The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  B. Donald Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at her with it. “I didn’t tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out while I’m away, you bitch?”

  “Stay away from her.” Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke’s voice was calm.

  “Well, well.” Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. “Isn’t this cozy. The whore and the handyman.” He shoved Zeke in the chest. “Get the hell out of my house.”

  “I intend to. With Clarissa.”

  “Zeke, don’t. He doesn’t mean anything, B. D.” She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. “I was . . . just going out for a walk. That’s all.”

  “Lying bitch. So you were going to help yourself to what’s mine, were you?” He shoved Zeke again. “Did she tell you how many others she’s whored with?”

  “That’s not true.” Clarissa’s voice broke on a sob. “I never—” She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.

  “Shut the fuck up, I’m not talking to you. Thought you’d put in a little overtime while I was out of town?” He sneered at Zeke. “Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your dick into her already. No.” He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. “If you’d had her, you’d know she’s lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she’s mine.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Zeke, don’t. I want you to go now.” Her teeth were chattering. “I’ll be fine. Just go now.”

  “We’ll go.” Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn’t see Branson’s fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw, radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Clarissa cry out again.

  “Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him. B. D., I won’t go. I swear I—” Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

  It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.

  Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson’s head.

  “Sweet God. Sit down, here, sit down.” He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson’s throat.

  “There’s no pulse.” He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson’s shirt, and began to pump the heart. “Call for an ambulance, Clarissa.”

  But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

  “He’s dead. He’s dead, isn’t he?” She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke’s, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. “What will we do, what will we do?”

  Nausea churned in Zeke’s stomach as he rose. He’d killed a man. He’d left behind every belief and had taken a life. “We have to call an ambulance. The police.”

  “The police. No, no, no.” She began to rock then, her face white and strained. “They’ll lock me away. They’ll send me to prison.”

  “Clarissa.” He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil. “You didn’t do anything. I killed him.”

  “You—you—” Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. “Because of me. It’s all because of me.”

  “No, because of him. You need to be strong now.”

  “Strong. Yes.” Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. “I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I . . . But . . . I feel ill. I—Could you get me some water?”

  “We need to call the police.”

  “Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?”

  “All right. Stay right here.”

  His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside.

  He had killed.

  The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn’t remember why he’d come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson’s skull hitting the hearth.

  “Water.” He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. “Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water.”

  Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.

  Because his hands were shaking, he took the glass she brought him in both of them, managed a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor.

  Water leaped over the rim of the glass and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood.

  There was no body beside her.

  “What have you done? What are you doing?” Panicked, he set the glass down and ran to her.

  “What has to be done. I’m being strong and doing what has to be done. Let me finish.”

  She was fighting him, shoving, weeping, and the smell of fresh blood was strong.

  “Stop. Stop this. Where is he?”

  “He’s gone. He’s gone, and no one has to know.”

  “What are you talking about?” Zeke pulled the bloody rag from her, tossed it back on the hearth. “For God’s sake, Clarissa, what have you done?”

  “I had the droid take him.” Her eyes were wild, as with fever. “I had the droid take him out, put him in the car. He’ll throw the body into the river. We’ll clean up the blood. And we’ll run away. We’ll just go away and forget this ever happened.”

  “No, no, we won’t.”

  “I won’t let them put you in prison.” She reached out, grabbed his shirt. “I won’t let them lock you away for this. I couldn’t bear it.” She lowered her head to his chest, clung. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  “It has to be faced.” He gentled his hands on her arms. “If I don’t face it, I couldn’t live with myself.” When she sagged against him, he took her back to the chair.”

  “You’ll call the police,” she said dully.

  “Yes.”

  They’d finally made it to the bed. Peabody wasn’t altogether sure how they’d managed to get from the elevator to his apartment to his bed without killing each other, but that’s where they were. The sheets were hot and tangled, and even now when McNab rolled weakly off her, her body pumped heat like a furnace.

  “I’m not done yet,” he said in the dark with a voice that hitched.

  Peabody snorted, then began to laugh like a loon. “Me, neither. What are we, crazy?”

  “A couple of more times, we’ll probably burn it all out of our systems.”

  “A couple of more times, we’ll be dead.”

  He reached out to stroke her breast. He had long, bony fingers, and she was becoming very fond of them. “Game?”

  “Looks like.”

  He rolled over, replaced his fingers with his tongue. “I love your tits.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, I mean . . . ummm.” He began to suck, slowly now, bringing an odd liquid flutter to her belly. “I really love your tits.”

  “They’re mine.” She could have bitten her tongue, and was grateful for the dark that concealed the flush as he chuckled against her. “I mean, I didn’t like buy them or anything.”

