The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  Still, her mood lifted as she hit the predictably snared traffic on Broadway. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, there was a party going on. The people glides were jammed with pedestrians, most of whom were drunk, stoned, or both. Glide-cart operators shivered in the cold while their grills smoked. If a vender had a spot on this street, he held it in a tight, ready fist.

  She cracked her window a sliver, caught the scent of roasting chestnuts, soy dogs, smoke, and humanity. Someone was singing out in a strident monotone about the end of the world. A cabbie blasted his horn well over noise pollution laws as pedestrians flowed into the street on his light. Overhead the early airbuses farted cheerfully, and the first advertising blimps began to hawk the city’s wares.

  She watched a fistfight break out between two women. Street LCs, Eve mused. Licensed companions had to guard their turf here as fiercely as the vendors of food and drink. She considered getting out and breaking it up, but the little blonde decked the big redhead, then darted off into the crowd like a rabbit.

  Good thinking, Eve thought approvingly, as the redhead was already on her feet, shaking her head clear and shouting inventive obscenities.

  This, Eve thought with affection, was her New York.

  With some regret, she bumped over to the relative quiet of Seventh, then headed downtown. She needed to get back into action, she thought. The weeks of disability had made her feel edgy and useless. Weak. She’d ditched the recommended last week off, had insisted on taking the required physical.

  And, she knew, had passed it by the skin of her teeth.

  But she’d passed, and was back on the job. Now if she could just convince her commander to get her off desk duty, she’d be a happy woman.

  When her radio sounded, she tuned in with half an ear. She wasn’t even on call for another three hours.

  Any units in the vicinity, a 1222 reported at 6843 Seventh Avenue, apartment 18B. No confirmation available. See the man in apartment 2A. Any units in the vicinity . . .

  Eve clicked on before Dispatch could repeat the signal. “Dispatch, this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’m two minutes from the Seventh Avenue location. Am responding.”

  Received, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Please report status upon arrival.

  “Affirmative. Dallas out.”

  She glided to the curb, flicked a glance up at the steel-gray building. A few lights glimmered through windows, but she saw only darkness on the eighteenth floor. A 1222 meant there’d been an anonymous call reporting a domestic dispute.

  Eve stepped out of her vehicle, and slid an absent hand over her side where her weapon sat snug. She didn’t mind starting out the day with trouble, but there wasn’t a cop alive or dead who didn’t dread a domestic.

  There seemed to be nothing a husband, wife, or same sex spouse enjoyed more than turning on the poor bastard who tried to keep them from killing each other over the rent money.

  The fact that she’d volunteered to take it was a reflection of her dissatisfaction with her current assignments.

  Eve jogged up the short flight of stairs and looked up the man in 2A.

  She flashed her badge when he spoke through the security peep, shoved it into his beady little eyes when he opened the door a stingy crack. “You got trouble here?”

  “I dunno. Cops called me. I’m the manager. I don’t know anything.”

  “I can see that.” He smelled of stale sheets and, inexplicably, of cheese. “You want to let me into 18B?”

  “You got a master, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, fine.” She sized him up quickly: short, skinny, smelly, and scared. “How about filling me in on the occupants before I go in?”

  “Only one. Woman, single woman. Divorced or something. Keeps to herself.”

  “Don’t they all,” Eve muttered. “You got a name on her?”

  “Hawley. Marianna. About thirty, thirty-five. Nice looker. Been here about six years. No trouble. Look, I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. It’s five-fucking-thirty in the morning. She’s done any damage to the unit, I want to know about it. Otherwise, it’s none of my never-mind.”

  “Fine,” Eve said as the door clicked shut in her face. “Go back to your hole, you little weasel.” She rolled her shoulders once, then walked across the corridor to the elevator. As she stepped inside, she pulled out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I’m at the Seventh Avenue location. Building manager is a wash. I’ll report back after interviewing Hawley, Marianna, resident of 18B.”

  Do you require backup?

  “Not at this time. Dallas out.”

