The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  She handed the photographs back to Eve. “You didn’t tell me who she was.”

  She would hear it, Eve thought, either through the media or her connection with Anna Whitney. “She’s the woman who gave Walter Pettibone poisoned champagne. And our prime suspect.”

  “I liked her,” Peabody said as they drove back to the city.

  “So did I.”

  “I can’t see her hiring a hit. She’s too direct, and I don’t know, sensible. And if the motive was payback for the divorce, why not target Bambi, too? Why should the replacement get to play grieving widow and roll around in an inheritance?”

  Since Eve had come to the same conclusions herself, she nodded. “I’ll see if Whitney can give me any different angle on the divorce and her attitude toward Pettibone. But at this point we bump her down the list.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “If Julianna was a hired hitter, she’d be costly. We’ll start on financials, see if anybody spent some serious money recently.”

  Julianna wasn’t concerned about money. Her husbands, God rest them, had been very generous with the commodity. Long before she’d killed them, she’d opened secure, numbered accounts under various names in several discreet financial institutions.

  She’d invested well, and even during her hideous time in prison, her money had made money for her.

  She could have lived a long and indulgent life anywhere in the world or its satellites. But that life would never have been complete unless she could take the lives of others.

  She really enjoyed killing. It was such interesting work.

  The one benefit of incarceration had been the time, endless time, for her to consider how to continue that work once she was free again.

  She didn’t hate men. She abhorred them. Their minds, their bodies, their sweaty, groping hands. Most of all, she detested their simplicity. With men, it all came down to sex. However they dressed it up—romanticized, justified, dignified it—a man’s primary goal was to stuff his cock inside you.

  And they were too stupid to know that once they did, they gave you all the power.

  She had no sympathy for women who claimed they’d been abused or raped or molested. If a woman was too stupid, too weak, to know how to seize a man’s power and use it against him, she deserved whatever she got.

  Julianna had never been stupid. And she’d learned quickly. Her mother had been nothing but a fool who’d been tossed away by one man and gone scrambling for another. And always at their beck and call, always biddable and malleable.

  She’d never learned. Not even when Julianna had seduced her idiot second husband, had lured him to bed, and let him do all the disgusting things men lived to do to her fresh and supple fifteen-year-old body.

  It had been so easy to make him want her, to draw him in so that he would sneak out of his wife’s bed and into his wife’s daughter. Panting for her like an eager puppy.

  It had been so easy to use it against him. All she’d had to do was dangle sex, and he’d given her whatever she’d wanted. All she’d had to do was threaten exposure, and he’d given her more.

  She’d walked away from that house at eighteen, with a great deal of money and without a backward glance. She’d never forget her mother’s face when she’d told her just what had gone on under her nose for three long years.

  It had been so viciously satisfying to see the shock, the horror, the grief. To see the weight of it all crash down and crush.

  Naturally, she’d said she’d been raped, forced, threatened. It always paid to protect yourself.

  Maybe her mother had believed it, and maybe she hadn’t. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that in that moment Julianna had realized she had the power to destroy.

  And it had made her.

  Now, years later, she stood in the bedroom of the townhouse off Madison Avenue she’d purchased more than two years before. Under yet another name. Studying herself in the mirror, she decided she liked herself as a brunette. It was a sultry look, particularly with the gold dust tone she’d chosen for her skin.

  She lit an herbal cigarette, turned sideways in the mirror. Ran a hand over her flat belly. She’d taken advantage of the health facilities in prison, had kept herself in shape.

  In fact, she believed she was in better shape than she’d been before she’d gone in. Firmer, fitter, stronger. Perhaps she’d join a health club here, an exclusive one. It was an excellent way to meet men.

  When she heard her name, she glanced toward the entertainment screen and the latest bulletin. Delighted, she watched her face, both as herself and as Julie Dockport flash on. Admittedly, she hadn’t expected the police to identify her quite so quickly. Not that it worried her; not in the least.

  No, they didn’t worry her. They—or one of them—challenged her.

  Detective Eve Dallas, now Lieutenant.

  She’d come back for Dallas. To wage war.

  There had been something about Eve Dallas, she thought now, something cold, something dark that had spoken to her.

  Kindred spirits, she mused, and as the idea intrigued her she’d found herself spending endless hours of her time in prison, studying that particular opponent.

  She had time still. The police would be chasing their tails searching for a connection between her and Walter Pettibone. They’d find none because there was none to find.

  That was the tone of her work now, other women’s husbands. She didn’t have to have sex with them. She just got to kill them.

  Strolling out of the room, she walked toward her office to spend the next hour or two studying her research notes on her next victim.

  She might have taken a forced sabbatical, but Julianna was back. And raring to go.

  Chapter 6

  Because stalling made her feel weak and stupid, Eve only managed to put off the trip to Commander Whitney’s office until the middle of the day.

  The only satisfaction in heading up was being able to ignore Channel 75’s ace on-air reporter, Nadine Furst, as she requested an interview regarding the Pettibone-Dunne story.