  “I know, Dee. Believe me, nothing improves on Mother Nature.”

  God, she wished he hadn’t called her Dee. It made it all personal, and well, intimate, when it was—it had to be . . . otherwise. She started to tell him so, but his hand was sliding, n
ot rushing this time, just lazily sliding down her rib cage.

  “Man, you are so . . . female.” He had an urge to kiss her, long and slow and deep. As he lifted his head, started to order lights so he could see her when he did, a ’link beeped.

  “Shit. Lights. Yours or mine?”

  All at once, they were both cops. She dived for her coat pocket. “Mine, I think. It shouldn’t be from Dispatch, it’s my palm-link. Block outgoing video,” she ordered, shoving the hair back from her face. “Engage. Peabody.”

  “Dee.” Zeke’s face filled the miniscreen. By the time he’d drawn a breath, let it out, her heart had stopped. She’d seen that stunned and glazed look in too many other eyes.

  “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  “No. No. Dee, I need you to come. I need you to call Dallas and come to Clarissa Branson’s house. I just killed her husband.”

  Eve finished reading the printout Roarke had given her and sat back in the chair at her desk. “So, Lamont’s been stealing material from Autotron, bits and pieces at a time, for the last six months.”

  “He covered his tracks well.” It burned, oh, it burned to know he’d been paying the son of a bitch all along. “He had some autonomy, his requisitions would hardly be questioned. He just ordered a bit more than he required for the work, then obviously smuggled out the extras.”

  “Which were handed over to Fixer, I’d guess. This is enough to nail him on theft of hazardous material, anyway. And that’s enough for me to haul his butt into interview and cook him.”

  Roarke studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I don’t suppose you could hold off on that long enough for me to fire him. Personally?”

  “I think I’ll save myself the trouble of getting you out of assault charges and dump him in a cage out of your reach. I appreciate the help.”

  “Excuse me?” He turned back to her. “If you’d let me get my memo book, then repeat that for the record.”

  “Ha ha. Don’t let it go to your head.” Absently, she rubbed at a headache brewing in her temple. “We have to find the next target. I’ll have Lamont brought in tonight, let him stew in a cage, but it’s not likely he knows the where and when.”

  “He’s bound to know a few of the whos.” Roarke moved around the desk, stood behind her, and began to massage the tension from her shoulders. “You need to put this aside for a while, Lieutenant. Give your mind a chance to clear.”

  “Yeah, I do.” She let her head fall forward as his hands worked magic. “How long can you keep that up?”

  “A lot longer if we were naked.”

  She laughed and amused him by starting to unbutton her blouse. “We’ll just see about that. Hell.” She did up the buttons quickly when her communicator sounded.

  “Dallas?”

  “Jesus, Dallas. God.”

  “Peabody.” She got to her feet quickly.

  “It’s my brother. It’s Zeke. It’s my brother.”

  Eve clamped a hand over Roarke’s, squeezed hard, and forced her voice into a command. “Tell me. Say it fast and straight.”

  “He says he killed B. Donald Branson. He’s at that address now. I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Hold it together, Peabody. Don’t do anything. Do you copy this? Do nothing until I arrive.”

  “Yes, sir. Dallas—”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.” She broke the connection and bolted for the door.

  “I’m going with you.”

  She started to refuse, then remembered the terrified look in Peabody’s eyes. “We’ll take one of your cars. It’ll be faster.”

  chapter sixteen

  Eve wasn’t surprised to arrive on scene ahead of Peabody, but she was grateful. One look at the parlor, the blood smeared on the hearth, and the possessive and protective way Zeke kept his hand on Clarissa’s shoulder had her stomach sinking.

  Oh shit, Peabody, she thought. What a hell of a fix.

  “Where’s the body?”

  “I got rid of it.” Clarissa started to her feet on legs that were visibly shaking.

  “Sit down, Clarissa.” Zeke said it softly while easing her back into the chair. “She’s in shock. She should have medical attention.”

  Shoving sympathy aside, and for the moment doing no more than filing the bruises on Clarissa’s face away, she stepped forward. “Got rid of it?”

  “Yes.” She drew a deep breath, locked her hands together. “After—after it . . . I sent Zeke out of the room, asked him to get me some water.”

  She glanced toward the glass still sitting untouched on an inlaid table, the water that had sloshed out of it ruining the finish. “When he was gone, I got one of the droids to carry—to carry it out, drive it away. I programmed the droid. I—I know how. I instructed it to throw the body in the river. Off the bridge and into the East River.”

  “She was upset,” Zeke began. “She wasn’t thinking. It all happened so fast and I—”

  “Zeke, I need you to sit down. Over there.” Eve indicated the sofa.

