Betrayal in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Interesting, she thought, and imagined Yost standing over the huge stove, delicately sautéing something. Listening to music, classical music or opera, as he worked. Wearing the snow-white butcher’s apron she found hanging, pressed and pristine, in a narrow closet.

  He’d cook for himself, an efficient and self-sufficient man. Or order up one of his choices on the AutoChef. He’d set his table with the fancy china in his cupboard, light his candles, and savor his solitary meal.

  A man of refined tastes, who liked to kill.

  She backtracked, moved into the room he’d remodeled into a high-tech gym. The walls were mirrored, the ceiling high, the floor a gleaming solid wood.

  Here was a treadmill with VR capabilities, a personal aqua tank, a resistance center, gravity bench and boots, and a wall of mirrors with a viewer to record workout. Roarke’s at-home gym was better equipped, she thought, but what was here was top of the line.

  Yost kept himself in shape, and liked to watch himself doing so.

  She found his bedroom next, and here he’d indulged himself. Slick materials, sensual colors, a gel bed the size of a lake flowing under a canopy of blue satin. A mirrored canopy, she noted, another viewer.

  Yost liked to watch himself doing more than working out.

  The master bath followed the scheme of efficient indulgence, and there she found his horde of soaps and lotions and oils from exclusive hotels around the world and off it. Travel-size, she mused. Tuck them into your job bag, do you, Yost, so you can clean up after work?

  Rape and murder were a messy business. But with these handy containers of the best hygiene products around, you can be fresh as a daisy in no time.

  The containers were arranged in a tall cupboard, according to purpose. The gaps between told her he’d taken some with him.

  Waste not, want not.

  The walk-in closet, if a room that size and complex could be called a closet, was sheer genius.

  She imagined he’d left in somewhat of a hurry. And yet there was no untidiness. Several slots were empty in the revolving cabinet, a number of the stone gray wig stands were now bald, but every inch was ruthlessly organized.

  There were a lot of inches.

  Forests of suits ranging from blue to gray to black, a parade of shirts in tones of white or the most delicate pastels, hung in precise order on a two-level set of bars.

  More casual wear. Skinsuits, workout apparel, lounging robes, were meticulously arranged across the wide room.

  A waterfall of ties, scarves, belts hung ruler-straight in their individual areas. Shoes, mountains of them, were displayed in clear boxes that were not only stacked but numbered.

  She counted six missing pairs.

  A long and spotless white counter was nestled between the wardrobe bars and build-ins. Over it spread a wide triple mirror ringed by fancy round lights. There was a padded seat, and kneehole room in the cabinet below. It boasted two dozen drawers. She opened them at random and saw enhancements that would have made her friend Mavis’s heart swell with joy.

  She scanned labels even as she recorded. She knew less about enhancements than she did about paintings.

  She walked out, over carpet, through archways, and found what she was looking for. The hub of activity, Yost’s workspace, where Karen Stowe and two other Feebs were currently running discs on Yost’s desk unit.

  “He was in a hurry,” Stowe said as she stood, hands on hips, staring at the scrolling data. “He couldn’t have gotten everything.”

  “He got everything he wanted to get,” Eve said from the doorway, and Stowe’s head snapped up as if she’d taken an uppercut to the jaw. Her mouth thinned.

  “Let me know if anything clicks,” she ordered, then moved to the doorway, through. She gave a come-with-me signal to Eve. And was ignored.

  “He packed his bags,” Eve continued, “tucked in whatever he felt most necessary, went through his data discs, his files. Wouldn’t take a lot of time if you’re as anal and organized as he is. He’d have a notebook, a portable, a number of nice, convenient, travel-sized units. They’d have gone with him, too. All in all, I’d say he was out the door in thirty minutes, on the outside, after his source tipped him about your operation.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this here.”

  “Too bad. My team ran him down while yours was racing in circles. You wouldn’t be standing this close to him if it hadn’t been for the work my team put into this.”

