The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  “You pompous, egotistical, ignorant fuckhead. You don’t have a robbery-homicide. I’ve got one half of your murder team in the tank. I’ve got a full confession, on record, that includes the murder of Theodore McNamara.”

  Renfrew leaped out of his chair. “You go around me to bring my suspect into interview?”

  “My suspect, brought in for questioning re my investigation, which as I told you, asshole, is connected with yours. If you hadn’t been so busy taking the easy way, so tight-assed about cooperating, you’d have been part of the op that brought him in. Get out of my face, and get out of it now, or I’ll take that badge you don’t deserve and make you eat it.”

  “That’s enough, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s not enough.” She whirled back to Whitney. “It’s not enough. I just listened to a twenty-two-year-old boy tell me how he and his sick friend were bored and made up a game. A dollar a point, a goddamn dollar a point for the one who bagged the most women in the most inventive ways. They drugged them, raped them, killed them, for the satisfaction of being the top stud. And when McNamara realized what his grandson and his playmate were doing, when he confronted them, they bashed his brains in, kept him alive with a stimulant, stripped him naked, bashed him again, and tossed him in the river where he had the bad luck to be assigned to this disgrace.

  “Three people are dead, and one’s in the hospital fighting to come back. Because one cop decides to take a personal dislike to another, there might have been more. So it’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough.”

  “You think you can hang your screwups on me,” Renfrew began.

  “Stand down, Detective.” Hayes got slowly to his feet.

  “Captain—”

  “I said stand down. Now. There will be no complaint filed from my house. If Lieutenant Dallas wishes to file—”

  “I have no wish to file.”

  Hayes inclined his head. “Then you’re a better man than I. I’d like to request a copy of that disc, Commander.”

  “Request granted.”

  “I’ll consider the contents of the recording and take such actions as are deemed appropriate. Open your mouth, Renfrew, and I’ll be filing myself. I want you to step outside. That’s an order.”

  The insult went deep enough to have him vibrating. “Yes, sir, but under protest.”

  “So noted.” Hayes waited until the door slammed. “My apologies, Commander Whitney, for bringing this mess to your door, and for the unbecoming behavior of my officer.”

  “Your officer needs discipline, Captain.”

  “He needs a kick in the ass, sir, and I can promise you he’ll get one. My apologies to you as well, Lieutenant.”

  “Unnecessary, Captain.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said I disagree with since you walked in. Renfrew is a problem child, but he is, for the moment, my problem child. I run a clean house, Lieutenant, and take responsibility for any untidiness that works its way in. Thank you for your time, Commander.”

  He started for the door, paused, and turned. “Lieutenant, Sergeant Clooney and I rookied together. I went to see him after the events of last May came to light. He said you were an untarnished badge and he was grateful you were the one to bring him in. I don’t know if that makes any difference to you, but it did to him.”

  He nodded again, stepped out, and closed the door quietly at his back.

  When they were alone, Whitney rose and walked to his AutoChef. “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  “Sit down, Dallas.”

  “Commander, I apologize for my disrespect and insubordination. My behavior was—”

  “Impressive,” Whitney interrupted. “Don’t spoil it by remembering who’s in charge in this room now.”

  She winced and searched for something to say. “I have no excuse.”

  “I didn’t ask for one.” He brought his coffee back to his desk. “But if I required one I might start by asking how much sleep you got last night.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “A couple.”

  “And the night before?”

  “I don’t . . . I can’t say.”

  “I told you to sit down,” he reminded her. “Shall I make it an order?”

  She sat.

  “I’ve never been a witness to you dressing down an officer—heard rumors,” he added. “Now I can safely say you’ve earned your rep. You did what had to be done with Clooney and the One-twenty-eight. That doesn’t mean you won’t take flak for it.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  He studied her face, and because he could see hints of fatigue, grief, anger, knew she was running thin. “The badge doesn’t make the man, Eve, it’s the other way around.”

  She blinked, off balance by his use of her first name. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “You’re high-profile, professionally and personally. That kind of exposure and shine causes jealousy and resentment in certain types. Renfrew’s a prime example.”

  “He doesn’t concern me, personally, Commander.”

  “Glad to hear it. You have Kevin Morano’s confession.”

  “Yes, sir.” She started to rise, to give her oral, but Whitney gestured her back down.

  “I don’t require a formal report at this time. I got the gist from your rant. Has the warrant for Lucias Dunwood been issued?”

  “Requested. It should be waiting for me in my office.”