  “She didn’t do anything. I did. I pushed him. I didn’t mean . . . he was hurting her.”

  “Sit down, Zeke. Roarke, would you take Mrs. Branson in another room? She should lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Of course. Come on, Clarissa.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.” She began to weep again. “It was my fault. He was just trying to help me.”

  “It’s all right,” Roarke murmured. “Eve will take care of it. Come with me now.” He sent his wife a long, silent look as he led Clarissa away.

  “We’re not on record yet, Zeke. No,” she continued with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t say anything until you listen to me. I have to know everything, every detail, every step. I don’t want you to even think about leaving anything out.”

  “I killed him, Dallas.”

  “I said shut up.” Damn it, why didn’t people listen? “I’m going to read you your rights, then we’re going to talk. You can call for a lawyer, but I’m telling you now—as your sister’s friend—not to do that, not yet. You give it to me straight, then we go in and do a formal interview. That’s when you lawyer up. I’m going on record here in a minute, and when I do, you keep looking me dead in the eye. You got that? You don’t evade, you don’t hesitate. I’m seeing self-defense here, I’m seeing an accident, but when Clarissa ditched the body, she put both of you in jeopardy.”

  “She only—”

  “Quiet, goddamn it.” Frustrated, she dragged her hands through her hair. “There are ways to get around that. That’s what the lawyer’s going to be for. And the psych tests I’m going to order. But right now, on record, you’re going to tell me everything, leaving nothing out. Don’t think by smoking any details you’re protecting Clarissa. You won’t. It’ll only make it worse.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. All of it. But do you have to take her in? She’s afraid of the police. She’s so fragile. He hurt her. If you could just take me.”

  She moved forward, sat on the edge of the coffee table to face him. Jesus, she thought. Sweet Jesus, he was little more than a boy. “Do you trust your sister, Zeke?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she trusts me.” Eve heard the commotion in the foyer and rose. “That’ll be her now. Are you going to be able to hold it together?”

  He nodded, got to his feet as Peabody burst in. “Zeke. God, Zeke, are you all right?” She nearly leaped into his arms, then yanked back to run her hands over him, face, shoulders, chest. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Dee.” He pressed his brow to hers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right, it’s okay. We’ll take care of everything. We’ll take care of it all. We need to call a lawyer.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Peabody whirled to Eve, eyes damp and terrified. “He needs representation. Jesus, Dallas, he’s not going in a cage, he’s not going into holding.”

  “Suck it in, Peabody,” Eve snapped. “That’s an orde
r.” The tears were already rolling, causing Eve to feel a slick sense of panic. Oh God, oh God, don’t fall apart on me. Don’t do it. “That’s an order, Officer. Sit down.”

  She’d seen McNab out of the corner of her eye and didn’t stop to think why he was there. “McNab, take Peabody’s recorder. You’ll be acting as temporary aide in this matter.”

  “Dallas—”

  “This one isn’t for you,” Eve interrupted. “It can’t be. McNab?”

  “Yes, sir.” He came over, leaned down to Peabody. “Hold on, okay? Just hang. It’ll be all right.” He took the recorder still pinned to her uniform collar, fixed it on the lapel of his wrinkled pink shirt. “When you’re ready, Lieutenant.”

  “Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, on scene at residence of B. Donald Branson, conducting interview with Zeke Peabody in regards to the suspected death of B. Donald Branson.” She sat on the coffee table again, kept her eyes directly on his, and read him his rights. Both of them ignored Peabody’s muffled moan.

  “Zeke, tell me what happened.”

  He drew a breath. “I better start at the beginning. Is that all right?”

  “That’s fine.”

  He did as Eve had told him, kept his eyes on hers, never wavered. He spoke of the first day he’d worked in the house, what he’d heard, his conversation with Clarissa afterward.

  His voice trembled now and then, but Eve simply nodded and let him continue on. She wanted the emotion in his voice, the obvious distress in his eyes. She wanted it all on record while it was fresh.

  “When I started back downstairs with her suitcase, I heard her scream. She was on the floor, crying, holding her face. He was yelling at her, drunk and yelling at her. He’d knocked her down. I had to stop him.”

  Blindly, he reached out for his sister’s hand, gripped it tight. “I just wanted to get her out, away from him. No, that’s not true.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. Leave nothing out, Eve had told him. “I wanted him to be punished. I wanted him to pay for what he was doing to her, but I knew I had to get her away where she’d be safe. He yanked her up, yanked her up by her hair. Hurting her, just to hurt her. I grabbed for her, shoved him back. And that’s when . . . that’s when he fell.”