The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  She’d seen that exact adoring gleam in Feeney’s eyes and understood it to be a side effect of working in EDD. “I don’t care where it was bounced to, McNab, where did it bounce from?”

  “It’s coming, it’s coming. Even technology needs a patient hand. New York. Originates in New York. You called it, Lieutenant.”

  “Fine it down. Get me an address.”

  “Working on it.” He flapped his hands behind him where Eve hovered. “Give me some room here, though I’d like to mention you smell terrific. Origin of traced transmission New York City, find zone.”

  Tracking . . . estimated time to complete, eight minutes, fifteen seconds.

  “Begin. I could use a burger. Got any stocked?”

  Eve struggled to find patience. “How do you want it?”

  “Rare. A slice of provolone and plenty of mustard—poppy seed roll, pasta salad on the side, and a cup of that wicked coffee.”

  Eve drew a breath in, let a breath out. “What?” she said sweetly. “No dessert?”

  “Now that you mention it, how about—”

  “Lieutenant.” Peabody hurried into the room. “I’ve got the data on the last victim.”

  “In the kitchen, Peabody, I’m fixing the detective his lunch.”

  The killing look Peabody aimed at McNab was answered with a cheeky grin.

  “How much longer before Feeney gets back?” Peabody wanted to know.

  “One hundred and two hours and twenty-three minutes. But who’s counting the time?” Eve programmed the AutoChef for McNab’s choices. “What have you got?”

  “Victim departed Shannon airport yesterday on a four P.M. transport. Arrived Kennedy-Europa annex at one P.M. EST. She checked into the Palace at approximately two o’clock, into a prepaid suite. It was booked and paid through Roarke Industries.”

  “Fuck it.”

  “At four, the victim left the hotel. I haven’t been able to track a cab company who picked her up. Got the name of the doorman who was on duty. He’ll be back on in about an hour. The victim left the key to her room at the concierge station. She never picked it back up.”

  “Have them block off her room—no one goes in. Get a uniform to stand until we get over there.”

  “Already done.”

  Eve pulled McNab’s lunch out. “Get yourself something to eat. It’s going to be a long day.”

  Peabody sniffed at the burger. “Maybe McNab has taste in something. I’ll have one of them. Want anything?”

  “Later.” Eve walked back into the office, dropped the plate on the desk. “Progress.”

  “Got the zone nailed, it’s searching for sector. We’re closing in.” He hefted the burger one-handed, bit in heartily. “God love us,” he managed over a full mouth. “From a real cow or I’m a Frenchman. Better than mother’s milk. Want a bite?”

  “I’ll pass. McNab, aren’t all those earrings heavy on the lobe? You keep adding them on, you’re going to start walking on a slant.”

  “Fashion demands a heavy price. Here she comes. Zone five, yeah, yeah, sector A-B.” With a hand studded with rings, he shoved his plate off the chart he had spread over the desk. “That puts us”—his limber fingers trailed over the chart, stopped—“just about here. Here,” he said, raising his gaze to Eve. “Right about where I’m sitting eating this really remarkable cow burger.”

  “That’s wrong.”

  “I’ll run it again, but it’s telling me the transmission originated in this house, or on the grounds. This place takes up this entire sector.”

  “Run it again,” she ordered and turned away.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “McNab, what’s the error probability on that unit?”

  He fiddled with the red ribbon he wore as a tie. “Less than one percent.”

  She pressed her lips together and turned back. “I want to know if you can bury this for a while. I don’t want a report going into Central on this data until I can . . . until I pursue another avenue of the investigation. Are you able to comply with that?”

  Watching her, McNab sat back. “You’re the primary, Dallas. I figure it’s your call. This kind of data’s tricky, gets lost really easily. Takes some time to uncover it again.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate the burger. I’ll go back over the steps, see what pops. Feeney says you’re the best, and he ought to know. You figure there’s something off, maybe there is. And if there is, I’m good enough to find it.”

  “I’ll count on that. Peabody?”

