Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “What did they stand for?”

  “Maxwell Witherspoon. Isn’t that a wonderful name?”

  “Very distinguished.”

  “Why, that’s just what I told him.”

  “So, you spoke with him.”

  “Well, my purse slid off the table.” She put her fingers to her lips as if to hide a grin. “A girl’s got to have a trick or two if she wants to meet the right man.”

  “You knocked your purse off the table.”

  “It landed right by his foot. It was my pretty black-and-white snakeskin. Maxwell leaned over to pick it up. As he handed it to me, he smiled. My heart just about stopped. It was like a dream. I didn’t hear the clatter of the other tables, I didn’t see the shoppers on the floors above us. Our fingers touched, and—oh, promise you won’t laugh, Doctor.”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “It was as if he’d touched my soul.”

  That’s what she’d been afraid of. Tess moved away from the desk to sit in the chair opposite her patient. “Mrs. Halderman, do you remember Asanti?”

  “Him?” With a sniff Mrs. Halderman dismissed her fourth husband.

  “When you met him at the art gallery, under his painting of Venice, you thought he touched your soul.”

  “That was different. Asanti was Italian. You know how clever Italian men are with women. Maxwell’s from Boston.”

  Tess fought back a sigh. It was going to be a very long fifty minutes.

  When Ben entered Tess’s outer office, he found exactly what he’d expected. It was as cool and classy as her apartment. Calming colors, deep roses, smoky grays that would put her patients at ease. The potted ferns by the windows had moist leaves, as though they’d just been spritzed with water. Fresh flowers and a collection of figurines in a display cabinet lent the air of a parlor rather than a reception room. From the copy of Vogue left open on a low coffee table, he gathered her current patient was a woman.

  It didn’t remind him of another doctor’s office, one with white walls and the scent of leather. He didn’t feel the hitch in his gut or the sweat on the back of his neck as the door closed behind him. He wouldn’t be waiting for his brother here, because Josh was gone.

  Tess’s secretary sat at a neat enameled desk, working with a single-station computer. She stopped typing as Ben and Ed entered, and looked as calm and easy as the room. “Can I help you?”

  “Detectives Paris and Jackson.”

  “Oh, yes. Dr. Court’s expecting you. She’s with a patient at the moment. If you won’t mind waiting, I could get you some coffee.”

  “Just hot water.” Ed drew a tea bag out of his pocket.

  The secretary didn’t show even a flicker of reaction. “Of course.”

  “You’re a constant embarrassment to me,” Ben muttered as she slipped into a small side room.

  “I’m not pumping caffeine into my system just to be socially acceptable.” With his bag of herbs dangling from his hand, he looked around the room. “How about this place? Classy.”

  “Yeah.” Ben took another look around. “Fits her.”

  “I don’t know why that gives you such a problem,” Ed said mildly as he studied a Monet print, sunrise on the water, all softly blurred colors with a touch of fire. He liked it as he liked most art, because someone had had the imagination and skill to create it. His views on the human race were pretty much the same. “A good-looking, classy woman with a sharp mind shouldn’t intimidate a man who has a strong sense of his own worth.”

  “Christ, you should be writing a column.”

  Just then the door to Tess’s office opened. Mrs. Halderman came out, her sable tossed over one arm. Seeing the men, she stopped, smiled, then touched her tongue to her top lip the way a young girl might when she spotted a bowl of chocolate ice cream. “Hello.”

  Ben hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Hello.”

  “Are you waiting to see Dr. Court?”

  “That’s right.”

  She stayed where she was a moment, then let her eyes widen as she studied Ed. “My, my, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

  Ed swallowed a small obstruction in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m just fascinated by … big men.” She crossed to him, letting her eyes sweep up and flutter. “They always make me feel so helpless and feminine. Just how tall are you, Mister …?”

  Grinning, with his thumbs still hooked in his pockets, Ben walked to Tess’s door and left Ed to sink or swim.

