by J. D. Robb
Bissel stood by one of his sculptures, wearing a safety helmet and goggles, light body armor. And two hand blasters in a cross-body harness. He held a torch that spurted a thin line of flame.
“Police! Put your hands in the air. Do it now!”
“It’s not going to matter. Not going to matter.” He swept the torch toward Peabody and McNab, and jerked back as he was stunned.
“Not going to matter.” He tossed down the torch and flame bounced along the reflective surface of the floor. “I rigged this. Are you hearing me!” he shouted. “I’ve got a bomb. If you come at me, I’ll blow it. I’ll blow up half this building and everyone in it. You put down those weapons and listen to me.”
“I’m all ears, Blair.” She heard the order go out for Bombs and Explosives through her earpiece. “Where’s the bomb?”
“Put down your weapons.”
“I’m not going to do that.” She watched out of the corner of her eye as Roarke shifted, then crouched to retrieve the torch and turn it off. “You want me to listen, I’ll listen. Where’s the bomb? You could be bullshitting me. You want me to listen, you’ve got to tell me where it is.”
“This. The whole damn thing.” He slapped his hand on the twisting column of metal. His face was sheened with sweat. From the work, she imagined, and from excitement. And panic.
“There’s enough in here to blow this place, hundreds of people, to hell and back again.”
“You’d go with them.”
“You listen.” He shoved back his helmet and she saw his eyes. Zeus, she thought. He was riding on it. Between that and the body armor, he’d take a few stuns before he went down.
“I said I was listening. What do you have to say?”
“I’m not going to jail. I’m not going in a cage. Sparrow, Quinn Sparrow’s the one who set this up, who set me up. I’m not going in a cage. I’m an HSO operative, on assignment. I don’t answer to the NYPSD.”
“We can talk about that.” She kept her voice even, the tone interested. “You can tell me about your assignment, unless you blow yourself up first.”
“We’re not going to talk. You’re going to listen. I want transportation. I want a jet copter, and pilot, on the roof. I want ten million in nontraceable currency. When I’m clear I’ll send you the deactivation code. Otherwise . . .”
He held up his left hand and displayed the remote trigger strapped to his palm. “I use this. I’m HSO!” he shouted. “Do you think I won’t use this?”
“I don’t doubt you’ll use it, Agent Bissel. But I have to verify the explosive exists. Unless I can confirm the threat and tell my superiors, they’re not going to listen. I need to verify, so you can stay in control.”
“It’s there. And one twitch—”
“You know procedure and protocol. We’re professionals. I’ve got to answer to my superiors. Let’s confirm, then we can move on to your demands and negotiate.”
“It’s inside, you stupid bitch. I put it inside. You’d stayed out of this, I’d’ve had it drop-kicked to fucking HSO Base for screwing with me.”
“We’ll scan it. No point in anybody getting hurt. We’ve got Sparrow. He’s enough for me. He’s the one who got you into this mess. I’ve just got to confirm, so we can start the process.”
“Scan it, then. You’ll see. I want that jet copter. I want you to pull back, pull the hell back. I want transportation to a location of my choice.”
Roarke held up both hands. “Let me just get out my scanner, configure it for reading an explosive device. You know I own part of this building. I don’t want it damaged.”
Bissel shifted his gaze from Eve’s face to Roarke’s. Wet his lips. “Make one move, just one I don’t like, it goes.”
Roarke reached in his pocket, held out the scanner for Bissel’s approval.
“You’ve been dipping in Zeus, Agent Bissel,” Eve said to bring his attention back to her. “It’s not good for you. It can cloud your thinking.”
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Sweat was running down his face, pooling at the base of his throat. “You think I don’t have the balls?”
“No. You couldn’t do what you do, be what you are if you didn’t have balls. Sparrow hadn’t screwed you up, you’d be fat city.”
“The son of a bitch.”
“He thought you were his dog, that he could keep you on a leash.” She didn’t look at Roarke, but sensed him at her side. “But you showed him what you were made of. I think all you wanted to do was get away after your assignment was complete. To get what was owed to you and get away, and things kept going wrong. You know, I bet Chloe would’ve gone with you. You didn’t have to kill her.”
“She was an idiot! A decent roll, but she’d irritate the hell out of you out of bed. I used her data unit to store information, to formulate plans. I know how to make my own plans. Contingencies. And what do you think I saw when I peeked in through the listening device I planted in the bedroom? She was trying to get into it, trying to break my passcode. Probably thought I was screwing around on her. Stupid, jealous little bitch.”
“What about the locket you gave her?”
