The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  He’d simply filter it through Feeney first.

  “By the way, you’ve had the return transmission from The New Savoy. Confirmation of Yost’s stay there. I’ve sent the pertinents to you. Now, what else can I do for you?”

  She studied him through narrowed and suspicious eyes. “Are you lying?”

  “About Yost’s stay in London?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. About what you’re doing in that room right now.”

  “If I were, I’d simply compound it by lying again. I suppose you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” He smiled at her. “Now as much as I’d love to while away the day chatting with you, darling, I do have work. What do you want?”

  “All right.” She hissed out a breath. “I got Yost’s place on record. Fancy stuff. You’d like most of it. I can run it down, or try to piece by piece, but I figured if you took a look, you might be able to tag it faster. Paintings, sculptures, antiques. You’d know if they’re the real thing by looking at a disc?”

  “I would, most likely. I can’t guarantee, as good copies need to be examined in person.”

  “I don’t peg him as the good copy kind of guy. He’s vain about that stuff, like somebody else I know.”

  “You’re insulting your expert consultant, civilian.”

  “Gotta get the digs in where I can. Anyway, maybe you can narrow down the sources for the artwork and the jazzy furniture.”

  “Shoot it over. I’ll take a look.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “See that you do. Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

  He disconnected, leaned back, and examined the data on his wall screen.

  Jacoby, Special Agent James.

  The date and place of birth, the family data weren’t of particular interest. But he noted Jacoby hadn’t precisely excelled in his studies. He’d gotten through by staying nearly dead average, with minute peaks and valleys. His social skills were the deepest valleys, his analytical talents the highest peaks.

  He’d barely skimmed by the minimal requirements for FBI training, but had excelled in the areas of weapons training, electronics, and tactics.

  His sealed profile indicated a difficulty with authority and coworkers, a tendency to ignore or circumvent procedure, and a marginal ability for teamwork.

  He’d been cited three times for insubordination and had faced an internal investigation for suspicion of tampering with evidence.

  He was single, heterosexual, and appeared to prefer the company and services of licensed companions to a personal relationship with a woman.

  He had no criminal record, even as a juvenile, no questionable vices. That made Roarke shake his head. He didn’t doubt the FBI file. They were usually every bit as thorough and covert as he could be himself. A man without vices was either a dangerous man or a terminally tedious one.

  He bought his clothes off the rack, lived in a small, modest apartment, and had no particular friends.

  Small wonder, Roarke mused, and since he’d gone that far, set his computer to work picking through Jacoby’s case files.

  As it searched, he switched the screen to Karen Stowe’s data.

  She was the stronger of the team, Roarke thought, and the smarter. Graduated cum laude, American University, where she’d double-majored in criminal justice and electronics. She’d been recruited straight out of college and had completed her training precisely on schedule and in the top five of her class.

  The personality profile on her found her driven, focused, intense, with a tendency to overwork and take personal and physical risks. She followed the rules, but could find ways to bend them to her needs. Her weakness was a difficulty with objectivity. She often became too involved in a case, projecting personalities rather than law.

  She was, Roarke thought, so much like Eve in this area he was surprised the two of them had yet to come to blows.

  Ambition, skill, and tenacity were pushing her steadily up the ranks. And interestingly, he noted, she had requested and campaigned for her current assignment.

  On a personal level, she’d had four lovers, all at different times, all male. The first had been in high school. The second her third year of college. She’d spaced them out meticulously, with only one relationship, during her first year in training, lasting more than six months.

  She had a close circle of friends, liked to paint in her spare time, and had no reprimands or cautions on file.

  He ran a search on her cases as well, then began to skim through Jacoby’s.

  An hour later, he broke for coffee, noted his incoming data light blinking. The lieutenant, he thought, had transmitted her visual. He nearly postponed Stowe’s case files, just for a change of pace, but even as he began to issue the command to save and close, something caught his eye.

  Not one of her cases, but a request to review, a request made nearly six months before she’d been assigned to the Yost investigation.