  That was something else she’d have to shuffle in, she thought as she caught a glide out of Homicide. Nadine’s investigative skills were as sharp and savvy as her wardrobe. She’d be a handy tool.

  As she was shown directly into Whitney’s office without even a momentary wait, Eve had to figure he’d been expecting her.

  He sat at his desk, a big-shouldered man with a worn, wide face. He had good, clear eyes, and she had reason to know his time off the streets hadn’t softened him.

  He sat back, giving her a little come-ahead signal with one finger. “Lieutenant. You’ve been busy.”

  “Sir?”

  “You made a trip out to my neighborhood this morning, paid a visit to Shelly Pettibone.” He folded those big hands, and his face was unreadable. “I just got an earful from my wife.”

  “Commander, it’s standard procedure to question any and all connections to the victim.”

  “I don’t believe I said otherwise.” His voice was deep, rumbling, and as unreadable as his face. “What was your impression of Shelly Pettibone?”

  “That she’s a sensible, steady, and straightforward woman.”

  “I’d have to say that’s a perfect description, and I’ve known her about fifteen years. Do you have any reason to believe she had anything to do with her husband’s death?”

  “No, sir. There’s no evidence leading me in that direction.”

  He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Lieutenant, are you afraid of my wife?”

  “Yes, sir,” Eve said without hesitation. “I am.”

  His lips trembled for an instant in what might have been a smothered smile. Then he nodded again. “You’re in good company. Anna is a very strong-willed woman with very definite and particular opinions. I’m going to do what I can to keep her off your back on this, and as Shelly isn’t on your short list, that seems very doable. But if it comes down to you or me, you’re on your own.”

&
nbsp; “Understood.”

  “Just so we know where we stand. Let me give you some basic background here.” He gestured to a chair. “My family has been very friendly with the Pettibones for a number of years. In fact, one of my sons dated Sherilyn when they were teenagers. It was a bitter disappointment to my wife that the relationship didn’t end in marriage, but she got over it.”

  There was a framed holograph of his wife on his desk. In a subtle move, Whitney tapped it until it faced toward the wall instead of toward him. “Anna and Shelly are very good friends, and I believe Anna took it harder than Shelly did when Walter left. In fact, Anna refused to see or speak to Walt, which is why we, and our children were not at the party. We were invited, but one doesn’t butt heads with Anna over social issues.”

  “I don’t think less of you for it, Commander.”

  His brows arched and for another instant there was a flash of humor in his eyes. “Anna is bound and determined that Shelly marry again, or at the very least develop a serious romantic interest. Shelly hasn’t cooperated. She is, as you said, sensible and steady. She’s made a comfortable life for herself and maintained, to Anna’s bafflement, a cordial relationship with Walt. As for Walt himself, I was fond of him.”

  The humor died away. “Very fond of him. He wasn’t a man to make enemies. Even Anna couldn’t dislike him. His children adored him, and as I know them nearly as well as I know my own, I’ll say that though you’ll have to follow through on them investigatively, you’ll find they had no part in his murder.”

  “I’ve found no evidence nor motive that leads in their direction, Commander. Nor toward their spouses.”

  “But you have found Julianna Dunne.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pushed away from his desk, rose. “There are times, Dallas, the system fails. It failed by not keeping that individual in a cage. Now a good man is dead because the system failed.”

  “No system is foolproof, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier when you lose a friend.”

  He acknowledged this offer of condolence with a nod. “Why did she kill him?”

  Because he stood, Eve rose. “Her pattern had been to target a man of some wealth and prestige, develop a relationship with him that led to marriage, legally attaching herself in order to gain all or a portion of that wealth upon his death. In the three cases we know of, the target was no less than twenty-five years her senior, and she became his second wife. While Pettibone fits the general type of her favored target, no evidence has come to light that he knew her personally. She was not a legal heir to his estate, and therefore couldn’t profit from his death by her usual means.”

  Eve took the discs of her reports out of her pocket, set them on his desk. “The most logical motive remains financial gain. I’m pursuing the possibility Dunne was hired out. We’ve made a first-level pass on the financials of the family and closest business associates. I’ve found nothing to indicate any large withdrawals, or consistent smaller ones that would meet the fee for a professional hit. I need to go deeper, and have requested authorization for a second level.”

  “She’d be good at it,” Whitney commented.

  “Yes, sir, she would.”

  “Her pattern’s also been to move, to re-establish herself in another location after she has the money in hand.”

  “She’s already broken pattern. But if she’s left New York, it would be for another major city. And one, in my opinion, she’s familiar with. She’s still getting her legs under her, and would prefer the familiar. I’ve asked Feeney to keep in touch with the police in Chicago and East Washington. I’ve also asked Dr. Mira to consult. I want her to study the reports and testing results on Dunne.”

  “You don’t intend to tag the original profiler?”