  She was sitting behind her desk, head back, eyes closed. Her hair was up again, but she didn’t look unapproachable. Tired, he thought, and not just physically. As he watched, she lifted a hand to her temple and pressed at the beginnings of a headache.

  “Looks like you could use an aspirin, Doc.”

  She opened her eyes. Her head came up again, as though she didn’t find it acceptable to rest except in private. Though she was small, the desk didn’t dwarf her. She looked completely suited to it, and to the black-framed degree at her back.

  “I don’t like to take pills.”

  “Just prescribe them?”

  Her back angled a little straighter. “You weren’t waiting long, were you? I need my briefcase.”

  As she started to rise, he walked over to the desk. “We’ve got a few minutes. Rough day?”

  “A little. You?”

  “Hardly shot anybody at all.” He picked up a chunk of amethyst from her desk and passed it from hand to hand. “I meant to tell you, you did good this morning.”

  She picked up a pencil, ran it through her fingers, then set it down again. Apparently the next confrontation would be postponed. “Thanks. So did you.”

  He hitched himself onto the corner of her desk, discovering he could relax in her office, psychiatrist or not. There were no ghosts here, no regrets. “How do you feel about Saturday matinees?”

  “Open minded.”

  He had to grin. “Figured you would be. They’re playing a couple of classic Vincent Price films.”

  “House of Wax?”

  “And The Fly. Interested?”

  “I might be.” Now she did rise. The headache was only a dull, easily ignored throb in one temple. “If it included popcorn.”

  “It even includes pizza after.”

  “I’m sold.”

  “Tess.” He put a hand on her arm, though he still found the trim gray suit she wore intimidating. “About last night …”

  “I thought we both already apologized for that.”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t look weary or vulnerable now, but in control. Untouched, untouchable. He backed off, still holding the chunk of amethyst in his hand. It matched her eyes. “Ever make love in here?”

  Tess lifted a brow. She knew he wanted to shock, or at the very least, annoy her. “Privileged information.” She plucked her briefcase up from beside her desk and headed for the door. “Coming?”

  He had an urge to slip the amethyst in his pocket. Annoyed, he set it down carefully and followed her out.

  Ed stood beside the secretary’s desk, sipping tea. His face was nearly as red as his hair.

  “Mrs. Halderman,” she said to Tess, sending Ed a sympathetic look. “I managed to nudge her along before she devoured him.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Ed.” But Tess’s eyes glistened. “Would you like to sit down a minute?”

  “No.” He sent his partner a warning look. “One word, Paris.”

  “Not me.” All innocence, Ben walked to the door and held it open. As Ed walked by, Ben fell into step beside him. “You are a big one, though, aren’t you?”

  “Keep it up.”

  Monsignor Timothy Logan didn’t look like Ben’s childhood conception of a priest. Instead of a cassock, he wore a tweed jacket over a pale yellow turtleneck. He had the big, broad face of an Irishman, and dark red hair just beginning to go wiry with gray. His office wasn’t like the hushed quiet of a rectory with its somehow sanctified fragrances and old dark woods. Instead it smelled of p
ipe tobacco and dust, like the den of an ordinary man.

  There were no pictures of the saints or the Savior on the walls, no ceramic statues of the Virgin with her sad, understanding face. There were books, dozens and dozens of them, some on theology, some on psychiatry, and several more on fishing. Instead of a crucifix there was a mounted silver bass.

  On a stand rested an old Bible with a carved cover; a newer, though more well-used one was open on the desk. A rosary with fat wooden beads lay beside it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsignor Logan.” Tess held out her hand in a colleague-to-colleague manner that made Ben uncomfortable. The man was a priest, tweed or not, and priests were to be revered, even feared a little, and respected. God’s proxies, he remembered his mother saying. They handled the sacraments, forgave sins, and absolved the dying.

