The In Death Collection, Books 26-29

by J. D. Robb

  “If he had a brain he would. Maybe, once they’re established and he’s got her hooked, he doesn’t know teenage girls well enough to realize she’s got to tell someone. A peer, a pal. So he’s not worried about us digging there. But he had to worry about Jamie checking or her—cop’s daughter—checking, even just to satisfy her curiosity. He had to show student ID at the vids and so on to get the discount, or wouldn’t she wonder why he didn’t? Where did he get it?”

  “Stolen or forged.”

  “Maybe both, because if someone checked—and he’s got to cover that—he needs to show up on the roster.”

  “We know he has some e-skills. It wouldn’t be hard to do. And,” Roarke added, “if he had a brain, he’d have already wiped himself off that roster.”

  “High probability on that. So tomorrow I’m going to start pushing somebody at the college to get me a list of students reporting a stolen ID, then start wading through that.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Because it’s freaking and increasingly annoying Peace Day, and it’s late anyway, and nobody’s in Administration or whatever.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she pointed a warning finger at him. “I just told you we have to be careful. I can’t have you hacking into Columbia’s student files.”

  “Which is a shame as I’d enjoy that. But I can take care of this with a ’link call.”

  “To who?”

  “Why don’t we just start at the top, with the president of the university?”

  She squinted. “You know the president of Columbia University?”

  “I do, yes. Roarke Industries sponsors a scholarship, and has donated lab equipment from time to time. Plus, I spoke with her at length regarding Jamie.”

  “So you can just pick up the ’link, give her a tag, no problem?”

  “Well, we won’t know till we try, will we?”

  He pulled his ’link out of his pocket, tapped his fingers on the screen to do a search. “She’s an interesting woman, with a nearly terrifying radar for bullshit. You’d like her.” He smiled as the call went through. “Peach. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”

  Across the table, Eve heard the muted response, but not the words. Whatever it was, Roarke laughed.

  “Well then, I’m delighted to be of help. As it happens, I’m about to ask for yours. You’re aware my wife is a police officer. Ah, is that so? Yes, indeed, she comes across quite well on screen. She’s heading an investigation that may have some connection to a student or former student at Columbia.”

  He paused, listened, flicked a glance toward Eve. “Yes, that would have been her partner. I know the NYPSD appreciates your cooperation. They need to ask for more. I think it would be best if the lieutenant explains to you directly what she needs. Would you hold one moment?”

  He tapped for hold, held out the ’link to Eve.

  “Peach?” she said. “A university president named Peach?”

  “Doctor Lapkoff.”

  “Right.” Eve took the ’link, opened communications. Her first impression was of ice blue eyes so sharp they looked able to pierce steel. They beamed out of a cool, attractive face topped with short, straight brown hair.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was brisk, as no-nonsense as the do. “How can I help you?”

  Within minutes, the bureaucratic wheels were turning. Eve passed the ’link back to Roarke. “She says she’ll have the data to me within an hour.”

  “Then she will.”

  “So I guess I better go back to work, and get ready for it.”

  Back in her office, she started a match search with the Columbia list and MacMasters’s threat file, and a second for matches with his case files for the last five years. It would take time.

  She used it to study the video again.

  He’d stopped and started, she judged, a number of times. Each time Deena hesitated or went off script. Patience, focus. He had a message, and he wanted it delivered.

  Blame the father, even though it was perfectly clear the victim spoke only under duress. He’d needed the words said. Daughter to father? Was that important? Child to parent? An issue or just the luck of the draw?

  No, nothing was luck on this. Every choice deliberate. Direct to MacMasters, with no mention of the mother. Dad, Daddy—not the mother.

  Never forgive. Hate. Never know why. Must pay.

  Sins of the father? she wondered. Eye for an eye?

  She sat, put her booted feet on the desk, shut her eyes.

  The killer was older by a few years—maybe more—than the victim. Deliberate target, used to punish MacMasters. Blood kin.

  Relative? Son?

