The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  “Agent Stowe and yourself are certainly free to run your case wherever it suits you best. You will not run my case from anywhere.”

  Jacoby had brown eyes, dark and smug. “Yost’s activities come under the federal net.”

  “Yost is not the exclusive property of the FBI, Agent Jacoby, nor of Global or Interpol, or the NYPSD. But the investigation into the murder of Darlene French is mine, and it’s going to stay mine.”

  “You want to stay connected to this, Lieutenant, you’d better dump the attitude.”

  “If you want to stay in this office,” Whitney cut in, “you’d be wise to dump yours, Agent Jacoby. The NYPSD is prepared to cooperate with the FBI as regards suspect Yost. It is not prepared to remove or replace Lieutenant Dallas as primary of the Darlene French homicide. Your jurisdiction has limits. You’d be smart to remember what they are.”

  Jacoby angled himself toward Whitney, his posture aggressive, his eyes going hot. “Your primary’s connection to the individual Roarke, who may or may not be tied to this homicide and has long been under the federal eye as a suspect in various illegal activities, makes her a poor choice to head this investigation.”

  “If you’re going to make accusations, Jacoby, put something behind them.” It took all Eve’s control to keep her voice level. “Would you like to produce the individual Roarke’s criminal record at this time?”

  “You know damn well he doesn’t have one.” He got to his feet now. “You want to sleep with a man who’s run every dirty game in the book and still wear a badge, that’s on you. But—”

  “Jacoby.” Stowe rose as well, neatly positioning herself between her partner and Eve. “For God’s sake. Let’s keep personalities out of this.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” Whitney pushed back from his desk, stood. “Agent Jacoby, I will ignore that inappropriate attack on my officer. Once. If it’s repeated, in any way, in any shape, in any form, I will report your conduct to your superiors. Your request for cooperation and for inclusion in any data generated on the Darlene French matter by my lieutenant and her investigation team will be considered, after said request is submitted formally, in writing, from your command. This meeting is over.”

  “The Bureau has the weight to take over this case.”

  “That’s debatable,” Whitney returned. “But you’re free to submit the appropriate paperwork to that end. Until that time, let me suggest that you refrain from coming onto my turf and insulting this office and my officers.”

  “I apologize, Commander Whitney.” Stowe shot Jacoby a look that warned him to keep silent. “And we appreciate your time, and your consideration.” She gave her partner a not-so-subtle nudge to get him moving out of the room.

  “Take a minute,” Whitney advised when the door closed behind them, “before you say something you may regret.”

  “I assure you, Commander, I couldn’t regret anything I might say at the moment.” But she took a breath. “I appreciate your support.”

  “Jacoby was out of line. He was heading over the line when he strutted in here thinking he could rattle his federal balls at me. He asks for cooperation properly, he’ll get it. He will not take over your case. It may come down to you working in tandem with Jacoby and Stowe. Is that a problem?”

  “It won’t be my problem. Sir.”

  A smile flickered around his mouth before he nodded, sat again. “Fill me in.”

  She did so, as thoroughly and concisely as her written report. And as she did so, she watched Whitney’s lips purse, his eyebrows raise. Those were the only reactions.

  “In all these years the Feebs haven’t put Yost in New York?”

  “They may have, sir, but not as indicated by any data I’ve been able to access. They have followed the wire, but not, as far as it shows, the specific length to specific outlets. I fail to understand how something that basic could have been neglected. The luggage, the hairpiece, those apply directly to French. But it’s likely he’s repeated that pattern, or a slight variation at other times. The FBI profile on the suspect is intricate and thorough, which is why I have yet to request one from Doctor Mira. I intend to do so, as corroboration, and with the additional data I’ve accumulated.”

  “Cover that, and make certain you have documentation and paperwork on every step. Jacoby may be the type to try to hang you up on technicalities. Media-wise, I want you low profile. The tone of the case shades toward Roarke, which shades toward you. I don’t want you to give any statements until you’re cleared to do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t look so smug about it. You’ll be tossed to the media hounds before it’s finished. No leads, I take it, on who might be pulling the strings here, or why?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then keep your focus on Yost. Smoke him out. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.” She turned to the door, one step behind Peabody.

