The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  “Yep, just A and B up here, and A works nights. Makes it easier. Come on in. You can lie down while I set things up.”

  “Loft. Village? Soho? Where?”

  “Here now, just stretch out here.”

  He wanted to fight, but with arms and legs weak as a baby, his struggles were more petulant than defensive.

  “Relax, relax. I don’t want to give you any more soother just now. You have a right to know what you’re about to do. About to become. Just give me a few minutes.”

  He had to save his strength, Trueheart thought dimly. What there was of it. Save it and observe. Observe and report. “Converted loft. Big space. Windows. Ah, God. Three large windows front, sky windows above. Top floor? Walls. Oh jeez, oh God. Walls . . . portraits. See the victims. I’m the victim. There’s me. I’m on the wall. Am I dead?”

  “He’s losing it, Dallas.”

  “He’s not.” Eve clenched her fist, rapped once against the wheel. “He’s doing the job. Roarke, give me something. Goddamn it.”

  “I’m working it.” His hair fell like a black curtain over his face as he raced his fingers over a minipad. “I’ve got five possibles so far, more coming. These are popular sectors for singles.”

  “Five-story building, lofts.”

  “I heard him, Lieutenant.” His voice was calm as a lake. “I need a few minutes.”

  She wasn’t sure Trueheart had a few minutes.

  Going with her gut, she drove across Broadway to skim along the cross streets. It was funkier, she thought. More welcoming to artists, Free-Agers, the young bohemians, and the well-heeled urbanites who enjoyed them.

  He was young enough to want that sort of scene, and he had a solid financial backing. Nobody would think twice about seeing a guy help another guy—or girl—into a building. Quiet neighborhood. Young residents. Nobody would question that someone had been partying, was drunk or blissed out. Half of them would be the same.

  Sirens and thunder rocked the night, and she watched lightning slice like a jagged-edge knife through the sky. The rain gushed out.

  “Let me explain,” Gerry said as he tested the lights and filters he’d set up. “My mother was an amazing woman. Pure and kind. She raised me on her own. She couldn’t afford to be a professional mother, but she never neglected me. She was a nurse, and she spent her life helping people. Then she got sick.”

  He stepped back, studied the stage he was setting. “It shouldn’t have happened. It’s wrong for someone so selfless and bright to have a shadow take her. They call them shadows, the medicals call tumors shadows. She had shadows in her brain. We did everything right, everything they said. But she didn’t get better. More shadows, deeper ones. It’s just wrong.”

  He nodded. “Just about ready here. Sorry to take so long, but I want this to be perfect. It’s the last one. You’re the one who’ll finish the work, so I don’t want to make a mistake. Light is so important to image. You can finesse it on the computer, and that’s an art, too, but the real art is in getting it right in the first place. I’ve studied for years, in school, on my own. Couldn’t get a showing in New York. It’s a tough town.”

  He didn’t sound resentful. But patient. As Trueheart struggled to make his fingers work, he watched Gerry step back to study his own work, the work that lined his walls.

  Rachel Howard. Kenby Sulu. Alicia Dilbert. All posed and perfected. All dead in their thin silver frames.

  There were other images of them, Trueheart saw dimly. The candid shots. He’d framed them as well, and grouped them on the wall.

  “I had a little showing in Philadelphia a year ago,” Gerry went on. “Just a little gallery, but still. It’s a good start. I was going places, just as I was meant to. But after Mom got sick, I had to put that on hold. Drop out of grad school, concentrate on her. She didn’t want me to, but how could I worry about fame and fortune when she was sick? What kind of a son would that make me?

  “I watched her die,” he said softly. “I watched the light go out of her. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know how. Then. But I figured it out. I wish . . . I only wish I’d known before it was too late for her.”

  He turned back, smiled kindly. “Well, we need to get started.”

  As he crossed the room, sweat ran down Trueheart’s face from the effort to key in his homer.

  “Where’s the van?” Despite the storm, Baxter had the window open, his head stuck through as he scanned the streets. “Where’s the goddamn van?” He swiped his dripping hair out of his face. “Every cop in the city out looking, and we can’t find one stinking van?”

