by J. D. Robb
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Alone, Eve refined her official statement, then ran it through channels. Carting the bakery box back into the bull pen, she dropped it on the communal AutoChef.
All movement stopped. Silence fell.
“Peabody,” she said into the breathless hush, “with me.”
She’d barely hit the doorway when the riot of rushing feet and clamor of voices erupted behind her.
Cops and doughnuts, she thought. A well-honored tradition that almost brought a sentimental tear to the eye.
“I bet there were jelly-filled. I bet there were,” Peabody muttered as they muscled onto an elevator.
“Some of them had those little colored sprinkle things on top. Like edible confetti.”
Peabody’s square and sturdy jaw wobbled with emotion. “All I had time for this morning was reconstituted banana slices on a stale bagel.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” At garage level, Eve strolled off the elevator. “Carmichael’s first stop. We’re catching him between his morning aqua therapy and daily skin treatment.”
“You could’ve saved me one. One little doughnut.”
“I could have,” Eve agreed as they climbed in her vehicle. “I could have done that. In fact . . .” She rummaged around in her pocket, pulled out an evidence bag. Inside was a jelly doughnut. “I believe I did.”
“For me?” Overjoyed, Peabody snatched it, sniffed through the bag. “You saved me a doughnut. You’re so good to me. I take back everything I was thinking—you know, how you’re a cold, selfish, doughnut-hogging bitch and all that. Thanks, Dallas.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I really shouldn’t eat it though.” Peabody caught her bottom lip between her teeth, stroking the bag as Eve backed out of the slot. “I really shouldn’t. I’m on a diet. I’ve just got to lose some of the square footage of my ass, so I—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Give it back then.”
But when Eve reached out, Peabody cringed back, doughnut bag clutched at her breasts, face screwed into dangerous lines. “Mine.”
“Peabody, you continue to be a fascination to me.”
“Thanks.” Slowly, savoring the moment, Peabody unsealed the bag. “Anyway, I deserve it. I’m using up lots of calories studying for the detective’s exam, and stressing about it. Stress sucks up calories like a vacuum. That’s why you’re so thin.”
“I’m not thin, I’m not stressed.”
“If you’ve got an excess ounce of body fat, I’ll eat it. Respectfully, sir,” Peabody added with a mouthful of jelly doughnut. “But I’ve really been hitting the discs and the simulators. McNab’s helping me out. He’s hardly even being an asshole right now.”
“Wonder of wonders.”
“It’s coming up really soon. I was wondering if you could tell me where you think my weak areas are so I could work on them.”
“You question yourself. Even when your gut tells you you’re right, you don’t trust it enough. You’ve got good instincts, but you tend to be afraid to go with them without confirmation from a superior. You often question your own competence, and when you question yours, you’re questioning mine.”
She glanced over, unsurprised to see Peabody keying her comments into her notebook between bites of doughnut. “You’re writing this down.”
“It helps to see it, you know. Then to do these affirmations in the mirror. I’m a confident, competent officer of the law, and like that.” She flushed a little. “It’s just a method.”
“Whatever.”
Eve nosed into a narrow space at the curb. “Let’s confidently and competently see where Carmichael Smith was night before last.”
“Yes, sir, but I also have to stress and obsess about having eaten that jelly doughnut. That’ll work off the calories and even it out. It’ll be like I never ate it at all.”
“Then you might want to wipe the jelly off your lip.”
Eve stepped out of the car, studied the building. It had been, she supposed, a small three-level apartment building at one time. Now it was a single residence on a tony street. Private security again, two entrances in the front. At least one in the back, she assumed.
Not so far from an alley in Chinatown geographically, but worlds away in every other form. No LCs on the stroll here, no glide-carts on the corners. High maintenance and low crime.
She circled around the walk and up to the main entrance on the second level.
Security panel, palm plate, and a retinal scan. A very careful man. She engaged the panel and frowned at the music that soared out. A lot of strings and keyboard around a creamy male voice.
“ ‘Love Lights the World,’ ” Peabody identified. “It’s sort of his signature song.”
“It’s got more calories than your doughnut.”