  “Dallas?”

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “I believe you can tell Roarke to expect a little federal pressure.”

  “Understood.” She strode to the elevator, resisted kicking the wall. “She’s nothing but a tool to him. Darlene French to Jacoby,” she muttered. “No more human to him than she was to Yost. The son of a bitch.”

  “She’s got you, Dallas.”

  “That’s right. And she’s going to keep me.” Eve started to step into the elevator, then spotted Stowe inside. “Stay out of my face.”

  Stowe raised a hand in a gesture of truce. “Jacoby’s gone back to the field office. I just want a minute. I’ll ride down with you.”

  “Your partner’s an asshole.”

  “Only about half the time.” Stowe tried a smile. She was a trim woman in her middle thirties who did her best to spruce up the federal dress code with a pretty swing of honey brown hair. Her eyes were shades darker, and direct. “Listen, I want to apologize for Jacoby’s remarks, and his attitude.” She let out a sigh. “And my apology doesn’t mean squat, however sincere.”

  “Maybe it means squat, even if it doesn’t mean diddly.”

  “Fair enough. Look, when you cut out the red tape, we’re all cops and all after the same thing.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yost. You want him, we want him. Does it matter to you who turns the key in his cage?”

  “I don’t know. You guys have had a lot of years to turn that key. About as many years as Darlene French got to live.”

  “True enough. Personally, however, I’ve had three months, and of the three probably one in pure man hours to assimilate data on Sylvester Yost. If it gets us closer to stopping him, I’ll hand you the key.”

  When the doors opened on the garage level, Stowe glanced out. She’d have to ride back up to the main lobby level. “I’m just asking you not to let Jacoby’s temperament get in the way of the goal. I think we can help each other.”

  Eve stepped out, but turned and laid her hand on the door to keep it open. “Keep your partner on a leash, and I’ll consider it.”

  She let the doors close and walked to her parking slot. Her pea-green unit sat, dented, scarred, and with a bright yellow smiley face some joker in Maintenance had painted beaming out from the rear window.

  It was probably a very good thing Eve didn’t have that riot laser.

  chapter seven

  Eve hit the salon first and was pleasantly surprised when her vehicle made the trip without embarrassing her.

  She’d walked through the doors of Paradise before, tracking another murderer, another sexual homicide. Another case that had involved Roarke. The first one, she thought, that had connected us.

  It had been more than a year, but the opulent decor of the salon hadn’t changed. Soft, soothing music played, harmonizing with the splashing waterfalls and drifting through the air delicately scented by the long sweeps and tall spires of fresh flowers.

  Patrons sat or lounged amid the splendor of the waiting area, sipping tiny cups of genuine coffee or spring-hued glasses of fruit juice or
fizzy water. The receptionist was the same bountifully breasted woman in snug, short red who had greeted Eve before.

  The hair was different, Eve noted. This time around it was Easter egg pink and styled in a streaming fountain of curls that burst out of a high cone on the crown of her head.

  Recognition didn’t register in her eyes, but dismay and annoyance did the moment she spotted Eve’s worn jacket, scarred boots, and shaggily styled hair.

  “I’m sorry, we serve by previous appointment only in Paradise. I’m afraid all our consultants are fully booked for the next eight months. May I suggest an alternate salon?”

  Eve leaned on the high counter, crossed her boots at the ankles. “You don’t remember me, Denise? Gee, I’m really hurt. Wait a minute! I bet you’ll remember this.” Smiling cheerfully, Eve pulled out her badge and pushed it under the receptionist’s expensively sculpted nose.

  “Oh. Oh. Not again.” Even as the words tripped out of her mouth, Denise remembered just who the cop had married since last they’d met. “I mean, I do beg your pardon, miss, I—”

  “That’s Lieutenant Miss.”

