The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  “What can I do?” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’ve lost. I’m lost.”

  “You can do what Thad would expect of you. You can face it.”

  “I’m shamed,” he whispered. “I thought when it was over, I’d be glad. I’d be free. But I’m shamed.”

  “You can make up for it, best you can. You can erase some of the shame. You can come with me, Sergeant. You can be a cop now and come with me.”

  “Prison or death.” He looked at her again. “Those are hard choices.”

  “Yes, very hard. Harder to live, Sergeant, and balance the scales. Let the system make its judgment on you. That’s what we believe in, people like us, what we work for when we pick up the badge. I’m asking you to do that, Sergeant. I’m asking you not to be one of the faces I see in my sleep.”

  He bowed his head, rocked, so his tears fell on the flowers he’d laid on the grass. He reached out a hand across the grave, clasped Eve’s. Clung. She sat like that while he sobbed.

  Then he leaned forward, pressed his lips to the white cross. “I miss him. Every day.” With a sigh, he held out his weapon to Eve. “You’ll want this.”

  “Thank you.” She got to her feet, waiting for him to get laboriously to his.

  He wiped his face with his sleeve, drew in a breath. “I’d like to call my wife.”

  “She’ll be glad to hear from you. I don’t want to put restraints on you, Sergeant Clooney. I’d like you to give me your word you’ll go with my aide and walk into Central of your own volition.”

  “You have my word on it. Eve. It’s a good name. I’m glad it was you who came today. I won’t forget it was you. It’s spring,” he said as they walked up the rise. “I hope you’ll take time to enjoy it. Winter comes too soon, and always lasts too long.”

  He paused at the top where Peabody waited with Roarke. “Those faces in your dreams? Have you thought they might be coming to thank you?”

  “No. I guess I never thought of that. Officer Peabody will accompany you in the black and white, Sergeant. I’ll follow you in. Officer, Sergeant Clooney is turning himself in.”

  “Yes, sir. Will you come with me, Sergeant?”

  As they moved off, Eve slipped Clooney’s weapon into her pocket. “I thought I was going to lose him.”

  “No, you had him the minute you sat down.”

  “Maybe.” She blew out a breath. “It’s a hell of a lot easier just to put a boot to their throats. He got to me.”

  “Yes. And you to him.” He crouched down, and to her amusement, tugged up her trouser leg and slipped her weapon back into the ankle harness. “Our own variation on Cinderella.”

  The laugh went a long way to easing the rawness around her heart. “Well, Prince Charming, I’d ask for a lift to the ball, but how about giving me one in to work?”

  “My pleasure.”

  They linked hands, skirted around a young tree with leaves unfurling tender green. And walked away from the dead.

  BETRAYAL IN DEATH

  J. D. Robb

  Table of Contents

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BETRAYAL IN DEATH

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2001 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0384-2

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First edition (electronic): August 2001

  Carcasses bleed at the sight of the murderer.

  —Robert Burton

  Honour is sometimes found among thieves.

  —Sir Walter Scott

  prologue

  A murder was taking place.

  Outside the privacy-screened windows, and some forty-six floors below death, life—noisy, oblivious, irritable—rushed on.

  New York was at its best on fine May evenings when flowers burst out of beautification troughs along the avenues and spilled from vendors’ carts. The scent of them very nearly overpowered the stink of exhaust as street and air traffic clogged both road and skyways.

  Pedestrians scurried, strolled, or hopped on people glides, depending on their frame of mind. But many did so in shirtsleeves or the neon-colored T-shirts that were the season’s rage in this pretty slice of spring 2059.

  Glide-carts sold fizzy drinks in those same violent hues, and the steam from grilling soy dogs rose merrily into the balmy evening air.

  Taking advantage of the waning light, the young danced and leaped over the public sports’ courts, working up a healthy sweat with balls and hoops and pegs. In Times Square, business in the video parlors was off as customers preferred the streets for their action. But the sex shops and venues held their own.

  In spring, many a fancy still turned to porn.

  Airbuses carted patrons to the Sky Mall, and ad blimps cruised with their endless stream of chatter, trying to herd yet more into the shopping arenas.

  Buy and be happy. And tomorrow? Buy more.

  Couples dined alfresco or lingered over predinner drinks, talking of plans, the lovely weather, or the minutiae of their everyday lives.

  Life bustled, bloomed, and burgeoned in the city as one was taken above it.

  He didn’t know her name. It hardly mattered what label her mother had given her when she’d come squalling into the world. It mattered less, to him, what name she took with her when he sent her squalling out of it.

  The point was, she was there. In the right place at the right time.