  She slipped the communicator back into her pocket as she stepped out into the hallway on eighteen. A quick glimpse up showed her security cameras in place. The hall was church quiet. From the building’s location and style, she pegged most of the residents as white collar, middle income. Most wouldn’t stir from their beds until after seven. They’d grab their morning coffee, dash out to the airbus or subway stop. More fortunate ones would just plug into the office from their home station.

  Some would have children to see off to school. Others would kiss their spouses good-bye and wait for their lovers.

  Ordinary lives in an ordinary place.

  It flipped through her mind to wonder if Roarke owned the damn building, but she pushed the idea aside and stepped up to 18B.

  The security light was blinking green. Deactivated. Instinctively she stepped to the side of the door as she pushed the buzzer. She couldn’t hear its muffled echo and decided the unit was soundproofed. Whatever went on inside, stayed inside. Vaguely annoyed, she took out her master code and bypassed the locks.

  Before entering, she called out. Nothing worse, she mused, than scaring some sleeping civilian into coming at you with a homemade stunner or a kitchen knife.

  “Ms. Hawley? Police. We have a report of trouble in your unit. Lights,” she ordered, and the overheads in the living area flashed on.

  It was pretty enough in a quiet way. Soft colors, simple lines. The view screen was programmed to an old video. Two impossibly attractive people were rolling around naked on a bed scattered with rose petals. They moaned theatrically.

  There was a candy dish on the table in front of the long misty-green sofa. It was filled to brimming with sugar-dashed gumdrops. Silver and red candle pillars were grouped beside it, burned artistically down to varying heights.

  The entire room smelled of cranberry and pine.

  She saw where the pine scent originated. A small, perfectly formed tree lay on its side in front of a window. Its festive lights and sweet-faced angel ornaments were smashed, its boughs snapped.

  At least a dozen festively wrapped boxes were crushed under it.

  She reached for her weapon, drew it, and circled the room.

  There was no other obvious sign of violence, not there. The couple on the view screen reached simultaneous climax with throaty, animal moans. Eve sidestepped past it. Listened, listened.

  Heard music. Quiet, cheerful, monotonous. She didn’t know the tune, but recognized it as one of the insidious Christmas ditties that played everywhere for weeks during the season.

  She swept her weapon over a short corridor. Two doors, both open. In one she could see a sink, a toilet, the edge of a tub, all in gleaming white. Keeping her back to the wall, she slid toward the second door, where the music played on and on.

  She smelled it, fresh death. Both metallic and fruity. Easing the door all the way open, she found it.

  She moved into the room, swinging right, then left, eyes sharp, ears alert. But she knew she was alone with what had been Marianna Hawley. Still she checked the closet, behind the drapes, then left the room to search the rest of the apartment before she relaxed her guard.

  Only then did she approach the bed.

  2A had been right, she thought. The woman had been a looker. Not stunning, not an eye-popper, but a pretty woman with soft brown hair and deep green eyes. Death hadn’t robbed her of that, not yet.<
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  Her eyes were wide and startled, as the dead’s often were. Against the dull pallor of her cheeks careful and subtle color had been applied. Her lashes were darkened, her lips painted a festive cherry red. An ornament had been pinned to her hair just above the right ear—a small glittery tree with a plump gilded bird on one of its silver branches.

  She was naked but for that and the sparkling silver garland that had been artistically wrapped around her body. Eve wondered, as she studied the raw bruising around the neck, if that was what had been used to strangle her.

  There was more bruising on the wrists, on the ankles, indicating the victim had been bound, and had likely had time to struggle.

  On the entertainment unit beside the bed, the singer suggested she have herself a merry little Christmas.

  Sighing, Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dispatch, this is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I have a homicide.”

  “Heck of a way to start the day.” Officer Peabody stifled a yawn and studied the victim with dark cop’s eyes. Despite the atrociously early hour, Peabody’s uniform was crisp and pressed, her dark brown bowl-cut hair ruthlessly tamed.

  The only thing that indicated she’d been rudely roused out of bed was the sleep crease lining her left cheek.

