The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  She’d added some blonde streaky things in it, Eve noticed. She could never figure out why people were always changing colors. All that maintenance baffled her.

  “Richard Draco,” Nadine said.

  “I’m not going to discuss the case with you.” Eve scooped up her badge with one impatient swipe. “Press conference at fourteen hundred.”

  “I slept with him.”

  Eve paused in the act of getting out of the booth, settled back, and took a closer look at Nadine’s face. “When?”

  “Not long after I got the on-air job at 75. I wasn’t doing the crime beat then. Mostly fluff stories, social gigs, celebrity profiles. Anyway, he contacted me. Wanted to tell me how good I was, how much he enjoyed watching my reports. Which were pretty damn solid, considering I hated every fucking minute of it.”

  She picked up her scarf, wound it around her hand. Unwound it. Set it down again. “He asked me to dinner. I was flattered, he was gorgeous. One thing led to another.”

  “Okay. That would have been, what, five years ago?”

  “Six, actually, six.” Nadine lifted a hand, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. It was a gesture Eve had never seen her make before. On-air reporters didn’t like mussing their makeup.

  “I said one thing led to another,” she continued, “but it led there romantically. We didn’t just jump into bed. We dated for a couple of weeks. Quiet dinners, theater, walks, parties. Then he asked me to go away with him for the weekend, to Paris.”

  This time Nadine simply dropped her head in her hands. “Oh Jesus. Jesus, Dallas.”

  “You fell for him.”

  “Oh yeah. I fell for him. All the way. I mean I was gone, stupid in love with the son of a bitch. We were together for three months, and I actually . . . Dallas, I was thinking marriage, kids, the house in the country. The whole ball.”

  Eve shifted in her seat. Emotional declarations always made her feel clumsy. “So, I take it things didn’t work out.”

  Nadine stared for a moment, then let her head fall back with a long, shaky laugh. “Yeah, you could say things didn’t work out. I found out he was two-timing me. Hell, three- and four-timing me. I caught a gossip report right before I went on air, and there was Richard cuddled up with some big-breasted blonde at some swank club uptown. When I confronted him about it, he just smiled and said he enjoyed women. So what?

  “So what,” she murmured. “The fucker broke my heart and didn’t have the decency to lie to me. He even talked me back into bed. I’m ashamed of that. I let him talk me back into bed, and when I was still wet from him, he takes a call from another woman. Makes a date with her while I’m lying there naked.”

  “How long was he hospitalized?”

  Nadine managed a weak smile. “There’s the pity. I cried. I sat there in his bed and cried like a baby.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. It was a raw deal. But it was six years ago.”

  “I saw him the night he was killed.”

  “Oh hell, Nadine.”

  “He called me.”

  “Shut up. Just shut up right now. Don’t say another word to me. Get a lawyer.”

  “Dallas.” Nadine’s hand shot out, and her fingers dug into Eve’s wrist. “Please. I need to tell you everything. Then I need you to tell me how much trouble I could be in.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Eve jabbed at the menu, ordered coffee after all. “I haven’t read you your rights. I’m not going to. I can’t use anything you say to me.”

  “He called me. Said he’d been thinking about me, about old times. He wondered if I’d like to get together. I started to tell him to go to hell, but I realized, even after all that time, I wanted some of my own back. I wanted to burn his ass in person. So I agreed to drop by his hotel. They’ll have me on the security discs.”

  “Yeah, they will.”

  “He’d ordered up a dinner for two. The bastard remembered what we’d had on our first date. Maybe he orders it on all his first dates. It would be just like him. May he rot in hell.”

  She blew out a breath. “Well, I pulled out the stops myself. I’d really put myself together. New dress. New hair. I let him pour me champagne, and we made small talk while we drank. I knew his moves. I remembered every one of them. And when he ran his fingertips down my cheek, gave me that long, soulful look, I threw my champagne in his face and said everything I wish I’d said six years ago. We had a terrible fight. Broken glass, vicious words, a couple of slaps on both sides.”

