The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  “Yum.”

  “I figured if you didn’t like it, it wouldn’t be programmed.” She scooted off the bed, stood naked, glancing around. “I don’t guess there’s a robe in here.”

  “Afraid not.” He dug through the tangle of sheets and pillows and came up with the now tattered body skimmer. “You could wear what’s left of this.”

  “Never mind.” She picked up her discarded dress, shimmied into it.

  “Well now, that stirs the appetite considerably.”

  “Even you couldn’t go another round after that last one.” When he grinned, she thought it wise to move out of reach.

  She couldn’t pronounce half the food she put in her mouth, but it was damn tasty. “What is this called again?”

  “Fruit de le mer a la parisienne.”

  “I guess if they called it a bunch of fish in a fancy sauce, it wouldn’t have the same ring.”

  “A rose by any other name.” He refilled her water glass. “Lieutenant?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re trying not to think about your day. Why don’t you just tell me about it instead?”

  She stabbed another scallop. “I’ve got a lead on—” She cut herself off, sucked it in. “No, you tell me about your day.”

  “My day?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yeah, what did you do today, how’d it go, that sort of thing.”

  “You’re in a mood,” he murmured, then shrugged. “I dealt with some financial reorganization.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I bought some stock on its way down, sold some that I believe had topped off, studied the daily analysis of several companies and adjusted accordingly.”

  “I guess that kept you busy.”

  “Enough, until about noon when I went into the office.” He wondered how long it would take until her eyes glazed over. “I had a holo-conference regarding the Olympus Resort. Cost overruns remain under the acceptable five percent. However, on a point-by-point project analysis, I find indications of a downturn in resource productivity that warrants closer study and a correction.”

  Ninety seconds, he calculated, watching her eyes. He’d figured she’d drop off at sixty. “Then, I bought you a candy bar.”

  “I liked that part.”

  He broke off a chunk of his roll, buttered it. “Eve, did you marry me for my money?”

  “You bet your ass. And you’d better hold on to it, or I’m history.”

  “It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

  That made her grin. “I guess we’re finished talking about your day.”

  “I thought we were. What’s your lead?”

  “Love. At least that’s where all the arrows are pointing right now.” She filled him in while she polished off her meal.

  “Kenneth Stiles attacked Draco and beat him badly enough for medical intervention.” Roarke cocked his head. “Interesting, isn’t it, when you compare the two men. Draco was taller, considerably heftier, and certainly, on the surface, a great deal tougher. No indication that Stiles was injured?”

  “None. I thought about that, too. It comes down to the pussy and the pissed. Draco being the pussy, Stiles the pissed.”

  “And being the pissed cost Stiles several million dollars.”

  “And he didn’t even end up with the girl.”

  “Anja.”

  “Peabody found a handful of Carvells in the city. Wrong age span, so we’re widening the scan. My gut tells me she has some of the answers.”

  “Cherchez la femme.”

  “What?”

  “Find the woman,” he translated.

  She lifted her glass in a quick toast. “You can count on it.”

  “Anja.” He said the name softly, a bare whisper of sound. And heard the gasp of surprise and recognition that followed it. “Don’t say anything. Please. Just listen. I have to speak with you. It’s important. Not over the ’link. Will you meet me?”

  “This is about Richard.”

  “It’s about everything.”

  It took time. He was certain he was being watched and feared his own shadow. Stiles sat at the mirror in his dressing area and skillfully, painstakingly altered his appearance. He changed the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw, the color of his skin. He covered his hair with a wig, a thick mane of deep brown. He supposed it was vanity that prevented him from using the more ordinary gray one.

  He couldn’t bear to look old in her eyes.

  He added a slim mustache, a slender brush of beard in the center of his chin.

  All of this came naturally, despite the anxiety. He had donned a hundred characters in his life, sliding into them as smoothly as a man slips into favorite slippers after a long day.

  He added girth to his small frame—shoulders, chest, then covered the padding with a simple dark suit. The lifts in his shoes would give him another inch of height.

  He took his time, studying the results in the long triple mirror, searching for any sign of Kenneth Stiles. For the first time in over an hour he allowed himself a small smile.

  He could walk right up to Lieutenant Eve Dallas and kiss her on the mouth. He’d be damned if she’d recognize him.

  Empowered, as he always was by a new role, Stiles swirled on a cape and went out to meet the woman he’d loved all his life.

  She kept him waiting. She always had. He’d chosen a small nostalgia club that had fallen out of fashion. But the music was low and bluesy, the patrons minded their own, and the drinks came quickly.

  He sipped at gin and paged through the battered volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was their signal.

  She had given him the book all those years ago. He had taken it for a token of love instead of the friendship she’d intended. Even when he’d realized his mistake, he’d treasured it. As much as he’d treasured her.

  He’d lied to the police, of course. He’d never broken contact with her, had known where she was, what she was doing. He had simply assumed another role with her, that of confidant and friend.

  And after a time, living the part for so many years, he grew comfortable with it.