He looked blank, then his jittery eyes smiled. “Passkey, drop box. Think I don’t know how to cover myself? I had drop boxes all over the damn place. Emergency funds, weapons, whatever I needed. Can’t put everything in one spot. Gotta spread out.”
“And she knew about this place. She knew, and she had that incriminating data buried on her unit, and one of your passkeys. I guess I was wrong. You did have to kill her.”
“Damn straight. It should’ve worked. It should’ve. I even got her to write the note. Just write it down for me, baby. One line, just one to say how you felt when you thought I was dead. And she was stupid enough to do it.”
“It was a good plan. So was Powell. It was just bad luck.”
“Explosive device confirmed,” Roarke said coolly. “My, my, Bissel, you certainly put all your eggs into one very volatile basket. If you discharge that, they wouldn’t be able to sweep up the pieces.”
“I told you. Didn’t I tell you? Now get me that copter. Get it now!”
“If you discharged it,” Roarke continued. “But you won’t, as I’ve just deactivated the timer. You’re clear, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks.” She aimed for Bissel’s unprotected legs. He staggered, roared, and his eyes went wild as he closed his hand into a fist to try to set off the explosive.
She hit him a second time when he reached for the sidearms, and Peabody came in from the side, bowling in mid-body to send them both flying across the now scarred floor.
Pumping on Zeus, he backhanded her, but she held on.
McNab leaped, diving in to catch Bissel in a headlock, and, using his fist instead of his weapon, rammed three short, hard punches to the face.
Her nose was streaming blood, but Peabody grabbed her restraints. Between the two of them, they held him down and cuffed his wrists.
“Get his ankles, too,” Eve suggested, and tossed over her own restraints. “He’s still pretty hopped. This is Dallas,” she said into her headset. “Suspect is secured. Send in Bombs and Explosives to remove device.”
When Peabody panted and sat hard on Bissel’s still bucking back, McNab offered her a polka-dotted handkerchief. “Here you go, baby. Your nose is bleeding. I mean, Detective Baby,” he added with a glance at Eve.
“Doing okay, Peabody?” Eve asked her.
“Yeah. It’s not broken.” She held the colorful cloth to her nose. “We got him, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, we got him. Arrange to have the prisoner transported to Central. Good job, Detective Baby. You, too, McNab.”
“You held back,” Roarke said when Eve stepped out of the way to let the bomb squad deal with the sculpture. “So McNab could punch him a few times for Peabody.”
“I think Peabody might have handled it on her own, but he deserved a shot. Got a good, solid right for such a skinny guy.”
She checked her wri
st unit. It looked as if she was going to be right on time for Nadine.
Screw political wisdom.
“I’m going to have to go in, do the paperwork, warm up Bissel in Interview. Going to take some time. Maybe you could fill in Reva and Tokimoto, make sure they know their assistance and cooperation have been noted and appreciated. Let Reva know I’m going to clear it so she gets five private minutes with Bissel. And maybe you could tell Caro she did a good job raising her kid.”
“You could tell her that yourself.”
“Guess I could. Meanwhile”—she jerked a thumb so he’d step with her into the relative quiet of the gallery—“you’ve been putting in a lot of time and energy as regards this investigation. Personal interest or not, that’s also noted and appreciated.”
“Thank you.”
“I guess it’s going to take you some time to get your own stuff back in order. All that universal magnate and corporate god stuff.”
“A few days. A week or so, we’ll be on balance again. I’m going to have to be out of town for a bit. Some of it needs to be hands-on.”
“Okay. But you figure you’ll be back in order in about a week?”
“More or less, why?”
“Because when you’re all set, I’m going to take you away for a long weekend. So you can relax.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Are you?”
“Yeah. You’ve been revving on all engines. You need a break. So we’ll say . . . a week from Friday. Where do you want to go?”
“Where do I want to go? And you’re doing this because I need a break?”
She glanced through the doorway, just to make sure nobody was paying any attention. Then cupped his face in her hands. “You do. Then there’s the fact that I intend to make you my sex slave for a couple days. So where do you want to go?”
“We haven’t been to the island in awhile.” He didn’t bother to check if anyone was watching, but leaned down and kissed her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“No. I’ll make the arrangements. I can do it,” she said when he didn’t quite hide the wince. “I can. Jesus, I can coordinate a major op, I should be able to coordinate some damn travel. Have a little faith.”
“In you I have more than a little.”
“Then I’ll see you later. I’ve got to go let the dogs out.”
She headed out, then walked back and gave him a hard, short kiss. “Later, Civilian Baby.”
