The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  The maid studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn’t until Eve saw the quick jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as a droid.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?”

  “Sure.” Eve shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke’s over her arm.

  “If you would follow me. The family is in the main parlor.”

  Eve glanced around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white sweep, seemed to be floating unsupported.

  Two tall doors slid silently into the wall at their approach. The maid paused respectfully at the entrance. “Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke,” she announced, then stepped back.

  “How come we don’t have her instead of Summerset?”

  Eve’s muttered question earned her another light neck squeeze from her husband as they walked into the room.

  It was high-ceilinged, spacious, the lighting muted. The monochromatic theme carried through here, this time in layers of blue from the delicate pastels of fan-shaped conversation pits to the cobalt tiles of the fireplace where flames flickered.

  Silver vases of varying sizes and shapes were arranged on the mantel. Each held white lilies. The air was ripely funereal with their scent.

  A woman rose from the near curve of the seating area and crossed the sea of carpet toward them. Her skin was white as the lilies against her black suit. She wore her wheat-colored hair pulled severely back, knotted at the nape in smooth, snaking twists, in a way only the most confident and beautiful of women would dare. Unframed, her face was stunning, a perfect creation of planed cheekbones, slim, straight nose, smooth brow, shapely, unpainted lips all set off with large, lushly lashed eyes of dark violet.

  The eyes grieved.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” She held out a hand. Her voice reminded Eve of her skin—pale and smooth and flawless. “Thank you for coming. I’m Clarissa Branson. Roarke.” In a gesture that was both warm and fragile, she offered him her free hand so that, for a moment, the three of them stood joined.

  “I’m very sorry about J. C., Clarissa.”

  “We’re all a little numb. I saw him just this weekend. We had . . . we all had brunch on Sunday. I don’t—I still don’t—”

  As she began to falter, B. D. Branson stepped up, slid an arm around her waist. Eve watched her stiffen slightly, saw the gorgeous eyes lower.

  “Why don’t you get our guests a drink, darling.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” She released Eve’s hand to touch her fingers to her temple. “Would you like some wine?”

  “No, thanks. Coffee, if you have it.”

  “I’ll arrange for some to be brought in. Excuse me.”

  “Clarissa’s taking this very hard,” Branson said quietly, and his gaze never left his wife.

  “She and your brother were close?” Eve asked.

  “Yes. She has no family, and J. C. was as much a brother to her as he was to me. Now we only have each other.” He continued to stare at his wife, then seemed to pull back into himself. “I didn’t make the connection until you’d left my office today, Lieutenant. Your connection to Roarke.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all.” He managed a small smile for Roarke. “We’re competitors, but I wouldn’t say we’re adversaries.”

  “I enjoyed J. C.,” Roarke said briefly. “He’ll be missed.”

  “Yes, he will. You should meet the lawyers, so we can get on with this.” A bit grim around the mouth now, he turned. “You’ve spoken with Suzanna Day.”

  Catching Branson’s eye, Suzanna came over. Handshakes were brisk and impersonal before Suzanna ranged herself beside Branson. The final person in the room rose.

  Eve had already recognized him. Lucas Mantz was one of the top and priciest criminal defense attorneys in the city. He was trim, slickly attractive, with waving hair of streaked white on black. His smile was cool and polite, his smoky eyes sharp and alert.

  “Lieutenant. Roarke.” He nodded to both of them, then took another sip from the straw-colored wine he carried. “I’m representing Ms. Cooke’s interests.”

  “She didn’t spare any expense,” Eve said dryly. “Your client figuring on coming into some money, Mantz?”

  His eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused irony. “If my client’s finances are in question, Lieutenant, we’ll be happy to provide you with records. Once you provide a warrant. The charges against Ms. Cooke have been filed and accepted.”

  “For now,” Eve told him.

  “Why don’t we get on with the business at hand.” Branson once more looked toward his wife who was directing the maid to position the coffee cart. “Please, let’s sit down.” He gestured toward the seating area.

  Once they took their places and coffee was served, Clarissa sat beside her husband, her hand clinging to his. Lucas Mantz shot Eve one more cool smile, then settled on the far end. Suzanna sat in a facing chair.

  “The deceased left personal bereavement discs to his brother and sister-in-law, to Ms. Lisbeth Cooke, and to his assistant, Chris Tipple. Those discs will be hand delivered to the appropriate parties within twenty-four hours of the reading of his will. Mr. Tipple was advised of tonight’s reading but has declined to attend. He is . . . unwell.”

  She took a document out of her briefcase and began.

  The opening was technical and flowery. Eve doubted the language for such things had changed in two centuries. The formal acknowledgment of one’s own death had a long tradition, after all.

