The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  The glide-cart operators sold veggie kabobs plucked fresh from the fields of Greenpeace Park.

  She thought longingly of dinner.

  Eve pulled up in front of a tidy, rehabbed warehouse, double-parked, and turned on her On Duty sign.

  “One of these days, I’d like to live in one of these lofts. All that space and a view of the street.” Peabody scanned the area as she climbed from the car. “Look, there’s a nice, clean deli on the corner there, and a 24/7 market on the other.”

  “You look for living quarters due to the proximity of food?”

  “It’s a consideration.”

  Eve flashed her badge at a security screen in working order, then entered the building. The tiny foyer boasted an elevator and four mail slots. All freshly scrubbed.

  “Four units in a building this size.” Peabody heaved a sigh. “Imagine.”

  “I’m imagining a bookie shouldn’t be able to afford a place in here.” On a hunch, Eve bypassed the buzzer for 2-A and used her shield to gain access to stairs. “We’ll go up this way, surprise Maylou.”

  The building was utterly silent, telling her the soundproofing was first-rate. She thought of Quim’s miserable flop a few telling blocks away. Bookies apparently did a lot better than the majority of their clients.

  “Never bet against the house,” Morse had said.

  Truer words.

  She pressed the buzzer on 2-A, waited. Moments later, the door swung open in front of an enormous redhead and a small, white, yapping dog.

  “About time you—” The woman blinked hard gold eyes, narrowed them in a wild and striking face the tone and texture of alabaster. “I thought you were the dog walker. He’s late. If you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

  “Maylou Jorgensen?”

  “So what?”

  “NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge then found her arms full of barking fur.

  “Well, hell.” Eve tossed the yelping dog at Peabody, then charged into the loft. Leaping, she tackled the redhead as the woman scrambled for a wide console, studded with controls and facing a wall of busy screens.

  They went down like felled trees.

  Before Eve could catch her breath, she was flipped to her back, pinned under a hundred eighty-five pounds of panicked female. She took a knee to the groin, spit in the eye, and only through lightning reflexes managed to avoid the rake of inch-long blue nails down her face.

  Instead, they dug rivers in the side of her neck.

  The smell of her own blood irritated her.

  She bucked once, swore, then swung up, elbow in the lead. It slammed satisfactorily into Maylou’s white face. Her nose erupted with blood.

  She said, quite clearly: “Eek!”

  Her gold eyes rolled up white, and her considerable weight flopped lifelessly on Eve.

  “Get her off of me, for Christ’s sake. There’s a ton of her, and all of it’s smothering me.”

  “Give me a hand. Dallas, she’s like a slab of granite. Must be six-three. Push!”

  Sweating, liberally sprayed with blood, Eve shoved. Peabody pulled. Eventually, Maylou was rolled onto her back, and Eve came up, gasping for air. “It was like being buried under a mountain. Jesus, shut that dog up.”

  “I can’t. He’s terrified.” Peabody glanced over, with some sympathy, as the little dog backed his white butt into a corner and sent out high, ear-piercing barks.

  “Stun it.”

  “Oh, Dallas.” Peabody’s tone was a whisper of utter horror.

  “Never mind.” Eve looked down at the blood spray on her shirt and jacket, gingerly lifted a hand to her raw neck. “Is much of this mine?”

  “She made some mag grooves,” Peabody announced after a quick exam. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

  “Later.” Eve crouched down, frowned at the unconscious woman. “Let’s roll her over and get the restraints on her before she wakes up.”

  It took some time, brought on more sweat, but they managed to secure her wrists behind her back. Eve straightened, studied the console.

  “She’s got something going on here. Thought we were a bust. Let’s see what I remember about Vice and Bunko.”

  “Do you want me to call for a warrant?”

  “Here’s my warrant.” Eve rubbed her fingers over her throbbing neck as she sat at the console. “Lots of numbers, lots of games. So what? Names, accounts, bets wagered, money owed. Looks clean enough on the surface.” She glanced back. “Is she coming around yet?”

