The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  “I’ll reach out.”

  “Good. I’m going to leave the electronics to the people who know what the hell to do about them.” She said this, looking at Roarke. “And I’m going to go do some cop work, if you’ll open this place up again.”

  “Computer, end lockdown. Resume normal operations.”

  Acknowledged.

  “I’ll be a few moments,” Roarke told Reva and Caro, then left them alone to walk out with Eve.

  “Peabody, go see how the EDD boys are doing. I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Sure.”

  Eve turned into her own office ahead of Roarke, slipped her hands in her pockets. “I thought you’d told her about the HSO angle, about the conclusions on Bissel and Kade.”

  “I’m aware of that, and aware that you’d have reason to assume it.”

  “The assumption factored in to the speed with which I crawled up your ass.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’m still irritable and annoyed.”

  “Well, so am I, so you’ve company.”

  “I might still want to have a go at you later.”

  “I’ll pencil you in.”

  She stepped up to him, and keeping her hands in her pockets, planted a hard kiss on his mouth. “See you,” she said, and strolled out.

  Since she didn’t understand what EDD was doing in Roarke’s home lab, she dragged Peabody away, and gave her the task of locating and contacting Carter Bissel while she begged a brief consult with Dr. Mira.

  “Your assistant’s starting to hate me,” Eve commented.

  “No, she’s just very inflexible about schedules.” Mira programmed her habitual tea and gestured toward her blue scoop chairs.

  She’d gone for red today. Not really red, Eve thought. There was probably a name for the color that looked like faded autumn leaves. She wore a trio of necklaces that were little gold balls strung together like pearls, and matched them with minute gold earrings.

  The shoes, some sort of textured heels, were the exact color of the dress. Eve could never figure out how women managed that sort of synchronicity—or really, why they bothered.

  But it looked good on Mira. Everything did. Her sable hair with its sunny highlights was drawn back today into some sort of twisty knot at the nape. She was letting it grow again.

  However Mira dressed or groomed herself, Eve decided she’d always look perfect, and nothing like the standard image of a top profiler and police psychiatrist.

  “I assume this has something to do with Reva Ewing’s Truth Test this afternoon, as you requested I handle the test personally.”

  “It does. This conversation, any conversation with Ewing, and the results of the test are highest classification. My eyes, yours, and Commander Whitney’s only.”

  Mira sipped her tea, pursed her lips. “And what warrants that classification?”

  “Global espionage,” Eve said, and told her the rest.

  “You believe her.” Mira rose for another cup of tea. “That she was duped, and is innocent of any involvement—deliberate involvement—in the murders and in the background that may have led to them.”

  “I do. I expect you to confirm that.”

  “And if the results contradict her, and your beliefs?”

  “Then she’ll go back into a cage until I figure out why.”

  Mira nodded. “She’s agreed to level three. That’s a very difficult process, as you know from personal experience.”

  “I got through it, so will she.”

  Mira nodded, her gaze on Eve’s face. “You like her.”

  “Yeah, probably. But it won’t get in the way. Either way.”

  “The murders were very violent, very brutal. One assumes that a government—even covert government—organization would be less so.”

  “I don’t assume anything about spooks.”

  Mira smiled a little. “You don’t like them.”

  “No. The HSO has a file on my father.”

  Mira’s smile faded. “I suppose that’s to be expected.”

  “They had a field operative monitoring him, and the rooms where we were in Dallas.”

  Mira set the cup aside. “They were aware of you? Of what was being done to you, and didn’t intervene?”

  “They were aware, it’s in the file. Just like they were aware of what I did to get away. They cleaned up after me, and they let it ride. So no, I’m no fan of the HSO.”

  “Whoever gave the order not to intervene when a child’s welfare—her very life—is at stake, should be locked away—like any abuser. This shocks me. After all I’ve seen, heard, all I know, this shocks me.”

