The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  Daddy’s home. And he sees you, little girl.

  Please, don’t. Please, don’t.

  The plea was a scream in her head, but she didn’t say it. Saying it wouldn’t stop him, could make it worse. If it could be worse.

  His hands were on her now, creeping under the blanket like spiders, skittering along her icy skin. It was worse, horribly worse, when he took time to touch her before . . .

  She closed her eyes tight, tried to go somewhere else in her mind. Anywhere else in her mind. But that he wouldn’t allow. It wasn’t enough just to defile, just to abuse.

  So he hurt her. He knew how. Fingers squeezing, invading, until she began to weep. When she wept, his breath thickened, the filthy excitement of it clogging the air in the room.

  Such a bad little girl.

  She tried to push him away, tried to make her body somehow smaller, small enough that even he couldn’t get inside it. And now she begged, too desperate, too terrified to stop herself. And she screamed, a long, broken cry of pain, of despair when he pushed himself into her and began to plunge.

  Her eyes, swollen with tears, opened. She couldn’t stop them. And she watched, frozen with horror, as her father’s face changed, as the features melted and re-formed.

  It was Yost who raped her now, Yost who slipped a silver wire around her throat. And though she was no longer a child but a woman, a cop, she couldn’t stop him.

  No air. No breath. The cold trickle of blood on her skin where the shining wire cut into fragile flesh. A roar in her head, a torrent of sound like the world screaming.

  She flailed out, using her fists, her nails, her teeth, and was pinned.

  “Eve, come back. Eve.”

  It was Roarke who held her now, but she was trapped in the dream. He could see her eyes, wild and blind, feel the frantic thunder of her heart. And she was cold, so cold.

  He said her name, over and over, pressing her close as if that alone would bring the warmth back to her body. Her fear had him by the throat, like a mad dog that refused to release either of them.

  She fought him, gasping for air like a woman drowning, until in desperation he pressed his mouth to hers as if to give her breath.

  She went limp.

  “You’re all right, you’re safe.” He rocked, comforting them both. “You’re home. Baby, you’re so cold.” But he could not bear to leave her, even to get a blanket. “Hold onto me.”

  “I’m okay. I’m all right.” But she wasn’t, not yet.

  “Hold onto me anyway. I need it.”

  She wrapped her still unsteady arms around him, let her face burrow into his shoulder. “I smelled you. Then I heard you. But I couldn’t find you.”

  “I’m right here.” It ripped at him; he couldn’t begin to tell her what it did inside him every time she went back to the horrors of her childhood in dreams. “Right here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “It was a bad one.”

  “Yeah, as bad as they get. It’s over now.” She drew back, as far as he would allow, and tipped her face up to his. His eyes were dark, emotions burning in them. “Bad for you, too.”

  “As bad as it gets. Eve.” He pulled her against him again, heart against heart until the worst of it ebbed. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “Thanks.”

  When he walked to the kitchen, she let her head fall into her hands. She’d get past it, she told herself. She could always get past it. She’d swallow back the bitter dregs of the fear and get on with things. She’d remember who she was now, and not what she’d been.

  A victim. Always a victim.

  Work. She drew a deep breath and lifted her head. She’d get back to work where she had control. And power. And direction.

  She was steadier when he came back with the water and crouched at her feet.

  Steady enough for suspicion to worm its way through relief and gratitude. “Did you put a soother in this?”

  “Drink it.”

  “Damn it, Roarke.”

  “Damn it, Eve,” he said mildly, and drank half the glass himself. “Drink the rest.”

  She frowned, and sipping slowly, studied him over the rim. He looked a little frazzled, which was a rare thing for him. A little weary, which was even more rare.

  It wasn’t work he needed, she realized, but rest. Rest he wouldn’t take, even if she put the work aside for the night. He’d just wait until she’d run down, until she slept, then he’d keep going.

  But he wasn’t the only one who knew how to press the right buttons. She set the empty glass aside. “Satisfied?”

  “More or less. You should leave this until morning and get some sleep.”

  Perfect, she thought, but made sure her nod was reluctant. “I guess. I can’t keep my mind focused anyway, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Would you stay here with me?” She reached for his hand. “I know it’s stupid, but . . .”

  “No, it’s not.” He got into the sleep chair with her, stroking her hair as her arms came tightly around him. “Just turn it off until morning.”

  “I will.” Just as she’d keep her arms around him to make sure he did the same. “Don’t go away, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  And knowing he wouldn’t leave her, would rest, she closed her eyes, and let herself drift into dreamless sleep.

  After a while, a long while, so did he.

  She woke first, still wrapped around him, when the dark began to soften and thin. She stayed very still so as not to lose the rare opportunity to watch him sleep.

  Love struck her, as it did often and without warning. Not the steady day-to-day feeling she’d grown used to, but the hot, wild spurt of it that geysered up and filled her with so many feelings they couldn’t be separated.

  Delight, confusion, possessiveness, lust, and a kind of smugness that butted right up against wonder.

  He was so ridiculously beautiful, she doubted she’d ever fully comprehend how he could be hers.