  “Of course.” Denise tried out a lilting laugh. “I’m afraid I was distracted. We’re so busy today. But never too busy to make room for you. What can we do for you?”

  “Where’s your retail section?”

  “I’d be delighted to show you. Is there a particular product you have in mind, or are you just browsing? Our consultants will—”

  “Just show me what you’ve got, Denise, and get me the manager of the area.”

  “Right away. If you’d just come with me. Can I get you and your associate any refreshment?”

  Peabody spoke fast, knowing Eve would cut off any hope given half a chance. “I’d like one of those pink fizzy drinks. Nonalcoholic,” she added when Eve gave her a baleful stare.

  “I’ll have it brought right in to you.”

  Retail was up a level, a short ride on a silver glide, and beyond a small oasis complete with pool and palms. Wide glass doors parted with a fluid little tinkle at their approach. On the other side, the retail area spread in an artful fan, with each spoke dedicated to a different form of beautification.

  Staff here wore flowing red coats over snowy white skinsuits. And those were worn over perfect bodies.

  Each display counter held its own miniscreen where simultaneous demonstrations were being shown on skin care, body toning, relaxation techniques, and emergency hairstyling.

  All with lavish use, of course, of products sold on site.

  “Please, feel free to look around while I fetch Martin. He oversees our retail service.”

  “Man, look at all this great stuff.” Peabody edged toward a display of skin care with a dazzling arrangement of frosted glass bottles, gold tubes, and red-capped pots. “Fancy places like this give out great free samples.”

  “Keep your hands in your pockets and your mind on the job.”

  “But if it’s free—”

  “They’ll just talk you into spending six months’ pay on gunk to go with the giveaways.” The place smells like a jungle, was all Eve could think. Hot, oversweet, and eerily sexual. “It’s got to be the oldest con in the books.”

  “I won’t buy anything.” She spotted one of the enhancement displays with all those fascinating colors. Girl toys, she thought. And yearned.

  But all the color and flash was nothing compared to Martin.

  Denise hurried out in front of him, clicking her three-inch red heels over the white floor, like a handmaiden before royalty. She didn’t bow, but Eve was certain she thought about it before scurrying away and out the glass doors again.

  Martin swept up, his long trailing cloak of sapphire brushing the floor, the skinsuit of silver beneath it sparkling over a long, muscled body. His pecs rippled, his biceps strained, his privates bulged.

  His hair, as silver as his suit, was swept up from a sharply planed face in a complex arrangement of twists that were caught in sapphire cord and left to dangle down his back.

  He smiled, held out a hand crowded with rings.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” His voice was seductively French, and before she could stop him, he’d taken her hand and kissed the air an inch above her knuckles. “We’re honored to welcome you to Paradise. How may we be of service to you?”

  “I’m looking for a man.”

  “Cherie, aren’t we all?”

  “Ha. This particular man,” she said, amused despite herself. She drew a hard-copy image of Yost out of her file bag.

  “Well.” Martin studied the photo. “Handsome in a brute fashion. The Distinguished Gentleman does not, in my opinion, suit his facial features nor his style. He should have been gently dissuaded from that purchase.”

  “You recognize the wig?”

  “Hair alternative.” And his eyes twinkled as he said it. “Yes. It’s not one of the more popular styles as the gray is something most looking for alternatives wish to avoid. May I ask why you’re seeking this man here in Paradise?”

  “He bought the hair alternative here, along with a number of other products. May third. Cash. I’d like to talk to whoever waited on him.”

  “Hmmm, do you have a list of the products he purchased?”

  Eve pulled it out, handed it over.

  “Quite a lot for a cash purchase. As for the Captain Stud, much more appropriate for him, don’t you agree? Just one moment.”

  He strolled off, showed the list and photograph to a brunette at the near skin-care section. She frowned, studied the papers, then with a nod, hurried away.

  “We think we may know the consultant who tended to this customer. Would you prefer to use a privacy area?”