  She’d come in to do the nightly turndown in Suite 4602. He’d waited, quite patiently, and she hadn’t kept him long.

  She wore the smart black uniform and fancy white apron of The Palace Hotel’s housekeeping staff. Her hair was neat, as was expected of any employee of the finest hotel in the city. It was shiny brown and clipped at the nape with a simple black bar.

  She was young and pretty, and that pleased him. Though he would have followed through in the intended manner if she’d been ninety and hag-faced.

  But the fact that she was young, attractive enough with her dusty cheeks and dark eyes, would make the task at hand somewhat more enjoyable.

  She’d rung first, of course. Twice, with a slight pause between as required. That had given him time to slip into the generous bedroom closet.

  She called out as she opened the door with her passcode. “Housekeeping,” in
that lilting, singsong voice people of her trade used to announce themselves to rooms most usually empty.

  She moved through the bedroom into the bath first, carrying fresh towels to replace those the occupant, registered as James Priory, might have used since check-in.

  She sang a little as she tidied the bath, some bouncy little tune to keep herself company. Whistle while you work, he thought from his station in the closet. He could get behind that.

  He waited until she came back, had heaped the used towels on the floor for later. Waited until she’d walked to the bed and had finished folding down the royal blue spread.

  Took pride in her work, he noted as she carefully formed a long triangle with the bed linens at the left corner.

  Well, so did he.

  He moved fast. She saw only a blur out of the corner of her eye before he was on her. She screamed, loud and long, but the rooms of The Palace were soundproofed.

  He wanted her to scream. It would help get him in the mood for the job to be done.

  She flailed out, her hand reaching down for the beeper in her apron pocket. He simply twisted her arm back, jerking it nastily until her scream became a whimper of agony.

  “We can’t have that, can we?” He plucked her beeper out, tossed it aside. “You’re not going to like this,” he told her. “But I am, and that’s what counts, after all.”

  He hooked an arm around her throat, lifting her off the ground—she was a little thing, barely a hundred pounds—until the lack of oxygen had her going limp.

  He had the pressure syringe of potent downers as a backup, but wouldn’t need it with such a tiny woman.

  When he released her, and she dropped to her knees, he rubbed his hands together, smiled brilliantly.

  “Music on,” he ordered, and the swelling sounds of the aria from Carmen he’d already programmed into the entertainment system filled the room.

  Gorgeous, he thought, drawing in breath deeply as if he could draw in the notes.

  “Well now, let’s get to work.”

  He whistled as he beat her. He hummed as he raped her. By the time he’d strangled her, he was singing.

  chapter one

  In death there were many layers. Violent death added more. It was her job to sift through those layers and find cause. In cause, to meet justice.

  However the act of murder was committed, in cold blood or hot, she was sworn to pursue it to its root. And serve the dead.

  For tonight, Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the New York City Police and Security Department wore no badge. It, along with her service weapon and communicator, was currently tucked in an elegant, palm-sized silk purse she considered embarrassingly frivolous.

  She wasn’t dressed like a cop, but wore a shimmering apricot-hued gown that skimmed down her long, slim body and was sliced in a dramatic V in the back. A slender chain of diamonds hung glittering around her neck. More sparkled at ears she recently, and in a weak moment, had been persuaded to have pierced.

  Still more were scattered like raindrops through her short chop of brown hair and made her feel faintly ridiculous.

  However glamorous the silk and diamonds made her appear, her eyes were all cop. Tawny brown and cool, they scanned the sumptuous ballroom, skimmed over faces, bodies, and considered security.

  Cameras worked into the fancy plasterwork overhead were unobtrusive, powerful, and would provide full scope. Scanners would flag any guests or staff who happened to be carrying concealeds. And among the staff, weaving their way through the chatter to offer drinks, were a half-dozen trained security personnel.

  The affair was invitation only, and those invitations carried a holographic seal that was scanned at the door.

  The reason for these precautions, and others, was an estimated five hundred and seventy-eight million dollars’ worth of jewelry, art, and memorabilia currently on dazzling display throughout the ballroom.

  Each display was craftily arranged for impact and guarded by individual sensor fields that measured motion, heat, light, and weight. If any of the guests or staff had sticky fingers and attempted to remove so much as an earring from its proper place, all exits would close and lock, alarms would sound, and a second team of guards hand-selected from an elite NYPSD task force would be ordered to the scene to join the private security.

  To her cynical frame of mind, the entire deal was a foolishly elaborate temptation for too many, in too large an area, in too public a venue. But it was tough to argue with the slick setup.

  Then again, slick was just what she expected from Roarke.