  He could have taken it underground, Eve thought. Into another port. But she didn’t think so. Not from the scene she’d heard through her communicator. Street parking, first level. They hadn’t clanged down steps.

  She was close. She knew she was close. But if they were even a block off . . .

  “Greenwich Street. 207, apartment 5-B.” Roarke lifted his head now, and his eyes were no longer cool. “Javert Stevens.”

  “All units,” Eve began, and ignoring all traffic codes, swung her vehicle into a hard, sliding U-turn. Cars parted for her like the Red Sea as she bulleted the wrong way up a one-way street.

  “Homer’s engaged!” Peabody lurched in her seat, grabbing Baxter’s arm. “He did it! We’re two blocks away.”

  Beside her, Baxter pulled his head in. Even as he began to pray, he checked his weapon.

  He wasn’t sure he’d managed it, couldn’t be sure, but Trueheart let the communicator slide into the cushions on the sofa where Gerry had laid him.

  He tried to push the hands away as they reached for him, but only flailed once before his arms dropped weakly.

  “It’s going to be all right, I promise. It’s not going to hurt. I’m going to take care of that. Then you’ll see. It’s the most amazing thing. I want you posed standing. Very straight. Like a soldier. That’s what I see in you, a soldier—brave and true. But not stiff, so we have to work that a little.”

  He leaned Trueheart against a waist-high stand, drew wires he’d already attached around his ankles. “You want music? I’ll put some on in just a minute. I think I’m going to try this as—what do they call it? Parade rest? Let’s see how it looks.”

  He brought Trueheart’s arms back, hooking them by more wire to the post.

  “This is going to look good. See, I’ll take the post and wires out of the image with the computer. Maybe I should tuck your shirt in.”

  Another line of sweat dribbled down Trueheart’s back. If he found the weapon, it would all be over. Maybe it was over anyway.

  But Gerry stepped back, angled his head. “No, you know I like it out. Shows you’re relaxed, a little casual, but still on alert. You struck me as being on alert in the club. Looking around, watching people. That’s why I thought of the solider pose.”

  He picked up a pressure syringe. “I’m going to give you a little more now, so you won’t be afraid, so you won’t feel any discomfort. And when I’m finished. When I have the image, you’ll understand everything. You’ll be part of everything.”

  “Don’t.” Trueheart’s head lolled on his neck.

  “Ssh. Ssh, don’t worry.”

  He felt the light push against his arm, felt himself going under—soft waves, gentle breezes. Lights out.

  Eve roared up to the curb, and over it as her tires fought to find purchase on the wet street. The black van was parked just ahead.

  Even as the car shimmied, Baxter was out. Eve was steps behind him. “Hold it together,” she ordered.

  “I’m together. I’m so fucking together there are two of me in here.”

  He yanked out his master.

  “Palm plate—this is faster.” Roarke shoved him aside, and went quickly to work with illegal tools.

  “You didn’t see this,” Eve snapped out.

  “I don’t see a damn thing.”

  “You listen to me. Detective Baxter, you listen to me now. I am in command.” She nodded briskly when Fe
eney and McNab, then a trio of black-and-whites braked in front of the building. “We go in fast, but we go in organized.”

  She shoved through the door Roarke opened. “Stairs. Uniforms, elevator. Peabody with me.” She continued to toss orders as she pounded up. “Baxter, Trueheart is your priority.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “You will find and safely secure Officer Trueheart. I want a medic up here,” she barked into her communicator. “I want a medi-van on site. Now. Leave the suspect to me unless directly engaged. Is that clear?”

  “I got it.”

  “He’s put music on, Lieutenant,” Peabody reported, huffing a bit as they hit the fourth level. “I can’t hear anything else now.”

  “Roarke, on the door. Give me two units on emergency evac. He isn’t going to rabbit on us. Get this building surrounded. Two men stationed on each floor at stairway. Disengage the elevators.”

