The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Anne. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Big enough. You’re heading this investigation, and you have to count on all of us. I blew it yesterday, and you need to know why. I’m pregnant again.”

  “Oh.” Eve blinked, shifted her feet. “Is that good?”

  “It is for me.” With a little laugh, Anne laid a hand on her belly. “Nearly four months into it now, and I’ll tell my shift commander in a couple weeks. I’ve done it twice before and it hasn’t interfered with my job. It did yesterday. It was the kids that got me, Dallas, but I’ve got a handle on it now.”

  “Fine. You’re not feeling . . . weird or anything?”

  “No, I’m good. I just want to keep it quiet for a few more weeks. Once everybody finds out, they start the betting pool and the jokes.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’d like to close this case before all that gets going. So, are we square here?”

  “Sure. Here come the brass,” she murmured. “Give Peabody your report and evidence discs. We’ll be using hard copy.”

  Eve remained in the doorway, at attention. “Commander. Chief Tibble.”

  “Lieutenant.” Tibble, a tall, nearly massive man with sharp eyes, nodded as he walked by her into the room. He glanced at the boards, then as was his habit, linked his hands behind his back. “If everyone would please be seated. Commander Whitney, would you close the door?”

  Tibble waited. He was a patient man and a thorough one, with a mind like a street cop and a talent for administration. He scanned the faces of the team Whitney had put together. Neither approval nor disapproval showed on his face.

  “Before you begin your reports, I’ve come to tell you that both the mayor and the governor have requested a federal antiterrorist team to assist in this investigation.”

  He watched Eve’s eyes flash and narrow and silently approved her control. “This is not a reflection on the work being done here. Rather it’s a statement as to the scope of the problem itself. I have a meeting this morning to discuss the progress of the investigation and to make the final decision as to whether a federal team should indeed be called in.”

  “Sir.” Eve kept her voice level and her hands on her knees. “If they’re called in, which team heads the investigation?”

  His brows lifted. “If the feds come in, the case would be theirs. You would assist. I don’t imagine that sits well with you, Lieutenant, or any of your team.”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t.”

  “Well then.” He moved to a chair, sat. “Convince me that the investigation should remain in your hands. We’ve had three bombings in this city in two days. What have you got, and where are you going with it?”

  She rose, moved to the first board. “The Apollo group,” she began and went step by step through all the gathered data.

  “Henson, William Jenkins.” She paused there as the square-jawed, tough-eyed face flashed on-screen. She hadn’t had time to closely review the data Roarke had accessed for her, so she went slowly here. “He served as Rowan’s campaign manager, and according to sources, a great deal more. It’s believed he acted as a kind of general in Rowan’s revolution. Assisting and often devising the military strategies, selecting targets, training and disciplining the troops. Like Rowan, he had a background in the military and in covert work. Initially, it was believed he was killed in the explosion that destroyed Rowan’s Boston headquarters, but several subsequent sightings of the subject negated that belief. He’s never been located.”

  “You believe he’s part of this current group, Cassandra.” Whitney studied the face on-screen, then looked at Eve.

  “There’s a connection, and it’s my belief he’s one of the links. The FBI files on Henson remain open.” She shifted gears and relayed the information on the maze of false companies inputted into the data banks.

  “Apollo,” she continued. “Cassandra, Mount Olympus, Aries, Aphrodite, and so on. It all connects. Their expert manipulation of data banks, the high quality of the materials used in their explosives, the employment of a disenfranchised former soldier to manufacture their equipment, the tone and content of their transmissions all connect and echo back to the original group.”

  Because it seemed so foolish, she let out a little breath before she spoke again. “In Greek mythology, Apollo gave Cassandra the power of prophecy. Eventually, they had a disagreement, and that’s when he fixed it so she could predict, but nobody would believe her. But I think the hook is she got her power from him. This Cassandra doesn’t really care if we believe her or not. She’s not trying to save, but to destroy.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, Lieutenant. And logical enough.” Tibble sat back, listened, watched the facts and images flash on-screen. “You’ve made the connections, have at least partial motives. It’s good work.” Then he glanced back at her. “The FBI antiterrorist team would be very interested in how you came by a great deal of this information, Lieutenant.”

