The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  When her pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away the tear that spilled down her cheek.

  “My heart,” he said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.

  She lay with her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day. “Roarke.”

  “Hmm? You should sleep for a bit.”

  “I don’t have the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most.”

  “I know what they are.” He toyed with the ends of her hair. “Turn your mind off, Eve, and rest a while.”

  She shook her head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she thought, and still be hers?

  “Say what you said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you.”

  He smiled. Took her hand. “You’ll never pronounce it.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Still smiling, he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and repeated the words.

  She saw emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. “You undo me, Eve.”

  He sat up, dropped his brow against hers. “Thank God for you,” he murmured in a voice gone raw. “Thank God for you.”

  She refused to sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat crosslegged on the sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

  The combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.

  “Morano broke down in interview,” she began.

  “I’d put it that you broke him down,” Roarke corrected. “I watched you.” And had seen the way she’d stared into the glass. Into herself. “He wouldn’t have known how difficult it was for you.”

  “Not so difficult, because I knew I’d break him. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I was part of the operational team.” He twirled a bit of her pasta onto his fork. “And I enjoy watching you work.”

  “It was a contest to them, and the women game pieces. All I had to do was box Morano into a corner, and game over. The way he sees it, it was Dunwood’s fault, and he was just trying to keep up. Bankhead was an accident, Cline didn’t die, and McNamara, well that was, in his view, a kind of self-defense. I looked at him, and I didn’t see anything calculating or particularly vicious. He’s just empty, weak and empty. A kind of—it sounds hokey—void of evil.”

  “It sounds accurate. Dunwood’s a different kettle, isn’t he?”

  “And then some.” She picked up her wineglass, sipped, then leaned over to sample some of Roarke’s linguini with clam sauce. “Mine’s better,” she decided, pleased. “After the session with Renfrew in Whitney’s office—”

  “What session?”

  “Forgot. I didn’t tell you.”

  So, between mouthfuls of spaghetti and the herbed bread he offered, she did. “I can’t believe I practically told Whitney to shut up. He should’ve slapped me down for it.”

  “He’s a smart man. And a good cop. Renfrew now, he’s just the type of cop who made things relatively easy for me. During a past, and regrettable period of my life,” he added soberly when she frowned at him. “More ambitious than clever, narrow of view and focus. Lazy.”

  He scooped up another forkful of her pasta. She was right; hers was better. “And,” he continued, “he epitomizes my previous view of the species. The view I held of badges before I got to know one more intimately.”

  “His kind pisses me off, but his captain . . . He’s solid. He’ll deal with it. Anyway. Anyway.” She let out a long breath. She was stuffed, but still wanted more. “I took the team, minus our civilian consultant, to his place to bring him in. He lawyered straight off, and kept his mouth shut. He’s not stupid, and he’s not weak. His mistake is believing everyone else is. That’s what’ll take him under.”

  “No, you’re what will take him under.”

  His absolute confidence in her warmed as much as any words of love. “Really stuck on me, aren’t you?”

  “Apparently. How about letting me have what’s left of that meatball?”

  She nudged the plate in his direction. “Dunwood had three lawyers in tow before we finished booking him. He claims to know nothing about nothing, except he did notice his good friend and companion Kevin’s been acting a bit strange, coming in at odd hours, dressing up in strange getups to go out.”

  “Friendship’s a beautiful thing.”

  “You bet. We’ve got no DNA on him, and he knows it. He’s playing the innocent victim, the outraged citizen, and letting his reps do all the talking. He didn’t even blink when we brought up the home lab, and the samples we’re testing from it. Didn’t even get a shrug out of him when I pointed out we’d found the wig and the suit worn in the Lutz security disc in his bedroom closet. That his bathroom vanity contained the brand of face putty and enhancements found on her body and her sheets. His story is Kevin used them, planted them. Same thing with the Carlo account,” she added. “The illegals operation. He doesn’t know a thing. It must’ve been Kevin.”

  “Where do you go from here?”

  “Feeney’s doing his e-thing with all the ’links and computers we confiscated from the townhouse. He’ll find something. Dunwood was meeting someone on the night he killed his grandfather, and my take is she didn’t show. We find her, verify the correspondence and the meeting scheduled that night for the club where he bought drinks, and we add more layers. The samples from the lab are going to test out for Whore and Rabbit. His lawyers can try to dance around that experimenting isn’t illegal, and we have to prove use and/or distribution for sale. But it adds the next tier. We dig until we connect him to the distribution of those illegals as Carlo, through Charles Monroe’s client. Crime Scene’s fluoroscoping the house, and they’ll find blood. We’ve got Morano’s point-by-point confession. We’ve got plenty for an indictment. When we add up everything we’ll lock in over the next couple days, we’ll wrap him up in it.”

  More due to a need to move around than a sense of tidiness, she cleared the plates off the bed. “I’ll sic Mira on him,” she added. “But even she’s going to have a tough time chipping at that shell. In the end, we’ll dump all the evidence—physical, circumstantial, forensic, the psych profiles, the statements—into a box and wrap it up for the lawyers. He won’t walk away.”