  “Dead out, sir. You knocked her cold.”

  “Go find something to stuff in that dog’s mouth before I use my foot.”

  “He’s just a little dog,” Peabody murmured and went to search out the kitchen.

  “Too many numbers,” Eve said to herself. “The pool’s too damn deep for a nice little betting parlor. Loan-sharking. Yeah, I bet we got some loan-sharking here, and where you got sharks, you’ve got spine crackers. What else, what else?”

  She turned, saw Peabody cooing to the dog and holding out a biscuit of some kind. Eve slipped out her pocket-link and called the one person she knew who could cut through the ocean of numbers and ride the right wave.

  “I need Roarke a minute.” She hissed it to his assistant when she came on-screen. “Just one quick minute.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. Hold please.”

  “There’s a sweet little dog, there’s a nice little doggie. Aren’t you pretty?”

  Instead of razzing Peabody over the baby talk, Eve left her at it.

  “Lieutenant.” Roarke’s face filled the screen. “What can I—” Instantly his easy smile vanished, and his eyes were bright and hard. “What happened, how badly are you hurt?”

  “Not much. Mostly it’s somebody else’s blood. Look, I’m in a private betting parlor, and something’s off. I’ve got some ideas, but take a quick look, give me your take.”

  “All right, if your next stop is a health center.”

  “I haven’t got time for a health center.”

  “Then I haven’t time for a consult.”

  “Goddamn it.” She was tempted just to cut transmission, but took a steadying breath instead. “Peabody’s going to get the first aid kit. I got a couple of scratches, that’s all. I swear.”

  “Turn your head to the left.”

  She rolled her eyes but complied.

  “Get them seen to.” He snapped it out, then shrugged as if in acceptance. “Let me see what you’re looking at.”

  “Lots of numbers. Different games,” she began as she turned her unit so that he’d have her view. “Arena ball, baseball, the horses, the droid rats. I think the third screen from the right is—”

  “Overdue loans on bets. Interest compounded well above legal limits. The screen directly below is outlay, for loan collection. On the screen beside that, you have what looks like private games—casino style. Look on your console, see if you find a control that’s linked to that screen. If it’s simple, it’ll be something like 3-C, for the placement of the screen in the grid.”

  “Yeah, here.”

  “Give it a flip. Ah,” he said as the screen switched to monitor and played a busy casino, full of smoke and tables and glassy-eyed patrons. “What kind of building are you in?”

  “Loft, West Village, two levels, four units.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the other level isn’t very busy at this moment.”

  “This area isn’t zoned for gambling.”

  “Well then.” He grinned at her. “Shame on them.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “My pleasure, Lieutenant. See to that injury, Darling Eve, or I’ll be seeing to it myself first chance. I won’t be happy with you.”

  He cut her off before she could make some snippy remark, which she figured was just as well. She turned and caught Peabody, the little white dog nestled in her arms, watching her with speculation.

  “He knows a lot about illegal gambling runs.”

  “He knows a lot about legal ones, to
o. He gave us a lever with Maylou here. Do you care how or why?”

  “No.” Peabody rubbed her cheek on the dog’s fur, smiled. “It’s just interesting. You going to bust the operation?”

  “That’s going to depend on Maylou here.” Eve rose as the woman began to moan and stir. She made bubbling sounds, coughed, then began to buck, her enormous butt humping up, her surprisingly small feet kicking.

  Eve simply crouched down. “Assaulting an officer,” she began in an easy voice. “Resisting arrest, loan-sharking, spine cracking, running an illegal gambling facility. How’s that for starters, Maylou?”

  “You broke my nose.”

  At least that’s what Eve assumed she said as the words were muffled and slurred. “Yep, looks like.”

  “You have to call the MTs. It’s the law.”

  “Interesting, you refreshing me on the law. I think we can hold off on the broken nose a little while. Of course, the broken arm’s going to need attention.”

  “I don’t have a broken arm.”

  “Yet.” Eve bared her teeth. “Now, Maylou, if you want medical attention and want me to consider looking the other way as regards your enterprise downstairs, tell me all there is to tell about Linus Quim.”

