by J. D. Robb
“What the hell’s a swish?” Eve wanted to know.
“No talking till I finish the lip area. Very sexy,” Trina said to Mavis. “Good choice with this coloring. Can you do the extremities?”
“Frigid! I just love playing with the goop. I have to take your wedding ring, Dallas. I’ll give it to Roarke.”
Instinctively, Eve curled her fingers in protest, a gesture that made Mavis’s romantic heart sigh. “Don’t worry.” She gave Eve’s hand a part. “I remember when he put this on you the first time. Almost a year ago. It was the best wedding.”
Eve relaxed again, listened to Mavis’s chatter with half an ear.
She knew Leonardo came in by Mavis’s purr of greeting. Then there was cooing and kissy sounds.
“Wonderful job, Trina.” His rich voice sounded very close to Eve’s head, which told her he’d bent down to study the work. “I wouldn’t have recognized her. Did you decide on the silitrex or the plastisinal base?”
“Silitrex. More pliable, and she doesn’t need it to last that long.”
Eve opened one eye when a finger poked at her cheek. And saw Leonardo’s wide, golden face looming in front of hers. “Am I done yet?” she asked him.
He smiled, eyes warming, teeth flashing white and gold. “Almost. You’re going to be pleased. What about the eyes?” he asked Trina.
“Temp gels. We’ll get them close. She’ll wear some amber sunshades, too.” She peered at something over Eve’s shoulder. “Great outfit. I’ve got a lip dye that matches that red, and we’ll use crisp tones on the cheeks and eyes. Can you guys handle doing her nails?”
“I don’t need my nails done.”
“Woman goes on a hot date, she does her nails. Fingers and toes,” Trina added. “Fifteen more minutes,” she promised.
It took nearly twice that, and Eve was considering making a break for it. But since she was surrounded, she stayed put and nearly wept with relief when Trina fixed on the wig she’d dyed and styled the night before.
Eve sat while her three keepers took several steps back and studied her.
“I’ve got one thing to say,” Trina began. “I am good.” She snapped a finger. “Wardrobe and accessories.”
Two hours after the transformation began, Eve stood in front of the mirror Leonardo hauled in. After the first jolt, she settled down to study and critique.
She knew what a swish was now. It was exactly that—a swish of material that swirled down in a kind of open-fronted skirt. This one was murderous red and fell to midcalf. It did nothing, as far as she could see, to make the skinsuit more modest. Nothing could. They were called skinsuits for a reason, the same reason she never wore the damn things.
Might as well walk around naked.
The body she was walking around in was curvier than her own. Despite the fact the breasts weren’t hers, she felt uncomfortable having them so prominently displayed. Another inch of flesh, and she’d have had to cite herself for indecent exposure.
Her hair was lighter, longer. Sort of a subtle blonde that scooped into points at her chin. A rounded, undented chin, with soft and rounded cheeks. Her mouth didn’t look quite so wide with those cheeks, that chin. Still, with the rich red dye, it practically popped off the face.
Her eyes were hazel with hints of green. But the expression in them was all Eve.
“Okay.” She nodded, watched Stefanie’s face nod back at her. “You are good. But let’s give it the big test.”
She crossed the room, walked into Roarke’s office.
He was on the ’link, had a laser fax coming in and a holo-blueprint of a building hovering over his desk. “I’ll approve the changes to the first level. Yes. But I’ll need to see . . .” He trailed off, stared for a full five seconds. “Sorry, Jansen, I’ll have to get back to you.” He ended transmission, tapped something that had the holo evaporating.
He rose, walked to her, around her. “Amazing. Truly. Are you in there?” he murmured then looked into her eyes. “Ah yes. There you are.”
“What tips it?”
“Trina may be a miracle worker, but she can’t do anything about those cop’s eyes.” When she frowned, Roarke lifted her chin with his hand. “Feels very natural,” he added with a gentle rub of his thumb.
“Check the boobs,” Trina invited from behind Eve. “They’re the latest temps. Can’t tell them from Godmade. Go ahead. Take a squeeze.”