  “Then go get him, Lieutenant.” Whitney sipped his coffee as she got to her feet. “Contact me when you’ve wrapped him up. We’ll need to schedule a press conference after which you’re ordered to go home and use whatever method you choose to guarantee you eight full hours’ sleep.”

  When she left, Whitney picked up the disc, turned it in his hand. Light glinted from it.

  An untarnished badge, he thought. It was a good description of her. Watching the light play, he contacted Chief Tibble to make his own report.

  •••

  It was tempting to blow the doors on the brownstone and blast in with a full squad of cops armed with riot guns and body armor. The circumstances of the case and the weight of the charges gave her the option to do just that.

  It would make a splash, a blistering statement.

  And it would be completely self-indulgent.

  Eve let the fantasy fly away, and with only Peabody beside her, approached the door.

  “All stations manned and ready?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Feeney said through her earpiece. “He tries to rabbit and gets past you, we’ll scoop him up.”

  “Copy that.” She glanced at Peabody. “He’s not getting past us.”

  “Not in this life.”

  Eve pressed the bell, counted off seconds as she rocked on the balls of her feet. She’d reached ten when the house droid opened the door.

  “Remember me?” She gave him a toothy smile. “I need to speak with Mr. Dunwood.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. I’ll tell Mr. Dunwood you’re here. May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?”

  “No, we’re set, thanks.”

  “Very well. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  He walked away, stiff and formal in his classic black uniform.

  “Now if Roarke would ditch Summerset and get a droid, I could be treated politely like that every day.”

  “Yeah.” Peabody grinned. “You’d really hate it.”

  “Who says?”

  “Those who know you best, sir.”

  “I think I know me best,” she countered. “What makes you say . . . hold that thought,” she said when she saw Lucias turn into the foyer. “Mr. Dunwood.”

  “Lieutenant.” He’d dressed in black as well, had used just a hint of makeup to give his face a grieving pallor. It had worked wonders on his mother that morning, and he had no doubt it would set just the right tone with the cops. “You have some news about my grandfather? I spent the mo
rning with my mother, and she . . .”

  He trailed off, looked away as if composing himself. “We’d both be grateful for any news. Anything at all to help us make some sense out of our loss.”

  “I think I can help you with that. We already have someone in custody.”

  He looked back at her, an instant of surprise before it was masked. “I can’t tell you what this means to us. To have his killer brought to justice quickly.”

  “Brightens my day, too.” Indulgent, she told herself. She was being indulgent after all. But what the hell. “Actually, there were two people responsible. One has been charged, and an arrest of the second is imminent.”

  “Two? Two against a helpless old man.” He worked rage into his voice. “I want them to suffer. I want them to pay.”

  “We’re riding the same wave on that one. So let’s get started. Lucias Dunwood, you’re under arrest.”

  She whipped out her weapon when he took a quick step back. “Oh, please,” she invited. “Keep going. I didn’t have the opportunity to use this on your pal, Kevin, and it’s made me twitchy.”

  “You stupid bitch.”

  “I’ll take the bitch, but hey, which one of us is going into a cage? Stupid is as stupid does. Hands up and behind your head. Now.”

  He raised his hands, and when she turned him to face the wall, made him move.

  Maybe she let him. Eve wasn’t going to lie awake at night debating the point. But when he shoved, she let her body flow back, gave him room to swing. And ducking under the arch of his fist, rammed her own, twice, into his gut.

  “Resisting arrest,” she said when he fell to his hands and knees, retching. “Another mark on your permanent record.” She nudged him flat with her foot, then put her boot lightly on the back of his neck. “I won’t add assaulting an officer because you missed. Restrain this clown, Peabody, while I finish stating the charges against him and read him his rights.”

  He was demanding a lawyer before she’d finished.

  Chapter 21

  The sky was still blue, a deep, dreamy evening blue, when she walked up the steps to her own front door. For the first time in days her mind was clear enough to let the sound of birdsong and the soft drift of flowers register.

  She considered just sitting down on the steps and drawing it in, all those sweet and simple pleasures the world could offer. Remembering, taking the time to remember there was more than death, more than blood and those who spilled it with the selfishness of spoiled children made the difference between living and sinking.

  Instead she pinched off a sprig of the purple flower spilling out of an urn and went inside. There was something she wanted more than fresh air.

  Summerset took one look at the blossom in her hand and scowled. “Lieutenant, the arrangements in the urns are not cutting flowers.”

  “I didn’t cut it. I snapped it off. Is he home?”

