The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  “Food.” Roarke walked in. “You’ve sent your team home for food, to recharge, to rest. Do the same for yourself.”

  “There’s going to be a match. Has to be.”

  “And the computer can continue the runs while you eat. We’re going downstairs.”

  “Why down—oh.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Right. What are we supposed to talk to her about now?”

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  “You know what? She’s a little scary. I think all of that breed is. Kids I mean. It’s like they know stuff you’ve forgotten, but they still hammer you with questions. She rocked up, though, when Mira told her I was friends with Mavis.”

  “Ah.” He sat on the corner of the desk. “A Mavis fan. Considerable conversation to be mined there.”

  “And she wants you to play pinball with her. She’s got a competitive streak, seems like. She’s a little bent she can’t meet your scores.”

  “Really?” His smile bloomed. “I’d enjoy that. I’ll take her down for a bit after dinner. Good practice for when we have a brood of our own.”

  She didn’t pale, but her eyes did go glassy. “Are you trying to wig me?”

  “It’s fairly irresistible. Come on.” He held out a hand. “Be a good girl and come to dinner.”

  Before she could rise, her ’link beeped. “Minute,” she said, and noted the commander’s home data on the ID. “It’s Whitney.” Without thinking about it she straightened up in the chair, squared her shoulders. “Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant. The safe house on Ninety-second has been hit.”

  “Ninety-second.” Not trusting her mental file, she flipped her fingers over the keyboard to bring up the data. “Preston and Knight.”

  “They’re both down.”

  Now she did pale. “Down, sir?”

  “DOS.” His face was grim, his voice was flat. “Security was compromised. Both officers were terminated. Report to the scene immediately.”

  “Yes, sir. Commander, the other locations—”

  “Additional units have been dispatched. Reports are coming in. I’ll meet you on-scene.”

  When the screen went blank, she sat just as she was. Sat just as she was when Roarke came around the desk to lay his hand on her shoulder.

  “I hand-picked them. Preston and Knight. Because they were good, solid cops. Good instincts. If there was going to be a hit on one of the locations, I wanted solid cops with good instincts covering them.”

  “I’m sorry, Eve.”

  “Didn’t have to move a wit from that location. Didn’t have anybody there, but it was one of the addresses Newman should have known, so it had to be covered. She’s dead, too, by now. Stone dead. Tally’s up to eight.”

  She rose then, checked her weapon harness. “Two good cops. I’m going to hunt them down like dogs.”

  She didn’t argue when he said he was going with her. She wanted him behind the wheel until she was more sure of her control.

  As she jogged down the stairs, pulled her jacket on, Nixie came out into the foyer. “You’re supposed to come to dinner now.”

  “We have to go out.” There was a firestorm raging in Eve’s head she’d yet to be able to shut down to cold.

  “Out to dinner?”

  “No.” Roarke stepped to Nixie, brushed a hand lightly over her hair. “The lieutenant has work. I’m going to help, but we’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  She looked at him, then focused on Eve. “Is somebody else dead?”

  She started to fob it off, even to lie, but decided on truth. “Yes.”

  “What if they come while you’re gone? What if the bad guys come when you’re not here? What—”

  “They can’t get in.” Roarke said it so simply it could be taken as nothing less than fact. “And look here.” He took a small ’link out of his pocket as he crouched down to her level. “You keep this. If you’re afraid, you should tell Summerset or one of the police we have in the house. But if you can’t tell them, you push this. Do you see?”

  She moved closer, her blonde hair brushing his black. “What does it do?”

  “It will signal me. You can push this, and my ’link will beep twice, and I’ll know it’s you, and you’re afraid. But don’t use it unless you really have to. All right?”

  “Can I push it now, to see if it works?”

  He turned his head to smile at her. “A very good idea. Go ahead.”

  She pressed her finger on the button he’d shown her, and the ’link still in his pocket beeped twice. “It works.”