  “No, this is fine. You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No, but I don’t interact with customers unless there’s a problem of some sort. Or unless the customers are, such as yourself, VIPs. Ah, here’s Letta now. Letta, ma coeur, I hope you’ll give Lieutenant Dallas your assistance.”

  “I’m sure.” And there was just enough Midwestern twang in the voice to make Martin wince.

  “You waited on the man in this photograph?” Eve asked, tapping a finger on the picture Letta held.

  “Yes. I’m almost sure it’s him. He’s had a little sculpting around the eyes and mouth in the picture, but it’s the same basic facial structure. And this product list fits.”

  “Was this the first time you’d seen him?”

  “Well . . . I think he’s been in before. But he wears different wigs—hair alternatives,” she corrected, sliding an apologetic glance toward Martin. “And he varies his skin tones, eyes. He likes a lot of different looks. A number of customers—clients,” she amended, shaking her head at herself, “do. It’s one of the services we provide at Paradise. Varying your looks can vary your mood and improve—”

  “Save the sales pitch, Letta. Tell me about the day he bought those items.”

  “Okay. I mean, yes, madam. I think it was early afternoon, because we still had some of the lunch crush. I’d spent a lot of time with a woman who had to look at everything we had in blonde. I mean everything, and then she ended up doing the ‘I’ll think about it’ routine.”

  She rolled her purple eyes, caught Martin’s, then after a jolt, relaxed when she saw his smile of sympathy. “So when this client approached asking to see the Distinguished Gentleman, true black and gray, it was a relief. He knew just what he wanted, even if it wasn’t what I thought of as right for him.”

  “Why wasn’t it right for him?”

  “He was a big, beefy guy—gentleman—with a square-shaped head. Just a look about him that made me think he worked with his hands, like a trade. The DG was just too fussy elegant for him. But he was set on it. He put it on himself, seemed to know just how to fit it.”

  “What kind of hair did he have? His hair, not the alternative.”

  “Oh, he’s bald as a baby’s . . . He’s a natural scalp. Totally. Very healthy scalp, too. Good tone and polish to it. I don’t
know why he’d cover it. He saw the Captain Stud on display and asked for that, too. It was a better look. Sort of made him look like a general, I thought, and when I said so he looked very pleased. Smiled. He has a really nice smile. He was very polite and courteous, too. He called me Miss Letta, and said please and thank you. You don’t get that sort of thing all the time in retail service.”

  She paused a moment, frowned up at the ceiling. “Then he told me he wanted to buy some Youth. He laughed a little, because you know how that sounds—buy some youth—and I laughed a little and we went over to skin care. We’re trained to assist clients in all areas of our product line, to streamline their Paradise experience and all. I took him from department to department that way. With him telling me exactly what he wanted, and with him, very courteously again, turning off my suggestions for add-ons. We finished with the dietary product, and I said that he certainly didn’t need it. And he said that he was afraid he enjoyed his food a little too much. When he was done, he indicated that he would take the purchases rather than take advantage of our free messenger service, so I totaled and made him a carryout parcel. Then he handed over that huge wad of cash, and my eyes about fell out on my shoes.”

  “It’s not usual for a client to pay cash?”

  “Oh, we do a lot of cash transactions, but I’ve never personally done one over two thousand dollars, and this was more than four times that. I guess he saw I was goggling, because he smiled at me again and said that he preferred to pay as he went.”

  “You spent a lot of time with him then.”

  “More than an hour.”

  “Tell me about his speech pattern. Did he have an accent?”

  “Sort of. Not really anything I could place. He had a kind of high voice. Almost like a woman’s. But very nice, soft and well, cultured, I guess. Come to think of it, his voice fit the DG more than it fit him, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did he mention his name, anything about where he lived, where he worked?”

  “No. Early on, I tried to coax his name out by saying something like: I’d be happy to show you other styles, Mr. . . . But he just smiled and shook his head. So I called him “sir” the whole time. I suppose I thought he lived in New York because he took away rather than having sent or shipped, but I suppose he could have been from anywhere.”