  She didn’t so much as blink. “I used what sources were available to me, sir.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He folded his hands. “As I said, good work.”

  “Thank you.” She moved past the second board to the third. “The current line of investigation corroborates our conclusions that there’s a connection between the old Apollo group and Cassandra. Fixer believed there was, and though any evidence he may have gathered in that area is likely destroyed, the connection continues to hold through this second line. The tactics used by both groups are similar. In Dr. Mira’s report, she terms Cassandra’s political creed as a recycling of Apollo’s. Following this angle, I believe that the people who formed Cassandra have connections to or were once a part of Apollo.”

  Tibble held up a hand. “Isn’t it possible these people studied Apollo—just as you are—and chose to mirror that group as closely as possible?”

  “It’s not impossible, sir.”

  “If it’s a copycat,” Feeney put in, “it’s going to be tougher.”

  “Even a copycat has to have a connection,” Eve insisted. “The Apollo group was essentially disbanded when Rowan and some of his top people were killed. That was over thirty years ago, and the public was never privy to any but the sketchiest of details about him and his organization. Without a connection, who cares? It was over years ago, a lifetime ago. Rowan’s not even a smudge in the history books because it was never proven—in reports to media—that he was the head of Apollo. Files verifying this are sealed. Apollo claimed responsibility for some bombings and for Arlington, then essentially vanished.

  There’s a connection,” she finished. “I don’t believe it’s a mirror, sir, but a personal stake. The people who head Cassandra killed hundreds yesterday. And they did it to prove they could. The bombs at Radio City were a tease, a test. The Plaza was always the target. And this echoes the theme used by Apollo.”

  She nodded toward the screen again, shifted to new copy. “The first building Apollo claims to have destroyed was an empty storehouse outside of what was then the District of Columbia. The local police were alerted, and there were no injuries. Following that, the locals were tipped that there were explosives in the Kennedy Center. All but one bomb was defused, the building was successfully evacuated, and the single explosive discharged caused only minor damage and injury. But this was immediately followed up by a bombing in the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel. There was no warning given. Casualties were steep. Apollo took responsibility for all three incidents, but only the last was reported in the media.”

  Whitney leaned forward, studying the screen. “What was next?”

  “The newly refurbished U-Line Arena during a basketball game. Fourteen thousand people were killed or injured. If Cassandra runs true to form, I’m looking at Madison Square or the Pleasure Dome. By keeping all data out of the mainframe and within this room, there’s no way for Cassandra to know our current avenue of investigation. We should be a step ahead of them.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant Malloy, y
our report on the explosives?”

  Anne rose, moved to the middle board. The next thirty minutes were technical: electronics, triggers, timers, remotes, materials. Rate of detonation, scope of impact.

  “Pieces of the devices are still being gathered on-scene and are under lab analysis,” she concluded. “At this time we know we’re working with intricate, handmade units. Plaston appears to be the material of favor. Analysis is incomplete as to the capabilities of distance on the remotes, but it appears to be extreme long range. These aren’t toys, no homemade boomers, but high-level military-style explosives. I concur with Lieutenant Dallas’s opinion on Radio City. If this group had wanted it blown, it’d be dust.”

  She sat, giving way to Feeney. “This is one of the surveillance cameras my team swept out of Radio City.” He held up a small round unit hardly bigger than the circle made by his thumb and forefinger. “It’s damn well made. We tagged twenty-five of them from scene. They watched every step we took and could have blown us to hell in a heartbeat.”

