The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  But Dallas and her punishment would wait. There was, he knew, a natural order to things.

  And first there was Kevin.

  A lifetime friendship was no buffer against the sin of disloyalty. Kevin had to pay, and in paying would essentially ensure Lucias’s own vindication.

  He’d groomed himself carefully for this particular task. His hair was a gleaming copper, worn like a snug helmet over his skull. His complexion milk-white. His name was Terrance Blackburn, as his identification would verify. And he was Kevin Morano’s attorney of record.

  There were flaws. Lucias could admit there were flaws in the disguise. But the need to hurry outweighed the need to polish every small detail.

  In any case, he knew people generally saw what they expected to see. He looked a great deal like Blackburn, would identify himself as such. He wore the sharp, conservative suit of a successful criminal attorney. Carried the expensive leather briefcase. Fixed the sober and aloof expression on his face.

  He passed through the levels of security at Central without trouble. When he demanded a consultation with his client, he elicited annoyance more than interest from the duty cop.

  He submitted coolly to the cursory pat-down, to having the contents of his briefcase x-rayed once again. And when he was shown into a consultation room, he sat, folded his hands, and waited for his client.

  Seeing Kevin escorted in wearing a baggy fluorescent orange jumpsuit, put a nice, chilly scrim over Lucias’s bubble of rage. His friend’s face appeared gray and drawn above the hideous prison clothes. But he looked momentarily hopeful when he spotted Lucias.

  “Mr. Blackburn, I wasn’t expecting you to come back tonight. You said you were arranging for me to go into Testing tomorrow, to show my emotional and mental dependence. Is there something new, something better?”

  “We’ll discuss it.” When Kevin sat, Lucias waved the guard away with an absent gesture and opened the briefcase. The door closed with a satisfying snick. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible.” He linked and unlinked his fingers. “I’m in a cell alone. Lieutenant Dallas, she kept her word on that. But it’s dark, and it—it smells. And there’s no privacy, none at all. I really don’t think I can go to prison, Mr. Blackburn. It just isn’t possible. There must be a way to arrange Testing so that it comes out in my favor. I could spend some time in a private rehabilitation facility, or—or accept at-home incarceration. But I can’t possibly go to prison.”

  “We’ll just have to find a way to avoid that.”

  “Really?” Relieved, Kevin leaned forward. “But before you said . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Thank you. Thank you. I feel so much better knowing you’ll make some arrangements.”

  “I’ll need more money. To smooth the path.”

  “Anything. Anything you need.” Kevin buried his face in his hands. “I can’t stay in this place. I don’t know how I’ll make it through even one night.”

  “You need to stay calm. Let me get you some water.” He rose, crossed over to the water cooler in the corner. And as he filled a cup, added the contents of the vial he wore on a chain under his shirt.

  “Your confession,” Lucias added as he brought the cup back, “clearly states that Lucias Dunwood was to blame. It was his game, and one he was winning.”

  “I feel terrible about that. What else could I do? The things Dallas said would happen to me.” He gulped at the water. “And it’s not my fault. Anyone can see it’s not my fault. I’d never have gone so far without Lucias egging me on.”

  “He’s smarter than you. Stronger.”

  “No. No, he’s not. He’s just . . . Lucias. He’s competitive. Inventive. I can’t help it if it came down to him or me. Anyway . . .” Kevin worked up a weak smile. “I guess, at this point, I won the game.”

  “Do you think so? You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “I don’t know what you . . .” His vision swam, went gray at the edges. “I don’t feel very well.”

  “You’ll pass out first,” Lucias said softly. “Just slide under. You’ll be dead before they get you to the infirmary. You should’ve been loyal, Kev.”

  “Lucias?” Panicked, he tried to rise, but his legs buckled. “Help me. Somebody help me.”

  “It’s much too late.” Lucias got to his feet, slid the chain from around his neck and looped it around Kevin’s. Tucked it neatly under the jumpsuit.

  “You can’t mean to do this.” Kevin gripped Lucias’s arm weakly. “Lucias, you can’t mean to kill me.”

  “I have killed you. But painlessly, Kev, for old times’ sake. They’ll think self-termination at first. It’ll take them a while to figure out your visitor wasn’t Blackburn. And since I’m at home with Mother, it couldn’t have been me. One consolation,” he added as Kevin crumbled to the floor, “you won’t go to prison.”

  He reached over, closed the briefcase, brushed at his suit jacket. “Our game’s over,” he mumbled. “I win.” He hit the panic button under the table, then crouched down, began tapping Kevin’s cheeks with his hand.