  He’d wanted her. Out of all the women in the world, he’d wanted her. Wanted, hell, she thought, grinning now. Pursued, demanded. Taken. And while she could admit all of that was exciting, he’d gone one step further.

  He cherished.

  She’d never believed anyone would, or could. And had never believed there was enough inside her to give all of those things back.

  So here they were, the cop and the billionaire, squished together in an office sleep chair like a couple of overworked drones.

  It was just fucking great.

  She was still grinning when those fabulous eyes of his opened. Clear as blue crystal, alert, and ever so mildly amused. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “I never get how you can come awake like that, from sleep to full alert, and without coffee.”

  “Annoying, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He was warm, he was beautiful, he was hers. She could have lapped him up like cream. And why not, she thought. Why the hell not?

  “But since you’re awake.” She slid her hand down his body, found him hard and ready. “All the way awake. I’ve got a little job for you.”

  “Do you?” Her mouth was already roaming over his face, just missing his lips in teasing little bites. To his considerable surprise, and considerable pleasure, her fingers got very busy. They closed around him, not teasing at all, as her tongue laved thirstily along his throat.

  “Well then,” he managed. “Anything for the NYPSD. Christ!” He could all but feel his eyes roll back in his head. “Am I on the clock?”

  Sometime later, feeling loose and limber, she came out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. It surprised her that Roarke still sat in the half-dark. The cat was on his lap now, and with the faintest of smiles on his face, Roarke stroked Galahad’s back.

  “I think, for an expert consultant, civilian, you’ve loafed long enough.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He took the coffee she offered. “Shutting down early to sleep, morning sex, bringing me coffee. You’re very wifely
these days. Are you taking care of me, Eve?”

  “Hey, if you don’t want the coffee, I’ll drink it myself. And so what if I am? And don’t call me wifely. It pisses me off.”

  “I do want the coffee, thank you very much. I’m touched and grateful you’d take care of me. And pissing you off by calling you wifely is one of my small pleasures.”

  “Great. Now that we’ve got all that settled, get your ass up so we can do some work.”

  chapter twelve

  She made the first calls and reached the detective sergeant working the homicides in Cornwall. During their fifteen-minute conversation, she was given the facts of the case in a broad North Country accent, the names of the two victims who had been identified by fingerprint, and DNA matches through Feeney’s love child, IRCCA.

  DS Fortique was cheerful and forthcoming and told her that after considerable tracking and backtracking they had finally tagged the identity of the hiker who had allegedly found the bodies and made the emergency call.

  Fortique was perfectly willing to save Eve time and trouble by hauling the witness in and grilling him over a pair of two-foot silver wires.

  Eve decided the British police were a great deal more cooperative than her own federal agents. She gave him back in kind by passing along the data on Yost’s shopping adventures in London. They ended transmission on good terms.

  Her call to the silver shop netted her a full description of Sylvester Yost, who was fondly remembered for his discriminating taste, impeccable manners, and extensive cash purchases.

  Another knot tied off, Eve thought, and shifted her search to hotels.

  The New Savoy wasn’t quite as cooperative as the police or the merchants in London. She was passed from desk clerk to supervisor, from supervisor to hotel manager. And it seemed there she would stall.

  The manager was a woman in her mid- to late fifties with hair the color of polished steel pulled ruthlessly away from a scrawny face that ended on a pointed chin. Her eyes were a surprising baby blue, and her voice, while remaining scrupulously polite, droned on and on over the same notes.

  “I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you, Lieutenant Dallas. It is the policy, the firm policy of The New Savoy, to ensure its guests’ privacy as well as their comfort.”

  “When your guests start raping and murdering they lose some of that privacy, don’t you think?”

  “Be that as it may, I’m unable to give you any information on a guest. It’s entirely possible you’re mistaken, and I would have breached the code of The New Savoy and insulted a guest. Until you have the proper documentation, as well as international authorization that requires I make information available to you, my hands are tied.”

  I’d like to tie your hands, Eve thought, then kick your skinny butt out the window of the top floor of your stupid hotel.

  “Ms. Clydesboro, if I’m forced to wake up my commanding officer and an international liaison advocate at five-fifty in the morning they’re going to be very displeased.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a difficulty you’ll have to surmount. Please feel free to contact me if you—”

  “Now, listen, sister—”

  “One moment.” Roarke, who’d stood in the adjoining doorway and had listened to the last thirty seconds of the exchange, crossed the room and took over the ’link. “Ms. Clydesboro.”

  At least Eve had the satisfaction of watching the woman’s pruney face go pale and those milky blue eyes bulge. “Sir!”

  “Give Lieutenant Dallas any and all data she requires.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I beg your pardon. I had no idea that you had authorized the release of this information.”

  “How could you?” he said pleasantly. “But now that you do, get it done.”

  “I’ll see to it personally. Lieutenant Dallas, if you would forward the description of the man you believe stayed at our hotel, I will instruct the staff to confirm or deny.”

  “I’m sending you a visual image, the dates we believe the individual was in London, and a written description. Instruct the staff that this man may have been wearing a disguise. Hair and eye color and some facial features may vary. He would have booked one of your best suites, would have been traveling alone, and would likely have had private transportation.”