  “Sir, just coming.” Loaded with a plate, Peabody started out.

  “Bag that if you’re hungry and saddle up. We’re back on the clock.”

  “Just give me a—” But since she was already talking to Eve’s back, Peabody dropped the plate in front of McNab. “Enjoy.”

  “I will. See you, She-Body.” He wiggled his eyebrows when she turned and glared at him. And let out a little sigh when she stalked out. “Sure is built,” he murmured, then pushed up his sleeves and got back to work.

  chapter ten

  “Recorder on, Peabody.”

  Eve signaled the uniform to step away from the door, then used the master code to access the locks. She entered a parlor, lush and spacious, with a bank of fresh flowers in brilliant whites and blues sweeping beneath a waist-high wall of windows.

  The spires and spears of New York rose beyond it, with the air traffic light and meandering. The blasting billboards that populated the West Side were banned here in the more exclusive Upper East.

  Typical of most things Roarke owned, the hotel suite was beautifully appointed—thick cushions covered with jewel-toned silks and brocades, highly polished woods, carpet deep enough to wade in. An enormous basket of fruit and a bottle of sauvignon blanc, likely a welcome-to-the-Palace staple, sat on the pond sized coffee table.

  The fruit had been riffled through, the wine opened. Jennie had had a few moments to enjoy the luxury, Eve thought, before she’d been lured away to death.

  As far as Eve could see, nothing else had been disturbed. The entertainment and communication center was still discreetly tucked behind a silk screen of tropical birds, and the mood screen covering most of one wall was blank.

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve and Peabody, Officer Delia commencing search of victim O’Leary’s suite in Palace Hotel. We’ll start in the bedroom, Peabody.”

  Eve crossed over and entered a room where the sunlight filled a trio of windows and the peacock blue spread on a huge platform bed was neatly turned down for the night. Gold-foiled mints rested on plump pillows.

  “Make a note to track down the maid who was on duty last night for this room. See what she touched, what she noticed.” As she spoke, Eve moved to the closet. Inside were three blouses, two pair of slacks, one day dress in plain blue cotton, and a cocktail suit in cream of an inexpensive fabric blend. Two pair of shoes were neatly lined beneath.

  Routinely Eve checked the pockets, the inside of the shoes, ran a hand over the top shelf. “Nothing here. Dresser drawers?”

  “Underwear, hose, a cotton nightgown, and a small black evening bag, beaded.”

  “She brought her best party dress.” Eve brushed her hand over the flounced hem of the cocktail suit. “And never got the chance to wear it. She took the time to unpack—single suitcase in closet—brought enough clothes for three or four days. Jewelry?”

  “I haven’t found any so far.”

  “She might have carried it with her. She’d have had something special for her evening wear. Run her ’link for incoming and outgoing. I’ll check the bath.”

  The bath offered a jet tub big enough to party in. A bottle of the hotel’s complimentary bath foam sat on the lip. So she’d used the tub, Eve mused. It would have been hard to resist, she imagined, and Jennie had been waiting for contact.

  Nervous? Eve wondered. Yes, she’d have been a little nervous. She hadn’t seen Roarke for some time. She’d have worried about how she’d changed, aged, what he would see when
they met again.

  A woman would always worry about what a man like Roarke saw when he looked at her. They’d been lovers, she mused, studying the tidily arranged toiletries and cosmetics on the shell pink counter. Jennie would remember the way he’d touched her, the way he’d tasted. A woman wouldn’t forget the power of a lover like Roarke.

  And if she’d been human she would have wondered—hoped that he would touch her again. Had she submerged herself in that fragrant, frothy water imagining that?

  Of course she had.

  They’d been friends as well. Sharing laughs, perhaps secrets and dreams. They’d been young together, and foolish together. That was a link that was never completely broken.

  And he’d summoned her, asked her to fly across an ocean.

  She hadn’t hesitated.

  She’d known there was trouble, but she’d dropped everything and come, and had waited. And had died.