  “If you’d cooperated—”

  “Like you did?” Eve shot back. “Yeah, you’re full of cooperation. Who’d you pay off to get the information on my warrant? What favors did you call in to get yours bumped in front of it so you could screw this up?”

  “Federal takes precedence.”

  “Bullshit, Stowe. Justice takes precedence, and if I’d gotten my warrant in a timely fashion Sylvester Yost would be in a cage now instead of setting up shop somewhere else.”

  She knew it. Goddamn it, she knew it. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I can be sure of one thing, and so can you: He’s gone. You fucked up and he’s gone. How’s that going to sit with you when we stand over the next body?”

  Stowe closed her eyes a moment, drew in a breath. “Can we go somewhere private and discuss—”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” On a snap of temper, Stowe pulled the door closed so the agents inside were deprived of the gossip. “Look, you’re steamed, and you’ve got a right to be. But I did my job. Jacoby came to me with the data on the warrant, and he’d already done the dance. I had a chance to bring Yost down, to bring him in, and I took it. You’d have done the same.”

  “You don’t know me, pal. I don’t play games and I don’t try to rack up points on someone else’s work. You wanted a big bust, and you didn’t care how you got it. Now we’re both empty, and odds are someone else is going to die.”

  Eve paused, seeing the quick wince in Stowe’s eyes. “Yeah, you’ve figured that much out, haven’t you? As much as I’ll enjoy seeing you and your partner’s butts fry over this foul up, it doesn’t make up for another hit. Nothing does.”

  “All right,” Stowe said as Eve turned away. She reached out, grabbed Eve’s arm. Her voice was low, her eyes miserable. “You’re right. You’re right, straight down the line.”

  “Being right doesn’t mean shit just now, does it? Keep away from me, Stowe. You and that moron you work with keep away from me, my team, and my investigation. Otherwise, neither of you will have enough ass left to fry when I’m finished with you.”

  She strode, out, heading for the door. Before she could pass through, Jacoby stepped in front of her. “Did you have that recorder on?” he demanded.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “You aren’t authorized to record this scene,” he began and made a grab for her lapel unit. Fast and vicious as a snake, she snatched his wrist, pushing her thumb into the pulse point and twisting.

  “Keep your hand off me. You don’t, I’ll snap it off at the wrist and make you eat it.”

  Pain radiated up his arm, paralyzing him. But his other hand bunched into a fist, lifted. “You’re assaulting and threatening a federal officer.”

  “Funny, I thought I was assaulting and threatening a federal asshole. You want to take a shot at me, Jacoby”—she tilted her chin up in invitation—“go ahead, right here in front of all your friends and associates. Let’s see which one of us walks out on two feet.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Sir.” She acknowledged Whitney, but kept her eyes on Jacoby’s. His were starting to water.

  “Your presence is required at Central to finalize the formal complaint against Agents Jacoby and Stowe. Let that idiot go,” he said mildly. “He’s not worth it.”

  “Affirmative,” Eve murmured, then released Jacoby’s wrist and stepped back.

  Perhaps it was embarrassment, or perhaps he was simply a moron. But he lunged at her. She didn’t think; she didn’t hesitate. With a half-pivot, s
he shot her elbow up, caught him just under the chin. She heard his teeth snap together an instant before he went down.

  She had a moment to hope he’d bitten off a chunk of his tongue before he scrambled to his feet, eyes dazed. She finished the pivot, planted her feet. And supposed it was probably for the best when Whitney stepped between them.

  “I’m filing charges.” Blood trickled out of Jacoby’s mouth as he fumbled for his communicator.

  “I wouldn’t advise that, Agent. You came at my officer, a violent action, when her back was turned. She defended herself. That’s on record.” With a fierce grin, he patted his own lapel recorder. “Make that call and I’ll have you up before your own disciplinary committee before your tongue stops bleeding. You’re not just taking on my officer, you’re taking me on, and my whole goddamn department. So back off before I see that what’s left of your career is flushed down the toilet.”