  “Heck of a way to end one,” Eve muttered. “Prelim on scene indicates death occurred at twenty-four hundred hours, almost to the minute.” She shifted aside to let the team from the Medical Examiner’s office verify her findings. “Indications are cause of death was strangulation. The lack of defensive wounds further indicate the victim didn’t struggle until after she was bound.”

  Gently, Eve lifted the dead woman’s left ankle and examined the raw skin. “Vaginal and anal bruising indicate she was sexually molested before she was killed. The unit’s soundproofed. She could have screamed her lungs out.”

  “I didn’t see any signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle in the living area except for the Christmas tree. That looked deliberate to me.”

  Eve nodded, slanted Peabody a look. “Good eye. See the man in 2A, Peabody, and get the security discs for this floor. Let’s see who came calling.”

  “Right away.”

  “Set a couple of uniforms on the door-to-door,” Eve added as she walked over to the tele-link by the side of the bed. “Somebody turn that damn music off.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re in the holiday spirit.” Peabody hit the off button on the sound system with a clear sealed finger. “Sir.”

  “Christmas is a pain in the ass. You finished here?” she demanded of the ME’s team. “Let’s turn her over before she’s bagged.”

  The blood had found its lowest level, settling in the buttocks and turning them a sickly red. Bowel and bladder had emptied, the waste of death. Through the seal coat on her hands, Eve felt the waxy-doll texture of the skin.

  “This looks fresh,” she murmured. “Peabody, get this on video before you go down.” Eve studied the bright tattoo on the right shoulder blade as Peabody moved in to document it.

  “My True Love.” Peabody pursed her lips over the bright red letters that flowed in old-fashioned script over the white flesh.

  “Looks like a temporary to me.” Eve bent lower until her nose all but brushed the curve of shoulder, sniffed. “Recently applied. We’ll check where she gets body work done.”

  “Partridge in a pear tree.”

  Eve straightened, lifted a brow at her aide. “What?”

  “In her hair, the pin in her hair. On the first day of Christmas.” Because Eve continued to look blank, Peabody shook her head. “It’s an old Christmas song, Lieutenant. ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ The guy gives his true love something on every day, starting with a partridge in a pear tree on the first day.”

  “What the hell is anybody supposed to do with a bird in a tree? Stupid gift.” But a sick suspicion churned in her gut. “Let’s hope this was his only true love. Get me those tapes. Bag her,” she ordered, then turned once more to the bedside ’link.

  While the body was being removed, she ordered all incoming and outgoing transmissions for the previous twenty-four hours.

  The first came in at just past eighteen hundred hours—a cheerful conversation between the victim and her mother. As Eve listened, studied the mother’s laughing face, she thought of how that same face would look when she called and told the woman her daughter was dead.

  The only other transmission was an outgoing. Good-looking guy, Eve mused as she studied the image on screen. Midthirties, quick smile, soulful brown eyes. Jerry, the victim called him. Or Jer. Lots of sexual byplay, teasing. A lover then. Maybe her true love.

  Eve removed the disc, sealed it, and slipped it into her bag. She located Marianna’s daybook, porta-’link, and address book in the desk under the window. A quick scroll through the entries netted her one Jeremy Vandoren.

  Alone now, Eve turned back to the bed. Stained sheets were tangled at the foot. The clothes that had been carefully cut off the victim and tossed to the floor were bagged for evidence. The apartment was silent.

  She let him in, Eve mused. Opened the door to him. Did she come in here with him voluntarily, or did he subdue her first? The tox report would tell her if there were any illegals in the bloodstream.

  Once he had her in the bedroom, he tied her. Hands and feet, likely hooking the restraints around the short stump of post at each of the four corners, spreading her out like a banquet.

  Then he’d cut off her clothes. Carefully, no hurry. It hadn’t been rage or fury or even a desperate kind of need. Calculated, planned, ordered. Then he’d raped her, sodomized her, because he could. He had the power.

  She’d struggled, cried out, probably begged. He’d enjoyed that, fed on that. Rapists did, she thought, and took several deep, steadying breaths because her mind wanted to veer toward her father.

