The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  In a pig’s eye, Roarke thought, but simply turned and handed her the broth.

  “I want coffee.”

  “You’re such a big girl now. You must know you can’t have everything you want.” He moved past her to the door, shut it just as she bristled at him.

  “What I don’t need, in here, is a smart mouth.”

  He winged up a brow. “Are you having yours removed? I’m so fond of it.”

  “I can have two gorillas in uniform in here in thirty seconds. It would make their night to toss you out on your excellent ass.”

  He sat in her spare chair, stretched out his legs as far as the cramped room would allow, and studied her face. “Sit down, Eve, and drink your broth.”

  Because she caught herself, barely caught herself, before flinging the cup across the room, she did sit. “I just pounded on Zeke. For thirty minutes I beat him up the wall and down again. ‘You wanted to fuck another man’s wife. So you killed him to get him out of the way. He was a rich man, wasn’t he? She’ll be rich now. That oughta set you up just fine, Zeke. You get the woman, you get the money, and Branson gets a tasteful memorial service.’ And that was before I got nasty.”

  Roarke said nothing, simply waited her out. Eve picked up the broth. Her throat was raw, and it was better than nothing. “And when I finished hammering him, Peabody follows me into the john and thanks me for it. For Christ’s sake.”

  He rose because she’d dropped her throbbing head into her hands. But when his hands came down to rest on her shoulders, she tried to shrug them off. “Don’t. I can’t take any more understanding tonight.”

  “That’s a pity.” He lowered his lips to the top of her head. “You’ve been training Peabody for months now. Do you think she doesn’t know how your mind works?”

  “Right now I don’t know how the hell it works. She—Clarissa—she said he’d beaten her, raped her. Whenever he wanted. For years. Over and over for years.”

  Roarke’s fingers tightened on her shoulders before he controlled them, gentled them. “I’m sorry, Eve.”

  “I’ve heard it before, from witnesses, suspects, victims. I can handle it. I can deal with it. But every time, every goddamn time, it’s like a fist in the gut. Right under the guard and into the gut. Every time.”

  For a moment, just a moment, she let herself lean back, into him, into the comfort. “I have to keep going here.” She rose, moved away from him. “You shouldn’t have called in your spiffy lawyer, Roarke. It’s sticky. This whole deal is very, very sticky.”

  “She cried on my shoulder. Sturdy, stalwart Peabody. Would you ask me to turn away from that?”

  Eve shook her head. “Okay.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing the headache away. “We’ll deal with it. I’m going to call Nadine.”

  “Now?”

  After blowing out a breath, Eve turned back. Her eyes were clear again. “I’m going to offer her a one-on-one, right here, right now. She’ll jump at it, and we’ll have our spin on this right out of the box.”

  She walked back to the ’link to make the call. “Go home, Roarke.”

  “I will. When you do.”

  chapter seventeen

  He bullied her into going home. Or she let him think he did. Zeke had been released on his own recognizance and was to report to Dr. Mira’s office at nine A.M. Clarissa was tucked in a private room at her swanky health center and sedated for the night.

  Eve had stationed a guard at her door.

  Nadine’s story hit the air at midnight and carried exactly the brisk tone of a routine if tragic accident that Eve had wanted.

  The crime scene evidence was in and would be fully analyzed the next morning. The body was still somewhere in the depths of the East River, and there was simply no more to be done.

  So at two A.M. she stripped off her clothes and prepared to fall into her own bed.

  “Eve?” Roarke noted her weapon and harness were now out of reach. When she turned her head toward him, he caught her chin and shoved a pain blocker into her mouth. Before she could spit it at him, he caught her close, clever hands roaming down to squeeze her naked ass, and crushed his mouth to hers.

  She choked, swallowed in self-defense, and felt his tongue dance lightly over hers. “That was low.” She shoved away, coughed a little. “That was despicable.”

  “That worked.” He caressed her cheek and gave her an affectionate shove into bed. “You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”

  “In the morning, after coffee, I’m going to smack you around.”

  He slid into bed beside her, cuddled her against him. “Mmm. I can’t wait. Go to sleep.”

  “You won’t think it’s so funny when your head’s bouncing off the floor.” But she rolled hers onto his shoulder and dropped away.

  Four hours later, she awoke in exactly the same position. Exhaustion had gobbled her up, and she’d slept like a stone. She blinked, saw Roarke’s eyes were already open and on hers. “Time?” she croaked it out.

  “Just past six. Take a few minutes more.”

  “No, I can get started from here.” She climbed over him, then stumbled groggily into the bathroom. In the shower, she rubbed sleep out of her eyes, and realized—with some resentment—her headache was gone.

  “Jets on full, a hundred and one degrees.”

  Water streamed out from half a dozen jets, billowing steam. She let out one low, appreciative moan, then hair dripping, narrowed her eyes as Roarke stepped in behind her.

  “Lower the temp and suffer.”

  “I thought I’d boil with you this morning.” He handed her a cup of coffee, amused by the suspicious look in her eyes, pleased that they showed no shadow of pain. “I’ll be working at home myself for a few hours today.”