  “It does, yes. It’ll fit right in your pocket. There.” He slipped it in for her, then straightened. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Summerset was there, of course, hovering a few feet back in the hall. Roarke sent him their own signal as he put on his coat. “Lieutenant,” he said, turning. “I’m with you.”

  When Summerset stepped forward to take Nixie’s hand, she waited until the door shut. “Why does he call her ‘Lieutenant’? Why doesn’t he call her ‘Dallas’ like most everybody else?”

  “It’s a kind of endearment between them.” He gave Nixie’s hand a little squeeze. “Why don’t we eat in the kitchen tonight?”

  It wasn’t rage. Eve wasn’t sure there was a word for what gripped the throat, the belly, the head, the bowels when you looked down at the slaughter of men you’d sent into battle. Men you’d sent to their death.

  Going down in the line was a risk they all took. But knowing that didn’t loosen the grip, not when she’d been the one to give them their last orders.

  The other cops were quiet, a silent wall. The scene had been secured. Now it was up to her.

  The safe house was a post–Urban Wars construction. Cheap, never meant to last. But it had stood, a narrow box of two stories, bumped up against a few more narrow boxes that were all dwarfed and outclassed by the sturdiness of the buildings that had survived the wars, and the sleekness of those built since the hurried, harried aftermath.

  She knew the city had bought this, and others, on the cheap. Maintained them on a shoestring. But the security was better than decent, with full-panning cams, alarms backed up by alarms.

  Still, they’d gotten in. Not only gotten in, but had taken out two seasoned cops.

  Knight’s weapon was still holstered, but Preston’s was drawn, lying useless at the base of the stairs while he was sprawled and bloody on them.

  Knight’s body was facedown, a full stride out of the kitchen. A broken plate, spilled coffee, a veggie ham on rye were scattered in front of him.

  The miserly entertainment screen was showing an Arena Ball game. The security screen was black as death.

  “Took Knight first.” Her voice was slightly hoarse, but she continued to record the scene and her impressions. “Took him coming out of the kitchen. Surprised him. If they’d taken Preston, Knight would’ve come out with his weapon drawn. Preston heads down, ready, but they take him.”

  She crouched, picked up the weapon. “Got a blast off, at least one, before he went down. Officer, start a canvass. I want to know if anyone heard weapons’ fire. If they heard shouts. If they saw a fucking cockroach pass this way.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  She merely turned her head, and the expression on her face had the uniform nodding. “Yes, sir.”

  “Cut their throats—their favorite game. But they didn’t cut two cops’ throats without a fight. Had to disable first. Long-range stunners,” she said, studying the faint singe on Preston’s shirt. “That’s what they had. No chances this time. Not just killing little kids. So they come in the front. God damn how did they get through? How did they compromise this system so fast two cops are caught with their pants down?”

  “It’s a standard police system,” Roarke said quietly because he heard more than rage in her voice. He heard pain. “A good system, but standard issue for cop houses. If they had the kind of knowledge we believe, they could have set for this, taken it out, got th
rough the door in under two minutes. Very likely considerably under two minutes with the equipment they must have at their disposal.”

  “These were good cops,” she reminded him. “Too good to sit still for a breach like this. Knight’s in the damn kitchen making a sandwich. There’s a security monitor in there. There are security monitors upstairs. Screen goes out, you go straight to Code Red. So it didn’t go out. Not at first. Why is Knight upstairs?”

  She stepped over the body, over the blood, and went up to the second floor.

  There were two bedrooms, one bath. All windows were privacy screened, barred, and wired. She looked at the ’link in the first bedroom, crossed to it and replayed the last incoming.

  It was audio only, and it was her voice.

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. The suspects are contained. Repeat, the suspects are contained and being transported. Stand down and report to Central.”

  “Fucking A.” Eve muttered.

  “Lieutenant?” There was puzzlement, but no alarm in Preston’s voice. “You’re on the house ’link.”

