The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch, that’s the thing that was in her hair.”

  “But . . . that’s Santa Claus.”

  “Get a grip on yourself, Peabody. Continue scan. He’s going to her door,” Eve muttered, watching as the cheerful figure carried his glossy burden to Marianna’s apartment. He pressed her buzzer with a gloved finger, waited a beat, then threw back his head and laughed. Almost instantly, Marianna opened the door, her face glowing, her eyes sparkling with delight.

  She scooped back her hair with one hand, then opened the door wider in invitation.

  Santa tossed one quick glance over his shoulder, looked directly at the camera. Smiled, winked.

  “Freeze video. The bastard. Cocky bastard. Print hard copy of image on screen,” she ordered while studying the round, ruddy-cheeked face and sparkling blue eyes. “He knew we’d view the discs, see him. He’s enjoying it.”

  “He dressed up as Santa.” Peabody continued to gape at the screen. “That’s disgusting. That’s just . . . wrong.”

  “What? If he’d dressed up as Satan it would have been more appropriate?”

  “Yes—no.” Peabody moved her shoulders, shuffled her feet. “It’s just . . . well, it’s really sick.”

  “It’s also really smart.” Eyes flat, Eve waited while the image printed out. “Who’s going to shut the door in Santa’s face? Continue scan.”

  The door closed behind them, and the hallway remained empty.

  The timer running along the bottom of the screen marked at twenty-one thirty-three.

  So, he took his time, Eve mused, nearly two and a half hours. The rope he’d used to tie her, and anything else he might have needed, would have been in that big shiny box.

  At eleven, a couple got off the elevator, laughing, a little drunk, arm in arm as they passed Marianna’s door. Oblivious to what was going on inside.

  Fear and pain.

  Murder.

  The door opened at half past midnight. The man in the red suit stepped out, still carrying his silver box, a smile wide, almost fierce, on his red-cheeked face. Once more he looked directly at the camera, and now there was madness glowing in his eyes.

  He was dancing as he got on the elevator.

  “Copy disc to file Hawley. Case number 25176-H. How many days of Christmas did you say there were, Peabody? In the song?”

  “Twelve.” Peabody soothed her dry throat with coffee. “Twelve days.”

  “We’d better find out if Hawley was his true love, or if he has eleven more.” She rose. “Let’s talk to the boyfriend.”

  Jeremy Vandoren worked inside a small box in a hive of small boxes. His stingy cubicle held a workstation just big enough to accommodate his computer and phone system and a three-wheeled chair. Pinned to the flimsy walls were printouts of stock reports, a theater schedule, a Christmas card showcasing a well-endowed woman wearing strategically placed snowflakes, and a photo of Marianna Hawley.

  He barely glanced up when Eve stepped inside; he held up a hand to hold her off and continued to work the keyboard of his computer manually while talking rapidly into a headset.

  “Comstat’s at five and an eighth, Kenmart’s down three and three-quarters. No, Roarke Industries just took a leap up six points. Our analysts look for it to go up another two by end of day.”

  Eve raised a brow and tucked her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She was standing here waiting to talk murder, and Roarke was making millions.

  It was just weird.

  “Done.” Vandoren hit another key and had a tangle of mysterious figures and symbols swimming onto the screen. She let him fiddle another thirty seconds, then pulled her badge out of her pocket and held it in front of his face.

  He blinked twice, then turned and focused on her. “I’ve got that. You’re set. Absolutely. Thanks.” With a puzzled smile—slightly nervous around the edges—Vandoren swiveled the mike of his headset to the side. “Um, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”

  “Jeremy Vandoren?”

  “Yeah.” His deep brown eyes slid past her, brushed over Peabody, then slid back. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Have you done something illegal, Mr. Vandoren?”

  “Not that I can remember.” He tried a smile again, bringing a small dimple to life at the corner of his mouth. “Not unless that candy bar I stole when I was eight’s come back to haunt me.”

  “Do you know Marianna Hawley?”