  He sipped his own coffee, then set the mug on a high shelf above the pumping jets. “I’d like you to keep me apprised of progress, in both the helpings you currently have on your plate.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.”

  “Good enough.” He filled his hands with soap and began to slide them over her.

  “I can manage this myself.” She stepped back because the blood was already sizzling under her skin. “I don’t have time for water games this morning.”

  He only moved in, gliding his hands up over her belly, torso, breasts, which made her shiver. “I said—” His mouth lowered to her shoulder, teeth nipping. “Cut it out.”

  “I love it when you’re wet . . .” He took the mug out of her hand before she could drop it, set it next to his own. “And slippery.” Nudged her against the wall running with water, dripping with steam. “And reluctant. Go up.” He murmured against her ear as his fingers dipped into her, slipping in, slipping out in a smooth, lazy rhythm.

  Her head fell back, her body took over. “Damn it.” It came out in a moan as pleasure, dark and drugged, spread from her center to the tips of her fingers.

  “Go over.” He slicked his tongue down the side of her throat and gave her no choice.

  Her hands were splayed against the wet tile, her body pulsing. Water rained over them, hot and needle sharp, as he felt the orgasm tear through her.

  A kind of purging, he thought.

  She was still gasping when he spun her around and closed his mouth greedily over her breast.

  She was helpless against what he brought to her. Each time, every time, helpless, staggered. And grateful. She dived her fingers into his hair, twisting, tangling them in that thick wet silk while those good, strong tugs of desire in her belly followed the restless hunger of his mouth on her.

  His hands, slick, skilled, strong, raced over her, took her to the edge and over. Where he wanted her, where he needed her—shuddering, moaning his name, swamped in her own pleasure.

  The nails biting viciously into his back thrilled him, the frenzied race of her heart against his incited him. More. All. Now, was all he could think as they savaged each other’s mouths.

  “I want you.” His breath was heaving as he g
ripped her hips. “Always. Ever. Mine.”

  His eyes were a wild and burning blue. She could see nothing else. It should have been too much, this desperate, endless need for him. Yet somehow it was never, never enough. “Mine.” She dragged his mouth back to hers, and when he drove into her, met him beat for urgent beat.

  She had to admit, four solid hours of sleep, wet, wild sex, and a hot meal went a long way to put the mind and body back into fighting trim. At seven-fifteen, she was at her desk in her home office, ready to start her day with her head clear and alert, her muscles warmed, and her energy up.

  Marriage was having a number of interesting side benefits she hadn’t considered.

  “You look . . . limber, Lieutenant.”

  She glanced over. “I’d better. I want to put in a half hour here before I head in. We’ve still got Cassandra to deal with, and I need to keep Peabody’s energies focused in that direction.”

  “While you juggle Zeke’s case with your other hand.”

  “Cops are always juggling.” She had some very definite ideas where she was heading in that particular area. “I’m going to split McNab’s duties. We can spare him to put time into the Branson case until we smooth it out. It helped having him around last night.”

  She stopped, frowned. “What the hell was he doing around last night, anyway? I didn’t take time to find out.”

  “I’d say that was obvious.” When Eve only stared at him blankly, Roarke laughed. “And you call yourself a detective. He’d been with Peabody.”

  “With her? What for? They were off duty.”

  Roarke stared at her a moment, saw she was seriously at sea. With a chuckle, he walked over, cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb over the dent in it. “Eve, they were off duty and on each other.”

  “On each other?” It took her a beat, then two. “Sex? You think they had sex? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—because it is. She thinks he’s a pest. He goes out of his way to irritate her. I know you thought they had some . . . thing developing, but you were off. She’s busy fooling around with Charles Monroe and he’s . . .” She trailed off, thinking of the odd looks, the silences, the blushes. The signals.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” was all she could say. “Jesus Christ, they’re having sex. I don’t need this.”

  “Why should you care?”

  “Because. They’re cops. They’re both cops, and damn it, she’s my cop. This kind of shit gets in the way, it messes things up. They’ll moon over each other for a while, then something’s going to go wrong, and they’ll start spitting and slapping.”

  “Why do you assume it won’t work?”

  “Because it won’t. It doesn’t. Your energies and your focus get all split up when they need to be channeled on the job. You start mixing sex and romance and Christ knows what into it, everything gets tilted. They’ve got no business having sex. Cops aren’t supposed to—”

  “Have a personal life?” he finished, just a bit coolly. “Personal feelings and choices?”

  “I didn’t mean that. Exactly. But they’re better off without them,” she added in a mutter.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “This isn’t about us. I’m not talking about us.”

  “Meaning you’re not a cop, and we haven’t mixed sex, romance, and Christ knows what into it?”

  She’d pushed a button all right, Eve noted and wished she’d broken her finger first. “This is about two cops working on my team and on two messy investigations.”

  “An hour ago I was inside you, and you were wrapped around me.” His voice was more than cool now, it was cold. As were his eyes. “That was about us, and the investigations were still there, messy or otherwise. How long are you going to keep believing you’d be better off without that?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She got to her feet, surprised to find herself just a little shaken.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth or thoughts in my head. I don’t have time for some marital crisis right now.”