  “If they could do what they did in Dallas, they could do what was done to Reva Ewing. But this time, they’re not going to get away with it.”

  “You’re going public with Ewing.”

  “Damn right.”

  Eve went back to Homicide, taking the glides rather than the elevator to give herself more time to think about her next steps. It still gave her a quick jolt to walk into the bull pen and see Peabody at a desk instead of a cube.

  Since her partner was on the ’link, Eve went straight into her own office. She locked the door, then climbed onto her desk to reach the ceiling panel, behind which she was currently secreting her personal stash of candy.

  She needed a hit. Genuine chocolate, real coffee. All would be right with the world during the ten minutes she took for this personal, and well-deserved, indulgence.

  But instead of her cache of candy, there was a single, empty wrapper.

  Son of a bitch!” She nearly snatched the wrapper down with the intention of tearing it into bits. But stopped herself. “We’ll just see about this, you vicious candy thief.”

  She hopped down and got her spare field kit. Sealing up, she climbed back on the desk to remove the wrapper with tongs, then set it on a protective surface on her desk.

  “You want to play. We’ll play.”

  Moments later, the knock on her door earned a snarl.

  “Dallas? Lieutenant? Your door’s locked.”

  “I know the damn door’s locked. I locked it.”

  “Oh. I have information on Carter Bissel.”

  Eve rose, kicked the desk, unlocked the door. “Relock it,” she ordered, then sat back at her desk with her tools.

  “Sure.” With a shrug, Peabody secured the door. “I contacted—what are you doing?”

  “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Well, it looks as if you’re doing a fingerprint scan on a candy wrapper.”

  “Then that’s probably what I’m doing. You contacted Carter Bissel?”

  “No, I . . . Dallas, has a chocolate bar been entered into evidence on this investigation?”

  “This is a personal matter. Sealed up,” she muttered. “Bastard sealed up. But that’s not the end of this. I’ve got other ways.”

  “Sir, you also appear to have run a fingerprint scan on a ceiling tile.”

  “Do you think I’m unaware of what I’m running, Detective? Do I look like I’m in a fugue state?”

  “No, you look supremely pissed.”

  “Again, your powers of observation are keen and accurate. Congratulations. Fuck it.” She balled the wrapper up, tossed it. “I’ll deal with this later. And I will deal. Carter Bissel. And where’s my coffee?”

  “Uh, as you have declined the services of an aide—”

  “Oh, bite me.” She shoved away from the desk, stomped to the AutoChef.

  “I just wanted the opportunity to say that. But, you know, I don’t mind getting you coffee. You could even get it for me sometimes. Like now, for instance, since you’re right there.”

  Eve heaved a huge sigh, and got a second cup.

  “Thanks. Okay, Bissel, Carter. I tried the residence, but got no answer. Left a message on his ’link. Then I tried the bar he’s listed as owning, and tagged his partner, Diesel Moore. Moore went into a rant and jive the minute I asked about Bissel. Says he wants to f
ind him, too, and called him several uncomplimentary names. He claims Bissel left him high and dry nearly a month ago, and skimmed out of the till. Moore claims to be in dire financial straits. He waited, assuring himself Bissel would come back with an explanation, but that hasn’t happened. He filed charges yesterday.”

  “You verify?”

  “Yep. Local authorities are looking for Bissel, and have no record of him leaving the island. Could’ve taken a boat or a seaplane, island-hopped. They’re looking into it, but not very hard. He only skimmed a couple thousand, and part of that would be his due. Also, he has a history of taking off for short periods of time without warning or explanation.”

  “They check his place?”

  “Affirmative. It appears some of his clothes may be missing, and a few personal items, but there’s no sign of struggle, foul play, or, for that matter, evidence that he was planning a long trip.”

  “A month ago. Felicity Kade made a trip to Jamaica. Just what did she and Carter Bissel have to talk about, I wonder?”

  “Maybe she was looking to recruit him, too.”

