by J. D. Robb
Talking too much, Eve thought. Been lonely, hasn't it, Julianna, with nobody to talk to who you feel is on the same level?
"I'm sure he's excellent in bed, if you find such things important." She settled back, made a movement that had Eve imagining her crossing her legs.
Getting cozy. A little girl-talk.
"I've always felt fucking's overrated and so demeaning to both parties. What is it, really, but a woman allowing herself to be plundered, penetrated. Invaded. And a man plunging away as if his life depended on it. And as we know, with the men I fuck, their lives do depend on it. For a short time, anyway. Killing is so much more exciting than sex. You've killed, so you know. Deep down, you know. I wish we had the time and opportunity to talk, really talk, but I don't think that's going to happen. You want to stop me, to put me back in a cage. Remember what you said to me? Remember what you said? You'd have left me there if it had been up to you. Left me to spend the rest of my life caged like an animal. Then you turned your back on me like I was nothing. You didn't get your way, did you? But I got mine. I always get mine. You'd better remember that. You'd better respect that."
Her voice had risen, her breath had quickened. Now she drew in a long stream of air, fluffed a hand over her hair as if composing herself. "I thought of you when I killed Pettibone and Mouton. I've been thinking of you for a very, very long time. How does that make you feel, to know they died because of you? Does that upset you, Eve? Does that make you angry?"
Julianna tipped her head back and laughed. "Payback's a bitch, and I haven't even started. I want what I've always wanted. To do what pleases me and to live very, very well. You took eight years, seven months, and eight days from me, Eve. I'm going to balance the scales. I can and I will, tossing the bodies of silly old men at your feet. So you know how simple it is for me, here's a tip. The Mile High Hotel, Denver. Suite 4020. The man's name is Spencer Campbell. I'll see you again soon. Very soon."
"Yeah, you will," Eve retorted as the screen went blank. "Peabody, get me that hotel on the 'link. I want head of security."
* * *
The suite had been reserved in the name of Juliet Darcy, who had checked in the night before, securing the room for two nights with cash.
"The victim is Spencer Campbell, of Campbell Investment Consultants. The top man." In the conference room at Central, Eve brought his image on-screen. "Age sixty-one, divorced, currently separated from wife two. He had an appointment scheduled for a personal consult with Juliet Darcy in her hotel suite. Breakfast meeting, eight hundred Denver time. About the same time I was kicking in the door here in New York. She's very fucking cocky these days. Campbell had been dead less than thirty minutes when security broke in. Julianna didn't bother to check out, just grabbed her overnight bag, set the do not disturb light on the door, and waltzed out. Autopsy and lab reports will confirm that Campbell's coffee was poisoned."
"She goes all the way to Denver to off this guy." Feeney dragged a hand through his wiry hair. "What's the point?"
"To prove she can. He was nothing to her. Just an easily sacrificed pawn to show me she can keep racking them up, when and where she wants, while I scramble around trying to find her. She breaks pattern again, because she wants to show me she's unpredictable."
And, Eve thought, she doesn't want me to sniff out that she's looking at Roarke. For victims she'd stick with what she'd called silly old men. Killing them as decoys to disguise her ultimate goal.
They died because of you.
Eve blocked out the voice, and the guilt. Most of the guilt.
"She had potential targets selected before she went down, and may have continued to select and research from inside."
"Did some electronic surveillance and research on Pettibone and Mouton from the prison office units," Feeney confirmed. "We dug out bits and pieces of it. Nothing on this guy or any others at this point. Nothing on personal business—financials, real estate, travel inquiries."
"She used her personal for that." Supervisor Miller, she thought in disgust, would have a lot to answer for before she was done with him. "Most likely diddled on the office machines early on, but made sure she had a personal for data she couldn't risk having traced."
She took a pass around the room. "She's got grease, and plenty of it. My personal grease expert states that it's most likely she stashes it in various numbered accounts in various locations. We've got no line to tug to the money. Loopy claims Julianna told her she had her own place here in New York. She's stuck to that during Interview with the Chicago cops, but can't or won't expand. My guess is she doesn't know the location. Julianna might have passed the time chatting with her, but wouldn't give her anything traceable."
