The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  Conspiracy in Death

  J. D. Robb

  Table of Contents

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONSPIRACY IN DEATH

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1999 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0370-5

  A Berkley BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Berkley and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First edition (electronic): July 2001

  All men think all men mortal but themselves.

  —Edward Young

  Let us hob-and-nob with Death.

  —Tennyson

  prologue

  In my hands is power. The power to heal or to destroy. To grant life or to cause death. I revere this gift, have honed it over time to an art as magnificent and awesome as any painting in the Louvre.

  I am art, I am science. In all the ways that matter, I am God.

  God must be ruthless and far-sighted. God studies his creations and selects. The best of these creations must be cherished, protected, sustained. Greatness rewards perfection.

  Yet even the flawed have purpose.

  A wise God experiments, considers, uses what comes into His hands and forges wonders. Yes, often without mercy, often with a violence the ordinary condemn.

  We who hold power cannot be distracted by the condemnations of the ordinary, by the petty and pitiful laws of simple men. They are blind, their minds are closed with fear—fear of pain, fear of death. They are too limited to comprehend that death can be conquered.

  I have nearly done so.

  If my work was discovered, they, with their foolish laws and attitudes, would damn me.

  When my work is complete, they will worship me.

  chapter one

  For some, death wasn’t the enemy. Life was a much less merciful opponent. For the ghosts who drifted through the nights like shadows, the funky-junkies with their pale pink eyes, the chemi-heads with their jittery hands, life was simply a mindless trip that circled from one fix to the next with the arcs between a misery.

  The trip itself was most often full of pain and despair, and occasionally terror.

  For the poor and displaced in the bowels of New York City in the icy dawn of 2059, the pain, the despair, the terror were constant companions. For the mental defectives and physically flawed who slipped through society’s cracks, the city was simply another kind of prison.

  There were social programs, of course. It was, after all, an enlightened time. So the politicians claimed, with the Liberal Party shouting for elaborate new shelters, educational and medical facilities, training and rehabilitation centers, without actually detailing a plan for how such programs would be funded. The Conservative Party gleefully cut the budgets of what programs were already in place, then made staunch speeches on the quality of life and family.

  Still, shelters were available for those who qualified and could stomach the thin and sticky hand of charity. Training and assistance programs were offered for those who could keep sane long enough to wind their way through the endless tangled miles of bureaucratic red tape that all too often strangled the intended recipients before saving them.

  And as always, children went hungry, women sold their bodies, and men killed for a handful of credits.

  However enlightened the times, human nature remained as predictable as death.

  For the sidewalk sleepers, January in New York brought vicious nights with a cold that could rarely be fought back with a bottle of brew or a few scavenged illegals. Some gave in and shuffled into the shelters to snore on lumpy cots under thin blankets or eat the watery soup and tasteless soy loaves served by bright-eyed sociology students. Others held out, too lost or too stubborn to give up their square of turf.

  And many slipped from life to death during those bitter nights.

  The city had killed them, but no one called it homicide.

  As Lieutenant Eve Dallas drove downtown in the shivering dawn, she tapped her fingers restlessly on the wheel. The routine death of a sidewalk sleeper in the Bowery shouldn’t have been her problem. It was a matter for what the department often called Homicide-Lite—the stiff scoopers who patrolled known areas of homeless villages to separate living from dead and take the used-up bodies to the morgue for examination, identification, and disposal.

  It was a mundane and ugly little job most usually done by those who either still had hopes of joining the more elite Homicide unit or those who had given up on such a miracle. Homicide was called to the scene only when the death was clearly suspicious or violent.

  And, Eve thought, if she hadn’t been on top of the rotation for such calls on this miserable morning, she’d still be in her nice warm bed with her nice warm husband.

  “Probably some jittery rookie hoping for a serial killer,” she muttered.

  Beside her, Peabody yawned hugely. “I’m really just extra weight here.” From under her ruler-straight dark bangs, she sent Eve a hopeful look. “You could just drop me off at the closest transpo stop and I can be back home and in bed in ten minutes.”

  “If I suffer, you suffer.”

  “That makes me feel so . . . loved, Dallas.”

  Eve snorted and shot Peabody a grin. No one, she thought, was sturdier, no one was more dependable, than her aide. Even with the rudely early call, Peabody was pressed and polished in her winter-weight uniform, the buttons gleaming, the hard black cop shoes shined. In her square face framed by her dark bowl-cut hair, her eyes might have been a little sleepy, but they would see what Eve needed her to see.

  “Didn’t you have some big deal last night?” Peabody asked her.

  “Yeah, in East Washington. Roarke had this dinner/ dance thing for some fancy charity. Save the moles or something. Enough food to feed every sidewalk sleeper on the Lower East Side for a year.”