  Just why, he wondered, had Special Agent Karen Stowe wanted to read and study the details of a murder in Paris? Yost was the prime suspect, but nothing had been proven. No motive established for the rape and strangulation of one Winifred C. Cates, age twenty-six, employed as a speech writer and special assistant to the American ambassador in Paris. It was the method, not the motive, nor any ties to the victim that had popped Yost’s name onto the top of the suspect list.

  “Maybe you weren’t looking so hard at him then,” Roarke murmured. “But at the victim. Computer, search for personal data on victim, Cates, Winifred C.”

  WORKING . . .

  He sipped his coffee, listened to the machine hum.

  CATES, WINIFRED CAROLE, FEMALE, MIXED RACE, DOB FEBRUARY 5, 2029, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA. PARENTS MARLO BARRONS AND JOHN CATES, DIVORCED. NO SIBLINGS. VISUAL ON-SCREEN. IS PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION DESIRED?

  “No, move on.”

  AFFIRMATIVE. EDUCATIONAL BACKGROUND AS FOLLOWS. ELEMENTARY EDUCATION: HOME STUDY PROGRAM. FULL SCHOLARSHIP TO MOSS-RILEY SECONDARY EDUCATION FACILITY, HONORS PROGRAM IN LANGUAGE AND IN POLITICAL SCIENCE. FULL SCHOLARSHIP TO AMERICAN UNIVERSITY—

  “Hold. Cross-reference files, Cates and Stowe, educational data. Any and all matches on screen.”

  WORKING . . . SHIFTING TASK FUNCTION . . . SUBJECTS CATES AND STOWE ATTENDED AMERICAN UNIVERSITY SAME DATES. CATES GRADUATED MAGNA CUM LAUDE, STOWE SIGMA CUM LAUDE, SAME GRADUATING CLASS. RANKED FIRST AND SECOND RESPECTIVELY.

  “Hold. Knew her, didn’t you?” Roarke murmured. “This isn’t just a case. It’s personal.”

  chapter fourteen

  Peabody hustled off the glide, rounded the corner toward her squad room, and ran straight into McNab.

  “There you are.” He beamed at her like a boy who’d just found his lost puppy after a long, whistling search.

  “No, there you are. I was looking for you. I just got word the FBI’s going to hold a media conference. They’re pushing to have Dallas attend and fall into the spin.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’ll happen. Have you heard the one about the Easter Bunny, too?” There was a door beside him. Never one to miss an opportunity, McNab bumped the handle.

  “So far I haven’t heard if Whitney’s going to toss her in, but if he does, I think we should all be there. The one our guys had on for this afternoon’s on hold.”

  As he nudged her into the narrow empty maintenance room he nodded. “Just tag me and let me know when and where if it comes down. Meanwhile . . .” He already had her up against the wall so he could chew on her neck.

  “Jeez, McNab.” But she wasn’t putting up much of a struggle. “Get a grip.”

  “Gonna.” With one hand he fumbled down, engaged the lock. With the other, he began disengaging the buttons on her uniform jacket. “Mmm, She-Body, you are so female. What’s a guy supposed to do?”

  His teeth were nibbling their way down . . . over . . . Oh yeah. “I think you’re doing it.”

  She flipped open the hook of his trousers. After all, if she couldn’t spare a few minutes for a fellow officer, what kind o
f cop was she?

  He was hard as rock.

  “How do you guys walk around with this thing kicking between your thighs?”

  “Practice.” The smell of her, the feel of her was driving him crazy. When her firm, capable hand wrapped around him, he decided he was the happiest madman on or off planet. “Jesus, Peabody.” His mouth found hers, all but gulped her down. “I need—”

  Her pocket-link rang, shrill and insistent.

  “Don’t answer it.” He tugged at her trousers, in a rage to get inside her. “Don’t.”

  “Have to.” She couldn’t breathe, and her knees were trembling, but duty was duty. “Just . . . wait.” She wiggled away, sucked in air then blew it out explosively. Her cheeks were flushed, her breasts achy and exposed. She had the wit to block video as she opened transmission.

  “Peabody.”

  “Delia. You sound so official and out of breath. Very sexy.”

  “Charles.” She willed away the fog over her brain and didn’t notice McNab go rigid and slit-eyed beside her. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “One of my favorite things to do is getting back to you.”