  “I’m aware of that. Did you copy your orders?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Dallas out.”

  “Well, shit.” Preston’s voice was perturbed now, and he didn’t immediately end the transmission on his end. “Yo, Knight! Dallas collared the bastards. . . . How the hell do I know, she was her usual chatty self. Make me a damn sand—”

  There was a blasting sound, a shout, then the sound of running feet.

  “Voice simulator,” Roarke said from behind her. “There was a tinny quality to it, and the lack of inflection in your tone. I suspect, if he had another moment or two, he’d have considered that, and checked in with you.”

  “One working the simulator, two coming in. Pull one of them up here with the ’link call, keep him occupied just long enough. Good surveillance equipment, maybe body heat sensors. Knew where they were. One up, one down. Took Knight before he could blink, but Preston got a stream off. They’ve homed in on him, though, so he’s down before he can signal there’s trouble.”

  “If they had sensors, they’d have known there were only two people here. Both adults.”

  She tagged the ’link for EDD. “Some of the safe houses have cold rooms, just to screw with that kind of surveillance. Subject under protection can be in the cold room. No point in not checking that out, once you’ve got the locations.”

  She headed out, and down. Whitney came in the front as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Commander.”

  “Lieutenant.” He nodded at Roarke, then crossed to the first body. He said nothing. Then, continuing to look at his fallen men, spoke in a voice dangerously soft. “They don’t yet know the wrath. But they will. Report.”

  She went through the steps, reporting, recording, collecting, and repressed the storm inside. She stood over Morris as he conducted his on-scene exam. “Stunned first. Midbody hit on both.”

  “Preston would have been four or five steps down. He got off a stream,” Eve added. “Might’ve caught one of them. There’s no sign of a hit on the walls, anywhere in the room. Crime Scene ran over it. No residue. No wasted shots here,” she noted. “Everyone who fired hit something they were aiming at.”

  “My guess would be he crumbled more than fell. I’ll know more when I get him in, but the bruising, the position of the body indicates he was thrust back by the stream, then folded, slid. His throat slit where he lay.”

  “They had to lift Knight’s head to cut him. Blasted back, plate and cup flying. Hits the floor and rolls facedown.”

  She walked back to the front door. “Came in together, one high, one low. It’s low guy who takes Knight, from the angle of the hit. High hits Preston. Moving fast, moving smooth.”

  She simulated, weapon drawn, heading forward. “One takes Knight.” Blood cold, she moved straight to the body, lifted the head by the hair, mimed drawing a knife over the throat. “Left-handed this time. Versatile bastards. Had the stunners in the right, knives in the left.”

  Morris said nothing, only watched.

  “Second moves straight to Preston, bends down, slices. Combat grip, one quick stroke. Then he heads up, his partner takes the first floor. Place this size, they can confirm it’s empty in under ninety seconds.”

  “Have you walked it off already?”

  “Yeah, I went through. They’re in, they’re out. Three minutes. The blood on the floor down here, going into the kitchen and into the toilet’s going to be from Knight. Upstairs it’s going to be Preston’s. Coming off the knives, coming off the gear. The trail of it, the pattern, shows they were moving fast. See, look.”

  She strode to the kitchen doorway, swung her weapon right, left. “See the blood there? Pause, sweep the room, move in.”

  She looked back up the stairs. “Preston shouldn’t have come down like that, exposed. Two seconds where he acts before he thinks—he’s thinking about his partner instead of with cop instinct—and he’s dead.”

  She lowered her weapon, holstered it. “Fuck.”

  “Truer words. I’ll take care of them now, Dallas.” He didn’t touch her—his hands were smeared with blood—but the look in his eyes was as steady as the clasp of a hand.

  “We’re going to bury them for this, Morris.”

  “Yes. Yes, we are.”

  She went outside. Most of the reporters who’d gathered had scattered after Whitney had given them a brief statement. Stories to file, she thought.

