The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  “I pulled them out.” He passed her a disc. “In case you wanted to check them out again.”

  “We’ll do that. Are you on duty, Officer Newkirk?”

  “Day off,” he said.

  “If you got the time and the interest, maybe you could run these through with Feeney, for current data. I’d be grateful.”

  “No problem. I’m happy to assist in any way.”

  Eve got to her feet, offered her hand again. “Thanks. I’ve got a meeting. I’ll check back as soon as I can. Peabody, Roarke, with me.”

  She had to concentrate not to limp, and giving into her throbbing leg, headed for the small and often odorous confines of the elevator.

  “Remember,” she said to Roarke, “you’re a civilian, and this is a NYPSD op.”

  “That’s expert civilian to you, copper.”

  She didn’t smirk—very much—then squeezed herself onto an elevator. “And don’t call the commander Jack. It negates the serious and official tone, and…it’s just wrong.”

  “Yo, Dallas!”

  She turned her head to see one of the detectives from Anti-Crime grinning at her. “Renicki.”

  “Heard some mope took a chunk out of you, and now he’s got himself a case of rabies.”

  “Yeah? I heard some LC got a taste of you, and now she’s got herself a case of the clap.”

  “And that,” Roarke murmured as a number of cops hooted, “is serious and official.”

  In his office, Whitney stood behind his desk, and Mira beside a visitor’s chair. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Detective. Roarke.”

  “Sir, as I believe the expert consultant may be able to assist with the content of this meeting, I’ve asked him to be included.”

  “Your call. Please, sit.”

  While Roarke, Peabody, and Mira took seats, Eve remained standing. “With permission, Commander, to first update you and Dr. Mira.”

  She ran it through, quick and spare.

  “You were shadowed?” Whitney didn’t question her statement. “Any thoughts on why?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Mira broached the possibility that I may be a target. That rather than the springboard for these particular women being Roarke, the springboard for any connection with Roarke may be me.”

  “You didn’t mention this theory to me, Doctor.”

  “I asked Dr. Mira to give me time to evaluate,” Eve said before Mira could speak. “To consider, and to run probabilities before we shifted the focus on this area of the investigation. Having done so, I believe it’s a viable theory. I was a detective on the first investigation, partner to the primary. I fall within the parameters of his choice of victim. I may have crossed paths with him nine years ago, or walked a parallel line.

  “I think he came back to New York for specific reasons. And I think one of them is his intention to bag me.”

  “He’ll be disappointed,” Whitney commented.

  “Yes, sir, he will.”

  “How strongly do you support this theory, Mira?”

  “I’ve run my own probabilities, and I believe, given his pathology, he would consider capturing the lieutenant, a woman with considerable training and authority, a woman married to a man with considerable power, to be his finest achievement. However, it leads me to another question. How will he top it?”

  “He can’t,” Roarke stated. “And knows that he won’t. She’s the last, isn’t she? The best, the most challenging, his ultimate.”

  “Yes.” Mira nodded. “I agree. He’s willing to alter, even slightly, his victim profile. This is not a woman who can be pinned to a specific routine, to a pattern of habits and haunts. Nor one he could approach, face-to-face, as we believe he has with many if not all in the past, and lure her. It must be worth it to him to take this great risk, to devise a way to pull her in. He’s circled back,” Mira continued. “Come back to what we could call his roots. Because this will finish his work.”

  “He’s stopped before,” Peabody put in. “A year or two. But how can he just decide he’s finished? This kind of killer doesn’t stop unless he’s captured or killed.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “You think he’s dying,” Eve said to Mira. “Or that he’s decided to self-terminate after he finishes me.”

  “I do. Yes, I believe exactly that. I also believe he doesn’t fear it. Death is an accomplishment to him, and a timed cycle, which he has, for nearly a decade we know of, controlled. He doesn’t fear his own death, and that only makes him more dangerous.”