  The next boom of thunder shook the floor under her feet as she rushed to 5-B.

  Her weapon was in her hand, her blood cold, her head clear.

  “I go in low,” she stated, rocking onto her toes as Roarke finessed the locks.

  He worked fast, elegant fingers flying. She kept her eyes on them, focused, focused, and watched them lift clear.

  “Go.”

  She kicked it open, surged through, and had her weapon trained dead between Gerry’s startled eyes.

  “Police. Drop it. Drop it now and step back, or I will shut your lights down permanently.”

  “You don’t understand.” His voice remained reasonable as he clutched the long, thin knife. “I’m going to make him live forever.”

  “Drop your weapon,” she repeated, and refused to let herself be distracted by the sight of Trueheart, shirt open, as he stood unconscious, at parade rest.

  “But—”

  “Screw this.” Baxter was already rushing across the room. To save them all the trouble, Eve lowered her weapon. And shot a stunning stream into Gerry, mid-body.

  The knife hit the floor seconds before he did. The clever lights and shadows streamed over him on the white floor.

  “Okay, kid, okay.” Baxter’s hands trembled visibly as he pressed his fingers to the pulse in Trueheart’s throat. “He’s breathing. We’re going to get you down from here.” His voice thickened as he fought with the wires. “I need some wire clippers. Goddamn it—”

  “Here.” Roarke handed him a tool. “Let me help you.”

  “Scene and suspect secure,” Eve announced into her communicator and set her boot on Gerry’s back in case he came out of it before she had him restrained. “Officer Trueheart appears to be unharmed. Where’s my medic?”

  She turned, found the loft full of cops. She gave it a minute, catching her breath, letting the adrenaline rush dissipate. She understood their need, wanted to give them this moment.

  But . . .

  “Too many cops in here. This scene is now secure, Code Red is ended. I need this area cleared. Officers, I imagine there’s some crime somewhere in the city that needs dealing with. Good job,” she added. “Thank you.”

  “Damn good job,” Feeney told her and laid a hand on her shoulder as they watched Roarke and Baxter lay Trueheart on the floor. “You okay, kid?”

  “A little shaky in the knees now. That was awful damn close.”

  “Close don’t mean shit.” He swiped at his forehead with his arm. “I’m getting too old to run up five flights of stairs. Want me to take this asshole in for you, book him?”

  “Yeah. Appreciate it. I want first crack at him, though. So put him in one of the cages, and if he says anything about lawyers—”

  “I’ve been having a little trouble with my ears. Gotta get them checked.” He grinned viciously, then crouched down and pulled out his restraints.

  She walked over to kneel by the medic.

  “Just buzz juice,” she was told. “Pulse is strong, bp’s low, but not dangerously. He’s going to need a lot of fluids, and he’ll have one bitch of a headache, but he’s young, strong, and fit.”

  “He’s coming around.” Baxter pushed a hand through his still dripping hair. “Look at that. Hey, kid, come on back. Can’t have you lying down on the job, making me look bad.”

  Trueheart’s lashes fluttered. His vision was blurry and his mind confused. “Sir.” He tried to swallow, coughed a little. “Lieutenant? Am I dead?”

  “Not even close.” She couldn’t resist, and took his hand. Baxter already had his other one. “You did the job, Officer Trueheart. You did good. Suspect is in custody.”

  “ ’Kay. Pretty tired now,” he said, then conked out again.

  “He’ll go in and out for a while,” the medic said cheerfully. “We’ll get some fluids in him, take him overnight for observation. He’ll be good as new by morning.”

  “Dallas, I want to stick with him.”

  “Affirmative,” she said to Baxter. “Update me on his condition. Contact his mother. Make sure she knows he’s okay first, then let her know he did the job.”

  She straightened up, and prepared to do hers.

  Epilogue

  “You see,” Gerry explained. “They’re inside me now. Not my body—the body’s just a shell. My mother explained all that to me. They’re in my soul. Light to light.”

  “Did your mother tell you to take their light, Gerry?”