  “Will you? Can you?”

  “If you’d asked me that twenty-four hours ago, I’d have said no. Unless I lied.” She turned around to face him. “But yeah, after I finish putting the case together, take a couple more shots at him in Interview, I’ll pass it to the PA. And I’ll walk away. There’s always another, Roarke, and if I don’t walk away, I can’t face the next.”

  “I need time with you, Eve. Alone, away. No ghosts, no obligations, no grief.”

  “We’re going to Mexico, right?”

  “To start, anyway. I want two weeks.”

  She opened her mouth, a dozen reasons why she couldn’t take that much time ready to trip off her tongue. And looking at him found the reason, the one that mattered, why she would. “When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as you’re able. I’ve dealt with my schedule.”

  “Give me a couple days to tie the ends together. Meanwhile, I’ve got a direct order from my commander I have to follow. I’m ordered to use whatever method guarantees me eight hours’ sleep.”

  “And have you chosen your method, darling Eve?”

  “Yeah, and it’s foolproof.” She dived onto him.

  She had his robe off and her hands full when the inter-house ’link beeped.

  “What the hell does he want?” she demanded. “Doesn’t he know we’re busy?”

  “Don’t forget your place.” Roarke blocked video, answered. “Summerset, unless the house is on fire or under massive enemy attack, I don’t want to hear from you until morning.”

/>   “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the lieutenant’s commander is here to see her. Shall I tell him she’s unavailable?”

  “No. Shit.” She was already scrambling up. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Have Commander Whitney wait in the main parlor,” Roarke said. “We’ll join him in a moment.”

  “This isn’t good, this can’t be good.” She yanked open a drawer and grabbed the first items that came to hand. “Whitney doesn’t drop in for drinks and an after-work chat. Goddamn it.”

  Without bothering with underwear, she pulled on ancient jeans, dragged a faded NYPSD T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off over her head. Still cursing, she hopped into her boots.

  In the same amount of time Roarke had managed to dress in pleated black trousers and a pristine black T-shirt. He slipped into loafers while she caught her breath.

  “You know, if I wasn’t in a real hurry, that would make me sick.”

  “What would that be?”

  “How you can put yourself together like some fashion plate in under two minutes,” she complained and hurried out of the room.

  In the main parlor, amid the gleaming wood and glinting glass, Whitney and Galahad studied each other with cautious and mutual respect. When Eve strode in, Whitney looked relieved.

  “Lieutenant, Roarke, I’m sorry to intrude on your evening.”

  “It’s not a problem, Commander,” Eve said quickly. “Is something wrong?”

  “I wanted to tell you personally, and face-to-face rather than have you hear it second-hand. Lucias Dunwood’s attorney’s asked and received an immediate bond hearing.”

  Eve read the results of it on his face. “They let him out,” she said flatly. “What kind of judge sets bail for a man charged with multiple first-degrees?”

  “A judge who, as a friend of the Dunwood and McNamara families, should have excused himself from the hearing. It was argued that there’s no physical evidence against Dunwood.”

  “There will be in a matter of hours,” Eve began.

  “And further argued,” Whitney continued, “that the heaviest weight in the charges stems from the confession of Kevin Morano, which implicates Dunwood. That Dunwood has no priors, is a member of a respected family, a man who only last night was informed of his grandfather’s tragic death.”

  “Murder,” Eve snapped out. “One he committed.”

  “His mother attended the hearing. Made a personal plea that bail be granted so that her only son could assist her in memorializing and burying her father. Bail was set at five million, paid, and Dunwood was released into his mother’s custody.”

  “Think.” Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder before she could speak. “Will he run?”

  She drew herself in, forced herself to see through the rage. “No. It’s still a contest. Just a different game. He intends to win. But he’s pissed because I changed the board on him, so he’s likely to do something rash. He’s spoiled, and he’s angry. We need to put a flag on the lab work. We need positive identification of the chemical samples taken from the townhouse.”

  “Already done,” Whitney told her. “I spoke with Dickhead—Berenski,” he corrected, “on the way here. You have a positive match for the illegals found in the victims. Using that evidence and the judge’s relationship to the accused, the PA has filed for immediate revocation of bond.”

  “Will he get it?”

  “We’ll know within the hour. Regretfully, I’m going to have to countermand my order for you to get eight hours’ sleep, Lieutenant. Your day isn’t finished. Nor is mine,” he added. “I’ll go back to Central and stand by. With any luck, you’ll be picking Dunwood back up tonight. I intend to go with you.”

  “With me? But . . .” She caught herself in time, swallowed the words back. “Yes, sir.”

  “I put my time in on the streets, Lieutenant. I can assure you, desk jockey or not, I’m not dead weight.”

  “No, sir. No disrespect intended. With your permission, Commander, I’ll tag Feeney, have him snatch up McNab so they can put in time tonight on the electronics we have in Evidence.”