  He held Jacoby’s eyes another testing moment, signaled to Eve to go, then followed.

  As they walked toward the elevator, Feeney examined his fingernails. “Shoulda followed through with a knee to the balls.”

  “I would have, but he doesn’t have any.” Then she sobered, straightened. “Commander, I apologize for—”

  “Don’t spoil it.” He stepped into the elevator, rolled his shoulders. “I have to get out in the field more often. I forgot how much fun it could be. I want your observations and analysis of the scene on disc as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Run a probability on his still being in or near the city, and if that comes through positive, run one on where he might hole up. Contact—”

  He broke off, looked down into her face. “You show admirable restraint, Dallas, in not telling me you know how to do your job.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind, sir.” Since decking Jacoby had brightened her mood, she worked up a smile. “Hardly.”

  “Since you do know I’ll let you get on with it.” He walked off the elevator. “I have a number of calls to make. A number of ears to burn.”

  “He’s revved up,” Feeney murmured when Whitney left them.

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t know him when he worked the streets. Got cold blood, Jack does. Heads’ll be rolling by end of shift, and he won’t have broken a sweat.” Feeney pulled his bag of nuts from his pocket. “I’ll gather up McNab. You taking this into Central?”

  “For now.” She pulled out her communicator, intending to tag Peabody when her aide stepped off the elevator across the wide lobby. “You’re with me.”

  Eve waited until they were out the doors and inside her unit. “Report?”

  “Kept to himself. Very polite, if aloof. Always perfectly dressed. Always alone. I talked to a dozen neighbors, and two guards, none had ever seen him with anyone. But, he had a server droid. One of the guards told me the Feebs carried out what was left of it. He claimed it looked like a self-destruct.”

  “Covered his ass there.”

  “A woman on the fifteenth floor, one of those society-type matrons, said she’d spoken to him occasionally in the lobby, and a number of times at the ballet and opera. You hit that one. She said he had season tickets to both, box seat, stage right. He always went solo.”

  “We’ll put some men on that, but he’s not going to risk it now, no matter how much he gets into that stuff. He’ll know we’ve blown his cover in this building, talked to neighbors. He’ll bypass his usual haunts, at least for the time being.”

  “I’ve gone to the opera with Charles a few times. I’ve been trying to pull it in, get a visual on that box. But it’s not clicking. I could ask him. He goes a lot. Could have noticed.”

  Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel, weighed, considered and ruthlessly cut off a Rapid Cab. “Run it by him, but don’t fill him in. We’ve got too many fingers in this pie already without adding another civilian.”

  “Speaking of pie,” Peabody said, and looked longingly toward a corner glide-cart.

  “It’s not even noon. You can’t be hungry.”

  “Can, too. I bet you didn’t have breakfast. Missing the most essential meal of the day can make you cranky, and logy, and seriously affect your mental and emotional well-being. Studies—”

  “Oh Christ!” Eve whipped to the curb, cut off yet another cab, then gave Peabody a steely glare. “You’ve got sixty seconds.”

  “Watch me rock.”

  She was out of the car like a laser flash, whipping out her badge to clear her path toward the scoop of soy fries her stomach was yearning for.

  She popped back in the car, seconds to spare, and offered Eve a beaming smile and a second scoop of fries. The smile wobbled only slightly when Eve took the scoop and tucked it between her thighs.

  “I didn’t think you were hungry.”

  “Then why’d you buy me a scoop?”

  “Just to be nice,” Peabody said with some dignity as her hopes for two scoops—after all she wouldn’t have felt right about letting them go to waste—were dashed. “I guess you want this, too.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Eve snagged the tube of Pepsi, plucked out some fries, and shot back into traffic. “Record on my collar.” Eve gestured to it with her chin. “Upload onto hard drive and disc. Get me your knock-on-doors report within the hour, and contact Charles Monroe.”

  Peabody plucked off the recorder, slipped it onto her own jacket. “Yes, sir.”