  Unacknowledged child?

  Possible.

  The cruelty of the act, the planning, the message sent—all pointed to intense offense. Against killer? Against relative or close connection to killer?

  Note: Search MacMasters’s files for terminations, or arrests/wits/vics that resulted in death or extreme injuries. Add life sentences on and off planet.

  Personal, extremely personal. This wasn’t business.

  She opened her eyes when her unit signaled an incoming. Straightening, she brought up the data. Peach Lapkoff was a woman of her word.

  That was the good part, Eve noted. The bad was just how many students at one freaking college managed to lose their IDs.

  She needed more coffee.

  With more fuel she began the laborious process of whittling down. Even as her unit reported no match on her initial search, she felt the pop.

  “Powders, Darian, age nineteen. Lit major, second year. Replacement ID requested and paid for fifth of January, 2060.” She brought up her previous list, eyes narrowed. “And here you are again, Darian, hailing from Savannah. All data on current subject on screen.”

  She swiveled, studied his ID. “Good looking guy, big, charming smile. You’re tailor made.”

  Eve continued to study and wondered if she could be looking at a killer, or his dupe.

  “One way to find out.”

  She rose, tugged on the jacket she’d tossed over the back of her chair, then buzzed Roarke.

  “Hey, I’ve got an angle I need to check out. I won’t be long.”

  “Check out as in go out?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a possible. I want to work it now.”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Waste time, and neither do you. I’ll drive.”

  When he clicked off she blew out a breath.

  No point in arguing. And she could do a secondary run on Powders while Roarke played chauffeur.

  He beat her downstairs and opened the door under the bitter eye of Galahad just as the vehicle he’d remoted on auto cruised to the front of the house.

  “Where are we going and why?”

  “Columbia, on-campus housing to interview a possible suspect. More likely a potential dupe. But either way that’s not my vehicle.”

  Roarke glanced at the slick two-seat convertible, top down, in glittering silver. “It’s mine, and since I’m driving and it’s a very nice evening, I want an appropriate ride.”

  She frowned all the way to the passenger seat. “I have an appropriate ride, which you gave me.”

  “Safe, loaded, and deliberately unattractive. Key in the address,” he suggested, and gunned it down the drive.

  She hated to admit it, but it felt damn good, the night, the air, the speed. Reminding herself it wasn’t about fun, she started a deeper run on Darian Powders.

  “Kid’s from Georgia, requested new ID in January. He’s the right age, and he’s got a pretty face.”

  “Isn’t school out for the summer? Why would he be on campus in June?”

  “He’s taking a short summer semester, and interning at Westling Publishing. Lit major. He’s completed his second year at the college, carries a 3.4 grade average. No criminal, but his brother—who’s still in Georgia—has t
wo illegals pops. Minor shit. He’s got an uncle in New York, an editor at the publishing house, who has a son a couple years older than this one who took a harder illegals hit. Did six months, and another three in rehab. Bust was Brooklyn’s, so not MacMasters.”

  “Hardly motive for what was done to that girl.”

  “It’s a start,” Eve said, and kept working the run as she enjoyed the ride.

  7

  EVE FLASHED HER BADGE AT THE STERN-FACED droid riding the desk at the check-in for the dorm. She assumed they’d gone droid to try to avoid any possibility of bribery or human weakness with infractions. But she figured that area would be offset by the ability of probably half the residents in reprogramming or memory erase.

  The droid gave Eve’s badge both a naked eye study and a red-beam scan.

  “Purpose of business?”

  “That would be filed under none of yours.”

  In droid fashion, the machine dubbed “Ms. Sloop” according to its nameplate stared blankly during processing.

  “I am responsible for the residents and visitors of this building.”

  “I’m responsible for the residents and visitors of this city. I win.” Eve tapped her badge. “This requires you to answer one simple question: Is Darian Powders on the premises at this time?”

  The droid blinked twice, then consulted its comp, though Eve imagined it had the information in its own circuits.