"We're running private residences through EDD." Feeney dug out a handful of nuts. "But with no time frame of purchase or lease, no area, no name or names to feed in, we're mostly jerking off there."
"She'll spend money on herself." Eve thought how polished and fit Julianna had looked in person, in the vid. "But she'd be smart enough to use cash. We run high-end stores, salons, restaurants. But as this is goddamn New York, endless shopping nirvana, we're jammed there, too."
She tried to clear her head. "We keep at that. Put some drones on the 'links to shops. Maybe we can hook that red skin suit she had on. We've got her height and weight from Dockport, translate that to size, push purchases of the suit in that size."
"She may have purchased that in Chicago, or anywhere," Peabody pointed out. "And red skin suits are legion."
"Yeah, so it's a long shot. We keep blasting away, every detail, we're going to hit something eventually. Meanwhile, we'll check all the public and private transpos in and out of Denver. We'll find what she used, and by the time we do, she's in the wind again. But we have data."
"She's taking more chances," Peabody said. "Telling you about Campbell when she couldn't be sure of the timing. If she'd left it alone, it would've been hours before he was found."
"Risk makes winning the war more satisfying. This is a grudge match, and it's no good unless the enemy bleeds. And she wants to shake me. She doesn't want to kill me, but she wants me to think that I'm a target. She wants me to live, with loss. She wants Roarke. And that's our advantage. She doesn't know I'm on that."
* * *
In midtown, Roarke ended one meeting and prepared for another. The morning's activities had put him a bit behind schedule. He'd have to put in extra time that evening, but would find a way to do it from home. He intended to stay as close to Eve as their respective work schedules allowed.
"Caro." He tagged his admin on his interoffice 'link. "Shift the Realto meeting to holographic, out of my home office. Seven-thirty, and we'll move the lunch with Finn and Bowler to the executive dining room here. See that Lieutenant Dallas is copied on these changes."
"Yes, sir. There's a Dr. Mira here to see you. You have ten minutes before your next meeting if you'd like me to bring her back. Or I'll schedule an appointment."
"No." He frowned, shuffled time in his head. "I'll see her now. If the Brinkstone reps arrive before I'm done, have them wait."
He clicked off, then rose to pace his office. Mira wasn't the type to drop in unannounced, nor to pay social calls in the middle of a work day. Which meant she had business she felt was important enough to add a burden to both their schedules.
Absently, he crossed to the AutoChef and programmed in the tea she preferred.
When Caro knocked, he opened the door himself, extended a hand to Mira. "It's nice to see you."
"I'm sure it's not." She squeezed his hand. "But thank you for making the time. I'm overwhelmed just from the walk from reception. Your glass breezeway is amazing."
"Gives competitors a chance to think about a long plunge before they reach here. Thank you, Caro." He drew Mira in as his admin closed the door quietly behind them.
"And this ..." Mira glanced around the office with its lush furnishings, stunning art, sleek equipment. "It certainly suits you. It manages to be both sumptuous a
nd efficient all at once. I know you're busy."
"Not too busy for you. It's tea, isn't it? Jasmine, most usually?"
"Yes." It didn't surprise her that he'd remember such a minor detail. He had a mind like a computer. She took the seat he offered on a deeply cushioned sofa, waited for him to sit beside her. "I don't want to waste your time with small talk."
"I appreciate it. Did Eve send you?"
"No, but she knows I intended to talk with you. I haven't seen her yet today, though I intend to do that as well. I know she was injured last evening."
"She's resilient. Not quite as much as she likes to think, but she springs back somehow or other. Bruised damn near top to toe. All but cracked her head open like an egg. Would have, if it wasn't made of rock."
"Which is one of the reasons you love her."
"True enough."