  One had come to Josh after he was already dead. There had been words of comfort, sympathy, and kindness for the family, but no absolution. Suicide. The most mortal of the mortal sins.

  “And you, Dr. Court.” Logan had a clear, booming voice that could easily have filled a cathedral. Yet there was an edge to it, a toughness that made Ben think of an umpire calling strike three. “I attended the lecture you gave on dementia. I wasn’t able to speak to you afterward and tell you I thought you were brilliant.”

  “Thank you. Monsignor, Detectives Paris and Jackson—they’re heading the investigation team.”

  “Detectives.”

  Ben accepted the handshake and felt foolish for expecting, even for an instant, something more than flesh and blood.

  “Please be comfortable.” He gestured to chairs. “I have your profile and report on my desk, Dr. Court.” He swung around it with the free, easy strides of a man on a golf course. “I read them this morning, and found them both disturbing and intuitive.”

  “You agree?”

  “Yes, with the information from the investigator’s report, I would have drawn up a reflecting profile. The religious aspects are undeniable. Of course, religious allusions and delusions are common in schizophrenia.”

  “Joan of Arc heard voices,” Ben murmured.

  Logan smiled and folded his broad, capable hands. “As did any number of the saints and martyrs. Some might say fasting for forty days might have anyone hearing voices. Others might say they were chosen. In this case we can all agree we’re not dealing with a saint, but a very disturbed mind.”

  “No argument there,” Ed murmured, his notebook in hand. He remembered feeling a little … well, spiritual, after a three-day fast.

  “As a doctor, and a priest, I look on the act of murder as a sin against God, and as an act of extreme mental aberration. However, we have to deal with the mental aberration first in order to prevent the sin from being committed again.”

  Logan opened Tess’s file and tapped his finger on it. “It would appear that the religious aspects, and delusions, are rooted in Catholicism. I have to concur with your opinion that the use of the amice as a murder weapon could be construed as a strike against the Church, or devotion to it.”

  Tess leaned forward. “Do you think he might be a priest, or have been one? Perhaps wanted to be one?”

  “I believe it’s more than possible he had training.” The frown came slowly, and seemed to lodge between his eyes. “There are other articles of a priest’s habit that would be as effective for strangulation. The amice is neckware, and therefore, grimly accurate.”

  “And the use of white?”

  “Symbolizing absolution, salvation.” Unconsciously he spread his hands, palms facing, in the age-old gesture.

  Tess nodded agreement. “Absolving a sin. Against himself?”

  “Perhaps. But a sin that may have resulted in the death or spiritual loss of the woman he continues to save.”

  “He’s putting himself in the role of Christ? As Savior?” Ben demanded. “And casting the first stone?”

  Because he was a man who took his time, watched his footing, Logan leaned back and rubbed his earlobe. “He doesn’t perceive himself as Christ, at least not yet. He’s a laborer of God in his mind, Detective, and one who knows himself to be mortal. He takes precautions, protects himself. He would realize that society would not accept his mission, but he follows a higher authority.”

  “Voices again.” Ben lit a cigarette.

  “Voices, visions. To a schizophrenic they are as real, often more so, than the real world. This is not split personality, Detective, but a disease, a biological dysfunction. It’s possible that he’s had the illness for years.”

  “The murders started in August,” Ben pointed out. “We’ve checked with homicide divisions all over the country. There haven’t been any murders with this M.O. It started here.”

  Detailed police work interested Logan but didn’t sway him. “Perhaps he was in a period of recovery and some kind of stress brought the symptoms back, resulting in violence. At the moment he’s torn between what is and what seems to be. He agonizes, and he prays.”

  “And he kills,” Ben said flatly.

  “I don’t expect compassion.” Logan, with his dark, priest’s eyes and capable hands, spoke quietly. “That’s my territory, and Dr. Court’s, and can’t be yours with your dealings in this case. None of us wants to see him kill again, Detective Paris.”