  Humans, she thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance. I bet so much a month that I’ll live till I die, she mused.

  Then there were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking out a sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.

  Buy now, die later.

  Those little details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.

  A matter of control, she’d always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during life.

  Either way, a lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.

  And she who dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.

  The minor bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who’d enjoyed foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream sauce.

  He’d remembered the people who’d had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the ’link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist sculpture she had admired.

  Her voice hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.

  “To my assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.

  “To my beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the pearl necklace my mother left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my grandmother’s, and my love.”

  Clariss
a began to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her husband draped his arm around them.

  “Hush, Clarissa,” Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear. “Control yourself.”

  “I’m sorry.” She kept her head lowered. “I’m sorry.”

  “B. D.” Suzanna paused, casting Clarissa a glance of quiet sympathy. “Would you like me to stop for a few moments?”

  “No.” Jaw set, mouth grim, he kept his arm firmly around his wife and stared straight ahead. “Please, let’s finish.”

  “All right. To my brother and partner, B. Donald Branson.” Suzanna took a breath. “The disposition of my share of the business we ran together is set down in a separate document. I acknowledge here that all my interest in Branson Toys and Tools is to be transferred into his name upon my death should he survive me. If he should predecease me, that interest is to be transferred to his spouse or any children of that union. In addition, I hereby bequeath to my brother the emerald ring and diamond cufflinks that were our father’s, my disc library including but not exclusive to all family images, my boat the T and T, and my air cycle in the hopes he’ll finally try it out. Unless, of course, he was right, and my crashing it is the reason this will is being read.”

  Branson made a sound, something that might have been a short, strained laugh, then closed his eyes.

  “To Lisbeth Cooke.” Suzanna’s voice chilled several degrees as she spared Mantz one glimmering stare of dislike. “I leave all the rest of my personal possessions, including all cash, bank and credit accounts, real estate, financial holdings, furnishings, art, and personal property. Lissy my love,” Suzanne continued, biting off the words, “don’t grieve too long.”

  “Millions.” Branson got slowly to his feet. His face was deathly pale, his eyes brilliant. “She murders him and stands to gain millions. I’ll fight this.” Hands clenched, he turned on Mantz. “I’ll fight this with everything I have.”

  “I understand your distress.” Mantz rose as well. “However, your brother’s wishes were clearly and legally outlined. Ms. Cooke has not been charged with murder but with second-degree manslaughter. There are legal precedents that protect her inheritance.”

  Branson bared his teeth. Even as he lunged, Eve sprang up to block him. Before she could, Roarke was doing so.

  “B. D.” Roarke spoke calmly, but he had Branson’s arms pinned firmly to his sides. “This won’t help you. Let your lawyer handle it. Your wife’s very distraught,” he continued as Clarissa curled into a ball and wept wildly. “She should lie down. Why don’t you take her upstairs, give her a soother.”

  The bones in Branson’s face stood out in sharp relief, so keen it seemed they might cut right through the flesh. “Get out of my house,” he ordered Mantz. “Get the hell out of my house.”

  “I’ll see him out,” Roarke said. “Take care of your wife.”

  For one long moment, Branson strained against Roarke’s hold; then he nodded, turned. He gathered his wife up, cradling her as he would a child, and carried her from the room.

  “You’re done here, Mantz.” Eve faced him. “Unless you want to see if the Bransons have a dog you could kick.”

  He acknowledged this, picked up his own briefcase. “We all do our jobs, Lieutenant.”

  “Right, and yours is to run to a murderer and tell her she just got rich.”

  His eyes never wavered. “Life is very rarely black and white.” He nodded to Suzanna. “Good evening, Counselor,” he murmured and left.

  “He’s right.” Suzanna sighed and sat again. “He’s only doing his job.”

  “Will she inherit?” Eve demanded.

  Suzanna pinched the bridge of her nose. “As things stand, yes. With charges of second-degree manslaughter, it can be argued she killed J. C. in a moment of jealous passion. His will was a sealed document. We can’t prove she had prior knowledge of its contents or that those contents in any way influenced her. Under current law, she can gain by his death.”

  “If the charges are bumped up?”

  Suzanna dropped her hand into her lap, regarding Eve thoughtfully. “Then things change. Is there a chance of that? I was under the impression the case was closed.”

  “Closed doesn’t mean locked.”

  “I hope you’ll keep me updated,” Suzanna said as she rose and walked out with them to where the maid waited with their coats.

  “I’ll let you know what I can when I can.” When they stepped outside, Eve slid her hands into her pockets. The limo was waiting. She struggled not to be embarrassed by it.

  “Can we give you a lift home, Ms. Day?” Roarke asked.

