The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  Morris held up his own hand, gripped his pinky with the other, and pulled it back and down. “Effective, and painful.”

  Eve remembered the breathless, shocking pain when her father had snapped the bone in her arm. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  “Burning—shoulder, belly, bottoms of the feet. Looks like contact burns with a laser pointer or something very similar. See the circular shape? It had to be pressed down very hard, very firm to not only burn the skin, but to leave that defined a burn.”

  To get a better look, she slid on a pair of microgoggles. “No blurring, or very little on these. Her feet were bound tight at the ankles, but she’d jerk and struggle when he burned her. Had to clamp onto her foot with his hand, hold it still. Very serious about his work.”

  She pulled off the goggles. “Her nose is broken.”

  “Yes, but when we use the micros, you can see the detail bruising, both sides of the nostrils.” He picked up the pair Eve had laid aside, then offered them to Peabody when Eve jerked a thumb at her partner.

  Putting them on, Peabody leaned down. “I just see a big mess of bruising.” She focused, frowning, as Morris shined a pinpoint light over the side of Natalie’s nose.

  “Okay, yeah. I get it. I don’t think I’d have seen it, but I get it now. He had her mouth taped, then he clamped her nose closed—hard, with his thumb and finger. Cut off her air.”

  “With the broken nose she’d have had considerable trouble breathing. He made it harder.”

  “Interrogating her,” Eve said to Morris. “If it was a straight torture killing, he’d have done more. Cut her up some, broken more bones, burned her more severely and over more of her body. There’d most likely be some sexual abuse, or trauma to the breasts and genitals.”

  “Agreed. He just wanted to hurt her. On the male, he skipped the interrogation portion of the program. Went from beating to strangling.”

  “Because the woman told him what he needed to know, gave him what he needed to have,” Peabody concluded.

  “And the second vic had to die because the first told the killer her boyfriend knew what she knew, or had seen what she’d seen. The motive’s in her,” Eve murmured.

  At Central, Eve sat at her desk downing coffee and adding data and notes to her initial reports. She put in another call to the PA’s office to check on the warrant, got the runaround.

  Lawyers, she thought. The accounting firm’s lawyers had knee-jerked a motion to block the warrant. Not unexpected, Eve mused, but they’d get it—not likely before the end of the business day, however.

  She knee-jerked herself and called to harass the lab. The evidence had been gathered, was being processed. They weren’t miracle workers. Blah, blah.

  What she had was two DBs—a couple—killed in their separate homes a few blocks apart, about an hour apart. Female first. Same employer, different departments. Violent deaths, missing comp units and data discs.

  No known enemies.

  The killer had to have personal transportation, she mused. Can’t go hauling d-and-c units from murder scene to murder scene.

  Frowning, she checked her incoming to see if Peabody had determined the types of units the victims owned. And found her efficient partner had copied her the list of units registered to both. Two desk units, two PPCs.

  And that didn’t include the memo books—no required registration with CompuGuard—they must have owned, which, like the comps, hadn’t been on either scene.

  Good equipment and fairly compact, she thought as she took a look at the models, but she couldn’t see the killer hauling Copperfield’s machines up Byson’s emergency evac.

  No, he’d had a vehicle to transport them, to lock them safely away while he finished his night’s work.

  Where did he park? Did he live close to either scene? Did he work alone?

  Brought the binding tape with him, and probably the stunner, the laser pointer or whatever tool he’d used for the burns—preparation. Used weapons on hand for the killings. Opportunistic.

  Knew female vic’s building lacked security cams, alarms. And that the second scene had better security. Scoped them out first, preparation again. And/or had personal knowledge of the scenes.

  Had he been inside before the murders?

  Prior personal contact with the victims?

  She rose, set up her board, then sat again, angling her chair so she could study the faces of her dead.

  “What did you know, Natalie? What did you have? What did you figure out? Had you worried, whatever it was.”

  Called in sick the morning of the murder. Put on an extra lock, security peep, in a place you were moving out of in a few months. Yeah, you were worried.