  “No, sir. In my opinion the previous profiler and shrink were too soft on her, and I’d prefer Mira’s take. Dunne knows how to play people. Also, her mother and step-father are still alive. She may attempt contact there at some point. In addition, McNab has compiled a list of people she may have formed a relationship with while in Dockport. I think a trip there might provide some insight.”

  “When do you plan to leave?”

  “I’d hoped to go tomorrow, sir. I thought to request that Feeney come with me in this case. We both dealt personally with Dunne, and while Peabody could use the experience, her plate’s full. Her parents are in town, and I recently gave her a cold case to investigate.”

  His brow furrowed. “A homicide? Is she ready for that?”

  “Yes, sir, she’s ready. She’s on the right track, and I believe she can close it.”

  “Keep me apprised on all counts. I’ll be out of the office most of tomorrow afternoon. Saying good-bye to a friend.”

  It felt strange to be able to clock off at end of shift and head home on time. It was stranger still to walk in the front door and not have Summerset lurking in the foyer ready with some pithy remark or observation. She actually found herself standing there for a minute or two, waiting for him, before she caught herself.

  Oddly embarrassed, she started upstairs, almost certain he’d be there, sort of lying in wait. But she made it all the way to the bedroom without a sign of him. Or the cat.

  It didn’t, she realized, feel quite like home.

  Until she heard the shower running, and voices murmuring from the adjoining bath. She stepped in and saw Roarke’s long, lanky form through the wavy glass of the shower wall.

  It was enough to make a woman want to lick her lips.

  The voices came from a screen recessed in the shower tiles, and seemed to be some sort of financial report. The man’s mind was full of numbers half the time, she thought, and decided to shift it to another occupation.

  She stripped where she stood, moved quietly into the criss-crossing sprays behind him, slid her hands around his waist. And down.

  His body braced, a quick ripple of muscle and animal instinct.

  “Darling.” His voice purred out. “My wife could come home any minute.”

  “Screw her.”

  He laughed. “Happy to,” he said, and turning had her pressed against the wet tiles.

  “Raise water temp to one-oh-one degrees.”

  “Too hot,” he muttered against her mouth as the spray heated, steamed.

  “I want it hot.” In a quick move, she reversed their positions, clamped her teeth over his jaw. “I want you hot.”

  She was already wet, and she was randy. Her hands and mouth busy on him, taking him over in a kind of cheerful aggression. He no longer heard the brisk, clipped voice on-screen that detailed the latest stock reports, the market projections. Only the hiss of spray and the beat of his own blood.

  He could want her, every minute of every day. Was certain he would go on wanting her after he was dead and gone. She was the pulse, the reason, the breath.

  When he caught her dripping hair in his hand, yanked her head up so his mouth could fuse to hers, it was like feeding a hunger that was never, ever quite sated.

  She felt it from him, the edge of that violent appetite he so often masked in elegance and style and patience. When she tasted it, it made her crave the primitive, made her lust for the danger of letting the animal inside them both spring loose to feed.

  With him she could be tender, where there had never been tenderness. And with him she could be brutal, without fear.

  “Now. Now, now, now! Inside me.”

  He gripped her hips, fingers sliding over slick, wet skin until they dug in. Her breath caught when he shoved her back against the tiles, then released on a cry when he rammed himself into her.

  Her body plunged through the first vicious orgasm, then raced for more.

  Her eyes locked with his. She could see herself there, swimming in, drowning in that vivid blue. Trusting his strength, she wrapped her legs around his waist to take more of him.

  Steam billowed, thin mists. Water streamed, hot rain. He drove himself hard and deep, watching, always watching that shocked pleasure rad
iate over her face. He could see her rising to peak again, the way her eyes blurred, the gilded brown of them deepening an instant before they went blind, an instant before her body gathered, then shuddered.

  She clamped around him, a hot, wet fist, and nearly dragged him over with her.

  “Take more.” His voice was ragged, his lungs burning. “Take more, and more, until you come screaming for me.”

  She could hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, of flesh against tile, and could taste when his mouth crushed down on hers again the outrageous need in him. And as he thrust into her, as pleasure and pain and madness merged into one searing mass inside her, she heard herself scream.

  Limp as rags, still tangled together, they slid down to the floor of the shower.

  “Christ Jesus,” he managed.

  “Let’s just stay here for an hour or two. We probably won’t drown.” Her head dropped onto his shoulder like a stone.

  “We might, as I think we’re lying on the drains.” But he made no effort to move.

  She turned her head so the spray beat down on her face. “But it feels good.”

  He cupped her breast. “God knows.”

  “Where the hell is everybody?”

  “I think we’re right here.” Her nipples were still hard, still hot, and inspired him to roll over enough to taste.

  She blinked water out of her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I don’t believe I will be if you give me a few minutes here. Less if the water wasn’t so bloody hot.”

  “Turn the temp down and face my wrath.” She put her hands on either side of his face, lifted his head. Grinned. “We’d better get the hell out of here. The water level’s rising.”