep U of a sleek black control center, he began.

  Invading the system of NYPSD was child’s play for him. He sent a silent apology to his wife as he accessed her files, dipped into the medical examiner’s office.

  “Crime scene video on screen one,” Roarke ordered, easing back. “Autopsy report, screen two, primary investigating officer’s report, screen three.”

  The horror of what had been done to Brennen swam on screen, made Roarke’s eyes go cold and flat. There was little left of the young man he’d known a lifetime before in Dublin. He read Eve’s clipped and formal report without emotion, studied the complex terms of the preliminary report from the ME.

  “Copy to file Brennen, code Roarke, password my voiceprint only. Off screen.”

  Turning, he reached for his in-house tele-link. “Summerset, come up please.”

  “On my way.”

  Roarke rose, moved to the window. The past could come back to haunt, he knew. Most often it remained in some ghostly corner waiting to strike. Had it slipped out to strike Tommy Brennen? he wondered. Or was it just bad luck, bad timing?

  The door slid open and Summerset, bony in black, stepped through. “Is there a problem?”

  “Thomas Brennen.”

  Summerset’s thin lips frowned, then his eyes cleared into what was nearly a smile. “Ah yes, an eager young hacker with a love of rebel songs and Guinness.”

  “He’s been murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Here in New York,” Roarke continued. “Eve is primary.” Roarke watched Summerset’s mouth set and flatten. “He was tortured, kept alive for the pain. Disemboweled.”

  It took a moment, but Summerset’s already pale face whitened a shade more. “Coincidence.”

  “Maybe, hopefully.” Roarke indulged himself by taking a slim cigarette from a japanned case, lighting it. “Whoever did it called my wife personally, wanted her involved.”

  “She’s a cop,” Summerset said with a lifetime of disdain in his voice.

  “She’s my wife,” Roarke returned, the edge in his voice scalpel sharp. “If it turns out it isn’t coincidence, I’ll tell her everything.”

  “You can’t risk that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder—even justifiable murder.”

  “That’ll be up to her, won’t it?” Roarke took a long drag, sat on the edge of the console. “I won’t have her working blind, Summerset. I won’t put her in that position. Not for myself, not for you.” The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. “Not for memories. You need to be prepared.”

  “It’s not me who’ll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done.”

  “And so will Eve,” Roarke said mildly. “Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing.”

  Roarke studied Summerset’s stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. “That’s what I was counting on. Let’s get to work then.”

  The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn’t matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.

  He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.

  His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.

  He bent, kissed the white marble feet.

  For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.

  But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.

  He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.

  He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.

  He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.

  Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man’s visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.

  He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.

  He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.

  chapter three

  The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their ’links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.

  Peabody’s cube was a dimly lighted two-foot square in the far corner. Despite its size and location, it was as ruthlessly organized and tidy as Peabody herself.

  “Somebody forget where the toilets are?” Eve asked casually, and Peabody turned from her dented, police issue metal desk.

  “Bailey had a sidewalk sleeper in for questioning on a knifing. The sleeper didn’t like being held as a witness and expressed his displeasure by emptying his bladder on Bailey’s shoes. From all reports, said bladder was unusually full.”

  “Just another day in paradise. Is the sweeper report in on Brennen yet?”

  “I just gave them a nudge. It
should be coming through shortly.”

  “Then let’s start with the security discs from the Luxury Towers and Brennen’s apartment.”

  “There’s a problem there, Lieutenant.”

  Eve cocked her head. “You didn’t get them?”

  “I got what there was to get.” Peabody picked up a sealed bag containing a single disc. “The Towers’s security, penthouse level, for the twelve-hour period before the discovery of Brennen’s body and the SCAN-EYE in Brennen’s place were disengaged, and empty.”

  Eve nodded and took the bag. “I should have figured he wouldn’t be that stupid. Did you download the incoming and outgoing calls from Brennen’s tele-link?”

  “Right here.” Peabody handed over another disc, neatly labeled.

  “My office. We’ll run them and see what we’ve got. I’m going to give Feeney a call,” Eve continued as they headed out of the bullpen. “We’re going to need the Electronic Detective Division on this.”

  “Captain Feeney’s in Mexico, Lieutenant. Vacation?”

  Eve stopped, scowled. “Shit, I forgot. He’s got another week, doesn’t he?”

  “Just over that. In your lovely cliffside villa. To which your devoted aide has yet to be invited.”

  Eve lifted a brow. “You got a yen to see Mexico?”

  “I’ve seen Mexico, Dallas, I’ve got a yen to let a hot-blooded caballero have his way with me.”

  Snorting, Eve unlocked her office door. “We wrap this case up in good time, Peabody, I’ll see if I can arrange it.” She tossed the discs on her already disordered desk, then shrugged out of her jacket. “We still need someone from EDD. See who they can spare who knows his stuff. I don’t want some second-grade tinkerer.”

  Peabody got out her communicator to make the request while Eve settled behind her desk, slipped the disc of Brennen’s communications into her unit.

  “Engage,” she ordered after remembering her password. “Playback.”

  There was only one call, an outgoing on the day before Brennen was murdered. He’d called his wife, talked to his children. And the simple, intimate domestic chatter of a man and the family he was planning to join made Eve unbearably sad.

  “I have to contact the wife,” Eve murmured. “Hell of a way to start the day. Best get it done now before we have a media leak. Give me ten minutes here, Peabody.”

  “Yes, sir. EDD is sending over a Detective McNab.”

  “Fine.” When her door shut and she was alone, Eve took a long breath. And made the call.