  But not enough to tell the sister, or the boss she was allegedly friendly with.

  But Bick went into work that morning. Maybe not as worried, maybe to keep an ear to the ground.

  And not worried, not scared enough to have the boyfriend come over, stay the night.

  Not scared for your life, Eve concluded, despite the knife in the bedroom. Shook, upset, nervous—careful. But not scared for your life. Probably felt stupid, even a little embarrassed when you brought that knife into the bedroom with you. But you’re not scared enough to call the cops, even move in with the fiancé for a few days.

  Maybe working on something. Liked your space, your quiet. But it gets dark, you’re a little wiggy.

  To refresh herself, she called up the replay from Palma’s pocket ’link, reviewed the transmission to her sister.

  Hey, Nat!

  Palm. Where are you?

  Somewhere over Montana. Vegas/New York runs, remember. We’re loaded with them today. Back and forth, full shuttles. I’m getting into New York late. Still okay if I crash with you, right?

  Sure. I really want to see you. I’ve missed you.

  Me, too. Hey, something wrong?

  No. No. Just a lot on my mind.

  You had a fight with Bick.

  No. We’re fine. I’m just…there’s a lot going on. It’s…listen, you’re off tomorrow, right?

  After a shift like this, you bet. Want to ditch work and have a girl day?

  I really do. We could do some shopping.

  Wedding plans.

  Yeah. And I could clear my head, maybe run something by you.

  You’re not changing your colors?

  What? No, no. It’s nothing to do with that. It’s about—

  Damn, Five A’s beeping me again.

  You go. We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning. Oh, you’ve got the new key, the code I sent you this morning?

  Right here. Sweetie, you look so tired. What—oh, for God’s sake. Beep, beep, beep. Sorry, Nat.

  It’s okay. You go. I’ll see you soon. Palma, I’m really glad we’ll have some time.

  Me, too. Pancakes for breakfast?

  You bet.

  Bye!

  Stress level up on the vic, Eve thought. No need to run a voice analysis. She could hear it plainly and see it in the vic’s eyes. Not fear, but tension and fatigue.

  She was going to tell her sister, whatever it was. Lay it out for her as she’d laid it out, Eve was sure, for her fiancé. Lucky for Palma, she’d been out of the loop at the time of the murders.

  Looking for advice, someone to share the burden. I know this thing, found this thing, suspect this thing. I’m not sure what I should do.

  Closing her eyes, Eve brought Natalie’s apartment back into her mind. Female, tidy, matching this and matching that. The clothes Eve had pawed through had been the same. Definite style. Hard-working accountant. Practical and organized. New lock. Careful and cautious.

  Whatever she’d known or had that had killed her, she hadn’t known or had it long. Eve judged Natalie Copperfield as a woman who knew her mind.

  Shared the information with someone else besides the boyfriend, maybe. If so, it had been the wrong person.

  Taking the list provided, Eve began a standard run on the victim’s coworkers, superiors, and the heads of
the firm. Then she tagged Peabody on the interdepartment ’link. “Do a search and run on the other tenants in Copperfield’s building. Maybe she saw something at home, or in the neighborhood.”

  “I was heading there. Just went over the statement from the neighbors, both scenes. Nothing on the surface on either.”

  “So we go under. I got the click on a search of their financials. I’ll look there.”

  “They weren’t blackmailers. There’s no vibe.”

  “We look anyway.”

  No vibe, Eve agreed, but brought up Natalie’s data. What she found was, she supposed, what should be expected for a number cruncher. Organized, frugal, balanced accounts. The occasional spree, and a big, fat chunk laid out three months before at White Wedding for a dress, veil, undergarments.

  There hadn’t been any fancy wedding dress in the apartment. Eve relayed the same to Peabody.

  “It would have to be fitted,” she was informed. “They’d probably keep it at the shop, and schedule fittings up to a week or so before the big day.”

  “Oh. Right. Let’s check anyway, be sure.”