  “Or maybe she was looking for another goat. I think we should take another look at the crime scene.”

  Her desk ’link beeped, and she tossed the ceiling tile aside. “Dallas.”

  Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officer at 24 West Eighteenth Street. Unattended death. Single victim, female. Identification verified as McCoy, Chloe.

  “Acknowledged. Responding. Dallas, out.”

  10 SHE’D GONE WITH pills, and had dressed in a frothy pink nightgown, done her face and hair carefully, then draped herself on the bed among a mountain of pretty pillows and a stuffed purple bear.

  She smelled of something very young, very floral, and might have been mistaken for sleeping if her eyes hadn’t been wide and staring, and already clouded with death.

  The note lay on the bed beside her, just at her fingertips, with a single line written in dramatic, loopy script on cheap, reconstituted pink paper.

  There is no light, there is no life without him.

  The empty pill bottle sat on the nightstand, beside a glass of tepid water and a single pink rosebud, shed of all thorns.

  Eve studied the room and decided the rose fit with the frilly pink-and-white curtains, the framed posters of fantasy landscapes and meadows. The room was tidy, if overly female, but for a scatter of used tissues lying like snow over the floor by the bed, the remains of a melted pint of Sinful Chocolate frozen dessert, and a half bottle of white wine.

  “What does it look like?” Eve asked Peabody.

  “It looks like she had herself a major pity party. Wine and ice cream for comfort, lots of tears. Probably used the wine to help herself gear up for the pills. She was young, stupid, and theatrical. The combo led her to self-termination over a sleazeball.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Where’d she get the pills?”

  With a sealed hand, Peabody picked up the bottle to examine the unmarked green plastic. “It’s not a prescription bottle. Black market.”

  “She strike you as the type who’d have black market connections?”

  “No.” And the question had Peabody frowning, studying scene and body more closely. “No, but you get fringe dealers working colleges and art circles. She moved in both.”

  “True enough, true enough. Could be. She’d have had to move fast, but from our brief meeting earlier, I’d peg her as the impulsive type. Still . . .”

  Eve walked around the room, into the little bath, out into the stingy living area with its mini kitchen. There were lots of knick-knacks, more art reproductions, romantic themes, on the walls. There were no dishes in the little bowl of the sink, no articles of clothing tossed around. No tissues scattered anywhere but the bedroom.

  And, she noted, running a sealed finger over a table, not a speck of dust.

  “Place is really clean. Funny that somebody so mired in grief they’d self-terminate would tidy up like this.”

  “Could’ve always been tidy.”

  “Could’ve been,” Eve agreed.

  “Or she might’ve buffed the place up, just the way she buffed herself up before she did it. One of my great-aunts is obsessed about making the bed as soon as she’s out of it every morning, because if she keels over and dies, she doesn’t want anybody thinking she’s a careless housekeeper. Some people are weird that way.”

  “Okay, so she gets the pills, buys herself a pink rosebud. Then she comes home, cleans the house, spruces herself up. Sits on the bed crying, eating ice cream, drinking wine. Writes the note, then pops the pills, lies down and dies. Could’ve gone down just that way.”

  Peabody puffed air into her cheeks. “But you don’t think so, and I feel like I’m missing something really obvious.”

  “The only thing obvious is a twenty-one-year-old girl’s dead. And from first look, it appears to be a straight, grief-induced self-termination.”

  “Just like Bissel and Kade appeared to be a straight, passion-motivated double homicide.”

  “Well now, Peabody.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “You don’t say?”

  “Okay, I’m picking up the trail, but if this, like the double homicide, is an HSO or terrorist hit, what’s the motive?”

  “She knew Bissel. She was his lover.”

  “Yeah, but she was a kid, a toss-away. If she knew anything relevant to Bissel’s work, or the Code Red, anything hot, I’ll eat my shiny new detective’s badge.”