  “We need to give him an opening.” Eve narrowed her eyes. “And soon.”

  “If it’s too easy, he won’t bite.” Roarke met Eve’s gaze when she turned. “I know something about challenges. If it comes too easy, it’s not worth the trouble. He’ll want to work for it. At the very least he’ll want to believe that he outwitted you. And he’s had much longer to plan, to devise and study the problem than you have.”

  “I agree.” Mira leaned forward. “If what we believe is true, you’re the finish to his work. You complete it. The fact that you’re pursuing him even as he pursues you not only ups the stakes but adds a particular shine. You would be, quite literally, his masterpiece. With his need for control, he must feel he’s manipulated the outcome. Lured you, despite your training and advantages, as he’s lured the others.”

  “So we let him believe it,” Eve said, “right up to the moment we take him down. He has to be aware by now that we know his face. My take, from the profile, from what we know, is that it will only add to his excitement, his enjoyment. No one’s ever gotten this close before. And while he’s never overtly sought attention from the killing, his method indicates pride in it. In the end, if that’s what this is, won’t he want to be known?”

  “And remembered,” Mira confirmed.

  “We don’t know where or when, but we know who the target is, and we know why. Big advantages. We have his face, body type, age range. We know more about him than we did nine years ago.”

  She wanted to pace, to move while she talked it through, but Eve considered that inappropriate in Whitney’s office. “He probably has a connection with the Urban Wars, he likes opera, rather than physical means, he uses manipulation and deceit to obtain his victims, and often makes personal contact with them before the abduction. Unlike nine years ago, his victims lived or worked from midtown down. That’s purposeful.”

  “He wanted us to get closer this time.” Whitney nodded. “And by using Roarke’s people, he made it personal.”

  “But he doesn’t know how much we know,” Peabody put in. “He doesn’t know we’ve concluded Dallas is his end game. That’s another advantage. As long as he thinks she’s looking ahead—I mean that she’s focused on the pursuit, he’ll think he can ease around behind her, bag the prize.”

  “Back to an opening. One he can believe he helped make,” Eve said to Roarke. “You’re going to need to go back to work.”

  “Back to?”

  “To the buying-controlling-interest-of-the-known-universe-one-sector-at-a-time work. He’s not going to move on me if I’m in lockstep with you, or you,” she said to Peabody, “or anyone else. We have to give him a little room. If he knows my routines, then he knows I generally travel to and from Central solo, that I might do a follow-up after shift on my own. We need to crack the window for him.”

  “Giving the appearance I’ve gone back to business, so to speak, is easy enough,” Roarke replied. His tone was even, almost casual. But Eve heard the steel under it. “But as long as that window’s cracked I’ll be an active member of this team. This is not,” he continued, and addressed himself to the commander now, “simply a matter of me insisting on having some part in protecting the lieutenant. This man has taken three of my people, and one is already dead. It won’t be back to business for me until he’s apprehended—or as dead as Sarifina York.”

  “Understood. Lieutenant, it was your choice to bring the civilian on board. Unless you feel his particular talents and expertise are no long
er useful, I believe he should remain active.”

  “You can’t stick too close,” Eve began. “If he senses you’re concerned for my safety, he could pull back. So make the appearance a good one.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “We keep working it, no dramatic shifts in the routine. But we split some of the legwork and interviews.”

  “And you go, wherever you go,” Whitney ordered, “wired.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going to set that up with Feeney. I’ll need a homer for my vehicle, and—”

  “Already done,” Roarke said, then smiled serenely when she turned on him. “You agreed to that action earlier.”

  True, she thought, but she hadn’t expected him to take it on himself before she’d officially cleared it. Which, she had to admit, was stupid. That’s exactly what she should’ve expected. “Yeah, I did.”

  “You’ll wear a vest,” Mira told her.

  “A woman after my own heart,” Roarke murmured, and his smile spread at the annoyance on Eve’s face.