  “Got a couple minor possessions—illegal substance—on the first-floor tenant, first scene. Pauli, Michael. Last one three years back. A D-and-D, and a shoplifting charge on tenant on second scene. Neither recent.”

  “I’ve been running the office. I’m going to shoot that data to you—you keep at it—and head up to EDD. See if they’ve dug anything off her pocket ’link.”

  “I can go to EDD.”

  “I’m not sending you up there to play grab-ass with McNab.”

  “Aw.”

  “Run the names, Peabody. Anything pops, tag me. Otherwise, send the results back to my unit here, and at home. Clock out when you’re done. You can go home and play grab-ass.”

  “He doesn’t have much to grab, but what there is—”

  To save herself, Eve cut the transmission. She saved herself again by taking the glides rather than the elevator to EDD. At change of tour, the elevators were a box of bodies and odors. The glides were bad enough, jammed with cops coming on, going off, bringing in subjects for questioning, hauling others down to Booking.

  Eve squirmed her way off and took the stairs to the last level. She came out into the corridor of the EDD unit and was all but blinded by the wild squiggly pattern of blue lightning bolts on violent pink that only Ian McNab would call a shirt.

  “I want to know where you shop,” she demanded.

  “Huh? Hey, Dallas.”

  “Because I never want to make the lethal mistake of going there.” She dug out credits. “Get me a tube of Pepsi from that sarcastic, sadistic thing people call a vending machine.”

  “Sure.” He caught the credits she tossed him.

  Peabody was right, at least about the fact he didn’t have much ass. He was built like a reed, dressed like a circus star, and had the soul of an e-geek.

  His hair was slicked back in a blond tail leaving his thin, pretty face unframed. There were countless silver hoops in his left ear. She wondered why he didn’t list to that side when he walked.

  “I caught your case,” he told her, and tossed her the tube. “Just on my way back from making a pit stop. About to tag you.”

  “You got something for me?”

  “Got the first vic’s trans, seven days back. Can get you more. See, even when you clear the ’link, the trans are on the hard drive for—”

  “I don’t want a nerd lesson, just the results.”

  “Come on back.”

  If Homicide was business casual, EDD was haute couture. On Venus. McNab’s lightning bolts sizzled among a storm of clashing colors, shiny materials, gel-boots, and pounds of body adornments. Where Homicide hummed, EDD sang. Shrieked, actually, Eve thought, with beeps and buzzes, voices, music, and electronic whistles.

  She’d go mad in an hour under these conditions and often wondered how her old partner, Feeney, captain of the division, survived. In fact, she corrected, thrived among the peacocks and passion flowers.

  McNab grabbed a disc from his workstation. “We’ll take a booth.”

  He wound his way through the jungle. Most of EDD danced around, talking on headphones. It gave her the jitters. She followed McNab through glass doors where a dozen clear booths were lined up like soldiers. More than half of them were occupied.

  McNab snagged one, then slid the disc into a slot on a sleek little comp unit. “Most of the trans are to the second vic. Some to her mother, her sister, the office. Others to shops and stuff—she was getting married, right?”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Yeah, doing checks on flowers, the dress, that kind of stuff.”

  “Can we skip those?”

  “Figured as much so I made two files. This one just has the trans to the boyfriend. You can review the other if you need it. Replay,” he ordered.

  The computer recited the date of the transmission, the time, the codes used. Byson came on screen, as he would have on Natalie’s pocket unit.

  He’d been a good-looking guy, Eve mused, before he’d had his face smashed in.

  Hey, Nat.

  Bick. Are you alone?

  Yeah, I’m about to head into a meeting. What’s up?

  I need to talk to you—about…what I’ve been looking into. Can you take lunch?

  I can’t. I’ve got one scheduled. What is it?

  I don’t think we should talk about it on the ’link. After work—we’ll go to my place. I need to show you. Come down when you’re finished for the day, okay? I think this is really important.

  Okay, see you later.

