Loyalty in Death

by J. D. Robb

  "Nice work if you can get it," Eve muttered.

  "He provided her with a steady and generous income." From behind her chair, Roarke rubbed absently at the tension in Eve's shoulders. "Why kill him?"

  "A million a year?" She glanced back at him. "That would be nothing to you."

  "Darling, it's all something."

  "You probably blow that on shoes."

  Chuckling, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "If your feet aren't happy, you aren't happy."

  She grunted, tapped her fingers on the desk. "So what if she got greedy, got tired of hanging out for a million a year? Kill him, and do it right, and she gets it all and gets it now."

  "It's a big risk. It goes wrong, she's charged with murder and gets nothing but a cage for her trouble."

  "She's calculating. She'd figure the odds. Computer, what is the value of J. Clarence Branson's personal estate, not including any holdings in Branson Toys and Tools."

  Working…

  Roarke moved away to pour himself a brandy. He knew Eve would drink nothing—save coffee—while she worked like this. And since he wanted her to sleep, he bypassed the AutoChef.

  She was up and pacing when he turned back. The belt of her robe had loosened, reminding him he had plans for her before sleep. Very specific, interesting plans.

  Data complete. Estimated value, including appraisals of real estate, transportation vehicles, art, and jewelry is two hundred and sixty-eight million dollars.

  "That's a hell of an increase in salary." Eve scooped her hair back with her hand. "You deduct the minor bequests, the death taxes, and he'd have finagled some there to cut them back, and she stands to get about two hundred million."

  "Mantz will argue she didn't know about the inheritance."

  "She knew. They'd been together over three years. Damn straight she knew."

  "How much am I worth, Eve, and how are the bequests in my will distributed?"

  She glanced up briefly, irritation in her eyes. "How the hell would I know?" When he smiled at her, she blew out a breath. "That's different. We didn't make a business arrangement."

  "True enough. But Mantz will still argue it."

  "He can argue until his tongue falls out. She knew. I'm going to talk to her again, hit her tomorrow. Her story about the other woman and her insane fit of jealousy just isn't holding up for me."

  She swung back behind the desk and called up the debit data. Dissatisfied, she studied it, sliding her hands into her pockets. "Expensive taste, but nothing out of line with her income. She bought a lot of men's jewelry, clothing. Maybe she had a guy on the side. That's an angle worth looking into."

  "Hmm." Her robe was open now, revealing a delightful strip of flesh, black silk, and leather. "I suppose all of that has to wait until tomorrow."

  "Not much more I can do here tonight," she agreed.

  "On the contrary." He moved quickly, tugging the robe off, then running his hands over her. "I can think of a great deal more."

  "Oh yeah?" Her blood was already on boil. The man had the most creative hands. "Such as?"

  "Why don't I make a few suggestions." With his lips curving against hers, he backed her up against the wall. The first one murmured against her ear made her eyes cross.

  "Wow. That's a good one. I'm just not sure it's physically possible."

  "Never know until you try," Roarke said, and began to demonstrate.

  *** CHAPTER SIX ***

  Peabody was already waiting when Eve arrived in her office in the morning. "Thanks for the time off, Dallas."

  Eve eyed the slim vase of red, hothouse roses on her desk. "You bought me flowers?"

  "Zeke did." The smile Peabody offered managed to be both whimsical and wry. "He does stuff like that all the time. He wanted to thank you for yesterday. I told him you weren't the type for flowers, but he thinks everyone is."

  "I like flowers." Feeling slightly defensive about Peabody's take on her, Eve deliberately bent down and sniffed them. Twice. "What's not to like? So what's baby brother up to today?"

  "He's got a list of museums and galleries. A long list," Peabody added. "Then he's going to go down and stand in line for discount theater tickets for tonight. He doesn't care what show, as long as he gets to see something on Broadway."

  Eve studied Peabody's face, the concerned eyes, the teeth McNab had admired busily gnawing her bottom lip. "Peabody, people manage to do all the things he's planning and survive New York every day."