  “You’re not here to bust me?”

  “That’s up to you. Quim.”

  “Penny-ante. Not a gambler, he just plays at it. Like a hobby. He’s lousy at it. Costs him an average of a hundred K a year. Never bets more than a hundred bills straight, and usually half that, but he’s regular. Jesus, my face is killing me. Can’t I have some Go-Numb?”

  “When did you talk to him last?”

  “Last night. He likes to do the e-betting deal rather than over the ’link. Transmits twice a week, minimum. Last night, he laid a hundred on the Brawlers on tonight’s arena ball—and that’s rich, for him. Said he was feeling lucky.”

  “Did he?” Eve leaned closer. “Did he say that, exactly?”

  “Yeah. He says, put me down a hundred on the Brawlers for tomorrow night. I’m feeling lucky. He even smiled, sort of. Said he was going to double it and let it ride on the next night once he won.”

  “In a good mood, was he?”

  “For Quim, he was doing a happy dance. Guy’s mostly a pain in the ass, a whiner. But he pays up, and he’s regular, so I got no beef with him.”

  “Good thing. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Maylou?”

  “You’re not going to bust me?”

  “I don’t work Vice or Bunko. You’re not my problem.” She released the restraints, hooked them in her back pocket. “If I were you, I’d call the MTs and tell them I walked into a wall—tripped over your little dog.”

  “Squeakie!” Maylou rolled over to her ample butt, threw open her arms. The dog leaped out of Peabody’s hold and into Maylou’s lap. “Did the nasty cop hurt Mama’s baby girl?”

  With a shake of her head, Eve headed out. “Give it two weeks,” she told Peabody, “then call Hanson in Vice and give him this address.”

  “You said you weren’t going to bust her.”

  “No, I said she wasn’t my problem. She’s going to be Hanson’s.”

  Peabody glanced back. “What’s going to happen to the dog? Hey, and the apartment. Maybe the bust will drive down the rent. You should see the kitchen, Dallas. It’s mag.”

  “Keep dreaming.” She got in the car, then scowled when Peabody popped the dash compartment. “What are you doing?”

  “First aid kit.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “It’s either me or the health center.”

  “I don’t need a health center. Don’t touch me.”

  “Stop being a baby.” Enjoying the role of nurse, Peabody chose her tools. “Ass-kickers aren’t afraid of a little first aid kit. Close your eyes if you don’t want to see.”

  Trapped, Eve gripped the wheel, closed her eyes. She felt the quick, biting sting of the antiseptic before the numbing properties took hold. The smell of it spun in her head, rolled into her belly.

  She heard the low hum of the suture wand.

  She started to make some sarcastic comment to take her mind off the annoyance of the procedure. Then suddenly, she was sucked back.

  The dim and dingy health center ward. The hundreds of stings as hundreds of cuts were treated. The vile buzz of the machines as her broken arm was examined.

  “What’s your name? You have to give us your name. Tell us who hurt you? What’s your name? What happened to you?”

  I don’t know. In her mind she screamed it, again and again. But she lay still, she lay silent, trapped in terror as strangers poked and prodded, as they stared and they questioned.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Sir. Dallas. Hey.”

  Eve opened her eyes, stared into Peabody’s wide ones. “What? What is it?”

  “You’re really pale. Dallas, you look a little sick. Maybe we should swing by a health center after all.”

  “I’m all right.” Her hands fisted hard until she felt herself steady again. “I’m okay. Just need some air.” She ordered the window down, started the car.

  And pushed the helpless young girl back into the darkest corner of her mind.

  chapter ten

  Needs must when the devil drives. I can’t remember who said that, but I don’t suppose it’s important. Whoever it was is long dead now. As Linus Quim is dead now.

  Needs must. My needs must. But who was the devil in this coupling? Foolish, greedy Quim or myself?

  Perhaps that’s not important either, for it’s done. There can be no going back, no staging events to another outcome. I can only hope events were staged convincingly enough to satisfy those sharp eyes of Lieutenant Dallas.