  “Well, Lieutenant?” The question, delivered with a whiff of amusement in a voice that carried the misty air of Ireland, drew her attention to the man.

  Then again, everything about Roarke drew a woman’s attention.

  His eyes, sinfully blue, set off a face that had been sculpted on one of God’s best days. As he watched her, his poet’s mouth, one that often made her want to lean in for just one quick bite, curved, one dark brow lifted, and his long fingers skimmed possessively down her bare arm.

  They’d been married nearly a year, and that sort of casually intimate stroke could still trip her pulse.

  “Some party,” she said and turned his smile into a fast, devastating grin.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” With his hand still lightly on her arm, he scanned the room.

  His hair was black as midnight and fell nearly to his shoulders into what she thought of as his wild Irish warrior look. Add to that the tall, tautly muscled build in elegant black-tie, and you had a hell of a package. Obviously a number of other women in the room agreed. If Eve had been the jealous type, she’d have been forced to kick some major ass just for the hot and avaricious looks aimed in her husband’s direction.

  “Satisfied with the security?” he asked her.

  “I still think holding this business in a hotel ballroom, even your hotel ballroom, is risky. You’ve got hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of junk sitting around in here.”

  He winced a little. “Junk is not quite the descriptive phrase we hope for in our publicity efforts. Magda Lane’s collection of art, jewelry, and entertainment memorabilia is arguably one of the finest to ever go to auction.”

  “Yeah, and she’ll rake in a mint for it.”

  “I certainly hope so, as for handling the arrangements for security, display, and auction Roarke Industries gets a nice piece of the pie.”

  He was scanning the room himself, and though he was anything but a cop, he studied, measured, and watched even as his wife had.

  “Her name’s enough to push the bidding far above actual value. I think we’re safe in predicting that twice the actual value will make up that pie by the end of things.”

  Boggling, Eve thought. Boggling. “You’re figuring people will choke out half a billion for somebody else’s things?”

  “Conservatively and before the sentiment factors in.”

  “Jesus Christ.” She could only shake her head. “It’s just stuff. Wait.” She held up a hand. “I forgot who I was talking to. The king of stuff.”

  “Thank you, darling.” He decided not to mention he had his eye on a few bits of that stuff for himself, and his wife.

  He lifted a finger. Instantly a server bearing a tray of champagne in crystal flutes was at his side. Roarke removed two, handed one to Eve. “Now, if you’ve finished eyeballing my security arrangements, perhaps you could enjoy yourself.”

  “Who says I wasn’t?” But she knew she was here not as a cop, but as the wife of Roarke. That meant mingling, rubbing shoulders. And the worst of human tortures in her estimation: small talk.

  Because he knew her mind as thoroughly as he knew his own, he lifted her hand, kissed it. “You’re so good to me.”

  “And don’t you forget it. Okay.” She took a bracing sip of champagne. “Who do I have to talk to?”

  “I think we should start with the woman of the hour. Let me introduce you to Magda. You’ll like her.”

  “Actors,” Eve mutter
ed.

  “Biases are so unattractive. In any case,” he began as he led her across the room, “Magda Lane is far more than an actor. She’s a legend. This marks her fiftieth year in the business, one which often chews up and spits out those who dream of it. She’s outlasted every trend, every style, every change in the movie industry. It takes more than talent to do that. It takes spine.”

  It was as close as Eve had ever seen him to having stars in his eyes. And that made her smile. “Stuck on her, are you?”

  “Absolutely. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a particular evening where I needed a bit of a dodge off the streets. Seeing as I had several lifted wallets and other pocket paraphernalia on my person and the garda on my heels.”

  The wide mouth she’d forgotten to dye for the evening sneered. “Boys will be boys.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I happened to duck into a theater. I was eight or thereabouts and resigned myself to sitting through some costume drama I imagined would bore me senseless. And there sitting in the dark, I had my first look at Magda Lane as Pamela in Pride’s Fall.”

  He gestured toward the display of a sweeping white ballgown that shimmered under a firestorm of icy stones. The droid replica of the actor turned in graceful circles, dipped into delicate curtsies, fluttered a sparkling white fan.

  “How the hell did she walk around in that?” Eve wondered. “Looks like it weighs a ton.”

  He had to laugh. It was so Eve to see the inconvenience rather than the glamour. “Nearly thirty pounds of costume, I’m told. I said she had spine. In any case, she was wearing that the first time I saw her on screen. And for an hour I forgot where I was, who I was, that I was hungry or that I’d likely get a fist in the face when I got home if the wallets weren’t plump enough. She drew me out of myself. That’s a powerful thing.”