  “Gee, that’s tough on you. I bet you had to get all dressed up in some beautiful gown, shuttle down on Roarke’s private transpo, and choke down champagne.”

  Eve only lifted a brow at Peabody’s dust-dry tone. “Yeah, that’s about it.” They both knew the glamorous side of Eve’s life since Roarke had come into it was both a puzzlement and a frustration to her. “And then I had to dance with Roarke. A lot.”


  “Was he wearing a tux?” Peabody had seen Roarke in a tux. The image of it was etched in her mind like acid on glass.

  “Oh yeah.” Until, Eve mused, they’d gotten home and she’d ripped it off of him. He looked every bit as good out of a tux as in one.

  “Man.” Peabody closed her eyes, indulged herself with a visualization technique she’d learned at her Free-Ager parents’ knees. “Man,” she repeated.

  “You know, a lot of women would get pissed off at having their husband star in their aide’s purient little fantasies.”

  “But you’re bigger than that, Lieutenant. I like that about you.”

  Eve grunted, rolled her stiff shoulders. It was her own fault that lust had gotten the better of her and she’d only managed three hours of sleep. Duty was duty, and she was on it.

  Now she scanned the crumbling buildings, the littered streets. The scars, the warts, the tumors that sliced or bulged over concrete and steel.

  Steam whooshed up from a grate, shot out from the busy half-life of movement and commerce under the streets. Driving through it was like slicing through fog on a dirty river.

  Her home, since Roarke, was a world apart from this. She lived with polished wood, gleaming crystal, the scent of candles and hothouse flowers. Of wealth.

  But she knew what it was to come from such places as this. Knew how much the same they were—city by city—in smells, in routines, in hopelessness.

  The streets were nearly empty. Few of the residents of this nasty little sector ventured out early. The dealers and street whores would have finished the night’s business, would have crawled back into their flops before sunrise. Merchants brave enough to run the shops and stores had yet to uncode their riot bars from the doors and windows. Glide-cart vendors desperate enough to hawk this turf would carry hand zappers and work in pairs.

  She spotted the black and white patrol car, scowled at the half-assed job the officers on scene had done with securing the area.

  “Why the hell didn’t they finish running the sensors, for Christ’s sake? Get me out of bed at five in the damn morning, and they don’t even have the scene secured? No wonder they’re scoopers. Idiots.”

  Peabody said nothing as Eve braked hard behind the black and white and slammed out of the vehicle. The idiots, she thought with some sympathy, were in for an expert dressing down.

  By the time Peabody climbed out of the car, Eve had already crossed the sidewalk, with long, purposeful strides, heading for the two uniforms who huddled miserably in the wind.

  She watched the two officers’ shoulders snap straight. The lieutenant had that effect on other cops, Peabody mused as she retrieved the field kit from the vehicle. She brought you to attention.

  It wasn’t just the way she looked, Peabody decided, with that long, rangy body, the simple and often disordered cap of brown hair that showed hints of blonde, hints of red, hints, Peabody thought, of everything. There were the eyes, all cop, and the color of good Irish whiskey, the little dent in the firm chin below a full mouth that could go hard as stone.

  Peabody found it a strong and arresting face, partially, she decided, because Eve had no vanity whatsoever.

  Although the way she looked might gain a uniform’s attention, it was what she so clearly was that had them snapping straight.

  She was the best damn cop Peabody had ever known. Pure cop, the kind you’d go through a door with without hesitation. The kind you knew would stand for the dead and for the living.

  And the kind, Peabody mused as she walked close enough to hear the end of Eve’s blistering lecture, who kicked whatever ass needed kicking.

  “Now to review,” Eve said coolly. “You call in a homicide, you drag my butt out of bed, you damn well have the scene secured and have your report ready for me when I get here. You don’t stand here like a couple of morons sucking your thumbs. You’re cops, for God’s sake. Act like cops.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” This came in a wavery voice from the youngest of the team. He was hardly more than a boy, and the only reason Eve had pulled her verbal punch. His partner, however, wasn’t a rookie, and she earned one of Eve’s frigid stares.

  “Yes, sir,” she said between her teeth. And the lively resentment in the tone had Eve angling her head.

  “Do you have a problem, Officer . . . Bowers?”

  “No, sir.”

  Her face was the color of aged cherry wood, with her eyes a striking contrast of pale, pale blue. She kept her dark hair short under her regulation cap. There was a button missing on her standard-issue coat and her shoes were dull and scuffed. Eve could have poked her about it but decided being stuck in a miserable job was some excuse not to buff up for the day.

  “Good.” Eve merely nodded, but the warning in her eyes was clear. She shifted her gaze to the partner and felt a little stir of sympathy. He was pale as a sheet, shaky, and so fresh from the academy she could all but smell it on him.