  “A vest’s overkill. His pattern—”

  “He’s breaking pattern with you,” Mira reminded her. “A vest ensures your safety and success, should he try to stun or injure you in order to incapacitate you. He’s intelligent enough to know he needs a physical advantage with you.”

  “Wear the vest.” Whitney’s voice was clipped. “Set up the electronics with Feeney. I want to know where you are, from this point on, at all times. When you’re in the field, in your vehicle, on the street for any reason, so is a shadow team. It’s not just a matter of keeping one of my people safe, Lieutenant,” he told her, “it’s a matter of slamming that window shut, the minute he comes through it. Work it out, relay the details.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Roarke ran his fingers down her arm as they headed for the glide down. “A vest isn’t a punishment, darling.”

  “You wear one for a couple hours, then say that. And no ‘darling’ on shift.”

  “You can call me darling anytime,” Peabody told him, and made him grin.

  “I’ve a few arrangements to make. I’ll see you back in the war room.” He started to split off from them. “Later, darling. I was talking to Peabody,” he said when Eve bared her teeth.

  16

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR ROARKE TO MAKE arrangements. In the end, however, it would be more than the appearance he was tending to his own organization. He’d have to put in some time on just that, once he could get to his home office, juggling deals and finance with murder.

  But for now he headed back to the war room to keep the various balls of his e-work in the air. He caught sight of Eve coming from the direction of her office. With a few yards between them, he watched her—long, quick strides. Places to go, he thought, murderers to catch.

  He stopped off, grabbing a bottle of water for both of them, then walked in.

  She’d gone to Feeney’s station. The cop Feeney was working with—the detail-minded young Newkirk’s father, Roarke remembered—nodded, and gathering a few discs, shifted to another area.

  So she wanted a direct with Feeney, Roarke concluded. He went to his own station to work on a problem, and to study their dynamics.

  He could see Feeney absorb the information, see Feeney’s eyes narrow in consideration. And the faintest frown of concern. There was some back-and-forth, rapid-fire on Feeney’s part, then he scratched his ear, dipped into his pocket. Out came a bag.

  It would be nuts, Roarke knew, as Feeney dipped into it, then held it out to Eve.

  Taking that as a signal they were now at the thinking through and strategy stage, Roarke rose to walk over and join them.

  “Raised his sights considerably,” Feeney said to Roarke.

  “So it would seem.”

  Feeney swiveled idly left to right, right to left, in his chair as he spoke. “We can wire her up, no problem there. Could put a camera on her, too. Give us eyes if and when we need them.”

  “I don’t want him spotting a camera,” Eve began.

  “I have something.” Roarke looked at Feeney. “The new generation of the HD Mole. XT-Micro. Most often used lapel-style, but as she’s not known for accessorizing it can be easily reconfigured into a button—shirt or jacket. Voice print option. She can activate or deactivate it with any choice of keyword or phrase.”

  “She’s standing right here,” Eve pointed out.

  “There were a couple bugs in the last generation,” Feeney pointed out, easily ignoring Eve.

  “Exterminated,” Roarke assured him. “It would take care of audio and video, and with the XT model—unless she’s going up against top-level security—it wouldn’t be detected.”

  Feeney nodded and munched. “We can go with that. Like to have a look at it first.”

  “I’ve got one coming in now. I used a multitrack homer on her vehicle, military grade.”

  In appreciation of the high-level equipment, Feeney let out a low whistle, along with a quick grin. “We sure as hell won’t lose her, even if she decides to drive down to Argentina. We’ll set up receivers here, and in the mobile. Shadow team can give her five or six blocks.”

  “What about air?”

  “We can mobilize if we have to.”

  “It’s not a bloody coup,” Eve muttered. “It’s one homicidal old man.”

  “Who’s captured, tortured, and killed twenty-four women.”