  "Yeah, I know. And we went over all the warnings. Six or seven times," she added with a wry smile. "But he's just so…Zeke. Anyway, first he's going to contact the Bransons, again, see what they want him to do. He couldn't reach them yesterday."

  "Hmm." Eve sat and began to poke through the interoffice and outside mail Peabody had already brought in and stacked. "Roarke and I sat in on the will reading last night. Cooke terminates her lover and inherits millions." Eve shook her head. "We're going to drop by her place this morning, have a little chat about that. Who the hell is Cassandra?"

  "Who?"

  "That's what I said." Frowning, Eve turned over the disc pouch. "Outside package—return address in the Lower East Side. I don't like packages from people I don't know."

  "All outside deliveries are scanned for explosives, poisons, and hazardous materials."

  "Yeah, yeah." But instinct had her reaching in a drawer for a can of Seal-It and coating her fingers before she opened the pouch and took out the disc. "The virus killer on this thing in working order?"

  Peabody looked sadly at Eve's computer. "Your guess is as good as mine."

  "Fucking piece of junk," Eve muttered and slipped the disc into a slot. "Computer, engage and run disc."

  There was a low buzzing, like a distant swarm of angry bees on the rise. Her screen blinked on, off, then with a whine came on again.

  "First chance I get," Eve vowed, "I'm paying a personal visit to those clowns in maintenance."

  Disc in text only. Message as follows…

  Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York Police and Security, Cop Central, Homicide Division.

  We are Cassandra. We are the gods of justice. We are loyal.

  The present corrupt government with its self-serving and weak-stomached leaders must and will be destroyed. We will dismantle, we will remove, we will annihilate as it becomes necessary to make way for the republic. No longer will the masses tolerate the abuse, the suppression of ideas and voices, the neglect of the pitiful few who cling to power.

  Under our rule, all will live free.

  We admire your skills. We admire your loyalty in the matter of Howard Bassi, known as The Fixer. He was useful to us and terminated only because he proved defective.

  Eve slammed another disc into a slot. "Computer, copy disc currently running."

  We are Cassandra. Our memory is long. We are prepared. We will make our needs and demands known to you, in time. At nine-fifteen this morning, we will provide a small demonstration of our scope. You will believe. Then you will listen.

  "A demonstration," Eve said when the message ended. With a quick check of her wrist unit, she grabbed both discs, sealed the original. "We've got less than ten minutes."

  "To do what?"

  "They gave us an address." She tapped a finger on the pouch, scooped up her jacket. "Let's check it out."

  "If these are the people who took out Fixer," Peabody began as they strode to the elevator, "they already know you're looking into it."

  "Not that hard to know. I've been in contact with New Jersey, I went to his shop yesterday. Run the address, Peabody, see what it is. Apartment, private home, business."

  "Yes, sir."

  They climbed into the car. Eve reversed, spun into a neat one-eighty, and shot out of the garage. "Display map," she ordered, heading south. "Lower East Side, sector six." When the street grid of the proper area shimmered onto her view screen, she nodded. "That's what I thought. It's a warehouse district."

  "The building in question is an old glass fa
ctory slated for rehab. It's listed as unoccupied."

  "Maybe the address is bogus, but they expect us to check it out. We won't disappoint them. Time?"

  "Six minutes."

  "Okay. We're going up." Eve punched the warning siren, hit vertical lift, and shot over the roofs of southbound traffic.

  She swung east, passed reconditioned lofts where young professionals liked to live and shop and eat in overpriced cafes with bad lighting and good wine.

  Barely a block over, the ambiance changed to disuse, disrepair, and despair. Misery walked the streets below in the guise of the unemployed and the unwashed, the failed and the desperate.

  South of there, the old factories and warehouses loomed, nearly every one abandoned. Bricks were soot gray from smoke, smog, time. Window glass was in shards and sparkling on ground littered with garbage and straggling with weeds that struggled out of broken concrete.

  Eve set the car down, briefly studied the square six-story building of brick closed in behind a security fence. The gate was equipped with a card lock but was wide open.