  “Marianna, sure. Don’t tell me Mari’s nicked a candy bar.” Then abruptly, like a light winking off, the smile disappeared. “What is it? Has something happened? Is she all right?”

  He was out of his chair, his eyes scanning over the top of the cubicle as if he expected to see her.

  “Mr. Vandoren, I’m sorry.” Eve had never found a good way to relay the news, so she settled on relaying it quickly. “Ms. Hawley is dead.”

  “No, she’s not. No,” he said again, turning those dark eyes back to Eve. “She’s not. That’s ridiculous. I just talked to her last night. We’re meeting for dinner at seven. She’s fine. You’ve made a mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. I’m sorry,” she repeated as he only continued to stare at her. “Marianna Hawley was murdered last night in her apartment.”

  “Marianna? Murdered?” He continued to shake his head slowly, as if the two words were foreign. “That’s definitely wrong. That’s just wrong.” He whirled around, fumbled to his desk ’link. “I’ll call her right now. She’s at work.”

  “Mr. Vandoren.” Eve put a firm hand on his shoulder and nudged him into his chair. There was no place for her to sit, so she eased a hip on the desk so their faces could be more on level. “She’s been identified through fingerprints and DNA. If you can manage it, I’d like you to come with me and do a visual confirmation.”

  “A visual. . .” He sprang up again, his elbow rapping Eve’s shoulder and causing the still healing wound to sing. “Yeah, I’ll come with you. Damn right I will. Because it’s not her. It’s not Marianna.”

  The morgue was never a cheerful place. The fact that someone in either an optimistic or macabre frame of mind had hung red and green balls from the ceiling and draped ugly gold tinsel around the doorways only succeeded in added a kind of smirking grin over death.

  Eve stood at the viewing window as she had stood too many times before. And she felt, as she had felt too many times before, the hard jerk of shock punch through the man beside her as he saw Marianna Hawley lying on the other side of the glass.

  The sheet that covered her to the chin would have been hastily draped. To hide from friends, family, and loved ones the pitiful nakedness of the dead, the slices in the flesh left by the Y incision, the temporary stamp on the instep that gave that body a name and number.

  “No.” In a helpless gesture, Vandoren pressed both hands to the barrier. “No, no, no, this can’t be right. Marianna.”

  Gently now, Eve laid a hand on his arm. He was shaking badly, and the hands on the glass had balled into fists and were pounding in short, light beats. “Just nod if you can identify her as Marianna Hawley.”

  He nodded. Then he began to weep.

  “Peabody, find us an empty office. Get him some water.” Even as Eve spoke, she found herself engulfed by him, his arms coming around her, his face pressed into her shoulder. His body bowed down to her by the weight of his grief.

  She let him hang on, signaling the tech behind the glass to raise the privacy shield.

  “Come on, Jerry, come with me now.” She kept a supporting arm around him, thinking she’d rather face a stunner on full than a grieving survivor. There was no help for those left behind. No magic, no cure. But she murmured to him as she led him down the tiled hall to the doorway where Peabody stood.

  “We can use this one,” Peabody said quietly. “I’ll get the water.”

  “Let’s sit down.” After helping him to a chair, Eve pulled the handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit coat and pressed it into his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,�
� she said, as she always did. And felt the inadequacy of it, as she always did.

  “Marianna. Who would hurt Marianna? Why?”

  “It’s my job to find out. I will find out.”

  Something in the way she said it had him looking over at her. His eyes were red and desolate. With an obvious effort he drew in a deep breath. “I— She was so special.” He groped in his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. “I was going to give this to her tonight. I’d planned to wait until Christmas Eve—Marianna loved Christmas—but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t wait.”

  His hands trembled as he opened the box to show Eve the bright flash of diamond on the engagement ring. “I was going to ask her to marry me tonight. She would have said yes. We loved each other. Was it . . .” Carefully he closed the box again, slipped it back in his pocket. “Was it a robbery?”

  “We don’t think so. How long have you known her?”