  “In his office. If you want a display of verbena, you can order one from one of the greenhouses.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” she said as she walked up the stairs. “Yak, yak, yak.”

  Summerset nodded with approval. It seemed the medications had put her back to normal.

  Roarke was at the window, holding a conversation on his headset. It seemed to be something about a revision to the prototype of some new communication/data system, but there was too much e-jargon for her to decipher. So she tuned out the words themselves, and just listened to the flow of his voice.

  The Irish in it occasionally gave her a strange thrill, along with misty images of warriors and fragrant fires. And poetry, she supposed. Maybe the female of the species was just hardwired to react to certain stimuli.

  Maybe in ten or twenty years, she’d actually get used to it. To him.

  The sun, sinking in the sky, spilled in the window and drenched him in shimmering gold. He’d tied back his hair, which made her think he’d been at something that had required his hands and no distractions.

  The light made a halo around him they both knew he didn’t deserve, but that looked incredibly right.

  He had the screen on, and a news report was humming. His desk ’link beeped and was ignored.

  There was a scent to the room that was money, that was power. That was Roarke. Inside her rose a need basic as breath.

  And he turned to her.

  With her eyes locked on his she crossed the room, jerked him to her by his shirtfront, and captured his mouth with hers.

  In the headset a voice continued to buzz in his ear, dim under the stirring of his own blood. He caught her hips, pressed heat against heat.

  “Later,” he muttered into the headset, then pulled it off, tossed it aside. “Welcome home, Lieutenant, and congratulations.” He lifted a hand to brush it over her hair. “I caught your press conference on Seventy-five.”

  “Then you know it’s over.” She offered the verbena. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.” He sniffed the flower. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “As a matter of fact.” She tugged the band out of his hair. “I’ve got another assignment for you.”

  “Really? My schedule’s a bit tight right now, but I want to do my civic duty.” He tucked the little flower behind her ear. “What sort of assignment is it? And be specific.”

  “You want me to be specific?”

  “I do, yes. Very . . . very specific.”

  With a laugh, she boosted herself up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. “I want you to get naked.”

  “Ah, an undercover assignment.” Bracing her hips, he started toward his office elevator. “Is it dangerous?”

  “It’s deadly. Neither of us may make it out alive.”

  Inside the elevator, he pressed her back against the wall. Felt the strength of her—and the yielding. “Master bedroom,” he ordered, then ravaged her mouth. “I live for danger. Tell me more.”

  “It involves a lot of physical exertion. Timing . . .” Her breath clogged when his teeth found her throat. “Rhythm, coordination has to be perfect.”

  “Working on it,” he managed and swung her out of the elevator into the bedroom.

  The cat, stretched across the bed like a fat, furry rag, leaped up with a hissing complaint when they dropped onto the mattress beside him. Roarke reached out, gave him a light shove that sent him jumping down with a thud.

  “This is no place for civilians.”

  With a snort of laughter, Eve locked her arms tight around him. “Naked.” She raced kisses over his face. “Get naked. I want to sink my teeth into you.”

  Tugging at clothes, they rolled over the bed. Her shirt tangled in her weapon harness, making her curse breathlessly as she fought free of both. Their mouths met again, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues that had the blood rushing hot through her veins and her body plunging under his.

  She tugged at his shirt, yanking it down from his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into that hard ripple of muscle and test strength to strength.

  But he caught her hands in his, drew her arms over her head. Stared down at her with those depthless blue eyes until her own muscles began to quake.

  “I love you. Darling Eve. Mine.” He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, soft kiss that turned those trembling muscles to water.

  His mouth left hers to skim along her jaw, down the column of her throat. He would know, she thought as her heart shuddered. He would know she needed more than the flash and the fire. She needed the sweet and the simple.

  She relaxed and drew it in.

  He felt her open, surrender herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.

  Gently, his lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue. And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at he
r breast.

  She smelled of her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to. So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the heat.

  She drifted on a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let herself sink into it.

  She heard him murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred. It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.

  “What does it mean?” Her voice was sleepy.

  “My heart. You’re my heart.”

  He traced a line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He rubbed his lips over her belly.

  The muscles quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.

  Still he took his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan, until that tough, toned body trembled.

  When he took her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.

  And the sea where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.

  Desperate now, he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses. Maddening himself even as he maddened her. “Go up. Go up.” Breath heaving, he drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. “I want to watch you. Again.”

  “God!” Her eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.

  As she shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside her.

  Her eyes cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.