  “He got physical with you?”

  “More the other way around, I guess. I slapped him, he slapped me back. Then I punched him in the gut. That took the air out of him. While he was wheezing, I walked out, feeling really good.”

  “Will the security disc show you looking disheveled, emotional?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her fingers over her mouth again. “Maybe. I didn’t think of that. But no matter what, I’m glad I went. I’m glad I finally stood up for myself. But then, Dallas, I made a really big mistake.”

  The coffee slid greasily through the serving slot. Eve simply pushed it toward Nadine, waited until her friend gulped it down.

  “I went to the theater last night. I wanted to prove to myself that I could go, see him, and feel nothing.” The coffee was barely lukewarm, but it managed to take the worst chill out of her belly. “I did. I felt nothing. It was like a celebration to finally have that bastard out of my system. I even, oh God, I even went backstage—used my press pass—at intermission to tell him.”

  “You talked to him backstage last night?”

  “No. When I got back there, started toward his dressing room, it occurred to me that confronting him again made him too important. It would only feed his ego. So I left. I went out the stage door, and I took a long walk. I did some window-shopping. I stopped off at a hotel bar and bought myself a glass of wine. Then I went home. This morning, I heard . . . I panicked. Called in sick. I’ve been sick all day, then I realized I had to talk to you. I had to tell you. I don’t know what to do.”

  “When you went back, you headed for the dressing rooms. Nowhere else?”

  “No, I swear.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine. I wasn’t trying to be invisible.”

  “I want to do this formally, putting it on record that you came to me with this information. That’s the best for you. Meanwhile, I want you to get a lawyer, a good one. Do it quietly and tell the rep everything you told me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you leave anything out, Nadine? Anything?”

  “No. That’s all. I only saw him that once in his hotel room, then again onstage. I might have been a sap, Dallas, but I’ve come a long way. And I’m no coward. If I’d wanted the son of a bitch dead, I’d have killed him myself, not pawned it off on someone else.”

  “Oh yeah.” Eve picked up the coffee, finished it up. “I know it. Talk to the lawyer. We’ll do the interview tomorrow.” She rose, then after a slight hesitation, patted Nadine’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

  “You know what sucks here, Dallas? I was feeling so damn good about everything. Ever since—you know I do the therapy thing with Mira.”

  Eve shifted her feet. “Yeah.”

  “One of the things we got down to is I haven’t been open to love—not the real thing—since Richard. He really messed me up. Then last night, when I was in that hotel bar, I realized that now I could be. I wanted to be. Lousy timing all around. Thanks for listening.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Eve signaled for Peabody. “Nadine, take that literally.”

  chapter five

  The calendar claimed spring was just around the corner, but it was taking a slow walk. Eve drove home in a thin, spitting sleet that was nearly as nasty as her mood.

  Press conferences annoyed her.

  The only good thing about it, as far as she was concerned, was that it was over. Between that and a day spent in interviews that gave her no more than a murky picture
of people and events, she was edgy and dissatisfied.

  The fact was, she shouldn’t be going home. There was more field work that could be, should be done. But she’d cut Peabody loose, much to her aide’s undisguised delight.

  She’d take an hour, she told herself. Maybe two. Do some pacing, juggle her thoughts into some sort of order. She chugged and dodged through bad-tempered traffic and tried to block out the irritatingly chirpy sky blimp shouting about the new spring fashions on sale at Bloomingdale’s.

  She got caught at a light, and in a stinking stream of smoke from a glide-cart currently on fire and being sprayed with gel foam by its unhappy operator. Since the flames seemed reasonably under control, she left him to it and tagged Feeney via her car ’link.

  “Progress?”

  “Some. I got you backgrounds and current locations, financial data, and criminal records on cast and crew, including permanent theater personnel.”

  Eve’s voice calmed. “All?”

  “Yeah.” Feeney rubbed his chin. “Well, I can’t take full credit. Told you we were backed up here. Roarke passed it on.”