  “Six months, almost seven.” He stared at Peabody as she came in and held out a cup of water. “Thank you.” He took it, but didn’t drink. “The happiest six months of my life.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Through Personally Yours. It’s a dating service.”

  “You use a dating service?” This from Peabody with more than a little surprise.

  He hunched his shoulders, sighed. “It was an impulse. I spend most of my time on work and wasn’t getting out much. I was divorced a couple years ago, and I guess it made me nervous with women. Anyway, none of the women I met . . . Nothing clicked. I saw an ad on screen one night, and I thought, what the hell. Couldn’t hurt.”

  He did drink now, one small sip that had his throat working visibly as he swallowed. “Marianna was the third of the first five matches. I went out with the first two—drinks, just drinks. There was nothing there. But when I met Marianna, everything was there.”

  He closed his eyes, struggled for composure. “She’s so . . . wonderful. So much energy, enthusiasm. She loved her job, her apartment, she got a kick out of her theater group. She does community theater sometimes.”

  Eve noted the way he switched back and forth, past and present tense. His mind was trying to accustom itself to what was, but it wasn’t quite ready yet.

  “You started dating,” she prompted.

  “Yes. We’d agreed to meet for drinks. Just drinks—to scope each other out. We ended up going to dinner, then going for coffee. Talking for hours. Neither one of us saw anyone else after that night. It was just it, for both of us.”

  “She felt the same way?”

  “Yeah. We took it slow. A few dinners, the theater. We both love the theater. We started spending Saturday afternoons together. A matinee, a museum, or just a walk. We went back to her hometown so I could meet her family. The Fourth of July. I took her to meet mine. My mother made dinner.”

  His eyes unfocused as he stared at something only he could see.

  “She wasn’t seeing anyone else during this period?”

  “No. We’d made a commitment.”

  “Do you know if anyone was bothering her—an old boyfriend, a former lover? Her ex-husband?”

  “No, I’m sure she would have told me. We talked all the time. We told each other everything.” His eyes cleared, the brown hardening like crystal. “Why do you ask that? Was she—Marianna . . . Did he . . . Oh God.” On his knee his hand balled into a fist. “He raped her first, didn’t he? The fucking bastard raped her. I should have been with her.” He heaved the cup across the room, sending water splashing as he lurched to his feet. “I should have been with her. It would never have happened if I’d been with her.”

  “Where were you, Jerry?”

  “What?”

  “Where were you last night, between nine-thirty and midnight?”

  “You think I—” He stopped himself, holding up a hand, closing his eyes. Three times he inhaled, exhaled. Then he opened his eyes again, and they remained clear. “It’s all right. You need to make sure it wasn’t me so you can find him. It’s all right. It’s for her.”

  “That’s right.” And studying him Eve felt a new well of pity. “It’s for her.”

  “I was home, my apartment. I did some work, made some calls, did a little Christmas shopping via computer. I reconfirmed the dinner reservations for tonight because I was nervous. I wanted—” He cleared his throat. “I wanted it to be perfect. Then I called my mother.” He lifted his hands, rubbed them hard over his face. “I had to tell somebody. She was thrilled, excited. She was crazy about Marianna. I think that was about ten-thirty. You can check my ’link records, my computer, anything you need to do.”

  “Okay, Jerry.”

  “Have you— Her family, do they know?”

  “Yes, I spoke with her parents.”

  “I need to call them. They’ll want her to come home.” His eyes filled again, and he continued to look at Eve as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’ll take her back home.”

  “I’ll see that she’s released as soon as possible. Is there someone we can call for you?”

  “No. I need to go tell my parents. I need to go.” He turned toward the door, and spoke without looking back. “You find who did this. You find who hurt her.”

  “I will. Jerry, one last thing.”

  He rubbed his face dry and turned back. “What is it?”

  “Did Marianna have a tattoo?”