  Eve merely scowled at Roarke. “I think if he goes through the goddamn window, I can take him. You two go ahead and set up all the e-toys you want. But let’s remember, it’s not just smoking him out. It’s getting in. For Rossi and Greenfeld to have a chance, we have to get to them. I have to get inside, let him think he’s lured me in. We take him outside his place, there’s no guarantee we’ll nail down where he’s keeping them.”

  She had their attention now, waited a beat. “I’m not having these two women bleed or starve to death because we’re so worried about keeping my skin in place we take him down or put him down before we know where they are. Their safety is paramount. That’s a directive from the primary.”

  Feeney rattled his bag of nuts, held it out to Roarke. “Gil and I boxed in a few locations and individuals worth checking out.”

  “Peabody and I will take that. That’s SOP if he’s watching. Give me what you’ve got. How long before your shiny new toy gets here?” she asked Roarke.

  “Should be along in ten or fifteen minutes now.”

  “Good enough. I’ll go dig out the stupid vests.” She signaled to Peabody. “Roarke, you’re going to have to arrange your own transpo home.”

  “Understood. Lieutenant, a moment.” Roarke walked with her to the door. “I want those women back, safe, as much as you. I also like your skin exactly where it is. We’re going to find a way to make all of that work. And that’s a directive from the man who loves you. So watch your ass, or I’ll be first in line to kick it.”

  He knew she wouldn’t like it, but he needed it, so caught her chin in his hand and kissed her, hard and brief, before walking away.

  “Awww.” Peabody sighed a little as she hustled out of the war room behind Eve. “That’s so sweet.”

  “Yeah, ass-kickings are sugar in our house. Locker room. Vests.”

  “Vests? That would be more than one?”

  “I wear one, you wear one.”

  “Aw,” Peabody repeated, but in an entirely different tone.

  In under forty minutes they were in the garage, vested and wired. Peabody tugged on her jacket. “This makes me look fat, doesn’t it? I know it makes me look fat, and I’m still carrying a couple pounds of winter weight.”

  “We’re not trying to distract the son of a bitch with your frosty figure, Peabody.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Shifting, she tried to get a look at her reflection in a side-view mirror. “This damn thing thickens my entire middle, which doesn’t need any help in that area. I look like a stump. A tree stump.”

  “S
tumps don’t have arms and legs.”

  “They have branches. But I guess if they have branches, they aren’t technically stumps. So what I look like is a stunted tree.” She dropped into the passenger seat. “I now have extra motivation for taking this bastard down. He’s made me look like a stunted tree.”

  “Yeah, we’re going to fry his ass for that one.” Eve pulled out. “Watch for a tail. Activate, Dallas,” she said to test the recorder. “You copy?”

  “Eyes and ears five-by-five,” Feeney responded. “Shadow will hang back, minimum of three blocks.”

  “Copy that, remaining open while in the field.”

  They took the former dead wagon rider first. He’d done well for himself, Eve mused. Had a dignified old brownstone all to himself in a quiet West Village neighborhood.

  A droid answered the door—a stupendously designed female Eve would have gauged as more usual in the sexual gratification department than the domestic. Smoky eyes, smoky voice, smoky hair, all in a snug black skin-suit.

  “If you’d like to wait in the foyer, I’ll tell Mr. Dobbins you’re here.” She walked off—more slinked off, Eve thought, like a lithe and predatory feline.

  “If all she does is vacuum around here,” Peabody commented, “I’m a size two.”

  “She may vacuum, after she polishes the old man’s brass.”

  “Women are so crude,” Roarke said in her ear.

  “Mute the chatter.” Eve studied the foyer.

  More of a wide hallway, she noted, with the light coming in through the front door’s ornate glass panel. Doors on either side, kitchen area probably in the back. Bedrooms upstairs.

  A lot of room for a man to shuffle around in.

  He did just that, shuffled in on bunged-up slippers. He wore baggy sweats, and had his near-shoulder-length hair combed back and dyed a hard and improbable black.