  “No.” He shook his head, leaned forward earnestly. “I wish we’d understood it all before she died. It didn’t have to happen. It never has to happen. We’ll all live forever, we have the capacity. It’s just the body that needs to be shed off.”

  “So,” Eve said, just as reasonably. “You shed off Rachel Howard’s, Kenby Sulu’s, and Alicia Dilbert’s bodies for them?”

  “Yes. Their light was so strong, you see. If you really looked, really understood my portraits of them, you’d see that. My mother told me about the light, how as a nurse, she’d see the light in the eyes of the patients. It would be so strong in some, even when medically it seemed as though there wasn’t a chance for them. But she’d see that light, she said, and knew they were going to beat the odds. Others, well, you’d think they were going to be fine, but the light wasn’t there. And they’d die. Just slip away.”

  “Your mother’s light was strong.”

  “Yes, but not strong enough.” Grief shuddered over his face, and for a moment his eyes weren’t mad. They were young and shattered. “Too many shadows. The shadows smothered the light. You see . . .” He shifted in his chair again. When his face cleared of sorrow, the madness was back over it. “I studied the work of Henri Javert. He was—”

  “I know. He photographed the dead.”

  “It’s a fascinating art. I could see what my mother meant about the light. In the dead, once the light’s been taken, the shell is empty. Javert’s work was brilliant, and helped show me the way. Preserve the light, shed the body.”

  “Take the light into yourself, through the camera.”

  “The lens is magic. It’s not all technology, you know. It’s art and magic. Through it you can see the soul. You can look into a subject and see their soul through the lens. It’s amazing. I have the gift.”

  “Why did you use Hastings?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “You took file images from him.”

  “Oh. I really admire his work. He’s a difficult man, but an incredible artist. I learned a lot from him, in a very short time. He also photographs the dead, but for commission. Not for pure art. This is art.”

  “Did you assist him in photographing the dead?”

  “Only once, but it was amazing. I’d been so down, you know, after my mother. Professor Browning helped get me back on track. She understood I was going through a rough patch and suggested I take the job as Hastings’s assistant. Keep busy. I only worked with him for a week or so, but it brought me back. When I saw Rachel Howard at that wedding, saw the light just spilling out of her . . . it was an epiphany. Hastings s
aw it, too. I had to stop myself from just grabbing the camera from him to take her portrait, but he saw it, too. So I realized he was part of the path. Like a guide.”

  “And you took the discs.”

  “I guess it wasn’t right, and I’m sorry. I’ll pay the fine,” he told her with an apologetic smile. “But it was for something so important—I’m sure Hastings will understand that. I went back later, once I had it all worked out. He’s a little careless and disorganized about his files. I just went through them to see. And the light—the faces—just jumped out at me.”

  “Trueheart wasn’t there.”

  “Trueheart?”

  “My officer. The one you had in your studio tonight.”

  “Trueheart. It’s a perfect name for him. I hadn’t completed my research on him because I had someone else in mind for the last. But as soon as I saw him in the club, I knew. I just knew, and tonight it fell into place.”

  “About the club. Why did you change your name?”

  “You have to be careful. I knew people wouldn’t understand, would try to stop me. I thought I’d set up an alter ego, just as a cushion.”

  “You’d already changed it once, as Hastings’s assistant. Were you already planning your . . . gallery?”

  “I think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was. But lots of artists take a professional name, and I was just trying that one on. I took Javert’s name because I really admired him.”

  “When you took the job at the club,” she prompted, “you had your plan in place.”

  “Oh yeah. But for the club, I thought I’d just keep it simple—my name, I mean. Audrey is Mom’s middle name, so it was kind of an homage to her. I’m kinda thirsty? Can I get a drink?”

  “Sure.” She gestured to Peabody. “How’d you pick the data club?”

  “Oh, I used to hang there sometimes. A lot of the college kids come into the club. Almost all of them pass through sooner or later, so taking a job tending bar was a good way to observe and select. And the data club made sense. I could get the word out on my work efficiently, privately.”