  “I’ll have an answer for you within an hour of receiving your transmission.”

  “Good.”

  She cut transmission, scowled. “Tight-assed bat.”

  “She’s only doing her job. You’ll find the same policy will hold true for any of the top hotels in London. Would you like me to smooth the way?”

  She gave a bad-tempered shrug and got up. “Why the hell not? Getting anywhere on the location search?”

  “Yes, I believe I am. I believe we’re going to find they were sent and received from here in the city. The rest is shadows, echoes.”

  “How close can you pinpoint?”

  “Given a bit more time I can take you to his doorstep.”

  “How much time?”

  “Until it’s done.”

  “Yeah, but how long until—”

  “Lieutenant, impatience won’t speed the process.” He glanced over as Mick came to the doorway.

  “Sorry. Interrupting?”

  “Not at all.” But Eve noticed Roarke saved data and blanked her screen manually. “Your. . . business must have gone well if you’re just getting in.”

  Mick grinned. “I can say with truth it went better than any man has a right to expect. Is that coffee I smell?”

  “It is, yes.” Though he could almost hear Eve grinding her teeth in frustration, Roarke got to his feet. “Would you like some?”

  “I like it fine, especially if a good drop of Irish found its way into it.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  Mick smiled at Eve as Roarke walked back to the kitchen, with the cat—sensing the possibility of breakfast—jogging behind him.

  “The man sleeps less than is human. He must be pleased to have found a woman who can start the day before dawn as he does himself.”

  “You look pretty perky for a guy who’s been up all night yourself.”

  “Certain activities energize a man. So you work here at home from time to time, do you?”

  “From time to time.”

  He nodded. “And anxious, I imagine, to get back to what you were doing. I’ll be out of your way in just a moment. I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but it’s an odd sight to see the man working hip to hip with a cop.”

  “Odd all around.” She looked over her shoulder as Roarke came back with a thick, working man’s mug steaming with coffee and whiskey.

  “The answer to a prayer, thanks. I’ll just take it off to my room and let it lull me off to sleep.”

  “A moment first. Eve, do you have the name of the couple in Cornwall?”

  “What I have or don’t have is police business.”

  “Mick might know them.” He shifted his eyes to Eve’s face. “And their competitors.”

  It was a good point. A potential weasel was a useful tool, even when he was a houseguest. “Britt and Joseph Hague.”

  “Hmm, well.” Mick gave his attention to his laced coffee. “It’s possible, of course, that I may have heard the names somewhere in my travels. I couldn’t say.” He gave Roarke a hard, meaningful look. “I couldn’t say,” he repeated.

  “Because you’ve done business with them?” Eve shot back. “The kind Customs frowns on?”

  “I do business with a great many people.” He spoke coolly, evenly. “And I’m not in the habit of discussing them or their affairs with cops. I’m surprised you would ask me to,” he said to Roarke. “Surprised and disappointed that you’d expect me to roll on friends and associates.”

  “Your friends and associates are dead,” Eve said flatly. “Murdered.”

  “Britt and Joe?” His green eyes widened, clouded, and he slowly lowered himself into a chair. “I hadn’t heard that. I never heard that.”
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  “Their bodies were found in Cornwall,” Roarke told him. “Apparently they weren’t found for some time, and it took longer yet to identify them.”

  “Good Christ. God rest their souls. A lovely couple they were. How did it happen?”

  “Who would have wanted them dead?” Eve countered. “Who would have paid a great deal of money to take them out of the equation?”

  “I don’t know for sure. They’d been having considerable luck running prime liquor and high-grade illegals into London, and dispersing them from there into Paris, Athens, Rome. Stepped on some toes, I imagine, along the way. They’d only been in business, in a serious way, for a couple years. God, I’m sick about this.”

  He drank from the mug, made an obvious effort to settle himself. “You wouldn’t have known them,” he said to Roarke. “As I said, they’d only been exporting for a few years, and stuck to Europe. They had a little cottage on the Moors. Liked the country life, Christ knows why.”

  “Whose profits were they cutting into?” Roarke asked him.

  “Oh, a little here, a little there, I’d say. Always room for another smuggler, isn’t there, with all the goods in the world to be moved? Francolini, maybe. Aye, he’s a vicious bastard, and they’d have cut into him a bit. He wouldn’t think twice about sending one of his men up to cut them out, permanently.”

  “He doesn’t use a paid assassin.” Roarke remembered Francolini well. “He has enough men to let blood when blood needs to be let. He wouldn’t go outside his own family.”

  “Paid assassin? No, not Francolini then. Lafarge, maybe. Or Hornbecker. Hornbecker’s more likely to pay for blood. But he’d need good reason for it, enough to balance his ledgers.”

  “Franz Hornbecker, Frankfort,” Roarke told Eve. “He was small-time when I was exporting.”

  “He’s had a good run of luck in the last few years.” Mick sighed. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Britt and Joe. I can’t imagine it. Why, can I ask, should a New York City cop be interested in the fate of two up and coming smugglers out of England?”