  “It remains your case. Plug the holes. I’ll contact you as soon as I have word from the prosecutor.”

  “Commander.” Roarke kept his hand on Eve’s shoulder. He could feel her vibrating under it—revving to act, to do. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Not as yet. I’ll catch something at my desk.”

  It took two squeezes of Roarke’s hand on her shoulder for Eve to clue in. “Um. Why don’t you have something here, Commander? Save yourself some travel time.”

  “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Roarke assured him. “I’ll keep you company while Eve makes her calls.” He gestured to the doorway. “Your family’s well, I hope.”

  Eve took a deep breath and watched them leave the room. She wasn’t sure which was weirder—her commander settling down to have dinner in her house or him settling down to have that meal in the company of a man who’d spent the majority of his life successfully breaking every law on the books. And some that hadn’t even been written.

  “All-around weird,” she said to Galahad. And leaving the socializing to Roarke, she headed up to her office to get back to work.

  Chapter 22

  Because she understood his feelings exactly—and his way with words when riled was even more inventive than she was—Eve let Feeney rant, rave, and spew.

  And didn’t mention the fact that he’d answered the ’link wearing pajamas with little red hearts on them and that the music in the background was some bass-voiced singer crooning about making sweet love to his woman.

  It seemed she wasn’t the only one who’d had seduction in the plans for the evening.

  “We’ll get him back,” she said when Feeney ran down to sputters. “I’m going to order surveillance on the mother’s place and his townhouse. I don’t think he’ll rabbit, but I don’t want to risk it. Get me something on those electronics, Feeney. Find me something to add to the pile.”

  “Judge oughta be stripped down, dragged through the streets, with a big sign that says BRAIN-DEAD FUCKFACE tied to his dick.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a pleasant and satisfying image, but I’ll settle for a quick overturn on the bail. You’ll tag McNab.”

  “Probably bouncing on Peabody,” Feeney barked. “Talk about rabbits.”

  Eve decided it showed great restraint and sterling character for her not to mention the heart pajamas at such a prime opening. “If he is, I don’t want to know about it, but you can tell Peabody to stand by for data. You pull anything out, she can follow it through.”

  “You don’t want her with you on the take-down?”

  “No, I’ve got another cop coming along. Whitney.”

  “Jack?” Feeney’s drooping face brightened like a boy’s. “No shit?”

  “No shit. What do I do with him, Feeney? If we run into anything hinky, am I supposed to give him orders?”

  “You’re primary.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll play it by ear. Get me something. Oh, and Feeney? Love the pjs.”

  She broke transmission. Okay, maybe she didn’t have such a sterling character.

  She called in, requested surveillance on the two locations, then got up to pace off the time.

  What was taking the PA so long? She should probably go downstairs. And play hostess. She was better at it than she’d been a year ago. Not good at it, but better. Still, she usually did that duty when there were groups, business dinners, or parties where there were so many people, giving anyone a lot of personal attention wasn’t necessary.

  Casual conversation and small talk were Roarke’s strengths not hers. She took the coward’s way and stalled by going back to the bedroom for her weapon harness.

  The minute she strapped it on, she felt more in control.

  Lucias felt the same way. In control. The rage, the insult, was a black, bubbling brew beneath the ice.
And if from time to time it burned a hole through, he was still in control.

  He’d known his mother would whine and beg and weep for him. She was so predictable. Women were, to his way of thinking. They were, by nature, weak and submissive. They required direction and a firm hand. His grandfather, then his father, had always given his mother a firm hand.

  He was simply carrying on the McNamara-Dunwood tradition.

  Dunwood men ran the show. Dunwood men were winners.

  Dunwood men deserved respect, obedience, and unquestioning loyalty. They were not to be treated like common criminals, to be pushed around, locked in a cage, questioned.

  And they were never, never to be betrayed.

  Naturally they’d let him go. He’d never doubted he’d be released. He’d never go to prison, never allow himself to be locked away like an animal.

  He would, one way or the other, come out of this the winner.

  But that didn’t make up for the humiliation of being dragged behind bars, taken into a courtroom. Deprived of his rights.

  He’d deal with Eve Dallas. Under it all she was just a woman. God knew women should never be put in positions of authority or power. That, at least, had been something he and his late unlamented grandparent had agreed on.

  He’d bide his time with her, plan carefully. Pick his time and place. When he was ready he’d pay her back for laying hands on him, for spoiling the game. For the public embarrassment she’d caused him.

  A quiet place, a private interlude. Oh yes, he intended to have a very hot date with Lieutenant Dallas. This time she’d be the one in restraints. When she was loaded with Whore, begging for the one thing women truly wanted, he wouldn’t even fuck her.

  He’d hurt her. Oh yes, he’d give her pain—exquisite pain—but he’d deny her that final, glorious release.

  She’d die desperate, just another bitch in heat.

  The idea made him hard, and the hardening only proved he was a man.