  Her agitation returned. “Roarke?”

  “He got in touch early this afternoon, figured I’d be doing the search. He had all the data anyway. Saved me some time here.”

  “Always helpful,” she muttered.

  “I shot it to your office unit.”

  “Fine, great.”

  Feeney kept rubbing his chin. Eve began to suspect the gesture was to hide a grin. “I started McNab on running patterns, probabilities, percentages. It’s a long list, so it’s not going to be quick. But I figure we should have simple eliminations by tomorrow, with a most-likely list to shuffle in with your interview results. How’s it going?”

  “Slow.” She inched her way across the intersection, spied a break in traffic, and went for it. The chorus of horns exceeded noise pollution levels and made her smile thinly. “We managed to make the murder weapon. Standard kitchen knife. It came right out of the sublevel kitchen at the theater.”

  “Open access?”

  “To cast and crew, not to the public. I had a uniform pick up the security discs. We’ll see what we see. Look, I’m going to run some probability scans myself, see if they jibe with yours. I should have some profile from Mira tomorrow. Let’s see if we can whittle this down from a few thousand suspects. How far’s McNab gotten?”

  “He got a ways before I sprang him for the day.”

  “You let him go?”

  “He had a date,” Feeney said and grinned.

  Eve winced. “Shut up, Feeney,” she ordered and broke transmission.

  She brooded, because it made her feel better, then shot through the gates of home. Even in miserable weather, it was magnificent. Maybe more magnificent, she thought, in that gloom and gray.

  The sprawling lawns were faded from winter, the naked trees shimmering with wet. Atmosphere, she supposed Roarke would say. It was all about atmosphere, and it showcased the glorious stone-and-glass structure with its towers, its turrets, its sweep of terraces and balconies that he had claimed as his own.

  It belonged on a cliff somewhere, she mused, with the sea boiling and pounding below. The city, with its crowds and noise and sneaky despair couldn’t beat its way through those tall iron gates to the oasis he’d built out of canniness, ruthlessness, sheer will, and the driving need to bury the miseries of his childhood.

  Every time she saw it, her mind was of two conflicting parts. One told her she didn’t belong there. The other told her she belonged nowhere else.

  She left the car at the base of the front steps, knowing Summerset would send it lumbering into the garage on principle. The pea-green city issue offended his sensibilities, she supposed, nearly as much as she did herself.

  She jogged up the steps in her scarred boots and walked inside to the warmth, the beauty, and all the style money could buy and power could maintain.

  Summerset was waiting for her, his thin face dour, his mouth in a flattened line. “Lieutenant. You surprise me. You’ve arrived home in a timely fashion.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than to clock me in and out of here?” She stripped off her jacket, tossed it on the newel post to annoy him. “You could be out scaring small children.”

  Summerset sniffed and to annoy her, picked up her damp leather jacket with the delicate tips of two fingers. He examined it with dark, disapproving eyes. “What? No blood today?”

  “That can still be arranged. Roarke home yet?”

  “Roarke is in the lower-level recreation area.”

  “A boy and his toys.” She strode past him.

  “You’re tracking wet on the floor.”

  She glanced back, glanced down. “Well, that’ll give you something to do.”

  Well satisfied with their evening exchange, Summerset went off to dry her jacket.

  She took the steps, then wound her way through the pool house where wisps of steam danced invitingly over water of deep, secret blue. She thought fleetingly about stripping to the skin and diving in, but there was Roarke to deal with.

  She bypassed the gym, the dressing area, and a small greenhouse. When she opened the door of the recreation area, the noise poured through.

  It was, in Eve’s opinion, a twelve-year-old’s wet dream. Though she herself had long since ceased dreaming of toys by the age of twelve. Perhaps Roarke had, too, which was why, she supposed, he indulged himself now.

  There were two pool tables, three multiperson VR tubes, a variety of screens designed for transmissions or games, a small holodeck, and a forest of brightly colored, noisy game stations.