  But she saw Nadine over with Roarke by her vehicle. Some of the anger, the cold hard tips of it, clawed through. She strode toward them, ready to rake the reporter bloody—and have a few swipes left over for her husband—when Nadine turned.

  Her face was streaked with tears.

  “I knew them,” she said before Eve could speak. “I knew them.”

  “Okay.” The anger retracted, scraping those keen tips over her own gut on the way. “Okay.”

  “Knight . . . We used to flirt. Nothing serious, nothing that either of us meant to go anywhere, but we did the dance.” Her voice broke. “Preston used to show off pictures of his kid. He’s got a little boy.”

  “I know. You ought to take some time off, Nadine. A couple of days.”

  “After you get them.” She swiped her fingers over her cheeks. “I don’t know why it’s hit me this way. It’s not the first time somebody I know . . .”

  “Preston may have hit one of them. I’m telling you that friend to friend, not cop to reporter. Because you knew them. Because I knew them, and thinking he might’ve hit one of them helps me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got to go finish up here, seal the scene, then go in,” Eve said to Roarke. “I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  “Call, will you, when you do?”

  “Sure.” She thought of what he’d said earlier about the risks she had to take. And what it might be like for him to see other cops, bloody and dead.

  So despite Nadine, despite the other cops, the techs, the few gawkers who’d yet to be nudged on their way, she stepped to him, stepped into him. Laid her hands on his face, laid her lips on his.

  “I can get you a ride in one of the black-and-whites.”

  He smiled at her. “There is nothing I’d like less. I’ll take care of my own transpo. Nadine, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “If I could have a kiss like that, I’d be lifted into orbit. But I’ll settle for a ride to the station. Dallas, if you need some research on the side, another pair of hands or eyes, mine are yours. No strings on this one.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Later.” She strode back up the sidewalk, and back into the narrow box that smelled of death.

  11

  WORD SPREAD QUICKLY WHEN COPS WENT DOWN. By the time Eve reached Central, that word had streamed through the maze, slid into cubes and offices, and had the air thick with fury.

  She stepped into the bull pen, paused. She wasn’t much for speeches. She preferred bri
efings or orders. But she was rank here, and the men deserved to hear from her.

  They were at desks, in cubes, answering ’links, writing reports. A couple were taking statements from civilians who’d either been victimized or had victimized someone else.

  There was the smell of bad fake coffee, sickly sugar substitute, sweat, and someone’s greasy dinner. And under it was that fury, a ripe, rich, dangerous odor.

  Most of the noise stopped when she came in, but one of the civilians continued to weep in soft, liquid sobs. ’Links beeped, and for the moment were ignored.

  She knew she had blood on her, and she knew every cop in the room saw it and thought of where it had come from.

  “Detectives Owen Knight and James Preston went down in the line at approximately twenty-fifteen this evening. They were murdered while doing the job. Detective Knight leaves a mother, father, and sister. Detective Preston leaves a wife, a three-year-old son, his parents, grandparents. Donations to the Survivors’ Fund can be made in their names. Detective Jannson,” Eve said, “will you coordinate?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. Can you give us the status, Lieutenant?”

  “We believe tonight’s events are connected to the Swisher homicides. Five civilians, two of them minors, were murdered. Preston and Knight, and every one of us, is charged with protecting and serving the people of New York, of seeing to their safety. Those of us here, in Homicide, are equally charged to serve those whose lives have been taken, of searching out and apprehending those who take lives. We close cases here, and we’ll close this one. For those five civilians, two of them minors, and the people they left behind. Now they’ve taken two of our own, and we will search them out and apprehend.”

  She waited a beat, and there was only silence. “Until such time any and all requests for personal time, vacation time, sick leave must be cleared by me or the ranking officer on shift. You’ll be working this case in addition to your currents, reports to be filed daily. No exceptions. At change of shift, report to the ready room for a full briefing and assignments. We’re going to hunt them down, and we’re going to take them out. That’s it.”