  He slipped the bug back into its seal. “EDD is working with Malloy and her people to develop a longer-range, more sensitive bomb scanner. Meanwhile, I’m not saying the feds don’t have good people, but so do we. And it’s our damn city. Added to that, this group contacted Dallas. They targeted her. You pull her back now, and us with her, you’re going to change the balance. Once it tips, we could lose it all.”

  “So noted. Dallas?” Tibble lifted a finger. “An opinion on why this group contacted you?”

  “Only conjecture, sir. Roarke owns or has interests in the targets thus far. I’m connected to Roarke. It amuses them. Fixer referred to it as a game. I think they’re enjoying it. He also spoke of revenge.”

  She rose again, shifted the image of Monica Rowan on-screen. “She’d have the most cause to enjoy some revenge, and as Rowan’s widow, would be the most likely person to have personal and inside knowledge of his group.”

  “You and your aide are cleared for immediate travel to Maine,” Tibble told her. “Commander? Comments?”

  “This team has put together an impressive amount of evidence and probability in a short amount of time.” Whitney rose. “It’s my opinion that a federal team would be superfluous.”

  “I believe the lieutenant and her team have given me enough balls to juggle for the politicians.” Tibble got to his feet as well. “Dallas, you remain in charge until further notice. I expect updates on every step. It’s our city, Captain Feeney,” he added as he turned to the door. “Let’s keep it intact.”

  “Whew.” McNab let out a huge sigh when the door closed again. “Dodged that beam.”

  “And if we want to keep this case where it belongs, we’re going to work our butts off.” Eve smiled at him thinly. “Your social life just went down the sewer, pal. We need that long-range scanner. And I want every arena and sports complex in every borough scanned. New Jersey as well.”

  “Christ, Dallas, with our equipment and manpower, that’ll take a week.”

  “You’ve got a day,” she told him. “Get in touch with Roarke.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Odds are, he’s got some toy that fits what you’re looking for.”

  “Hot damn.” McNab rubbed his hands together and grinned at Anne. “Wait till you see what this guy’s got.”

  “Feeney, is there any way you can block the unit in here? Jam it? Or better yet, come up with a new, unregistered unit with a shield.”

  His hangdog face brightened as he smiled at Eve. “Guess I could jury-rig something. Not that we ever fiddle with unregistereds over at EDD.”

  “Of course not. Peabody, you’re with me.”

  “Hey, when are you getting back?” McNab called out.

  Eve turned, stared at him, while Peabody wished herself invisible. “When we’re finished, Detective. I think you have enough to keep you busy in the meantime.”

  “Oh sure, I just wondered. Just wondered.” He grinned foolishly. “Have a nice trip.”

  “We’re not going for lobster,” Eve muttered and, shaking her head, walked out.

  “We’ll be back before end of shift, don’t you think? Sir?”

  Eve shrugged into her jacket as she strode to the elevator. “Look, if you’ve got a hot date, you’ll just have to cool your glands.”

  “No, I didn’t mean . . . Ah, I just want to let Zeke know if I’m going to be on OT, that’s all.” And it shamed her that she hadn’t given her brother a thought.

  “It takes as long as it takes. We’ve got a stop to make before we snag transpo north.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be taking one of Roarke’s private jets?” When Eve merely eyed her balefully, Peabody hunched her shoulders. “Nope, guess not. It’s just that they’re so much faster than public shuttles.”

  “And you’re just interested in speed, right, Peabody?” Eve stepped onto the elevator, pushed for garage. “It has nothing to do with plush, roomy seats, the fully stocked galley, or the screen selection.”

  “A comfortable body produces a sharp mind.”

  “That’s lame. You’re usually better than that when you try to hose me. You’re off today, Peabody.”

  She thought of that wild interlude with McNab in an empty office. “You’re telling me.”

  Zeke worked steadily, precisely, doing his best to focus his mind on the wood and his pleasure in it.

  He’d known his sister hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d heard her stirring and pacing while he’d laid awake on the living room pull-out. He’d wanted to go to her, offer to meditate with her, or to make her one of his organic soothers, but he hadn’t been able to face her.