"And still you worry. Being married to a cop is an enormous commitment of restraint. She understands that, which is one of the reasons she tried to resist, or deny what she felt for you. One of them." Mira reached out to cover his hand. "And another reason was her father. She told me you've been to Dallas."
"Good. It's good she can talk with you about it."
"And you can't." She could feel the tension gather in him like a bruise. "Roarke, you've spoken frankly with me before. There aren't many who know the circumstances of this. There aren't many you can speak with."
"What do you want me to say? It isn't my nightmare, but hers."
"Of course it's yours. You love her."
"Yes, I love her, and I'll stand with her. I'll do whatever can be done—which is bloody little. I know talking to you from time to time can settle her mind. I'm grateful for that."
"She's concerned for you."
"She's no need to be." He could feel the anger rising into his throat, bit back on it. Felt it bleed. "Nor have you. But it was kind of you to take the time to come by."
She saw the cool dismissal on his face, a thin veil of it over the heat. She set her tea aside, smoothed the skirt of her pale blue suit. "All right. I'm sorry to have interrupted your day. I won't keep you any longer."
"Bloody hell!" He lunged to his feet. "What's the point in spilling my guts out here? What good will it do her?"
Mira sat where she was, picked up her tea again. "It might do you some."
"How?" He spun back around, frustrated fury alive on his face. "It changes nothing. Do you want to hear how I stood there and watched her suffer, watched her remember it, and feel it as if it were happening still? She was helpless and terrified and lost, and watching her, so am I. I go after what comes for me, and I make a habit of going after it first. And this ..."
"This can't be gone after, not the way you mean." How difficult for him, she thought, this man who looks like, thinks like, a warrior to stand without a lance to protect what he values most.
"It can't be changed," she added, "it can't be stopped because it's already done. So it preys on you, just as it does on her."
"Sometimes she screams in the night." He sighed. "Sometimes she only whimpers, like a small animal might when it's afraid, or in pain. And sometimes she sleeps easy. I can't go inside her dreams and kill him for her."
Professional objectivity couldn't stand against the tidal wave of his emotion, or the flood of her own. Tears gathered in her throat as she spoke. "No, you can't, but you're there when she wakes. Do you understand what a difference you've made for her? How you've given her the courage to face her past? And the compassion to accept yours."
"I know, realistically, we are what we are because of what we were, and what we've made of that. I believe in fate, in destiny, and also in giving fate a good twist of the arm when it's not going your way." When she smiled at that, he felt his shoulders relax. "I know what's done is done, but it doesn't stop me from wishing I could go back and use these on him." He balled his fists, then spread his fingers out again.
"I'd say that was a very healthy attitude."
"Would you?"
"I hope so as I often feel the same myself. I love her, too."
He looked at her, that serene face, those eyes so filled with quiet understanding. "Yes, I see you do."
"And you."
He blinked once, slowly, as if translating some foreign tongue. With a soft laugh, she got to her feet.
"The pair of you always seem so baffled and suspicious when offered free affection. You're a good man, Roarke," she said and kissed his cheek.
"Not really."
"Yes, really. I hope you'll be comfortable coming to me, speaking with me if you ever feel the need. I'll let you get back to your meetings. I'm already late for one of my own."
He walked her to the door. "Does anyone manage to resist you?"
She winked. "Not for long."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hacking through red tape with the finesse and subtlety of a chainsaw, Eve tracked down the private shuttle Julianna hired for her trip to and from Denver. Diamond Express advertised itself as the fastest and most luxurious private charter company servicing the continental U.S.
A quick check showed her there was little truth in advertising as they were a solid third in the ratings, behind two of Roarke's companies.
Julianna wasn't bold enough to hire one of his, Eve mused as she navigated around shuttles, cargo vehicles, and trams winding around the Diamond Express hangars.
The headache was back, a hammer punch on the back of her skull where it had met pavement. She felt a desperate need for a nap, which told her she'd have to take a short break soon or end up flat on her face.
"What's the pilot's name again?"