  She is an exacting audience and, I fear, the most severe of critics.

  Yes, with her in the house, I fear. My performance must be perfection in every way. Every line, every gesture, every nuance. Or her view will no doubt ruin me.

  Motive and opportunity, Eve thought as she walked to her own front door. Too many people had both. Richard Draco would be memorialized the next day, and she had no doubt there would be a lavish display of grief, passionate and emotional eulogies, copious tears.

  And it would all be just another show.

  He’d helped seduce Areena Mansfield into drugs and put a smear on her rise to stardom.

  He’d stood in the spotlight Michael Proctor desperately wanted for his own.

  He’d humiliated and used Carly Landsdowne in a very public fashion.

  He’d been a splinter under the well-manicured fingernail of Kenneth Stiles.

  He’d considered Eliza Rothchild too old and unattractive to bother with.

  There had been others, so many others it was impossible to count, who had reason to wish Richard Draco ill.

  But whoever had acted on it, planned and executed the murder, had enough cool, enough will to have lured a greedy theater tech into a hangman’s noose.

  She wasn’t looking for brutality or rage but for cold blood and a clear mind. Those qualities in a killer were much more difficult to root out.

  She wasn’t moving forward, she thought with frustration. Every step she took simply pushed her further into the artifice of a world she found mildly annoying.

  What kind of people spent their lives dressing up and playing make-believe?

  Children. It struck her as she closed her hand around the doorknob. On some level, wasn’t she looking for a very clever, very angry child?

  She gave a half laugh. Great. What she knew about children wouldn’t fill the pinhole made by a laser drill.

  She flung open the front door, intending to throw herself into a blisteringly hot shower, then back into work.

  The music pierced her ears, rattled her teeth. She all but felt her eyes jiggle in her head. It was a screech of sound, punctuated by a blast of noise, layered with braying waves of chaos.

  It was Mavis.

  The irritable m
ood that had come through the door with Eve didn’t have a chance. It exploded in the sheer volume and exuberance of Mavis Freestone’s unique musical style. Eve found herself grinning as she stepped up to the doorway of what Roarke referred to as the parlor.

  There in all the splendor, the elegance, the antiquity, Mavis danced—Eve supposed that was the closest word for it—bouncing and jiggling atop graduated stacked heels that lifted her tiny frame a full six inches from the floor. Their swirling pink and green pattern matched the hair that flew in yard-long braids around her flushed, delighted face and fairy body.

  Her slim legs were green, with little pink butterflies fluttering up in a spiral pattern, then disappearing under the tiny, flippy skirt of fuschia that barely covered her crotch. Her torso was decorated in a crisscross of the two colors with one pretty breast in pink, another in green.

  Eve could only be relieved that Mavis had chosen to go with the green for both eyes. You just never knew.

  Roarke sat in one of his lovely antique chairs, a glass of straw-colored wine in one hand. He was either relaxing into the show, Eve thought, or he’d lapsed into a protective coma.

  The music, such as it was, crescendoed, led by a long, plaintive wail from the singer. Blessed silence fell like a cargo ship of bricks.

  “What do you think?” Mavis tossed back the mop of bicolored braids. “It’s a good follow-up number for the new video. Not too tame, is it?”

  “Ah.” Roarke took a moment to sip his wine. There’d been a moment when he’d been mildly concerned that the decibel level would shatter the crystal. “No. No indeed. Tame isn’t the word that comes to mind.”

  “Mag!” She bounced over, and her little butt wriggled with energy as she bent down to kiss him. “I wanted you to see it first since you’re, like, the money man.”

  “Money always bows to talent.”

  If Eve hadn’t already loved him, she’d have fallen face first then and there, seeing the absolute joy his words put in Mavis’s eyes.

  “It’s so much fun! The recordings, the concerts, the way iced costumes Leonardo gets to design for me. It’s hardly even like work. If it weren’t for you and Dallas, I’d still be scraping gigs at joints like the Blue Squirrel.”