  His mind was full of Clarissa, of the way she’d felt snuggled into his arms, of how sweet her lips had tasted. It shamed him. He believed strongly in the sanctity of marriage. One of the reasons he’d never pursued a serious relationship was that he’d promised himself when he took those vows to another, he would keep them throughout his life.

  There had been no one he’d loved enough to make promises to.

  Until now.

  And she belonged to someone else.

  Someone who didn’t appreciate her, he thought now as he had during the night. Someone who mistreated her, made her unhappy. Vows were meant to be broken when they caused pain.

  No, he couldn’t talk to Dee when thoughts like that were skimming through his head. When he couldn’t get Clarissa out of his mind and offer his own sister comfort.

  He’d seen the reports of the bombing on the news the evening before. It had horrified him. He understood that not everyone embraced the cause-no-harm tenets that formed the foundation of the Free-Agers. He knew that even some Free-Agers modified that foundation to suit their lifestyles, and after all, the religion was designed to be fluid.

  He knew cruelty existed. That murder was done every day. But he had never seen the kind of terrible disregard for life as he had on the viewing screen at his sister’s apartment the evening before.

  Those who were capable of it had to be less than human. No one with heart and soul and guts could destroy lives in that way. He believed that, clung to the hope that such a thing was an aberration, a mutation. And that the world had evolved beyond acceptance of wholesale death.

  It had been a shock when he’d seen Eve moving through the carnage. Her face had been blank, he remembered, her clothes splattered with blood. He’d thought she’d looked exhausted, and hollow, and somehow courageous. Then it had struck him that his sister must have been there as well, somewhere in the horror of all that.

  Eve had only spoken to one reporter, a pretty, foxy-faced woman whose green eyes had mirrored her grief.

  “I don’t have anything to add to what you see here, Nadine,” she’d said. “This isn’t the time or place for statements. The dead make their own.”

  And when his sister had come home, with that same exhausted look on her face, he’d left her alone.

  He hoped now that he’d done so for her sake and not his own. He hadn
’t wanted to talk about what she’d seen and done. Hadn’t wanted to think about it. Or about Clarissa. And while he’d been able to control his mind enough to blank out those images of death, he hadn’t had the power to do so with the woman.

  She would stay away from him now, he thought. They would stay away from each other, and that was best. He would finish the job he’d promised to do, then he would go back to Arizona. He’d fast and he’d meditate and he’d purge his system of her.

  Maybe he’d camp in the desert for a few days, until his mind and heart were in balance again.

  Then the sounds came through the vent. The angry laugh of the man, the soft pleas of the woman.

  “I said I want to fuck. It’s all you’re good for, anyway.”

  “Please, B. D., I’m not feeling well this morning.”

  “I don’t give a damn how you feel. It’s your job to spread your legs when I tell you to.”

  There was a thud, then a cry sharply cut off. The crash of glass.

  “On your knees. On your knees, you bitch.”

  “You’re hurting me. Please—”

  “Use that mouth of yours for something besides whining. Yeah, yeah. Put some effort into it, for Christ’s sake. It’s a miracle I can get it up with you in the first place. Harder, you whore. You know where I had my cock last night? You know where I had what you’ve got in your whiny mouth? In that new ’link operator I hired. I got my money’s worth there.”

  He was panting now, grunting like an animal, and Zeke squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to stop.

  But it didn’t, it only changed, with the sounds of Clarissa weeping, then pleading. He was raping her now, there was no way to mistake those sounds.

  Zeke caught himself at the foot of the steps, shocked to find his hand curled around the haft of a hammer. The blood was roaring violently in his ears.

  My God, dear God, what was he doing?

  Even as he set the hammer aside with a shaky hand, the sounds quieted. There was only weeping now. Slowly, Zeke climbed the steps.

  It had to stop. Someone had to stop it. But he would face Branson empty-handed, and as a man.