  “You don’t think he has a Christ delusion,” Ed interrupted as he continued to make methodical notes. “Is that just because he takes precautions? Christ was destroyed physically.”

  “An excellent point.” The clear voice took on a richness. There was nothing he liked better than to have one of his students question his theories. Logan looked from one detective to the other and decided they made a good pair. “Still, I don’t see him as perceiving himself as anything but a tool. Religion, the structure, the barriers, the traditions of it, loom more predominantly than theology. He kills as a priest, whether he is one or not. He absolves and forgives as God’s proxy,” he continued, and saw Ben wince. “Not as the Son of God. I developed an interesting theory you missed, Dr. Court.”

  She came to attention instantly. “Oh?”

  He smiled again, recognizing professional pride. “Understandable enough. You’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “No.”

  “The investigation team overlooked it as well.”

  “I’m Methodist,” Ed put in, still writing. “I’m not trying for a conversion.” Taking up his pipe, he began to fill it. His fingers were blunt and wide, with the nails neatly trimmed. A few flakes of tobacco fell on and clung to his yellow turtleneck. “The date of the first murder, August fifteenth, is a Church holy day.”

  “The Assumption,” Ben murmured before he realized it.

  “Yes.” Logan continued to fill his pipe and smiled. Ben was reminded of answering correctly in catechism.

  “I used to be Catholic.”

  “A common problem,” Logan said, and lit his pipe.

  No lecture, no pontifical frown. Ben felt his shoulders relaxing. His mind started ticking. “I didn’t put the dates together. You think it’s significant?”

  Meticulously, Logan removed tobacco from his sweater. “It could be.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsignor.” Tess lifted her hands. “You’ll have to explain.”

  “August fifteenth is the day the Church recognizes the Virgin’s assumption into heaven. The Mother of God was a mortal, but she carried the Savior in her womb. We revere her as the most blessed and pure among women.”

  “Pure,” Tess murmured.

  “Of itself, I might not have paid too much attention to the date,” Logan continued. “However, it jogged my imagination enough to check the Church calendar. The second murder occurred on the day we celebrate Mary’s birth.”

  “He’s picking the days she’s—excuse me—Mary’s honored by the Church?” Ed stopped writing long enough to look up for an acknowledgment.

  “The third murder falls on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. I’ve added a Church calendar to your file, Dr. Co
urt. I don’t think the odds for three out of three rate a coincidence.”

  “No, I agree.” Tess rose, anxious to see for herself. She picked up the calender and studied the dates Logan had circled. Dusk was falling. Logan switched on the light and the beam shot over the paper in her hands.

  “The next one you have here isn’t until December eighth.”

  “The Immaculate Conception.” Logan puffed on his pipe.

  “That would put eight weeks between the murders,” Ed calculated. “He’s never gone more than four.”

  “And we can’t be sure he’s emotionally capable of waiting that long,” Tess added in a murmur. “He could change his pattern. Some incident could set him off. He might pick a date personally important to him.”

  “The date of birth or death of someone important to him.” Ben lit another cigarette.

  “A female figure.” Tess folded the calendar. “The female figure.”

  “I agree that the stress he’s under is building.” Logan put his pipe down and leaned forward. “The need for release could be enough to make him strike sooner.”

  “He’s probably dealing with some sort of physical pain.” Tess slipped the calendar into her briefcase. “Headache, nausea. If it becomes too great for him to carry on his normal life …”

  “Exactly.” Logan folded his hands again. “I wish I could be more helpful. I would like to discuss this with you again, Dr. Court.”

  “In the meantime, we have a pattern.” Ben crushed out his cigarette as he rose. “We concentrate on December eighth.”

  “It’s only a crumb,” Ben said as they stepped out into a chilled dusk. “But I’m ready to take it.”

  “I didn’t realize you were Catholic.” Tess buttoned her coat against the wind that was whipping up. “Maybe that’ll be an advantage.”