  “You know more about girl stuff than I do. Scan the record, the segment in Yost’s dressing room deal. Give me a rundown on the enhancements. If it’s out of your scope, I’m going to pass it to Mavis. She knows everything.”

  “Anything above discount counter is out of my scope, enhancement-wise. I might recognize some of the brands though.”

  “Make another copy of that segment. I’ll tag Mavis.”

  She finished the fries on the way up to her office, pitched the empty container, then closed herself in her office. She had one step to take before she hunkered down to paperwork, and she wanted to take it in private.

  As an extra precaution, she used her personal palm-link.

  Roarke answered on the second beep. “Hello, Lieutenant. How did it go?”

  “It went. I got to deck Jacoby with no official flak coming down on me, so that’s something.”

  “I hope you got it on record. I’d love to watch.”

  “Har. Actually I did, which is why I had to deck him, and why I’m calling. I got . . .” She trailed off as she managed to look beyond his face and recognized the room.

  “What are you doing in there?” she demanded. “I told you I didn’t want any data accessed on your unregistered.”

  “Who said I was accessing data for you?”

  “Listen—”

  “I do have other business. I have no intention of passing you data accessed in other than official and legal means.”

  He’d simply filter it through Feeney first.

  “By the way, you’ve had the return transmission from The New Savoy. Confirmation of Yost’s stay there. I’ve sent the pertinents to you. Now, what else can I do for you?”

  She studied him through narrowed and suspicious eyes. “Are you lying?”

  “About Yost’s stay in London?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. About what you’re doing in that room right now.”

  “If I were, I’d simply compound it by lying again. I suppose you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” He smiled at her. “Now as much as I’d love to while away the day chatting with you, darling, I do have work. What do you want?”

  “All right.” She hissed out a breath. “I got Yost’s place on record. Fancy stuff. You’d like most of it. I can run it down, or try to piece by piece, but I figured if you took a look, you might be able to tag it faster. Paintings, sculptures, antiques. You’d know if they’re the real thing by looking at a disc?”

  “I would, most likely. I can’t guarantee, as good copies need to be examined in person.”

  “I don’t peg him as the good copy kin
d of guy. He’s vain about that stuff, like somebody else I know.”

  “You’re insulting your expert consultant, civilian.”

  “Gotta get the digs in where I can. Anyway, maybe you can narrow down the sources for the artwork and the jazzy furniture.”

  “Shoot it over. I’ll take a look.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “See that you do. Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

  He disconnected, leaned back, and examined the data on his wall screen.

  Jacoby, Special Agent James.

  The date and place of birth, the family data weren’t of particular interest. But he noted Jacoby hadn’t precisely excelled in his studies. He’d gotten through by staying nearly dead average, with minute peaks and valleys. His social skills were the deepest valleys, his analytical talents the highest peaks.

  He’d barely skimmed by the minimal requirements for FBI training, but had excelled in the areas of weapons training, electronics, and tactics.

  His sealed profile indicated a difficulty with authority and coworkers, a tendency to ignore or circumvent procedure, and a marginal ability for teamwork.

  He’d been cited three times for insubordination and had faced an internal investigation for suspicion of tampering with evidence.

  He was single, heterosexual, and appeared to prefer the company and services of licensed companions to a personal relationship with a woman.

  He had no criminal record, even as a juvenile, no questionable vices. That made Roarke shake his head. He didn’t doubt the FBI file. They were usually every bit as thorough and covert as he could be himself. A man without vices was either a dangerous man or a terminally tedious one.

  He bought his clothes off the rack, lived in a small, modest apartment, and had no particular friends.

  Small wonder, Roarke mused, and since he’d gone that far, set his computer to work picking through Jacoby’s case files.

  As it searched, he switched the screen to Karen Stowe’s data.

  She was the stronger of the team, Roarke thought, and the smarter. Graduated cum laude, American University, where she’d double-majored in criminal justice and electronics. She’d been recruited straight out of college and had completed her training precisely on schedule and in the top five of her class.