  "I'd say we're expected." She drove through, scanning the building for any sign of life. Then, frowning, she stopped the car, climbed out. "Time?"

  "About a minute," Peabody told her as she got out the opposite door. "Are we going in?"

  "Not quite yet." She thought of Fixer and his nasty little shop. "Call for backup. Let Dispatch know where we are. I don't like the feel of this."

  It was as far as she got. There was a rumble, and the ground shook under her feet. A series of flashes bloomed in the broken windows of the building and had her swearing.

  "Take cover!" Even as she started to dive behind the car, the air exploded and gave her a hot little slap that had her skidding on her knees. The noise was huge, slamming against her eardrums, shooting a high-pitched wine through the center of her skull.

  Bricks rained. A smoldering chunk smashed into the ground inches from her face as she rolled under the car. Her body bumped solidly into Peabody's.

  "You hurt?"

  "No. Jesus, Dallas."

  A wave of heat swarmed over them, brutally intense. The air was screaming. Debris flew overhead, battering the car like hot, furious fists. This is what the end of the world would feel like, Eve thought as she fought to catch her breath. Hot and filthy and full of noise.

  Above them, the car rocked, bucked, shuddered. Then there was no sound but the ringing in her ears and Peabody's ragged pants. No movement but the wild hammering of her own heart.

  She lay there another moment, assuring herself she was still alive, that all her parts were intact. There was a burning sensation where she'd met the concrete. Her fingers came away wet with blood as she probed the area. That disgusted her enough to have her bellying out from under the car.

  "Goddamn it, goddamn it! Just look at my ride."

  The car was dents and scorch marks, the windshield a fancy web of cracks. The roof carried a fist-sized hole.

  Peabody crawled to her feet, coughed at the smoke that was stinking the air. "You don't look so good yourself, sir."

  "It's just a scratch," Eve muttered and wiped her bloody fingers on her ruined trousers.

  "No, I meant as a whole."

  Scowling, Eve glanced over, then narrowed her eyes. Peabody's face was smeared with black, making the whites of her eyes stand out like moons. She'd lost her uniform cap and her hair was standing wildly on end.

  Eve rubbed her fingers over her own face, studied the now blackened tips, and swore. "Shit. That caps it. Call this in. Get some units out here for crowd control. We're going to have a hell of a crowd once people in this area crawl out from under their beds. And get—"

  At the sound of a car, she whirled, one hand on the butt of her weapon. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or annoyed when she recognized the vehicle that pulled in behind hers.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded when Roarke got out of the car.

  "I could ask the same. Your leg's bleeding, Lieutenant."

  "Not much." She rubbed a hand under her nose. "I've got myself a crime scene here, Roarke, and a hazardous area. Go away."

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, crouching down, examined the cut before tying the cloth over the wound. "You'll need that tended. It's full of grit." Rising, he stroked a hand over her hair. "Interesting do, and somehow you."

  She caught Peabody's smirk out of the corner of her eye but decided to let it pass. "I don't have time for you, Roarke. I'm working."

  "Yes, I can see that. But I think you'll want to make time." His eyes were cold and flat as he scanned the smoldering rubble. "This used to be my building."

  "Oh hell." Eve shoved her hands into her pockets, paced away, back, away again. "Hell," she repeated and glared at him.

  "I knew you'd be delighted." He took a disc pouch out of his pocket, offered it to her. He'd already copied the disc and secured it. "I received that this morning. It's a text message from a group calling themselves Cassandra. Basically, it calls me a capitalist opportunist—which of course is absolutely true—and states that I've been chosen in their first demonstration. There's some tired and tedious political jargon thrown in. The redistribution of wealth, the exploitation of the poor by the rich. Nothing terribly original."

  His words might have been casual, but the tone was much too controlled. And she knew him. Beneath those cool eyes, violence was bubbling.

  She handled it the only way she knew how, with professional dispatch. "I'm going to need you to come in so I can take a detailed statement. I'll have to take this as evidence."