  When Peabody came back ten minutes later, Eve was drinking coffee while she stood staring out her skinny window. “Eileen Brennen’s coming back to New York, bringing her kids. She insists on seeing him. She didn’t fall apart. Sometimes it’s worse when they don’t crumble, when they hang on. When you can see in their eyes they’re sure somehow you’ve made a mistake.”

  She rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging off a weight, then turned. “Let’s see the security disc. We could catch a break.”

  Peabody unsealed the disc herself and engaged it. Seconds later both she and Eve were staring at the computer screen.

  “What the hell is that?” Eve demanded.

  “It’s—I don’t know.” Peabody frowned at the figures moving over the screen. The voices were raised but solemn and in a foreign tongue. At the center was a man in black, robe over robe, with two young boys in white beside him. He held a silver goblet in his hand as he stood before an altar draped with black cloth and white flowers and candles. “A ritual? Is it a play?”

  “It’s a funeral,” Eve murmured, studying the closed and gleaming casket beneath the raised platform. “A funeral Mass. I’ve been to one. It’s a Catholic thing, I think. Computer, identify ceremony and language on disc.”

  Working . . . Ceremony is Catholic Requiem Mass or Mass for the Dead. Language is Latin. This section depicts offertory chant and ritual in which—

  “That’s enough. Where the hell did you get this disc, Peabody?”

  “Straight out of the security room at the Luxury Towers, Dallas. It was coded, marked, and labeled.”

  “He switched them,” Eve muttered. “The son of a bitch switched discs on us. He’s still playing games. And he’s damn good at it. Computer, stop run, copy disc.” Shoving her hands in her pockets, Eve rocked back on her heels. “He’s having fun with us, Peabody. I’m going to have to hurt him for that. Order a sweep of the security room, and arrange to confiscate all discs for the appropriate time period.”

  “All discs?”

  “All discs, all floors, all levels. And I want the report from the uniforms who handled the door-to-doors on the Towers.” She pocketed the copy her computer spat out. “And I’m going to see what the hell’s keeping the initial sweeper report.”

  She reached for her ’link just as it beeped. “Dallas.”

  “You were quick, Lieutenant. I’m impressed.”

  Eve only had to blink to have Peabody ordering a transmission trace. Eve smiled thinly at the colors swimming across her screen. This time the music was a chorus of voices in a language she now recognized as Latin. “You did quite a job on Brennen. Looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Oh, I did, believe me, I did. Tommy was quite a singer, you know. He certainly sang for me. Listen.”

  All at once the room was full of screams, inhuman, weeping screams that had ice skating up Eve’s spine.

  “Beautiful. He begged for his life, then he begged me to end it. I kept him alive for four hours giving him time to relive his past sins.”

  “Your style lacks subtlety, pal. And when I nail you, I’ll have enough to keep you from pulling a mentally defective. I’ll get you straight, and I’ll push for a cage on Attica Two. The facilities there make on-planet cages look like country clubs.”

  “They caged the Baptist, but he knew the glory of Heaven.”

  Eve searched her threadbare memory of Bible stories. “He’s the one who lost his head to a dancing girl, right? You willing to risk yours to a cop?”

  “She was a harlot.” He mumbled the words so that Eve had to lean close to hear. “Evil in a beautiful form. So many are. He withstood her, her temptation, and was martyred pure.”

  “Do you want to be martyred? To die for what you call your faith? I can help you with that. Just tell me where you are.”

  “You challenge me, Lieutenant, in ways I hadn’t expected. A strong-minded woman is one of God’s greatest pleasures. And you’re named for Eve, the mother of mankind. If only your heart was pure, I could admire you.”

  “You can save the admiration.”

  “Eve was also weak in spirit and caused the loss of Paradise for her children.”

  “Yeah, and Adam was a wimp who couldn’t take responsibility. Bible hour’s over. Let’s get on with it.”

  “I look forward to meeting you—though it can’t be for a little while yet.”

  “Sooner than you think.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. Meanwhile, another riddle. A race this time. The next sinner is still alive, still blissfully unaware of his punishment. By his words, and God’s law, he will be condemned. Heed this. ‘A faithful man will abound with blessings, but he who hastens to be rich will not go unpunished.’ He’s gone unpunished long enough.”

  “For what?”

  “For a lying tongue. You have twenty-four hours to save a life, if God wills it. Your riddle: He’s fair of face and once lived by his wits. Now those wits are dulled as like poor old Dicey Riley, he’s taken to the sup. He lives where he works and works where he lives, and all the night serves others what he craves most. He traveled across the foam but closes himself in a place that reminds him of home. Unless you find him first, his luck runs out tomorrow morn. Better hurry.”

  Eve stared at the screen long after it went blank.

  “Sorry, Dallas, no good on the trace. Maybe the e-detective can do something with it when he gets here.”

  “Who the hell is Dicey Riley?” Eve muttered. “What does he mean
‘sup’? Like supper? Food maybe. Restaurants. Irish restaurants.”

  “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bad joke,” Peabody offered with a sick smile. “To lighten the mood.”

  “Right.” Eve dropped in her chair. “Computer, list name and locations for all Irish restaurants in the city. Hard copy.” She swiveled in her chair. “Contact Tweeser—she was head sweeper on Brennen. Tell her I need something, anything. And have a uniform go over to the Towers and get those security discs. Let’s move.”

  “Moving,” Peabody agreed and headed out.

  An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper’s report. There was little to nothing to study. “Bastard didn’t leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up.” She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.

  She needed to clear her vision.

  The Biblical quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.

  Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen’s associates, friends.

  No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they’d existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.

  At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Midtwenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.

  He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.

  “You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide.”