  “Officer Trueheart, my aide will show you the proper way to secure a scene. See that you pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Peabody.” At the single word, her field kit was in her hand. “Show me what we’ve got here, Bowers.”

  “Indigent. Male Caucasian. Goes by the name of Snooks. This is his crib.”

  She gestured to a rather cleverly rigged shelter comprised of a packing crate cheerfully painted with stars and flowers and topped by the dented lid of an old recycling bin. There was a moth-eaten blanket across the entrance and a hand-drawn sign that simply said Snooks strung over it.

  “He inside?”

  “Yeah, part of the beat is to give a quick eye check on the cribs looking for stiffs to scoop. Snooks is pretty stiff,” she said at what Eve realized after a moment was an attempt at humor.

  “I bet. My, what a pleasant aroma,” she muttered as she moved closer and the wind could no longer blow the stench aside.

  “That’s what tipped me. It always stinks. All these people smell like sweat and garbage and worse, but a stiff has another layer.”

  Eve knew the layer all too well. Sweet, sickly. And here, sneaking under the miasma of urine and sour flesh was the smell of death, and she noted with a faint frown, the bright metallic hint of blood.

  “Somebody stick him?” She nearly sighed as she opened her kit to take out the can of Seal-It. “What the hell for? These sleepers don’t have anything worth stealing.”

  For the first time, Bowers allowed a thin smile to curve her lips. But her eyes were cold and hard, with bitterness riding in them. “Somebody stole something from him, all right.” Pleased with herself, she stepped back. She hoped to God the tight-assed lieutenant got a nice hard shock at what she’d see behind the tattered curtain.

  “You call the ME?” Eve asked as she clear-coated her hands and boots.

  “First on scene’s discretion,” Bowers said primly, with the malice still bright in her eyes. “I opted to leave that decision to Homicide.”

  “For God’s sake, is he dead or not?” Disgusted, Eve moved forward, bending a bit to sweep back the curtain.

  It was always a shock, not the hard one Bowers had hoped for. Eve had seen too much too often for that. But what one human could do to another was never routine for her. And the pity that stirred underneath and through the cop was something the woman beside her would never feel and never understand.

  “Poor bastard,” she said quietly and crouched to do a visual exam.

  Bowers had been right about one thing. Snooks was very, very dead. He was hardly more than a sack of bones and wild, straggly hair. Both his eyes and his mouth gaped, and she could see he hadn’t kept more than half of his teeth. His type rarely took advantage of the health and dental programs.

  His eyes had already filmed over and were a dull mud brown. She judged him to be somewhere around the century mark, and even without murder, he’d never have attained the average twenty more years decent nutrition and medical science could have given him.

  She noted, too, that his boot
s, while cracked and scarred, had plenty of wear left in them, as did the blanket that had been tossed to the side of the box. He had some trinkets as well. A wide-eyed doll’s head, a penlight in the shape of a frog, a broken cup he’d filled with carefully made paper flowers. And the walls were covered with more paper shapes. Trees, dogs, angels, and his favored stars and flowers.

  She could see no signs of struggle, no fresh bruising or superfluous cuts. Whoever had killed the old man had done so efficiently.

  No, she thought, studying the fist-sized hole in his chest. Surgically. Whoever had taken Snook’s heart had very likely used a laser scalpel.

  “You got your homicide, Bowers.”

  Eve eased back, let the curtain fall. She felt her blood rise and her fist clench when she saw the self-satisfied smirk on the uniform’s face.

  “Okay, Bowers, we don’t like each other. Just one of those things. But you’d be smart to remember I can make it a hell of a lot harder on you than you can on me.” She took a step closer, bumping the toe of her boots to the toe of Bowers’s shoes. Just to be sure her point was taken. “So be smart, Bowers, and wipe that fucking sneer off your face and keep out of my way.”

  The sneer dropped away, but Bowers’s eyes shot out little bullet points of animosity. “It’s against departmental code for a superior officer to use offensive language to a uniform.”

  “No kidding? Well, you be sure to put that in your report, Bowers. And you have that report done, in triplicate, and on my desk by oh ten hundred. Stand back,” she added, very quietly now.

  It took ten humming seconds with their eyes warring before Bowers dropped her gaze and shifted aside.

  Dismissing her, Eve turned her back and pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’ve got a homicide.”

  Now why, Eve wondered, as she hunkered inside the crate to examine the body, would someone steal a so obviously used-up heart? She remembered that for a period after the Urban Wars, stolen organs had been a prize commodity on the black market. Very often, dealers hadn’t been patient enough to wait until a donor was actually dead to make the transfer, but that had been decades ago, before man-made organs had been fully perfected.