“Well, if you insist.” Ignoring Eve’s growl of warning, he cupped the breasts. “You feel very . . . healthy.”
“They come off the minute I take him down. So don’t get any sick ideas.”
“They taste real, too,” Trina assured him.
Roarke’s eyebrow arched. “Really?”
“Don’t even think about it.” She slapped his hands away. “Give me the verdict. Will he buy it?”
“Hook and line, Lieutenant. You might want to adjust your gait a bit. Saunter rather than stride.”
“Saunter. Check.”
“And try not to look at him as though you already had him in Interview. You’re going to a picnic in the park. Try to remember what that’s like.”
“I’ve never had a picnic in the park.”
He skimmed a finger down her chin, just where the dent would be. “We’ll have to fix that. Soon.”
She rode to the north end of the park in the surveillance vehicle, leaning over Feeney’s shoulder as he did the checks.
“Running sweeps. Baxter.”
The first of Feeney’s screens showed a fountain fed by a leaping dolphin. She could hear the tinkle of water against water, snatches of conversations as people strolled, and Baxter’s whiny plea for contributions. The screen jumped slightly as he circled.
“Doing your gimp routine, Baxter?” Eve demanded.
“Roger that,” he replied.
“Just remember, whatever you take in from the suckers goes in the Greenpeace fund.”
As Feeney moved from man to man, she gauged the situation. As she’d predicted, the park was a popular place on a bright June afternoon. She watched a trio of teachers herding a school group like woolly sheep through the botanical gardens.
“Possible sighting.” Peabody’s voice came over the speakers. “Male, Caucasian, shoulder-length black hair, wearing tan trousers, light blue shirt. Carrying wicker picnic basket and black leather bag. Heading east on path, Endangered Species section.”
“I see him.” Eve studied the man on-screen. Now that was sauntering, she decided, watching the way he swung the basket gently at his side. And on his hand was a bicolored gold ring set with a ruby. “Go in on the ring,” she told Feeney.
He blocked, magnified. And she saw the dragon’s head carved into the stone.
“That’s a positive ID. We got our man. Keep him in sight. Baxter, he’ll be moving into your sector.”
“Copy that. I’m on him.”
“Peabody, you and Roarke maintain your distance. He’s thirty minutes early,” she said. “Needs time to get set up. Let’s give it to him.”
“Trueheart’s got a visual,” McNab said from his bank of screens. “Possible suspect moving south now. He’s heading toward the arranged area. Looks like we’ve got him.”
“Maintain distance,” Eve warned. “Trueheart, angle a little to your left. Perfect. Let’s watch the show.”
He moved off the path onto the grassy area designated for picnics. Two other couples were there before him, as well as a trio of women, obviously taking a long lunch break from work. One lone male lay flat on his back, sunbathing. At Eve’s order, he rolled lazily to his side, propped an e-book by his elbow and gave her a new angle on Kevin Morano.
Kevin paused, turning his head right and left as he studied the area. He opted for shade, turning for the largest tree where sun dappled softly on the grass. There he set down basket and bag.
“I want all available eyes on him,” Eve announced. Then she hissed as she saw the visual from Peabody’s recorder. “Peabody, Roarke, not too close.”
> “Lovely spot for a picnic.” Roarke’s voice was warm and cheerful. “Just let me spread this blanket, darling. I wouldn’t want you to get grass stains on that lovely outfit.”
“Blanket? I didn’t clear that,” Eve began.
“This sure is a surprise.” Peabody gave what Eve recognized as an uneasy laugh. “I wasn’t expecting a picnic.”
“What’s life without some surprise?”
She saw Roarke’s face and the amused look on it as he spread a blanket on the ground.
Several feet away, Kevin mirrored the move.
“Such a pretty spot,” Roarke continued, then lowered his voice as he sat. “We can enjoy the view without getting in anyone’s way.”
“I want no interference from any location. No one, repeat no one, moves in without my signal.”