"It's Mason Riggs." Peabody shifted, took another look at Eve's profile. "You feeling okay—don't get pissed off. It's just you're looking a little pale and shiny."
"What the hell does that mean? Shiny?" Eve parked, eased over to examine herself in the rearview mirror. Damn, she did look shiny. "It's summer, it's hot. People sweat. And no, I'm not feeling okay. Let's just do this."
"I'm driving back."
With one leg out of the car, Eve swiveled around. "What did you say?"
"I said," Peabody repeated, courageously laying her life on the line, "I'm driving back. You shouldn't be behind the wheel, and I promised Louise I'd make you take breaks when you got shaky."
Very slowly, Eve took off the sunshades she'd worn as a concession to the glare, the headache, and the appearance of her bruised face. The black eye only added an edge to the drilling stare. "Make me?"
Peabody swallowed, but stuck firm. "You don't scare me—hardly—because you're pale and shiny. So I'll take the wheel when we're done here. You can put the seat back and catch a nap. Sir."
"Do you think adding 'sir' on the end of that is going to save you from my considerable wrath?"
"Maybe, but I'm more confident I can outrun you in your current state of health." She held up two fingers. "How many do you see?"
"The two I'm going to rip off and stuff in your ears."
"Oddly, it reassures me to hear that, Lieutenant."
With a sigh, Eve pushed herself out of the car. The noise screaming out of the hangar lanced straight through her skull. Hoping to avoid going in and having her head fall off, she signalled to a woman wearing coveralls emblazoned with Diamond's logo.
"I'm looking for Pilot Riggs," Eve shouted. "Mason Riggs."
"That's his shuttle getting its weekly maintenance." The woman jerked a thumb toward the mouth of the hangar. "He's either in there guarding his baby or in the break room."
"Where's the break room?"
"Second door down on the left. Sorry, but the hangar and the break room are employees-only areas. You want I can page him for you."
Eve pulled out her badge. "I'll just page him with this. Okay?"
"Sure." The woman held up her gloved hands, palms out. "Wouldn't go in there without ear protectors. Against safety regs." She flipped up the top on a crate, brought out two clunky sets. "It's murder without them."
"
Thanks." Eve fit them on and immediately felt relief from the shrieking noise.
She headed inside. The hangar held three shuttles at the moment, each covered with a swarm of mechanics who were either wielding complicated-looking tools or holding conversations in sign language.
She spotted two uniformed pilots, one male, one female, and crossed into the heart of the hangar. The noise was like a whooshing wave through the ear protectors, and there was a smell of fuel, of grease, and someone's spicy meatball sandwich.
The latter made her stomach sit up and beg. She had a weakness for meatballs.
She tapped the male pilot on the shoulder. He was vid-star handsome, with the caramel-colored skin of a mixed-race heritage smooth and tight over sharp bones.
"Riggs?" She mouthed it slowly, then offered her badge when he nodded. At his polite yet baffled look, she gestured toward the break room.
He didn't look pleased, but he crossed the hangar quickly, coded in at the door, then yanked it open. The minute he was inside he pulled tiny protectors out of his ears, tossed them in a container.
"That's my shuttle. I've got to put it through its safety tests in twenty minutes. I've got a run."
Eve pulled off her own protectors. She hadn't heard a word he'd said, but she got the point. He lifted his brow at the condition of her face.
"Run into a door, Lieutenant?"
"I was just waiting for that one."
"Looks painful. So. What's the problem?"
"You had a private shuttle run last night, to Denver, return this morning. Juliet Darcy."
"I can verify the trip, but I can't discuss clients. That's a privacy issue."
"You don't want to go all regulation on me here, Riggs, or you're not going to make your next run."
"Look, lady—"
"I'm not a lady, I'm a cop. And this is a police investigation. Your client went to Denver last night, ordered herself a nice late supper from room service, probably got a good night's sleep. This morning she killed a man named Spencer Campbell in her hotel room, took a cab back to the airport, hopped on your shuttle at which time you returned her to New York."