  That made her smile, a little foolishly. He always said the sweetest things. “I know you’re busy, but I thought you might be able to help me out on a detail in an investigation.”

  “Never too busy for you. What can I do?”

  Furious, McNab turned to stare at a line of industrialsized cleaners and disinfectants. Couldn’t she hear the snake oil in his voice? Didn’t she know if he’d been busy it was because he’d been collecting a fat fee after doing the naked tango with some rich and bored society chick?

  “I’m trying to confirm an identification,” Peabody went on. “A man, mixed race, middle fifties. Opera buff. He takes the front box seat, stage right, at the Met.”

  “Front box, stage right . . . Sure, I know who you mean. Never misses an opening performance, comes alone.”

  “That’s him. Can you describe him?”

  “Other than what you’ve already said, he’s big. More like an Arena Ball tackle than an opera fan. Clean-shaven, head and face. Designer black-tie. Always perfectly groomed. Doesn’t mingle during intermission. I had a client recognize him once.”

  “Recognize him?”

  “Yeah. She pointed him out, mentioned that he was an entrepreneur, which could mean anything.”

  “Did she tell you his name?”

  “Probably. Give me a second. Roles. Martin K. Roles. I’m nearly positive.”

  “Can I have her name?”

  “Delia.” His voice was pained now. “You know how awkward that is for me.”

  “Okay, how about this. Could you contact her, casually ask how she knows this man? That might be enough.”

  “That I can do. Why don’t I relay whatever information I get to you over drinks later? I have a ten o’clock appointment, but that leaves plenty of time. I could meet you at The Palace Hotel, The Royal Bar, say about eight?”

  The Royal Bar, she thought. It was so lush and gorgeous, and they served olives the size of dove’s eggs in pretty silver dishes when you sat down for a drink.

  Plus, you never knew which celebrity might drop in for a glass of champagne.

  She could wear her blue dress with the long skirt that slimmed down her hips, or . . .

  “I’d really like that. I just don’t know if I’ll be working or not.”

  “A cop’s life. I miss seeing you.”

  “Really?” Pleasure shimmered through her, and had her smiling again. “Me, too.”

  “Why don’t we do this? I’ll leave the early evening open. If you can spare time for a drink any time between six and nine, we’ll get together. Otherwise, I’ll take a rain check and just pass on what I find out.”

  “Great. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. Thanks, Charles.”

  “Always my pleasure. Later, Beautiful.”

  She disengaged, glowing a bit. Beautiful wasn’t a term she heard applied to herself often. “That might be a break,” she began briskly, and after pocketing her ’link began to hook her bra and button her shirt. “If he can—”

  “What the hell do you take me for?”

  She blinked. That raw and dangerous edge in McNab’s voice was something else rarely heard. And when she focused on his face she saw his eyes were glittering, sharp as shards of green glass. “Huh?”

  “What do you take yourself for?” he tossed out. “You let me put my hands on you one minute, and I’d have been inside you in another. Then you’re flirting on the ’link and making a goddamn date with a goddamn LC.”

  She nearly said “Huh?” again, because her mind wasn’t quite computing the words. But the tone, the basic and nasty meaning of them, rang through loud and clear. “I wasn’t flirting, you idiot.” Or hardly, she thought, despising the quick, vicious tug of guilt. “I was doing a follow-up, as ordered by my lieutenant. And it’s none of your business.”

  “It isn’t?” He had her by the shoulders, had her shoved back against the wall again. But there was nothing sexual now, nothing playful.

  Nerves jittered up to dance with guilt. “What’s the matter with you? Let go or I’ll knock you down.” Normally, she would have been sure she could do just that. But this wasn’t normally and her belly was quivering.

  “The matter with me? You want to know what’s the matter with me?” Fury exploded out of him. “I’m sick and tired of having you roll out of my bed and prance on over to roll in Monroe’s, that’s what’s the matter with me.”

  “What?” She goggled. “What?”

  “You think I’m going to keep playing backup fuck to some hired dick, you’re wrong, Peabody. You are way wrong.”

