Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Should probably work off the alcohol.”

  She bowed back, lean and agile, set her empty glass beside his. Then flowed up, fast, latched her mouth to his, gripped his face with her hands as she plundered.

  She rocked him to the core. She always could. That aggressive mouth lit lust’s short fuse so he hardened like steel under her, so the hands digging into her hips shot up to close over her breasts.

  “This time it’s you wearing too many clothes.” His fingers flicked open the buttons of her vest.

  “We’ll work around them because this has to be fast.” She used her teeth on the side of his throat. “Hard and fast. Got me?”

  “I’ve got you, and I’ll be keeping you.”

  He dealt with her shirt, managed to tug the tank out of her waistband despite the weapon harness. And found it acutely arousing to possess her breasts with her weapon still strapped to her side.

  He had a dangerous woman in his hands, and yes, he’d keep her.

  She rocked against him, tormenting them both, and as if starved for the taste, ravaged his mouth.

  Candlelight and snowfall provided a romantic backdrop, a soft contrast to the greedy lust they spurred in each other. New York gleamed, a frozen city through the glass, as she dragged at his belt.

  “Fast and hard,” she reminded him, her breath already tearing as she struggled to help him yank her trousers down past her knees.

  She didn’t wait, but took him in, muffled her own moan against his mouth.

  She rode him like a stallion, spurred into a mad gallop that left him no choice but to race with her.

  The world blurred. There was no world but her and that strong, glorious body, those wild, pistoning hips. She came like lightning, a snap and flash that bolted through him like a current.

  Melting from it, she dropped her head on his shoulder. “Just need to catch my breath.”

  “You’ll find it later.”

  Half mad, he dragged her jacket down her arms, trapping them, shoving her back to open her more. Now he rode.

  She couldn’t free her arms, couldn’t grab hold. Couldn’t stop as the fresh orgasm built fast and brutal over the first.

  “Roarke. I can’t.”

  “Take. Just take.”

  He watched her, all but drowned in her. The crisp, professional clothes disheveled from his hands, the weapon at her side as much a part of her as a limb.

  Her face warmed by sex and the candlelight and alive with the crazed pleasure they brought each other.

  And he watched as those eyes, those sharp and cynical cop’s eyes, went blind from it.

  He dragged her back, wrapped tight around her. Let himself break.

  She shuddered against him, quaking aftershocks. Then, fighting for breath, went lax.

  “There you are.” He pressed his face to the curve of her neck, simply overwhelmed by her. “Relaxed again.”

  “That was more than a minute.”

  “Time well spent. I adore you beyond reason, Eve.”

  “Who needs reason? But I guess we’ll remember at some point to get naked first.”

  She eased back, laid a hand on his cheek. “I have to get back to it.”

  “So we will.”

  “I think I’m going to stop off, change clothes. Might as well get the comfort on.”

  “Another fine idea.”

  She swung off him, hitched up her trousers. “Was it hard? Not that,” she said when he laughed, “because, obviously. I mean adjusting to me. The cop thing.”

  “Shockingly easy.”

  She shook her head as he rose, took her hand. “I never can figure it.”

  “Who needs reason?” he reminded her.

  She changed into flannel pants, an ancient hooded sweatshirt, and thick socks. She noted Roarke’s choice wasn’t so different from hers, but he somehow looked stylishly casual while she knew she just looked sloppy.

  In her office she programmed coffee while Roarke strolled into the kitchen. He came out with two slabs of chocolate cake.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “I just popped off to the cake factory.” He set the dessert plates down on her command center. “Your AutoChef, Lieutenant.”

  “I had chocolate cake?” She took a bite, made a sound not dissimilar from one she’d made during sex. “I had really amazing chocolate cake?”

  “Apparently. Now we both do.”

  “Excellent.” And stuffing in a second bite, got back to work.

  * * *

  It took a couple hours, and more complications than she’d expected. What about the couple who’d been married in April but were divorced as of September? Or the couple who hadn’t been married, but were now, like the Patricks?