WELCOME, the computer said in polite, female tones. WE HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A WONDERFUL DAY. PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME AND YOUR BUSINESS.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” She lifted her badge for a scan. “Police business. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Smith this morning.”
ONE MOMENT, PLEASE . . . THANK YOU, LIEUTENANT. MR. SMITH IS EXPECTING YOU. YOU’RE CLEARED.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a dark-skinned woman in snowy white. There was more music here, quietly dripping its sweetness in the air.
“Good morning. Thank you for being prompt. Please come in, make yourself at home in the living area. Carmichael will be right with you.”
She glided, Eve thought, like a woman on rollers instead of feet, as she ushered them into a large room with blond walls. There was a mood screen taking up one of those walls, with an image of a white boat drifting on a blue sea as calm as a plate of glass. Thick gel cushions were spread over the floor in lieu of actual furniture, and all were in pastels. Tables were long and low, in that same blond tone.
A fuzzy white kitten curled on one of the tables, and blinked emerald eyes at Eve.
“Please relax. I’ll let Carmichael know you’re here.”
Peabody walked over and poked at one of the floor cushions. “I guess you sink right in and it molds to your butt.” Experimentally, she reached back and patted a hand over her ass. “That could be embarrassing.”
“That music is making my teeth ache.” Eve ran her tongue around them, then turned as Carmichael Smith made his entrance.
He was tall, about six three with a well-toned body he was currently showing off in a fluid white vest that left his pecs and abs on display. His pants were black and snug, so he could display his other attributes. His hair was dramatically streaked black and white, and worn back in a queue to leave his face—wide, high-boned, and narrowed to a sharp, pointed chin—unframed.
His eyes were deep, melted chocolate brown, his skin the color of coffee light.
“Ah, Lieutenant Dallas. Or do I call you Mrs. Roarke?”
Eve heard Peabody’s smothered snort, ignored it. “You call me Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Of course, of course.” He strode in, vest streaming, and took the hand she’d yet to offer in both of his. “It’s just that I only made the connection this morning.” He gave her hand an intimate squeeze, then turned his charm on Peabody. “And who might you be?”
“My aide, Officer Peabody. I have some questions, Mr. Smith.”
“More than happy to answer them.” He took Peabody’s hand as he had Eve’s. “Please, please, sit. Li’s bringing us some tea. I have a special morning blend for energy. It’s simply fantastic. Call me Carmichael.”
He lowered smoothly to a peach-colored cushion and took the little cat into his lap. “There now, Snowdrop, did you think Daddy had forgotten you?”
She didn’t want to sit on one of the cushions, nor did she want to remain standing and towering over him. So she sat on the table.
“Can you tell me where you were, early yesterday morning, between midnight and three A.M?”
Like the cat, he blinked. “Well, that sounds very official. Is there some
problem?”
“Yes, the murder of a woman in Chinatown.”
“I don’t understand. Such negative energy.” He breathed deep. “We try to keep a positive flow in this house.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Jacie Wooton found being sliced up a pretty negative experience. Can you verify your whereabouts, Mr. Smith?”
“Li,” he said as the black woman in flowing white streamed in. “Do I know anyone named Jacie Wooton?”
“No.”
“Do we know where I was night before last, between midnight and three?”
“Yes, of course.” She poured pale gold tea from a pale blue pot into pale blue cups. “You were attending the dinner party hosted by the Rislings until ten. You escorted Ms. Hubble home, had a nightcap with her in her apartment, and returned here about midnight. You spent twenty minutes in your isolation tank to eliminate any negativity before retiring. You were in bed by one-thirty, and had your usual wake-up call at eight the following morning.”
“Thank you.” He picked up the teacup she’d set on the table. “It’s difficult for me to keep all those details in my head. I’d be lost without Li.”
“I’d like the names and addresses of the people you were with, to verify this information.”
“I’m feeling very unsettled about this.”
“It’s routine, Mr. Smith. When I confirm your alibi, I can move on.”
“Li will provide you with anything you need.” He made a gesture with his hand. “It’s important to my well-being, to my work, to keep my senses stimulated by the positive, by love and by beauty.”
“Right. You have a standing order from Whittier’s in London for a certain type of stationery. Your last purchase of it was four months ago.”