  During the process, Eve wondered if the pinched-face, tight-lipped, slicked-back-bun look of the machine was an attempt by whoever was in charge to intimidate the residents into behaving.

  Since the stern, disapproving facade reminded her of Summerset, she didn’t see how it could work.

  “Resident Powders logged in at oh-three-thirty. He has not since logged out.”

  “Okay then.” Eve turned toward the elevator.

  “You are required to log in.”

  Eve didn’t bother to glance back. “You scanned my badge. That logs me in.” Stepping on, she ordered the fourth floor. “Why can’t they use humans?” she complained to Roarke. “Droids aren’t nearly as much fun to screw with.”

  “I don’t know. I found it mildly entertaining. And it did look considerably put out.”

  “Maybe, but it’s already moved on.” Hands in pockets, she rocked on her heels. “A person would probably sulk or stew about it for a few minutes anyway. That’s more satisfying.”

  When the doors opened, the noise slammed her eardrums, and made her eyes throb. Music—clashing styles, volumes, lyrics—pumped out of rooms with their doors propped open. Voices mixed with them, some raised in argument or debate, others singing along. People, possibly under the influence of pharmaceuticals and in various stages of dress, wandered the hallways.

  A couple twined in deep kiss/grope mode just outside a closed door. Eve wondered why they just didn’t go inside and finish the job.

  She stepped in front of a girl sporting two nose rings and what might have been a tattoo of a honking goose on her left shoulder.

  “Darian Powders? Where do I find him?”

  “Dar?” The girl flapped a hand behind her while giving Roarke a long, slow, smoldering study. “Straight back, last on the right. Door’s open. I’m over that way,” she said to Roarke, “if you’re interested.”

  “That’s an offer,” Roarke said pleasantly. “But I’ll be going this way.”

  “Bummed.”

  With a look more of wonder than annoyance, Eve watched the girl stroll off. “She completely eye-fucked you.”

  “I know. I feel so cheap and used.”

  “Shit. You got off on it. Men always do.”

  “True enough, which is why we’re so often cheap and used.”

  She snorted, then heading down the corridor glanced in rooms. She saw a jumble of possessions and people, smelled very old pizza and very fresh Zoner. Peace Day signs lay scattered among snoring bodies and bottles of brew, which were probably as illegal as the Zoner.

  “Does anyone actually study around here?”

  “The ones with the doors closed, I imagine.” Roarke shrugged. “And it being the end of a holiday weekend, I’d think most are still in the mode.” He looked as she did at a couple curled up together on the floor in front of a blasting vid screen. “Or simply unconscious.”

  Eve could only shake her head. “The droid’s useless, and they know it.”

  She stopped at the open door at the end of the corridor. Inside ten young people sprawled on big colorful floor pillows or slumped on a small red sofa. The source of the music here was a comp game blasting on screen. The two remaining people seemed to be dueling on stage. Their icons, outfitted in the pinnacle of trash rock gear, held guitars while their counterparts played the air version and sang at the top of their lungs.

  She considered shouting, but judged it a waste of air and effort. Instead she walked in and shoved her badge in front of one of the sprawlers.

  It was just a little disappointing that no one scrambled to conceal or dispose of illegals. The boy she badged, scooped a hank of red and black hair out of his eyes and said, “Whoa! What do?”

  “Turn it off.”

  “The what?”

  “Turn the game off.”

  He gave her saucer eyes. “But it’s like the final round, and dead heat. Dar could maybe lose his title.”

  “Heart bleeds. Turn it off.”

  “Whoa.” He scooped his hair again, then scooted over to the main controller to switch it manually. He used pause, which suited Eve. But the participants, and the audience who hadn’t seen the badge, went ballistic.

  “What the fuck? The fuck? Who did that?” The boy player—who Eve recognized as Darian—whirled around. He looked ready to bash someone with his invisible guitar. “I was about to take Luce down!”

  “Bogus.” Luce sniffed, tossing a yard of hair the white-blonde of bleached straw. “I had you. Totally under.”