  She opted for different columns, and quashed the automatic annoyance when Roarke completed his half before she did.

  He didn’t interrupt her, simply got himself a brandy, then sat in front of her office fireplace, swirling and sipping and toying with his PPC.

  She only had ten left, considered asking him to take half. Found the idea even more annoying, so slogged through on her own.

  She swung around. “I’ve got nine more,” she told him. “That includes a married couple who attended, divorced shortly thereafter, and the male’s already remarried. And two couples who weren’t yet married, but now are married. According to the guest list, one of those couples attended with people who were set to but didn’t end up getting married.”

  “I had eight, and that included a couple now newly married. It would fit, wouldn’t it, as the Patricks were newly married at the time of the attack?”

  “Exactly. So we’ll assume he keeps up. Either because he’s in that circle, or he uses the society and gossip media. Maybe all of that. One on my list is on the edge, age wise, as they’re both into their fifties, and he’s gone younger on the females. But, and this could be a connect, she’s an actress. Mostly theater, but some screen, too. Nothing with On Screen that’s listed.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Eve swung back to her list. “Gloria Grecian. Do you know her?”

  “Of. I’ve seen her perform. Musical comedy.”

  “Makes sense. She’s been married to Maurice Cartier, a choreographer, for twelve years. We’ll start making contact with the thirty-odd couples on the list tomorrow.”

  She looked toward the window. Had the snow thinned or was that just her own version of cheery optimism? “Nothing much we can do tonight.”

  “Are you still in the mood for a vid?”

  “Yeah.” She looked at the list, her board, accepted she’d just be turning in circles to keep at it now. “Yeah, I am. What’s it again?”

  “I thought we’d dive right in to The Avengers rather than take you through the individual vids establishing the characters.”

  “Superheroes.”

  “Exactly.” He went to her, took her hand. “Ironman, for instance.”

  “Like Cal Ripken, Jr.?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Ha—got you on one. Cal Ripken, Iron Man Ripken—late-twentieth-century baseball player, Baltimore. Third base, shortstop. Still holds the record for most consecutive games played.”

  “You often amaze me,” he said as they started out.

  “Well, it’s baseball. Ironman, but not like Ripken.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this porn?”

  He laughed. “It isn’t, no.”

  “Ironman sounds suspicious to me. What are the others?”

  “There’s Thor, the Hulk,” he began.

  “Sounds like porn.”

  “You’ll see for yourself.”

  “I want popcorn,” she decided. “It’ll probably make me sick, but I want it.”

  “The way you saturate it with butter and salt, there’s no doubt you’ll be sick.”

  “I still want it,” she said, also wanting to find out who the hell Ironman was if it didn’t apply to sports or porn.

  * * *

  While she stretched out with Roarke—eat
ing popcorn, watching the Hulk smash—a solitary figure walked the snow-covered sidewalks.

  He was nearly as entertained at that moment as the woman hunting him.

  No one would anticipate he’d perform again so soon, and he loved the idea of surprising the public. It was a perfect night for this opening. The blanketing snowfall, the whizzing wind, the empty streets while the city hunkered down inside their cozy mansions, their chilly cold-water flats, their flops, their gleaming towers.

  He did love the city, and in these moments it felt as if it was his alone.

  He wore a long black coat with a deep hood, for warmth and protection, and to conceal his face. No point in scaring any innocent bystander he might happen upon.

  But the night and the city were his—the blizzard a kind of bonus, providing a wonderful atmosphere—and he saw not another soul.

  He’d done his research, of course. He was a professional. He drew out his jammer as he approached the lovely old brownstone. He’d admired it numerous times, its classic lines, its stately veneer.

  Naturally he’d been inside as well. He always took a tour of the theater, planned his staging.

  The house sat dark, his audience tucked into bed by now.