  She broke off as the violence in his eyes swam to the surface. No one, she thought fleetingly, no one could look more dangerous than Roarke in an icy temper.

  Abruptly, he swung away from her to stride through the smoking bricks.

  "Damn it." Impatient, she scooped a hand through her disordered hair and tossed a glance at Peabody.

  "Units are on the way, Dallas."

  "Stand at the gate," Eve ordered. "Secure it if necessary."

  "Yes, sir." With some sympathy, Peabody watched as Eve walked over to deal with her husband.

  "Look, Roarke, I know you're pissed off. I don't blame you. Somebody blows up one of your buildings, you've got a right to be pissed."

  "Damn right I do." He spun back to her, fury ripe in his eyes. The fact that she'd nearly backed up a step in the face of it both mortified and infuriated her. She compensated by leaning forward until her boots bumped his shoes.

  "This is a goddamn crime scene, and I don't have the time or inclination to stand around and pat you on the head because one of your six million buildings got blown to hell. Now, I'm sorry about it, and I understand you feel ticked off and violated, but don't take it out on me."

  He gripped her arms and hauled her up to her toes in a move guaranteed to make her snarl and spit. If his property hadn't been heaved out in a half-block pile of stinking ruin, she might have decked him.

  "Do you think that's the problem?" he demanded. "Do you think the fucking warehouse is the problem?"

  She struggled to think through her own temper. "Yes."

  He hauled her up another inch. "You're an idiot."

  "I'm an idiot? I'm an idiot? You're a moron if you think I'm going to stand here making clucky noises to your ego while I've got somebody blowing up buildings on my watch. Now, get your hands off before I take you down."

  "How close were you to going in?"

  "That's not—" She broke off, deflating as it hit her. It wasn't the building that put that wicked light in his eyes. It was her. "Not that close." She said it quietly as she unclenched her fists. "Not that close, Roarke. I didn't like the setup. I'd just ordered Peabody to call it in, send for a couple of backup units. I know how to handle myself."

  "Yeah." He took a hand off her arm to brush his fingertips over her filthy cheek. "It shows." Then he released her completely, stepped back. "Have that leg tended to. I'll meet you at your office."
<
br />   When he started to walk away, she jammed her hands in her pockets, pulled them out. Rolled her eyes. Damn it, she did know how to handle herself. She just didn't always know how to handle him. "Roarke."

  He stopped, glanced back. And nearly smiled when he watched the obvious struggle between duty and heart on her face. Looking over to make certain Peabody had her back discreetly turned, she crossed to him, lifted a hand to his cheek.

  "Sorry. I was a little pissed off, myself. Having a building blow up in my face does that to me." When she heard the approaching sirens, she dropped her hands, frowned. "No kissing in front of the uniforms."

  Now he did smile. "Darling, no kissing until you wash your face. I'll meet you at your office," he repeated and walked away.

  "Give it a couple of hours," she called out. "I'll be tied up here at least that long."

  "Fine." He stopped by her car, angling his head as he studied it. "Actually, this suits you better now."

  "Bite me," she said with a laugh, then put on her official face for the bomb squad.

  • • •

  When she returned to Cop Central, Eve hit the showers and washed off the stink and soot. She remembered the gash in her leg when the hot water stung. Setting her teeth, she cleaned the wound herself, dug out a first-aid kit, and went to work on it. She figured she'd watched the med-techs poke around her body often enough to handle a few cuts.

  Satisfied, she rooted through her locks for her spare set of clothes and made herself a memo to bring more in. Those she'd been wearing went straight into the recycler as a dead loss.

  She found Roarke in her office, having a cozy chat with Nadine Furst from Channel 75.

  "Scram, Nadine."

  "Come on, Dallas, a cop nearly gets blown up when her husband's building is destroyed by person or persons unknown, it's news." She offered Eve one of her pretty cat smiles, but there was concern in her eyes. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine, and I wasn't nearly blown up. I was yards away from the building at the time of the explosion. I've got nothing official to give you at this time."

  Nadine merely re-crossed her legs. "What were you doing at the building?"