  Roarke stood at one, long legs comfortably spread, elegant hands on either side of a long, waist-height box with a glass top. His fingers were tapping rhythmically on what seemed to be large buttons. The top of the box was a riot of lights.

  Cops and Robbers, she read and had to roll her eyes as a high-pitched siren began to scream. There was an explosion of what she recognized as gunfire, the wild squeal of tires on pavement, and blue and red lights crowned the vertical length of the box as it began to spin.

  Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and strolled over to him. “So this is what you do with your downtime.”

  “Hello, darling.” He never took his eyes off the duo of silver balls that raced and ricochetted under the glass. “You’re home early.”

  “Only temporarily. I want to talk to you.”

  “Mmm-hmm. One minute.”

  She opened her mouth to object, then nearly jumped as bells began to clang and lights shot like lasers. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “Antique—prime condition. Just—fucker—just got it in today.” He bumped the machine lightly with his hip. “It’s a pinball machine, late–twentieth century.”

  “Cops and Robbers?”

  “How could I resist?” The machine ordered him to “Freeze!” in menacing tones, and Roarke responded by zipping his remaining ball up a chute where it banged and bumped against a trio of diamond shapes, then slid into a hole.

  “Free ball.” He stepped back, rolled his shoulders. “But that can wait.” As he leaned down to kiss her, she slapped a hand on his chest.

  “Hold on, ace. What do you mean by calling Feeney?”

  “Offering my assistance to New York’s finest,” he said easily. “Doing my duty as a concerned citizen. Give us a bite of this.” So saying, he drew her against him and nipped at her lower lip. “Let’s play a game.”

  “I’m primary.”

  “Darling, you most certainly are.”

  “On the case, smart guy.”

  “That, as well. And as such, you’d have requested the data from the theater’s files and funneled it to Feeney. Now it’s done. Your hair’s damp,” he said and sniffed at it.

  “It’s sleeting.” She wanted to argue but didn’t see the point when he was exactly right. “Why do you have deep background and extensive data on everyone involved with The Globe and this
production?”

  “Because, Lieutenant, everyone involved with The Globe and this production works for me.” He eased back, picked up the bottle of beer he’d set beside the machine. “Had an annoying day, have you?”

  “Mostly.” When he offered the bottle, she started to shake her head, then shrugged and took a small swig. “I wanted to take a couple of hours to clear my mind.”

  “Me, too. And I’ve the perfect method. Strip pinball.”

  She snorted. “Get out.”

  “Oh well, if you’re afraid you’ll lose, I’ll give you a handicap.” He smiled when he said it, knowing his wife very well.

  “I’m not afraid I’ll lose.” She shoved the beer back at him. Struggled. Lost. “How much of a handicap?”

  Still smiling, he toed off both his shoes. “That, and five hundred points a ball—seems fair, as you’re a novice.”

  She considered, studying the machine. “You just got this in today, right?”

  “Just a bit ago, yes.”

  “You go first.”

  “My pleasure.”

  And as he enjoyed watching her fume, compete and lose herself in the moment, it proved to be. Within twenty minutes, she’d lost her boots, her socks, her weapon harness, and was currently losing her shirt.

  “Damn it! This thing is rigged.” Out of patience, she threw her weight against the machine, then hissed when her flippers froze. “Tilt? Why does it keep saying that to me?”

  “Perhaps you’re a bit too aggressive. Why don’t I help you with this,” he offered and began unbuttoning her shirt.

  She slapped his hands away. “I can do it. You’re cheating.” While she tugged off her shirt, she scowled at him. She was down to a sleeveless undershirt and her trousers. “I don’t know how, but you’re cheating.”

  “It couldn’t be that I’m just the superior player.”

  “No.”

  He laughed, then pulled her in front of him. “I’ll give you another go here, and help you out. Now.” He placed his fingers over hers on the control buttons. “You have to learn to finesse it rather than attack it. The idea is to keep the ball lively, and in play.”

  “I got the idea, Roarke. You want it to smash up against everything.”