“Naturally. Champagne, sweetheart?”
“Peabody, you take one sip and you’re busted to Traffic.”
Even as she spoke, she watched Kevin. He opened the basket, removed three pink roses, and laid them on the blanket. He lifted wineglasses, held them to the sunlight to watch them sparkle. He opened a bottle of white. Poured a glass.
“Okay, okay, add the chaser, you son of a bitch.”
But instead he raised the glass in a kind of self-toast and sipped.
Then he turned his wrist, checked the time. Taking out his pocket-link, he made a call.
“Up your audio, Peabody,” Eve ordered. “Let’s see if we can get an ear on him.”
She heard birds, conversations, giggles, a child’s war hoop. Before she could demand it, Feeney was filtering.
Kevin’s voice came clearly. “Couldn’t be better. Ten people in the immediate area, so that’s a point for public venue. I suspect we’ll have to pass some park police on the way out, bonus points there.” He paused, laughed. A very young, very happy sound. “Yes, having her do that to me in broad daylight in a public park would certainly shoot me into the lead. I’ll let you know.”
He tucked the ’link away, then sat a moment, breathing deep, admiring the view.
“Just a game,” Eve murmured. “It’s going to be a pleasure taking these bastards down.”
He continued his preparations, moving a bit faster now, taking out a cold pack, opening it to a presentation of caviar. He set out toast points and the accompaniments. Foie gras, cold lobster, fresh berries.
“Gotta admit, the guy knows how to set out a spread.”
“Shut up, McNab,” Eve muttered.
He sampled a berry, then another. As he nibbled, she saw his eyes change. There, she thought. There it was. The coolness, the calculation. It remained steady as he poured the second glass of wine.
He watched and watched carefully as he opened the black bag. He reached in, brought his hand out again with the palm facing his body. And casually, he held his hand over the second glass, tipped.
She saw, in Roarke’s recorder, a thin trickle of liquid.
“Bingo. He’s ready for her. I’m coming in. Take third stage positions. Report any possible sightings of alternate target.”
She moved to the rear doors. “I’m under.”
“Take him down, kid,” Feeney said and kept his eyes glued to the screens.
She stepped out into the sun and warmth. When she caught herself striding, she did her best to saunter. She was barely into the park when a lunch-hour jogger trotted up to her.
“Hey, beautiful. How about a little run?”
“How about you back off before I knock you on your pudgy ass?”
“That’s my cop,” Roarke said softly in her ear as she kept walking.
She spotted Baxter under a stringy tangle of dirt-colored hair, a torn T-shirt, and drooping trousers that were both smeared with what looked like egg substitute and ketchup.
Most park patrons were giving him a wide berth. As she neared him, she caught the whiff of old sweat and stale brew mixed with urine.
The man really got into character, she thought.
When she passed him she got a wheezy wolf whistle.
“Bite me.”
“I dream of it,” he said behind his hand. “Night and day.”
In the five minutes it took her to move through the park, she was approached with propositions four times.
“You might want to take the I’ll-kick-your-ass-then-eat-it look off your face, Lieutenant,” McNab suggested. “Most guys’d be a little put off by it.”
“I’ve never been,” Roarke commented. “Caviar?” he said to Peabody.
“Well . . . I guess.”
Eve fixed what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face, and thought about the nice little chat she’d be having with her personnel, including her expert consultant, civilian.
Then the view opened; she saw Kevin. Everything else was set aside.
He saw her as well. A slow, boyish smile crossed his face, just a little shy at the edges. He got to his feet, hesitated, then walked to her.
“Make my dreams come true and tell me you’re Stefanie.”
“I’m Stefanie. And you’re . . .”
“Wordsworth.” He took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “You’re even lovelier than I imagined. Than I hoped.”
“And you’re everything I thought you’d be.” She left her hand in his. Dating had never been one of her strong suits, but she’d planned carefully how she would behave, what she would say. “I hope I’m not late.”
“Not at all. I was early. I wanted . . .” He gestured toward the picnic. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”
“Oh. It looks wonderful. You’ve gone to so much trouble.”