She heard him laugh as she walked out, skirted around other cops. And when she was alone, riding down alone, she tapped her finger—the one that wore her wedding ring—against the image of the badge on her heart.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
VISIONS IN DEATH
J. D. Robb
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visions in Death
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0497-9
A BERKLEY BOOK®
Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: February, 2005
Friendship cannot live with ceremony, nor without civility.
—LORD HALIFAX
Is this a vision?
is this a dream?
do I sleep?
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Chapter 1
She’d gotten through the entire evening without killing anyone. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, cop to the bone, figured the restraint showed enormous strength of character.
Her day had gone smoothly enough. A morning court appearance that had been as routine as it was tedious, paperwork both extensive and mind-numbing. The single case she’d caught had involved pals and their dispute over who had dibs on the last of the illegals—a party mix of Buzz, Exotica, and Zoom—they’d been toking on while lazing around on the roof of an apartment building on the West Side.
The dispute had been resolved when one of the afternoon partyers had taken a header off the roof, clutching the last of the illegals in his greedy fist.
He probably hadn’t felt much, even when he’d splatted onto Tenth Avenue, but it sure as hell had broken the party mood.
Witnesses, including an uninvolved Good Samaritan from a neighboring building who’d called in the nine-one-one, all stated that the individual who’d been scooped off the sidewalk and into a bag had leaped of his own volition onto the roof ledge, danced an energetic keep-away boogie, lost his precarious balance, and taken flight with a giggling wee-haw.
Much to the surprise—and possible entertainment—of the afternoon passengers on an airtram who’d also witnessed the last dance of one Jasper K. McKinney.
One inappropriately delighted tourist had managed to capture the entire incident on his pocket vid.
It all jibed, and the books would close on Jasper as death by misadventure. Unofficially, Eve labeled it death by stupidity, but there wasn’t a place on the sheet for that particular observation.
As a result of Jasper and his eight-story dive, she’d clocked out of Cop Central barely an hour past end-of-duty, only to get bogged down in ugly midtown traffic because the temporary vehicle some sadist in Requisitions had tossed at her limped along like a blind, three-legged dog.
She had rank, for God’s sake, and was entitled to a decent ride. It wasn’t her fault she’d had two units destroyed in two years. Maybe she’d forget strength of character and go maim somebody in Requisitions in the morning.
It sounded like fun.
And after she’d gotten home—okay, almost two hours late—she’d had to transform herself from kick-ass murder cop to fashionable corporate wife.
She was a good cop, she reminded herself, but more than a little shaky in the corporate wife arena.
She supposed she’d been fashionable, since her husband had the entire getup—down to the underwear—set out for her. Roarke knew clothes.
She just knew she was wearing something green with sparkles all over it, and where it wasn’t green and sparkly, it showed a lot of skin.
There hadn’t been time to argue about it, but only to dive
into the outfit and shove her feet into shoes—also green and sparkly. With high enough, needle-thin heels, she’d been nearly eye to eye with her man.
It wasn’t a hardship to be eye to eye with Roarke. Not when his were that wild, unearthly blue in a face drawn by artistic angels. But it was tough being social with strangers when you were worried you might tip over and fall on your ass any second.
But she’d gotten through it. Through the quick-change, the quick shuttle trip from New York to Chicago, through the cocktail hour where her brains were nearly bored to suet despite truly excellent wine, and the corporate dinner with Roarke entertaining about a dozen clients, with her playing hostess.
She wasn’t quite sure what kind of clients they were since Roarke had his fingers in every pie known to man or beast, so she didn’t attempt to keep up. What she did know was that most of them could take the prize for most tedious during the four-hour ordeal.
But there had been no casualties.
Points for her.
What she wanted now was to get home, get out of the sparkly green thing, and fall into bed to sleep for the six hours she’d have before the clock started ticking again.
The summer of 2059 had been long, hot, and bloody. Fall, with its cooler temperatures, was coming. Maybe people wouldn’t be as inclined to kill one another.
But she doubted it.
She’d barely settled into her seat on the plush, private shuttle when Roarke lifted her feet into his lap and slipped off her shoes.
“Don’t get any ideas, pal. When I finally get out of this dress, I’m not getting back in.”
“Darling Eve.” His voice was a purr that echoed of Ireland. “That’s the sort of statement that gives me ideas. However lovely you look in that dress, you’d look even lovelier out of it.”
“Forget it. No way I’m dragging this thing back on, and I’m surely not getting out of this shuttle wearing what you laughingly call underwear. So just . . . Oh, sweet baby Jesus.”