  The five minutes it took him to bypass the alarms and the locks only added to the anticipation.

  He opened the door. Death walked into the house, and chuckled softly in its throat.

  14

  Eve woke with a start, sat straight up, stared blankly at the simmering fire.

  “All right?”

  She turned her head to where Roarke sat with his coffee and his stock reports.

  “Yeah. Just a weird dream.”

  “About?”

  “The Avengers and that jerk Loki and his weird-ass army, and I’m trying to help them. Then I see this devil grab this bystander. Why are bystanders always standing by when they should be running and hiding somewhere?”

  “A question for the ages.”

  “Right. So the devil—and I know in the dream it’s the killer—is dragging the woman off, and she’s screaming and crying instead of trying to kick his ass and get away. So I have to leave the aliens and gods and whatever to the Avengers and pursue. I’m chasing him, and buildings are toppling, debris is falling like an avalanche. New York’s a frigging mess with more idiot bystanders running around screaming and waiting to get pancaked. And the devil, he jumps into this pit, just jumps right in. I put on the brakes, because it burps out some fire—the pit—and I’m trying to decide, do I go in after him, try to save the woman, catch the killer, or try to keep New York from becoming a big pile of rubble.

  “And I woke up.”

  “They could make an excellent vid if they could record your subconscious.”

  “They had shawarma—the Avengers—after the whole battle of New York. I did an interview yesterday in an apartment over a shawarma place. It’s just weird. I need coffee.”

  She rolled out of bed, walked over to get her first cup, looked out the window. “It’s going to take a couple days to dig out from under this.”

  “Better snow than avaricious gods and aliens.”

  “Yeah.”

  She grabbed a shower, came back to find breakfast. Not oatmeal but scrambled eggs, some bacon, toast with jam, and the berries she thought nearly as good as candy.

  “I’d figured on stopping by to see Daphne, but I’m going straight into Central,” she told him as they ate. “Not only to see who I can pull in for these interviews, but some people consider a blizzard a fine time to bludgeon, knife, or strangle somebody. Add in your accidentals and unattendeds, we could be busy.”

  “There’ll be an A-T out front when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks. Pretty quick actually.” She shoved in the last of the eggs, stood to walk into the closet.

  She wasn’t the comp, or Roarke, but she could damn well dress herself. Especially since she was going for black—straight black—and warm.

  She grabbed trousers, a sweater, a jacket, and because she’d likely be trudging through snow, black boots that rose to her knees.

  When she stepped out, Roarke arched an eyebrow. “Black Widow couldn’t look more dangerous or alluring.”

  “She could handle herself.”

  “See that you handle any bad guys who come at my cop.”

  “Dallas smash.”

  Pleased she’d made him laugh, she bent down to kiss him. “It was good, coming home together, and everything after. Makes it hard to be annoyed with the snow.”

  He tugged her down for another. “Mind the roads. They’re bound to be an unholy mess.”

  “You, too. See you later.”

  She jogged downstairs, swung on her coat, wound a scarf around her neck for warmth, pulled on the snowflake hat, stuffed the gloves in her pockets.

  And pulled them out and put them on when she stepped outside into the bitter.

  The burly A-T in sober gray waited, already warm inside. She decided if she couldn’t get downtown—or anywhere else—in this machine, she’d need a damn tank.

  She drove down the perfectly cleared drive, through the gates, and onto the god-awful mess of the street.

  She didn’t blame the road crews—or not much—as the snow had still been coming down when the Avengers beat the snot out of Loki and his team. The good part was the streets were nearly deserted. She spotted the road crews, a couple of emergency vehicles. Considering that, she tagged Peabody on her wrist unit.

  “Can you get into Central?”

  “Yeah. The subway should be running. Man, it’s so pretty out there.”

  “Get in as soon as you can. If you need transpo, I’ve got an all-terrain.”