  Her color flashed, then faded. It was nothing like that. Nothing like that, as her relationship with Charles was purely platonic. But she’d be damned if she’d say so now.

  “That’s a stupid and a horrible thing to say. Get off me, you son of a bitch.”

  She shoved, and was as angry as she was uneasy when she didn’t budge him. “Yeah? Well, that’s what I’m saying. How would you feel if I’d taken a call from some skirt while my hands were still on you? How the hell would you take that?”

  She didn’t know. It had never occurred to her. So she swung back hard to anger. It seemed to be her only defense. “Look, McNab, you can talk to anybody, skirts included, any time you damn well want. And you better crawl back out of my throat over who I talk to and what I do. We work together, we have sex together, but we’re not exclusive, and you’ve got no right taking pops at me for talking to a source. And if I want to dance naked on Charles’s tabletop while I do it, it’s none of your damn business.”

  Not that she ever had. She’d never been naked with Charles. But that was beside the point.

  “That’s the way you want it?” Hurt was fighting to slice through temper. He couldn’t allow it. So he nodded, stepped back. “That flows with me just fine.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Yeah, great.” He yanked at the door, cursed because he’d forgotten to unlock it and had spoiled his exit. He sent her one last fulminating look and got out, closing the door smartly behind him.

  She snarled, hastily buttoned her uniform jacket, smoothed it. Sniffled. Heard herself. Oh no, she thought, straightening her shoulders. She was not going to cry in the maintenance closet. And she was certainly not going to waste perfectly good tears over a moron like Ian McNab.

  Eve was adding the results of her probability scans to her updated report when Nadine Furst walked into her office.

  The first thing Eve did was swear. The second was to save and dump on-screen data before the slick reporter could get a look at it over her shoulder.

  “What?” was Eve’s greeting.

  “Nice to see you, too. Looking good. Why, yes, I’d love some coffee.” At home, Nadine strolled to the AutoChef, programmed for two cups.

  She was a lovely woman, with perfectly styled dark blonde hair that flattered he
r somewhat foxy face. Her suit was poppy red and tailored to flatter a curvy figure and really good legs.

  All of that was part of the requirement for being one of the top on-air reporters in the city. Added to it, Nadine had a few more advantages. A sharp and clever brain, and a sensitive nose that could sniff out a story even when it was buried under two tons of bullshit.

  “Busy here, Nadine. See you later.”

  “Yes, I imagine so.” Unmoved, unoffended, Nadine set a fresh cup of coffee on Eve’s desk and settled down in the creaky and uncomfortable chair beside it. “Media conference in about an hour with the FBI on that botched bust uptown.”

  “So why aren’t you prepping for it?”

  “Oh.” With a feline smile, Nadine sipped her coffee. “I am. I get word about the conference, then get a whiff that you’re to be involved. Even as I begin to ponder on that, I get word you’re out. And, the previously scheduled media conference with the NYPSD is now washed. So . . . comments, Lieutenant Dallas?”

  “None.” She’d spent twenty minutes strategizing with Whitney over just that. “It was a federal operation, not mine or my department’s.”

  “But you were there, after the fact. I got a whiff of that, too. Why were you there?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Come on, Dallas.” Nadine leaned forward. “It’s just you and me. No camera, no recorder. Give me an edge.”

  “You’re edgy enough all by yourself. I’m swamped here, Nadine.”

  “Yeah, swamped in homicides. Two. Same method, which points to one killer. If you’re so swamped with them and the social obligation of the upcoming Magda Lane auction, why are you poking into a failed federal bust?”

  “I don’t poke.”

  “That’s right, Dallas, you don’t.” Pleased, Nadine sat back again. “What’s the connection between your homicides and the FBI operation?”

  Now Eve smiled, kicked back, sipped coffee. “Why don’t you ask Special Agent Jacoby that question? Why don’t you ask him, and/or Special Agent Stowe why they took an entire team, at taxpayers’ expense, into a privately owned building without first assuring that their target was in residence? And you might ask how they feel about the fact that tromping their FBI asses into that building without first pinpointing their target has now alerted that target, who remains at large.”