  He laughed, a short, harsh sound that seemed to scrape out of his throat. “Marianna? No. She was old-fashioned, wouldn’t even go for temporaries.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “We were lovers, Lieutenant. We were in love. I knew her body, I knew her mind and her heart.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” She waited until he’d gone out, until the door clicked quietly closed behind him. “Impressions, Peabody?”

  “Guy’s heart’s ripped right out of his chest.”

  “Agreed. But people often kill the ones they love. Even with ’link records, his alibi’s going to be shaky.”

  “He doesn’t look a thing like Santa Claus.”

  Eve smiled a little. “I guarantee the person who killed her won’t either. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to pose for the camera. Padding, change the eye color, makeup, beard, and wig. Any damn body can look like Santa.”

  But for now, she had to go with the gut. “It’s not him. Let’s check out where she worked, find her friends and enemies.”

  Friends, Eve thought later, Marianna appeared to have in volume. Enemies, she seemed to have none.

  The picture that was being painted was one of a happy, outgoing woman who liked her work, was close to her family but enjoyed the pace and excitement of the city.

  She had a tightly knit group of female friends, a weakness for shopping, a deep love of theater, and according to all sources had been in an exclusive and happy relationship with Jeremy Vandoren.

  She was dancing on air.

  Everyone who knew her loved her.

  She had an open, trusting heart.

  As she drove home, Eve let the statements made by friends and associates play back in her mind. No one found fault with Marianna. Not once had she heard one of those sly, often self-congratulatory remarks the living made of the dead.

  But there was someone who thought differently, someone who had killed her with calculation, with care, and, if the look in those eyes was any indication, with a kind of glee.

  My True Love.

  Yes, someone had loved her enough to kill her. Eve knew that kind of love existed, bred, festered. She’d been the recipient of that hot and twisted emotion. And survived it, she reminded herself and engaged her ’link.

  “Got the tox report on Hawley yet, Dickie?”

  The long-suffering and homely face of the chief lab tech filled the screen. “You know how things get clogged up here during the holidays. People whacking people right and left, technicians putzing around with Christmas and Hanukkah shit instead of doing their jobs.”

  “Yeah, my heart’s blee
ding for you. I want the tox report.”

  “I want a vacation.” But muttering, he shifted and began to call something up on his computer. “She was tranq’d. Over-the-counter stuff, pretty mild. Given her weight, the dosage wouldn’t have done much more than make her stupid for ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “Long enough,” Eve murmured.

  “Indications are a pressure injection, upper right arm. Likely felt like she’d just downed a half dozen Zombies. Results: dizziness, disorientation, possibly temporary loss of consciousness, and muscular weakness.”

  “Okay. Any semen?”

  “Nope, not one little soldier. He condomized or her BC killed them. We still need to check on that. Body was sprayed with disinfectant. Traces of it in her vagina, too, which would have killed off some of the warriors. We got nothing off her. Oh—one more. The cosmetics used on her don’t match what she had in her place. We’re not finished with them yet, but prelim indicates they’re all natural ingredients, meaning high dollar. Odds are he brought them with him.”

  “Get me brand names as soon as you can. It’s a good lead. Nice job, Dickie.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Happy fucking holidays.”

  “Same to you, Dickhead,” she muttered after she logged off. And rolling some of the tension out of her shoulders, she headed through the iron gates toward home.

  She could see the lights in the windows beaming through the winter dark—tall windows, arched windows in towers and turrets—and the long sweep of the main floor.

  Home, she thought. It had become hers because of the man who owned it. The man who loved her. The man who’d put his ring on her finger—as Jeremy had wanted to do with Marianna.

  She turned her wedding band with her thumb as she parked her car in front of the main entrance.

  She’d been everything, Jerry had said. Even a year before she wouldn’t have understood that. Now she did.

  She sat where she was a moment, dragged both hands through her already disordered cap of hair. The man’s grief had wormed its way into her. That was a mistake; it wouldn’t help and could possibly hinder the investigation. She needed to put it aside, to block out of her mind the devastation of emotion she’d felt from him when he’d all but collapsed in her arms.