  Yet, when she slid into the booth across from him, held out a hand for his, his heart leapt.

  She’d changed her hair. It was a glorious tangle of smoky red. Her skin was a pale, pale gold. He knew it was soft to the touch. Her eyes were deep, tawny, and concerned. But she smiled at him, a hesitant curve of a lush mouth.

  “So, you still read it?” Her voice was soft and lightly French.

  “Yes, often. Anja.” His fingers flexed on hers, then deliberately relaxed. “Let me order you a drink.”

  She sat back, watching him, waiting, as he signaled a waiter and ordered her a glass of sauvignon blanc.

  “You never forget.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Oh, Kenneth.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I wish things had been different. Could have been.”

  “Don’t.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended. It could still sting. “We’re beyond regrets.”

  “I don’t think we ever get beyond them.” She let out a small sigh. “I’ve spent more than half my life regretting Richard.”

  He said nothing until her drink was served and she’d taken the first sip. “The police think I killed him.”

  Her eyes went wide, and wine sloshed toward the rim of her glass as her hand jerked. “But no! No, that’s impossible. Ridiculous.”

  “They know what happened twenty-four years ago.”

  “What do you mean?” Her hand darted out for his, squeezed like a vise. “What do they know?”

  “Steady now. They know about the assault, my arrest, the suit.”

  “But how is that possible? It was so long ago, and all the details were put away.”

  “Eve Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas,” he said with some bitterness as he lifted his own drink. “She’s relentless. She managed to break the seal. They took me in, put me in a room, hammered at me.”

  “Oh, Kennet
h. Kenneth, mon cher, I’m so sorry. It must have been hideous.”

  “They think I’ve harbored a grudge against Richard all this time.” He laughed a little, drank. “I suppose they’re right.”

  “But you didn’t kill him.”

  “No, but they’ll continue to dig into the past. You need to be prepared. I had to tell them why I attacked Richard. I had to give them your name.” When the blood drained from her face, he leaned over, clasped both of her hands. “Anja,” he said deliberately, “I told them I’d lost track of you, that we’ve had no contact in all these years. That I didn’t know how to find you. I told them Richard had seduced you, then when he was certain you were in love with him, he cast you off. I told them about the attempt to take your own life. That’s all I told them.”

  She made a small sound of despair and lowered her head. “It still shames me.”

  “You were young, brokenhearted. You survived. Anja, I’m sorry. I panicked. But the fact is, I had to give them something. I thought it would be enough, but I realize now, she won’t stop. Dallas will keep searching, keep digging until she finds you. Finds the rest.”

  She steadied, nodded. “Anja Carvell has disappeared before. I could make it impossible for her to find me. But that won’t do. I’ll go to see her.”

  “You can’t. For God’s sake.”

  “I can. I must. Would you still protect me?” she said quietly. “Kenneth, I don’t deserve you. I never did. I’ll speak with her, explain how it was, how you are,” she added.

  “I don’t want you involved.”

  “My dearest, you can’t stop what Richard started a lifetime ago. You’re my friend, and I intend to protect what’s mine. Whatever the risk,” she added, and her eyes hardened. “Whatever the consequences.”

  “There has to be more.”

  Roarke ran his hand over Eve’s naked ass. “Well. If you insist.”

  She lifted her head. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”

  “Oh. Pity.”

  He’d managed to peel the red dress off her again, and then it had been a simple matter of one thing leading to another. Now she was sprawled over him, all warm and loose.

  But apparently, she didn’t intend to stay that way.

  “They all hated him.” She scooted up to straddle him and gave Roarke a very pleasant view of slender torso and firm breasts. “Or at least actively disliked him. Maybe feared him,” she considered. “Nobody in that cast is particularly sorry to see him dead. Several of the actors had worked with each other before. Had histories, links, connections. To Draco, to each other. Maybe it was more than one of them.”

  “Murder on the Orient Express.”

  “What’s that? An Asian transpo system?”

  “No, darling, it’s yet another play by Dame Christie. She seems to be popping up. A man is murdered in his bed, in the sleeping car of a train. Stabbed. Repeatedly. Among the passengers is a very clever detective, not nearly as attractive as my cop,” he added.

  “What does a make-believe dead guy on a train have to do with my case?”

  “Just enhancing your theory. In this fictional murder, there were a number of varied and seemingly unconnected passengers. However, our dogged detective refused to take such matters at face value, poked around, and discovered links, connections, histories. Disguises and deceptions,” he added. “When he did, he discovered they all had motives for murder.”

  “Interesting. Who did it?”

  “All of them.” When her eyes narrowed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her. “Each of them took a turn with the knife, plunging it into his unconscious body in return for the wrong he’d done to them.”

  “Pretty gruesome. And pretty cagey. No one could betray anyone else without betraying themselves. They back up each other’s alibis. Play the role,” she murmured.

  “Very nearly a perfect murder.”

  “There are no perfect murders. There are always mistakes, with the murder itself the biggest of them.”

  “Spoken like a cop.”