  “Dallas?”

  Eve shook herself, turned to Peabody. “What?”

  “Nothing on the ’link, but I had the fax replay transmissions. You’ll want to see this.”

  The minifax was tucked inside a small, slanttop desk. It hummed patiently, waiting the next command. Peabody picked up the single sheet of paper it had spilled out and handed it to Eve.

  Jennie, my dear,

  Roarke wishes to convey his thanks for you agreeing to make this unexpected trip. We hope it hasn’t caused you any great inconvenience. We trust your rooms are satisfactory. If you have any needs or desires that haven’t been met, you have only to contact the concierge.

  You’re aware Roarke is concerned for your welfare. It’s vital that he speak with you privately, and without the knowledge of the woman he chose to marry. He has information he wants to pass on to you as soon as possible. It’s imperative that you meet him, and that you tell no one, not even those you trust, where you’re going. Please go to the corner of Fifth and Sixty-second at fiveP.M. A black sedan with New York plates and a uniformed driver will meet you. The driver will escort you and has full instructions.

  Forgive the intrigue, Jennie. A man in Roarke’s position must be discreet. We ask that you destroy this communication.

  Yours,

  Summerset

  “Clever boy,” Eve murmured. “He gives her enough to be sure she goes along. He tells her to get rid of the copy of the fax, but he doesn’t tell her to wipe the machine. He has to figure we’ll check it, and he wants us to find this.”

  “It’s still circumstantial.” Peabody frowned at the communication. “Anybody can send a fax, put any name on it. He’s blocked the return code.”

  “Yeah, on the hard copy, but I’ll bet a year’s pay that when we hand the unit over to McNab, he finesses the code, and that the code matches one of Roarke’s fax lines. Bag it,” she ordered, passing the sheet to Peabody. “Our boy drove the pickup car, waltzed her right into the room on the West Side. Then he took her down, physically or with drugs. The ME will tell us that part. Then he took his time setting it up. Everything he needs is in the car. Maybe he owns it, maybe he rented it. Slim chance he boosted it for the day, but we’ll check on reports of stolen black sedans.”

  She paused, took a slow survey of the room again. “Calling the sweepers in here’s a waste of the taxpayers’ money, but we’ll go by the book. I’ll call it in, and run the sedan for what it’s worth. You take the minifax to McNab at my home office. I’ll meet you there when I can.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To ask another favor,” Eve said as she walked out.

  It was waiting to rain, and the air was moist and cool, the wind freshening. A few stubborn mums continued to bloom, adding unexpected splashes of color and scent. There was a fountain where water bubbled over the petals and stems of copper and brass water lilies. Well across the rolling lawn and sheltered by tall trees stood the big stone house, glowing in the dimming afternoon sun.

  Dr. Mira sighed. Such a place was built for peace and power, she thought. She wondered how often Eve settled for the first, how often she allowed herself to enjoy it.

  “I’ve been expecting your call,” she began, watching as Eve stared at the house. “I heard about the third murder.”

  “Her name was Jennie O’Leary. It sounds like a song, doesn’t it?” Surprised that she’d said such a thing, Eve shook her head. “She and Roarke were friends. More than friends once.”

  “I see. And the other two victims, they were both from Ireland?”

  “He knew them, all of them.” She made herself turn.

  Mira was tidy, as always, though the wind was fluttering her short, soft brown hair. Her suit was a deep green today, a change from the usual quiet colors she wore. Her eyes were patient and filled with compassion. And understanding.

  Eve thought she looked every bit as efficient here, sitting on a stone bench under the denuded branches of an oak, as she did in her elegant office. She was the best criminal and behavioral psychologist New York, and possibly the country, had to offer.

  “I appreciate you agreeing to meet me here.”

  “I remember the grounds from your wedding.” Mira smiled. It was difficult to nudge Eve over that first hurdle and into trust. “It’s a magnificent space. Carefully planned, lovingly tended.”