  The computer announced end of transmission, time elapsed.

  “A little stressed, a little jumpy, but excited, too,” Eve mused. “Like, Look what I found.”

  The next was a day later, an incoming.

  Hey, babe. I’m trying to move this dinner meeting along, but it’s dragging. Do you want me to come by after?

  No, no, that’s okay. I’m working. Bick, I’m finding more. I think a lot more. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Meet me for breakfast maybe? Our spot.

  I’ll be there. Seven-thirty good?

  Perfect. God, Bick. I just can’t believe all this. We have to find it all. It has to be stopped.

  We could go to the cops.

  Not yet. We have to be absolutely sure. We don’t know who’s involved, not on this end. Not for certain. We have to be careful. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.

  Don’t work too late. Love you.

  Love you right back.

  There were a handful of others, increasingly tense, equally cryptic, ending with one near midnight, only a couple of hours before the first murder.

  Just wanted to talk to you. See your face.

  Nat, listen, I’ll just come over.

  It’s late, and you had such a long day. I’m fine, really. Just edgy, I guess. And Palma will be here later. I always feel so odd having you sleep here when she’s staying over.

  You puritan.

  Guess I am.

  But she laughed a little.

  I’m going to tell her, Bick, talk it through with her.

  I don’t like the way you were approached. Nat, they tried to bribe you.

  And as far as they know I’m thinking about it.

  It was more ultimatum than bribe. They might try to hurt you.

  I asked for forty-eight hours to think about it. I’ve got time. There’s no reason for them to try anything before I give them my answer. I’ve got the new lock, the security peep, Palma’s coming. I’m in this now, Bick. I want to finish it. I just want to put it all together, talk to Palm. Tomorrow, we’ll take everything to the authorities.

  I’ll come over in the morning. We’ll go together.

  Don’t bring your file copies. Let’s just…like insurance, you know. If cops don’t work, we’ll go to the media. This has to be exposed.

  One way or the other, Nat. We’ll fry their asses.

  And get back to our lives
. I can’t wait to marry you.

  Crazy about you. Sleep tight, babe. This’ll be over tomorrow.

  I can’t wait for that either. Love you. Night.

  “Civilians,” Eve said with a churning mix of pity and anger. “Playing detective. They’d gone to the cops, they’d be alive.”

  “Had something hot,” McNab agreed. “Bribes and threats, ending in bloody murder. I’ll push back further, maybe she dropped more detail earlier in the game. Seems pretty clear it was something she came across at her work.”

  “Still waiting for the fucking warrant for her files. Lawyers. Damn it. Somebody wants to, they’ve had plenty of time to pull incriminating, do some major covering up.”

  “Everything leaves a trail. EDD bloodhounds will sniff it out.” He pulled out the disc, passed it to Eve. “Damn shame about them. You could see they had the real thing going.”

  “They’d stuck with numbers, left the bad guys to us, they’d still have it going.”

  But she was heavy with that pity as she pushed out of the booth.

  “Go back,” she said to McNab. “Keep going back. Seems to me if someone had contacted her via ’link on this thing, she’d have kept a record of the transmission. She thought she was setting up a case. Accountants, they’re all about columns and balancing things out, keeping records. If there was electronic contact, she’s got it somewhere.”

  Or had it, Eve thought as she gratefully headed out of Club EDD. She’d have told her killer anything he wanted to know before he was done with her.

  Eve hit the lab on her way home. Her goal was to pin down Dick Berenski, chief lab tech, into passing on whatever they had to this point. But as she moved through the tunnels and glass-walled labs and cubes, she spotted Harvo, a tech she’d worked with before.

  Harvo’s short, spiked red hair was covered with a protective cap painted, Eve noted, with naked men. “Nice hat.”

  “Fun where you find it.” Harvo snapped gum the color of healthy lungs. “You looking for Dickhead, he’s gone. Got leave, a few days south—probably half-juiced by now and hitting on some unfortunate woman who just wants to drink her piña colada in peace.”