  “I am a cop. And I’m going back to work.”

  She wiggled away, slid off the bed, and once again reached down for the dress.

  “You put that red number back on, baby, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “Simmer down. I’m not strolling around naked. You never know where Summerset’s skulking.” She began pulling the dress up and glanced around the room. “I guess we should clean up some.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it looks like we’ve—”

  “Had a very enjoyable evening,” Roarke finished. “This may shock you, but Summerset knows we have sex.”

  “Don’t mention his name and sex in the same sentence. Gives me the creeps. I’m going to grab a shower, then work awhile.”

  “All right. I’ll join you.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m not showering with you, ace. I know your games.”

  “I won’t lay a hand on you.”

  He didn’t say anything about his mouth.

  “What do you do? Take a pill?”

  Limber, refreshed, and utterly satisfied, Roarke buttoned his shirt. “You’re stimulation enough.”

  “Apparently.”

  He took her hand, led her to the elevator, requested her office.

  The cat was stretched across her sleep chair and gave a twitch of his tail when they walked in.

  “Coffee?” Roarke asked.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The minute he turned toward the kitchen, Galahad leaped down and bolted into the room ahead of him. Eve heard the single demanding meow.

  She sat at her desk, stared at her computer, tapped her fingers.

  “Computer, Draco case file. Cross-reference task. Find and list any and all connections, professional, personal, medical, financial, criminal, civil, between cast members.”

  Working . . .

  “I assumed you ran that already.”

  She glanced over as Roarke came back with coffee. “I’m running it again, with a few added details.

  “Computer, highlight any name with sealed files, all areas.”

  That information requires authorization. Please submit same . . .

  “Would you like me to get around that little hitch for you?”

  She made a low sound, a definite warning. Roarke merely shrugged and sipped his coffee.

  “Authorization Code Yellow, slash Dallas, slash five-oh-six. Request from Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, regarding double homicide. You are authorized to flag sealeds.”

  Authorization correct. Sealeds will be flagged. Data contained in sealed files requires warrant, signed and dated, for access . . .

  “Did I ask you to access the data? Just flag the damned sealeds.”

  Working . . . Multitask process will require approximately eight minutes, thirty seconds . . .

  “Then get started. And no,” she said to Roarke. “We’re not opening the sealeds.”

  “My goodness, Lieutenant, I don’t believe I suggested anything of the kind.”

  “You think you and McNab scammed me on that warrant today?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He eased a hip onto the desk. “I did give Ian some advice, but it was of a personal nature. Man talk.”

  “Yeah, right.” She tipped back in her chair, eyed him over her coffee cup. “You and McNab sat around talking about women and sports.”

  “I don’t believe we got to sports. He had a woman on his mind.”

  Eve’s sneer vanished. “You talked to him about Peabody? Damn it, Roarke.”

  “I could hardly slap him back. He’s so pitifully smitten.”

  “Oh.” She winced. “Don’t use that word.”

  “It fits. In fact, if he took my advice . . .” He turned his wrist, glanced at the unit fastened there. “They should be well into their first date by now.”

  “Date? Date? Why did you do that? Why did you go and do something like that? Couldn’t you leave it alone? They’d have had sex until they bur
ned out on it, and everything would go back to normal.”

  He angled his head. “That didn’t work for us, did it?”

  “We don’t work together.” Then, when his eyes brightened with pure amusement, she showed her teeth. “Officially. You start mixing cops and romance and case files and gooey looks at briefings, you’ve got nothing but a mess. Next thing you know, Peabody will be wearing lip dye and smelly girl stuff and dragging body skimmers under her uniform.”

  She dropped her head in her hands. “Then they’ll have tiffs and misunderstandings that have nothing whatsoever to do with the job. They’ll come at me from both sides, and before you know it, they’ll be telling me things I absolutely do not want to know. And when they break it off and decide they hate each other down to the guts, I’ll have to hear about that, too, and why they can’t possibly work together, or breathe the same air, until I have no choice, absolutely no choice, but to kick both of their asses.”

  “Eve, your sunny view on life never fails to lift my spirits.”

  “And—” She poked him in the chest. “It’s all your fault.”

  He grabbed her finger, nipped it, not so gently. “If that’s the case, I’m going to insist they name their first child after me.”

  “Are you trying to make me crazy?”

  “Well, darling, it’s so easy, I find it difficult to resist. Why don’t you put the entire matter out of your mind before it gives you a headache? Your data’s coming up.”

  She shot him one fierce look, then turned to the screen.

  Connections within connections, she thought as she scanned. Lives bumping up against lives. And every time they did, they left a little mark. Sometimes the mark was a bruise that never fully healed.

  “Well, well, this didn’t come up before. Michael Proctor’s mother was an actress. She had a small part in a play. Twenty-four years ago.” Eve sat back. “And just look who was onstage with her. Draco, Stiles, Mansfield, Rothchild. That correlates to the trouble between Draco and Stiles. Where’s Anja Carvell?” she murmured.

  “Perhaps she had, or has, a stage name.”