  “I tend to agree, but maybe someone else didn’t. Or maybe it was just housecleaning. The fact is that there’s a connection between her and Bissel, and because there is we’re not treating this like a straight self-termination. We’ll start with the body, then I want this place picked apart. What’s the name of the woman who found her?”

  “Deena Hornbock, across-the-hall neighbor.”

  “Do a run. I want to know everything about her before I interview her. Have the uniform keep her in her apartment and under control.”

  “Check.”

  “Contact Crime Scene, and Morris. I want Morris personally on her. And I want CSU to sweep this place down to the last molecule.”

  Peabody paused at the door. “You really don’t think she killed herself.”

  “If she did, I’ll eat my no longer shiny lieutenant’s badge. Let’s get to work.”

  There were no signs of struggle, no evidence of insult or injury to the body that would indicate force. Eve hadn’t expected any. She’d died shortly after three A.M. Painlessly, quietly. Uselessly, Eve thought.

  Her ’links were in working order, though they’d been shut down shortly after midnight. Reactivating, Eve found her last transmission was an incoming from Deena across the hall at twenty-one hundred and involved a great deal of weeping and sympathy.

  I’m coming over, Deena had said. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.

  Much tearful gratitude, then the transmission ended.

  But the data unit wouldn’t boot. Infected, she’d bet the bank on it. What would a silly art student have on a data unit that could worry the HSO, or techno-terrorists?

  When she’d done all she could with the body and the bedroom, she moved into the living area where Peabody worked with the sweepers. “They’re bagging her for transport. Suspicious death. Give me Deena Hornbock.”

  “Student, single, twenty-one. A theater major, with a eye toward set design. She’s got considerable work on her résumé. Lived at this location for a year. Prior to that did the dorm thing at Soho Theatrical Studies. Prior to that, lived with mother and stepfather in St. Paul. One younger sib, brother. No criminal except a suspended for recreational Zoner when she was eighteen. Pays the rent on time. I contacted the landlord.”

  “Good.”

  “McCoy’s also up to date on rent, though she tended to pay just before the late fee would kick in. She paid up yesterday, an e-transfer at sixteen thirty-three.”

  “Yeah? Really tidy to pay the month’s
rent when you’re planning to kill yourself. Let’s see what her pal has to say.”

  Deena Hornbock was shaken but composed as she sat in a plush red chair and sipped continuously from a bottle of water. She was a thin, striking black woman with a small tattoo of a pair of red wings at her left temple.

  “Ms. Hornbock, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. We need to ask you some questions.”

  “I know. I’m really going to try to help. I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t know, so I ran out and started yelling for somebody to call the police. Somebody did, I guess. I just sat down, right out in the hall until Officer Nalley came.”

  “How did you get into Chloe’s apartment?”

  “Oh, I have a key. She’s got one for mine, too. We were always in and out of each other’s places. Should I give it to you? The key?”

  “I’d appreciate that. We’ll get it before we leave. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Okay.” She drew breath in and out, scrubbed a hand over her face. “Okay. I got back from class, and I thought I’d see how she was doing. She was so upset about Blair’s death. Just flattened, you know?” Deena let out a long sigh. “I just went right in. When I left her last night I promised to come by this afternoon after class, so I didn’t bother to knock or anything. I just went in and called out that I was there.”

  “The door was locked?”

  “Yeah. When she didn’t answer, I went back to the bedroom. I was going to try to talk her into going out, or at least over to my place. Cheer her up. God. It’s hard to say it,” she managed. “It makes me see it again.”

  “I know.”

  “I went in. I saw her on the bed. I didn’t get it at first, just didn’t think . . . I said something like: ‘Oh, come on, Chlo.’ I said something like that . . .” Her voice started to break. “Jesus, ‘Come on, Chlo,’ a little impatient, I guess, because it was all so . . . stagey and dramatic. I was a little irritated with her as I walked over to the bed. And then . . .”