  When he was done, he’d strangled her, watching, watching while her eyes bulged. Then he’d brushed her hair, painted her face, draped her in festive silver garland. Had he brought the hairpin with him, or had it belonged to her? Had she amused herself with the tattoo, or had he decorated her body himself?

  She moved into the neighboring bathroom. White tile sparkled like ice, and there was a faint under-scent of disinfectant.

  He cleaned up here when he was finished, Eve decided. Washing himself, even grooming, then wiping down and spraying the room to remove any evidence.

  Well, she’d put the sweepers on it in any case. One lousy pubic hair could hang him.

  She’d had a mother who loved her, Eve thought. One who’d laughed with her, making holiday plans, talking about sugar cookies.

  “Sir? Lieutenant?”

  Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw Peabody in the center of the hallway. “What?”

  “I have the security discs. Two uniforms are initiating door-to-doors.”

  “Okay.” Eve rubbed her hands over her face. “Let’s seal the place up, take everything to Central. I have to inform the next of kin.” She shouldered her bag, picked up her field kit. “You’re right, Peabody. It’s a heck of a way to start the day.”

  chapter two

  “Did you run the ’link number on the boyfriend?”

  “Yes, sir. Jeremy Vandoren, lives on Second Avenue, he’s an account exec for Foster, Bride and Rumsey on Wall Street.” Peabody glanced at her notebook as she relayed the rest. “Divorced, currently single, thirty-six. And a very attractive specimen of the male species. Sir.”

  “Hmm.” Eve slipped the security disc into her desk unit. “Let’s see if the very attractive specimen paid a call on his girlfriend last night.”

  “Can I get you some coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “What?”

  “Can I get you some coffee?”

  Eve’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the video. “If you want coffee, Peabody, just say so.”

  Behind Eve’s back, Peabody rolled her eyes. “I want coffee.”

  “Then get some—and get some for me while you’re at it. V
ictim arriving home at sixteen forty-five. Pause disc,” Eve ordered and took a good look at Marianna Hawley.

  Trim, pretty, young, her shining brown hair covered with a bright red beret that matched the long swirl of her coat and the slick shine of her boots.

  “She’d been shopping,” Peabody commented as she set the mug of coffee at Eve’s elbow.

  “Yeah. Bloomingdale’s. Continue scan,” Eve said and watched as Marianna shifted her bags, dug out her key card. Her mouth was moving, Eve noted. Talking to herself. No, she realized, Marianna was singing. Then the woman shook back her hair, shifted her bags once again, stepped inside the apartment, and shut the door.

  The red lock light blinked on.

  As the disc continued, Eve saw other tenants coming and going, alone, in couples. Ordinary lives, moving forward.

  “She stayed in for dinner,” Eve stated, looking now with her mind’s eye, through the door, inside the apartment.

  She could see Marianna moving around the rooms, wearing the simple navy slacks and white sweater that would later be cut from her body.

  Turn the viewing screen on for company. Hang up the bright red coat in the front closet, put the hat on the shelf, the boots on the floor. Tuck away the shopping bags.

  She was a tidy woman who liked pretty things, preparing for a quiet evening at home.

  “Fixed herself some soup at about seven, according to her AutoChef.” Eve drummed short, unpainted nails on the desk as she continued the scan. “Her mother called, then she called the boyfriend.”

  While she clicked off the time frame in her mind, she saw the elevator doors open. Her brows winged up, disappearing under the fringe of bangs on her forehead. “Well, ho ho ho, what have we here?”

  “Santa Claus.” Grinning, Peabody leaned over Eve’s shoulder. “Bearing gifts.”

  The man in the red suit and snowy white beard carried a large box wrapped in silver paper and trimmed with an elaborate bow of gold and green.

  “Hold it. Pause. Enlarge sector ten through fifty, thirty percent.”

  The screen shifted, the section Eve designated separating, then popping out. Nestled in the center of the fancy bow was a silver tree with a plump gilded bird.