  “I’ll check with Transport before we leave, make sure the trains are running. If not, I’ll tag you. Only official and emergency vehicles allowed on the streets until oh-nine-hundred, so no cabs or buses.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what I call pretty.”

  Eve clicked off and made her way downtown, easily breezing through blinking lights and empty intersections. Maybe, possibly … probably, she’d get bored with this kind of quiet, but for one morning’s commute, she’d take it. Halfway downtown, she realized not a single ad blimp had drifted across the sky to blast its hyperactive news about sales on something, somewhere.

  She’d definitely take it.

  She noted when she reached the garage that her level held only a scatter of vehicles. And the elevator carried no more than a handful of cops, several with snow melting off their boots, all the way to Homicide.

  Maybe it was just a little spooky.

  When she walked into her bullpen, she saw Baxter at his desk—kicked back in his chair, feet up, eyes closed. He wore one of his slick suits with an unknotted tie draped around his neck. She walked over, punched him in the shoulder.

  He shot straight up, one hand slapping his weapon.

  “Nap on your own time.”

  “Jesus. What time is it?” He looked blearily around the empty bullpen. “Where is everybody?”

  “They’d better be en route.”

  “Right. Right.” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “Trueheart and I caught one last night. Couple of guys decided it would be lots of fun to have lots and lots of drinks, smoke lots of illegals, and blast music loud enough people in apartments two floors down were complaining. Across-the-hall neighbor, who’d also done some copious drinking, decided, after several attempts to get them to knock it off, to bust in there and smash their player with a baseball bat. This action was cheered by many other occupants of the building, condemned by others.

  “Violence ensued. Numerous injuries and one fatality.”

  “Snow makes some people crazier than they already are.”

  “Tell me. By the time we wrapped it up, it was too late and too bad out there to go home. We bunked in the crib. Might as well sidewalk sleep,” he complained, trying to work kinks out of his neck and shoulders. “My boy’s in the shower.”

  “But you wr
apped it up?”

  “Yeah, wrapped and packed. Report’s in your box.”

  “Okay then. I’m pulling in you and Trueheart to conduct interviews.”

  Baxter’s sleepy eyes cleared with interest. “The Strazza murder? The serial rapist Nikki’s working?”

  She glanced over as Trueheart came out of the locker room, his hair still showing damp from his shower, his young, earnest face all but dewy.

  “Loo’s drafted us, pal. Come on and get briefed.”

  “I’ll copy you on the file,” Eve began. “Basically, the suspect targets wealthy married couples, childless, in single-family residences. He possesses the skills to bypass their security, enter the residences. In the first two incidents, he laid in wait until the couple came home. In this last, he entered the premises during a dinner party, walked right by outside contractors and up the main stairs. He disables the male, restrains him.”

  She punched her way through the details, the connections, the theories.

  “Using the guest list from this charity event all known victims attended, we’ve extrapolated most likely future targets. It’s probable he’s attended other events and functions, earmarked targets there, but it’s a decent bet there’ll be some cross. I’m going to give you five. Arrange face-to-faces, walk them through what they need to know, find out if they use the caterer, the rental place, know or socialize with any of the other vics. You know the drill.”

  “We’ll get it covered, boss.”

  “Um, Lieutenant?” Trueheart half raised his hand. “Our usual vehicle probably won’t handle the current road conditions.”

  “Requisition an all-terrain.”

  She glanced around as Jenkinson came in, snarling, his blindingwhite snowflakes on a fiery red background tie leading.

  “Didn’t they know it was coming?” he demanded of his partner as Reineke, smirking some, came in with him. “Didn’t they?” He threw out his arms to the nearly empty bullpen.

  “Problem, Jenkinson?” Eve asked.

  “Yeah, there’s a problem. Damn straight there’s a problem with the basic infrastructure and maintenance of this city we serve and protect.”

  Reineke slapped Jenkinson’s arm. “I’m gonna get us come coffee, partner.” So saying he walked toward the break room, giving Eve a wild eye roll on the way.