  “No, thanks. I could use a walk.” She paused a moment and her sigh puffed out a thin stream of white. “As an estate lawyer, I deal with this sort of thing all the time. Grief and greed. But it’s rare it hits this close to home. I really liked J. C. Some people you think will live forever.” Shaking her head, she walked away.

  “Well, that was fun.” Eve started toward the car. “Wonder if Lissy my love will shed half as many tears over this guy as Clarissa. You know her very well?”

  “Hmm, no.” Roarke slid into the car beside her. “In that false intimacy of social acquaintances, I run into the Branson brothers at events occasionally. Clarissa and Lisbeth were usually with them.”

  “I’d’ve reversed it.”

  Roarke sat back, lighted a cigarette. “Meaning?”

  “I’d put Clarissa with J. C. Just going by what I’ve learned about him, he was lighter, less driven, more emotional than his brother. Clarissa comes off fragile, nearly tender—seems a little . . . intimidated by Branson. She doesn’t seem like your slick corporate wife. The man’s running a big, international company. Why doesn’t he have a slick corporate wife?” Even as she posed the question, Roarke was grinning, making her narrow her eyes. “What?”

  “I was going to say that he might have fallen for a different type. It happens, even to the heads of big, international companies.”

  Now her narrowed eyes glinted. “Are you saying I’m not a slick, corporate wife?”

  He drew contemplatively on his cigarette. “If I said you were, you’d try to hurt me, then we’d end up wrestling back here. One thing would lead to another and we’d be very late for a business dinner.”

  “I’d be real sorry about that,” she muttered. “You’re not exactly the typical cop’s spouse either, pal.”

  “If you said I was, we’d end up wrestling back here, and so on.” He stubbed out his cigarette, then trailed a fingertip down the center of her body from throat to waist. “Wanna?”

  “I didn’t get all polished up so you could leave fingerprints all over me.”

  He smiled and cupped her breast. “Darling, I never leave prints.”

  During the evening of dinner and conversation, Eve managed to slip away long enough to request a warrant to access data on Lisbeth Cooke’s finances. She cited the sizable inheritance as cause and got lucky with a judge who either agreed with her or was too tired to argue the point.

  As a result, she was alert and edgy when they arrived home.

  “I’ve got some stuff I want to check out,” she told Roarke when they walked into the bedroom. “I’m going to change and work in my office awhile.”

  “On . . . ?”

  “I asked for a warrant to access Cooke’s financial data.” She wiggled out of the dress, tossed it aside, then stood there, much to her husband’s interest, in two tiny scraps of black and high leather boots. “It came through during the dessert course.”

  “I must have a whip around here,” he murmured.

  “A what?”

  Grinning, he started toward her, amused when her eyes narrowed threateningly. “Keep your distance, ace. I said I have work.”

  “I can access that information in half the time you can. I’ll help you out.”

  “I didn’t ask for help.”

  “No. But we both know I can do it faster and interpret it without
getting a tension headache. And all I want in return is one little thing.”

  “What little thing?”

  “That when we’re finished you’re still wearing this very interesting getup.”

  “Getup?” She glanced over, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and blinked in shock. “Jesus, I look like—”

  “Oh yes,” Roarke agreed. “Yes, you do.”

  She looked back at him, struggled to ignore the slick ball of lust the gleam in his eyes caused. “Men are so weird.”

  “Then have pity on us.”

  “I’m not parading around in my underwear so you can cook up some sordid little fantasy.”

  “That’s all right,” he said as she snatched up a robe and bundled into it. “It’s already cooked. We can do this faster in my office.”

  As she belted the robe, she eyed him suspiciously. “Do what faster?”

  “Why, access the data, Lieutenant. What else?”

  She refused to acknowledge the little tug of disappointment. “This is official business. I want the search initialized from my machine.”

  “You’re the boss.” He took her hand to lead her out.

  “Just remember that.”

  “Darling, with what you’re wearing under that robe forever imprinted on my memory, how could I forget?”

  “All roads,” she said dryly, “don’t lead back to sex.”

  “The best ones do.” He gave her butt a friendly pat as she preceded him into her office.

  Galahad was curled up in her sleep chair. The cat raised his head in obvious annoyance at the disturbance. Since neither of them headed for the kitchen, he closed his eyes again and ignored them.

  She slid the warrant into a slot on her computer, engaged it. “I know how to do a financial search. You’re just here to interpret and tell me if you think she’s got anything buried under layers.”

  “I’m here to serve.”

  “Cut that out.” She dropped into the chair at her desk and called up Lisbeth Cooke’s case file. “Hold current data,” she ordered, “and initiate search of financial records on subject’s name and identification number. All accounts, cash, credit, and debit. Start with one-year period back from this date.”