  “Fine, I don’t have the tolerance for one.”

  When he turned and left her, snapping the door closed between their offices, she lifted a fist. Then, as the temper refused to build and spare her from guilt, she lifted the other and knocked them against her temples.

  Heaving out a breath, she strode to the door, opened it, and faced him down. He was already behind his desk and barely acknowledged her.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said again. “But maybe it’s part of it. I know you love me, but I don’t know why. I look at you, and I just can’t get why it’s me. Every time I get my balance, I lose it again. Because it shouldn’t be me, and I think it’d kill me if you ever figured that out.”

  He started to get to his feet, but she shook her head. “No, I don’t have time. I mean it. I just wanted to say that, and to tell you it wasn’t what I meant. Peabody—she got hurt before, she got bruised because she tipped for a cop—another cop, another case. I’m not going to see that happen to her again. That’s it. That’s all. I’m going in. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything you need to know.”

  She moved fast. He could have stopped her, but he stayed where he was and let her go.

  Later, he told himself, he’d deal with her. And she would have to deal with him.

  Eve strode into Central. The glowing mood with which she’d started the day was now tarnished. She thought it just as well. She’d work better, sharper, if she was edgy. Spotting Peabody, she jerked her chin, then pointed a finger toward her office.

  She could see the signs of an unhappy, sleepless night on her aide’s face. She’d expected that. She held the door herself until Peabody moved through, then closed it. “As of now, you put Zeke out of your mind. It’s being handled, and you have a job to do.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “I’m not finished, Officer. If you can’t guarantee that I’ll have all your energy and all your concentration on the Cassandra matter, I want you to withdraw from the team and request leave. Now.”

  Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again before something nasty could escape. When her control was back, she nodded briefly. “You’ll have the best I can give you, Lieutenant. I’ll do my job.”

  “So noted. Lamont should have been picked up last night. Arrange for him to be brought up to interview. When the scanners received from Securities arrive, I want to know about it.” Keep her busy, Eve thought. Keep her swimming in grunt work. “Contact Feeney and see if the tap warrant came through on Monica Rowan. Did you sleep with McNab?”

  “Yes, sir. What?”

  “Shit.” Eve shoved her hands in her pockets, paced to the window, back. “Shit.” She stopped, and they stared at each other. “Peabody, have you lost your mind?”

  “It was a momentary lapse. It won’t be repeated.” She intended to tell McNab so at the first opportunity.

  “You’re not . . . stuck on him or anything?”

  “It was a lapse,” Peabody insisted. “A momentary lapse brought on by unexpected physical stimuli. I don’t want to talk about it. Sir.”

  “Good. I don’t even want to think about it. Get me Lamont.”

  “Right away.”

  Delighted to escape, Peabody fled.

  Eve turned to her ’link and began to run the incoming messages. When Lamont’s name popped, she swore, punched the machine. “Why the hell wasn’t this transmission forwarded when it came in?”

  Due to a temporary lapse in the system, all transmissions received between one hundred and six hundred and fifty hours were placed on hold.

  “Lapses.” She smacked the machine again, for the hell of it. “We’re just full of lapses these days. Transmit full report on Lamont, hard copy.”

  Working . . . .

  While her unit hiccupped through the printout, Eve signaled Peabody on her communicator. “Don’t bother to dig up Lamont. He’s in the morgue.”

  “Yes, sir. The m
ail just came in. There’s another pouch.”

  Eve’s nerves hummed. “I’ll meet you in the conference room. Tag the rest of the team. Let’s move.”

  The pouch was tested, cleared. The disc was copied, secured. Eve took a seat at the computer, slid the disc into the slot. “Run and print,” she ordered.

  We are Cassandra.

  We are loyal.

  We are the gods of justice.

  We are aware of your efforts. They amuse us. Because we are amused, we will warn you a last time. Our compatriots must be freed. Until these heros have liberty, there will be terror—for the corrupt government, the puppet military, the fascist police, and the innocent they suppress and condemn. We demand payment, as retribution for the murders and imprisonment of the righteous. The price is now one hundred million dollars, in bearer bonds.

  Confirmation of the release of the unjustly imprisoned political prophets must be received by sixteen hundred hours today. We will accept a public statement from each individual listed, made live through the national media. All must be accounted for. If even one is not released, we will destroy the next target.

  We are loyal. And our memory is long.

  Payment must be made at seventeen hundred hours. Lieutenant Dallas is to deliver this payment, alone. The bonds are to be placed in a plain black suitcase. Lieutenant Dallas is to go to Grand Central Station, track nineteen, westbound landing, and await further instruction.

  If she is accompanied, followed, tracked, or attempts to make or receive any transmissions from this position, she will be executed, and the target will be destroyed.

  We are Cassandra, prophets of the new realm.

  “Extortion,” Eve murmured. “It’s the money. It’s the money, not those psycho jokers on the list. A public statement over national screen. A ten-year-old could figure we’d be able to rig that.”

  She rose to pace and think. “That’s smoke. It’s the money. And they’ll blow the target whether they get it or not. Because they want to.”

  “Either way,” Feeney pointed out, “it puts you in the crosshairs and some unknown target on countdown.”