  “Not this eon. Jesus, Coby, what?”

  “Got cop,” Coby said and jerked his head toward Eve.

  Slouchers and sprawlers came to attention. Darian shifted toward Eve, goggled a little. “Whoa. Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Darian Powders?”

  “Yeah, um, me!” He raised his hand. “If we’re too loud and like that, so’s everybody.”

  Eve saw, out of the corner of her eye, one of the sprawlers butt-scoot toward the door. She stopped him with a single finger point.

  “I’m not campus, I’m NYPSD. I have some questions.”

  Luce sidestepped to Darian, put her hand in one of his pockets in a way that told Eve they weren’t just game rivals, but involved. “You need a lawyer, Dar.”

  “What? Why? Why?”

  “When a cop asks questions, you should have a rep.”

  “I bet you’re a law student.”

  Luce looked at Eve out of eyes such a pale blue they looked like springwater. “Prelaw.”

  “Then why don’t you rep him on the first question. It’s an easy one. Darian, can you account for your whereabouts from six p.m. last night to four a.m. this morning?”

  “Well yeah. Come on, Luce, that is easy. A bunch of us went down to the Shore yesterday afternoon. What, about two maybe?”

  “About.” Luce kept those pale eyes on Eve. “We got back about seven.”

  “And we chowed at McGill’s, and hit a party at Gia’s. She’s got an off-campus group. Gia.” He gestured to a tiny brunette.

  “Um, I don’t know when he left, exactly, but it was pretty late. Or early, I guess,” Gia offered. “We started the Rock Your Ass tourney, and we were going till close to three. Close anyway.”

  “We came back here after and crashed,” Darian told Eve. “Time, I don’t know, exactly, but the log’ll have it below.”

  “Okay, see? Easy.” Eve thought of connections, and Jamie’s comment about partying late on Saturday night.

  “So . . . I did good?” Darian offered the same blasting smile from his ID shot.

  “
Yeah. No lawyers necessary,” she said to Luce. “Do you know Jamie Lingstrom?”

  “Sure. We’ve had some classes together, hang sometimes. Hey, he was at the party last night for a while. You could ask him. . . Wait. Is he in trouble? He’s not trouble. He wants to be a freaking cop. Sorry, I mean, he’s studying to be an e-cop.”

  “He’s not in trouble. It happens I know Jamie, too. You’re not in trouble either, but I still have questions. Everybody else, clear out.”

  Bodies lurched up, scrambled. Luce remained glued to Darian’s side, and the boy Coby stayed on the floor.

  Eve pointed at Coby, pointed at the door.

  “But I live here and all that.”

  “Find somewhere else to be. And close the door behind you.”

  When he had, Eve looked at Luce.

  “I’m not leaving. I’m within my rights.”

  “Fine. Sit down, both of you.”

  Eve showed them Deena’s ID photo. “Do you know this girl?”

  “No. Wait. No . . . Maybe.”

  “Pick one,” Eve advised Darian.

  “I think I’ve seen her maybe?” He looked at Eve as she imagined he might have looked at one of his professors. Earnestly. “Maybe with Jamie? But not like at the party last night, or for a while. I just think maybe. Luce.”

  Luce frowned over the image. “Yeah. A couple times with Jamie. Not a girlfriend. I asked because she’s younger. He said they’d been buds forever. I didn’t really talk to her much or anything, but I saw her a couple of times with Jamie at Perk It—the coffee shop. Why?”

  Eve ignored the question. “Darian, you requested a new student ID in January.”

  “Yeah. I lost mine.”

  “How’d you lose it?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, I’d probably find it.” He smiled, a little weakly.

  “Let’s try when did you lose it?”

  “It was right after winter break. I know I had it when I got back—I went home for Christmas—because you’ve got to show it to log back into the dorm and all after a break. I got back early, for New Year’s and like that, because, well, who wants to be with the fam for the big Eve. Plus, Luce and I had started . . .”