  “I don’t get out here much, I guess.” Feeling awkward, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “I forget to look out the windows when I’m working here.”

  “You’re a focused individual, Eve. That’s why you’re an excellent cop. You don’t come out here often, but I have no doubt you could describe the grounds exactly. You observe instinctively.”

  “Cop’s eyes.” Eve shrugged. “Curse or blessing, who knows?”

  “You’re troubled.” Her feelings for Eve always went beyond the professional and tugged at Mira’s heart. “Are you going to let me help?”

  “It’s not me. It’s not about me.”

  But Mira thought it was, partly. The woman inside the cop was disturbed at facing the dead that Roarke had once been intimate with. “Then you’re sleeping well? Undisturbed.”

  “Mostly.” Eve turned away again. She didn’t want to delve into that area. Mira was one of the few people who knew the details of her past, the memories that came swimming back unexpectedly, the nightmares that plagued and terrified. “Let’s let that rest, okay?”

  “All right.”

  “I’m worried about Roarke.” She hadn’t meant to say it, and regretted it instantly. “That’s personal,” she continued, turning around again. “I didn’t ask you to meet me to discuss that.”

  Didn’t you? Mira thought, but only nodded. “Why did you ask me to meet you?”

  “I need a consult on the case. I need a profile. I need help.” The discomfort of her position showed in anger in her eyes. “I didn’t want to do this in official surroundings because I’m going to ask you to skirt some of the rules. You’re under no obligation to do so, and I’ll understand perfectly if you not only refuse but decide to report this request.”

  Mira’s expression, mild and interested, didn’t alter by a blink. “Why don’t you explain the situation to me, Eve, and let me make up my own mind?”

  “The three murders are connected, and the probability that they’re linked to a . . . series of events that took place several years ago is high. The motive is revenge. It’s my opinion that Roarke is primary target and that Summerset is being used to get to him. There’s circumstantial evidence attached to each murder that points to Summerset, and that evidence is piling up along with the bodies. If I believed he was responsible I’d close the cage door on him myself without a minute’s regret, no matter what he means to Roarke. But it’s a setup, cleverly planned and executed, and just obvious enough to be insulting to my intelligence.”

  “You’d like me to do a profile on the killer, and examine Summerset for violent tendencies, unofficially.”

  “No, I want those official. Black and white, by the book. I want to be able to turn them in to Wh
itney. I haven’t given him a hell of a lot else.”

  “I’ll be happy to do both. You’ve only to clear it with your commander, get me the data. I can shift it to priority for you.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “And the rest?”

  Eve’s palms went damp. Impatient, she swiped them on the thighs of her slacks. “I have information that is vital to the investigation, and your profile, that I can’t—no, that I won’t—record in full. I’ll only share this information with you under the scope of doctor-patient confidentiality. That protects you, doesn’t it?”

  Mira lifted her hands, folded her fingers. “Anything you tell me as a patient is privileged. I can’t report it.”

  “And you’re protected? Personally, professionally?” Eve insisted.

  “I am, yes. How many people are you determined to protect here, Eve?”

  “The ones who matter.”

  Mira smiled now, a full bloom. “Thank you.” She held out a hand. “Sit, and tell me.”

  Eve hesitated, then took the hand Mira offered. “You . . . when I remembered what had happened to me in that room in Dallas. When I remembered my father coming in drunk, raping me again, hurting me again. When I remembered killing him that night, and I told you, you said it was pointless, even wrong, to punish the child. You said”—she had to clear her throat—“you said I’d killed a monster, and that I’d made myself into something worthwhile, something I had no right to destroy because of what I’d done before.”

  “You don’t still doubt that?”

  Eve shook her head, though there were times, there were still times she doubted it. “Did you mean it? Do you really believe there are times, there are circumstances when taking the life of a monster is justified?”

  “The state believed so until less than two decades ago when capital punishment was, yet again, abolished.”

  “I’m asking you, as a person, a doctor, a woman.”

  “Yes, I believe it. To survive, to protect your life or the life of another.”