“I’ve looked forward to this for a long time.” He led her to the blanket. She passed within a foot of Roarke. “Caviar!” she said as she sat. “You certainly know how to throw a picnic.”
She leaned over, turned the bottle of wine around so she could see the label. The same he’d used with Bryna Bankhead. “My favorite.” She made her lips curve. “It’s as if you could read my mind.”
“I’ve felt that way, ever since we first corresponded. Getting to know you online, I felt as if I knew you. Had always known you. Was somehow meant to.”
“This guy is good,” McNab breathed in her ear.
“I felt the connection, too,” Eve said, using Stefanie’s words to her as a guide. “The letters, the poetry we shared. All the fabulous stories about your travels.”
“I think . . . it’s fate. ‘It is he that saith not Kismet.’ ”
Oh, shit, Eve thought. Mind scrambling, she opened her mouth. And Roarke whispered the rest of the quote in her ear. “ ‘It is he who knows not fate,’ ” she repeated. “What do you think fate has in store for us, Wordsworth?”
“Who can say? But I can’t wait to find out.”
Give me the damn wine, you worthless, murdering bastard. But instead, he handed her the roses.
“They’re lovely.” She made herself sniff them.
“Somehow I knew they’d suit you best. Pink rosebuds. Soft, warm. Romantic.” He lifted his own glass, toyed with the stem. “I’ve looked forward to giving them to you, to having this time with you. Shall we have a toast?”
“Yes.” She continued to look into his eyes, while she willed him to pick up the glass, to put it into her hand. Trying for flirtatious, she brushed the rosebuds against her cheek.
And he picked up the glass. He put it into her hand.
“To fateful beginnings.”
“And even better,” she said, “to destined endings.” She brought the glass to her lips, saw his gaze greedily follow it. And the shadow of irritation smoke over them as she lowered it again without drinking.
“Oh, just one second.” She let out a quick laugh, set the wine aside, and opened her purse. “There’s just one thing I want to do first.”
With her free hand, she took his, then pulling out the restraints, snapped them on. “Kevin Morano, you’re under arrest—”
“What? What the hell is this?” When he tried to yan
k away she had the pleasure of knocking him flat, rolling him, and with her knee in the small of his back, securing the restraints.
“For the murder of Bryna Bankhead, the attempted murder of Moniqua Cline, and accessory in the murder of Grace Lutz.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What are you doing?” When he tried to buck she simply held her weapon to his head. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Remember it. I’m your goddamn fate. My name is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,” she repeated because her gorge wanted to rise into her throat. “And I’ve stopped you.”
So what? a voice whispered in her ear. Her father’s voice. Another’s coming. Another always is.
For an instant, just an instant, her finger twitched on her weapon. Tempted.
She heard the voices behind and above her—the alarmed buzzing of civilians, the clipped orders from her team. And she felt Roarke there, just there at her side.
Rising, she dragged Kevin up. “Looks like this wasn’t such a fucking picnic after all. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.
She escorted him to transport herself. She needed to. He wasn’t remaining silent. Instead he babbled about mistaken identity, miscarriages of justice, and his influential family.
He wasn’t yet babbling for his lawyer, but he would. Eve was sure of it. She’d be lucky to have fifteen minutes in Interview with him before his terror and shock settled back into calculation.
“I’ve got to go in, get started on him right away.”
“Eve—”
She shook her head at Roarke. “I’m all right. I’m okay.” But she wasn’t. There were drums banging inside her skull. In defense she dragged off the wig, scooped her hand through her hair. “I’ve got to get this crap off me. They should be finished booking him by the time I get back to normal.”
“Trina’s going to meet you at Central, give you a hand with it.”
“Good. I guess. I’ll see you at home.”
“I’m coming in with you.”
“There’s no point—”
“In discussing it,” he finished. Nor in telling her he was going to administer the next round of meds Summerset had given him. “Why don’t I drive you? We’ll get there faster.”