“No. I never purchase anything. I can’t go into shops, you see. My fans are so enthusiastic. I have things brought in to me, or Li, or one of my staff goes into the shops. I do enjoy good stationery. I feel it’s important to send personal notes, on good paper, to friends or those who’ve made some contribution.”
“Cream-colored, heavy-eight bond. Unrecycled.”
“Unrecycled?” He ducked his head, smiling into his cup like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m ashamed to say I have been using something like that. Not very green of me, but it’s gorgeous paper. Li, does my writing paper come from London?”
“I can check.”
“She’ll check.”
“Fine. I’d like a sample of it, too, if you don’t mind, and the names of any staff members who were authorized to make purchases for you in London.”
“I’ll take care of that.” Li glided out again.
“I don’t quite understand how my writing paper could interest you.”
“There was a note, written on that style of paper, left with the body.”
“Please.” He lifted both hands, drawing them up his own body as he breathed in, pushing them outward as he exhaled. “I don’t want that sort of image corrupting my senses. That’s why I listen only to my own music. I never watch the media reports, except for specially selected features on entertainment or society. There’s too much darkness in the world. Too much despair.”
“Tell me about it.”
When Eve left, she had a sample of his writing paper, and the names of his staffers in London.
“He’s weird,” Peabody commented. “But he’s built. And he just doesn’t seem like the type who’d go hunting LCs.”
“He likes to have multi-partner sex, occasionally with minors.”
“Oh.” Peabody wrinkled her nose as she glanced back toward the house. “So much for my instincts on this one.”
“Maybe he figures underage groupies have less negativity, sexually speaking, than any grown woman who could listen to that crap he plays and not run screaming after five minutes.”
She got into the car, slammed the door. “If that stinking ‘Love Lights the World’ sticks in my head, I’m coming back here and beating him with a club.”
“Now that’s positive,” Peabody decided.
Chapter 5
Knowing the security at the U.N. was tight, Eve decided to avoid a possible pissing match with guards and parked in a second-level street ramp on First Avenue.
The little cross-block hike would help work off the doughnuts.
They still allowed tours—she’d checked—but they were stringently regulated with the threat of terrorism always a thunderhead ready to storm. But nations throughout the world, and the recognized off-planet factions, had their meetings and assemblies, their votes and their agendas, inside the huge white building that dominated its six-block stretch.
The flags still waved, a colorful symbol, Eve supposed, of man’s willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.
Even with their names on the visitors’ list, she and Peabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always made Eve twitchy.
Their badges were scanned, their fingerprints verified. Peabody’s bag was scanned, then hand-searched. All electronics, including ’links, PPCs, and communicators, were taken through analysis.
They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body scanner, all before being cleared through entry level.
“Okay,” Eve declared. “Maybe they’ve got to be careful, but I’m drawing the line at a cavity search.”
“Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident.” Peabody stepped with Eve and a uniformed guard into a bomb-proof elevator.
“Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us.”
They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were scanned, analyzed, and verified again.
They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide’s retina scan and voice command unlocked a bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.
It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-sealed and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.
A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled at Eve.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Thomas Newkirk, personal assistant to Mr. Renquist. I’ll escort you from here.”
“Some security you’ve got here, Mr. Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?
He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”
“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.
He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.
“You former military?”
“Captain, RAF. Mr. Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.
“Just one moment, please.”
While she waited, Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.
She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.
It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr. Renquist will see you now, Lieutenant.”
It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with an East Riv
er view at his back.
He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.
He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.
His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.
His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets—whatever the hell they were—to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve read and heard quite a bit about you already.” He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician’s shake. “I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function.”
“So I’m told.”
“Please have a seat.” He gestured, and sat behind his desk. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can’t have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.
His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second ’link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl’s face and curly hair—both fair like her father’s—and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.
She knew enough about politics and protocol to at least start out playing the game. “I’d like to thank you, for myself and on behalf of the NYPSD for your cooperation. I know you’re extremely busy and appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”
“I believe strongly in assisting the local authorities, wherever I am. The U.N. is, on an elemental level, the world’s police force. In a way, we’re in the same profession, you and I. How can I help you?”
“A woman named Jacie Wooton was murdered the night before last. I’m the primary investigator.”