  “He passed out,” he told the guard. “Went into a rant about not being able to stand the thought of prison, then collapsed. He needs medical attention.”

  And while his dying friend was being carried to medical, Lucias Dunwood walked briskly out of Cop Central.

  Whitney and Roarke were sharing after-dinner coffee and cigars when Eve walked in. She actually heard Whitney laugh—not the low rumbling chuckle she’d occasionally heard out of him—but a big, rollicking belly laugh that stopped her in her tracks.

  He was still grinning from it when she managed to unstick her feet and continue into the dining room.

  “I don’t know how the pair of you stay so fit with the menu to choose from in this place.”

  Amusement slid slyly over Roarke’s face as he lifted his cup. “We . . . work out a lot. Isn’t that right, darling?”

  “Yeah, exercise is the key to good health. I’m glad you enjoyed your meal, sir. Feeney’s on the electronics. I’ve arranged for surveillance on Dunwood’s townhouse and his mother’s home. Peabody’s standing by to run any new data as it comes in. I goosed CSU, and they report they found blood on the living room floor and rug that matches McNamara’s type. O Neg. Dunwood’s also O Neg, but with some pressure on the tech on duty at the lab I had him run the full DNA. Early indications are it’s McNamara’s, sir. We’ll confirm that before morning.”

  Whitney puffed on the cigar, a small luxury his wife denied him. “Do you ever wind down, Dallas?” At her blank look, he shook his head. “Sit down. Have some coffee. Everything’s being done that can be done. We can’t move until the PA reports in.”

  “She won’t argue if it’s an order,” Roarke pointed out.

  “I hate to, in her own house. Please.” Whitney pointed to a chair. “Roarke tells me you’re off to Mexico for two weeks. Have you put in for the time?”

  “No, sir.” Restless and reluctant, she sat. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

  “Consider it taken care of. You’re an exceptional cop, Lieutenant. Exceptional cops burn out faster than mediocre ones. A good marriage helps. I can attest to that. Children,” he added, then laughed at her expression of sheer horror. “When the time comes. Friendships. Family. In other words, a life. Outside the job. Without it, you can forget why you do what you do. Why it matters that every time you close a case and put one down, there’s one less.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think since I’ve sat here eating your food, smoking your man’s very excellent cigar, you could call me Jack.”

  She thought about it for about three seconds. “No, sir. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  He leaned back, blew a lazy smoke ring. “Ah well,” he said, and his communicator beeped.

  He went from relaxed to command in a single heartbeat. “Whitney.”

  “Bail is hereby revoked,” the PA announced. “Lucias Dunwood is to be remanded into custody, all charges holding, immediately. Copie
s of the revocation order and new warrant transmitting now.”

  Whitney waited while they spit out of the data slot. “Good work.” He shoved the communicator away. “Lieutenant. Let’s go do the job.”

  When Roarke rose as well, Whitney inclined his head. “The civilian consultant on this case has requested permission to accompany us, and that request has been granted.” He handed her the paperwork. “Do you have a problem with that, Lieutenant? As primary.”

  She sucked in a breath as Roarke gave her an easy smile. “A lot of good it would do me, so no, sir, I have no problem with it.”

  Sarah Dunwood lived in a two-level apartment in a quiet building only blocks from her son. Security pissed around with the usual “retired for the evening,” “not receiving visitors,” until Eve drilled through the muck with badge, warrant, and bitter threats.

  “Impressive,” Whitney commented as they stepped on the elevator. “But tell me, is it technologically possible to rip out a mother board and stuff it up a computer’s ass?”

  “I’ve never had to follow through, sir. The threat’s usually sufficient. Dunwood’s likely to resist,” she continued. “He won’t like being thwarted this way, and his instinct will be to attack before his control snaps back.” She hesitated. “Commander, I’d like to arm the consultant. For his own protection.”

  “That’s your call, Lieutenant.”

  Nodding, she bent down, released her clutch piece from its ankle grip. “It’s on low stun, and it stays there. It doesn’t come into your hand, it is not deployed unless you’re in immediate physical jeopardy. Clear?”

  “Crystal, Lieutenant.” Roarke slid the weapon into his pocket as they stepped out on the Dunwoods’ floor.

  “I’m at point,” she continued. “We do this fast. Go in, locate, and restrain. I want you to clear any and all civilians out of the area.”

  She buzzed, and the instant the door opened, pushed inside. “Police. Bail for Lucias Dunwood has been revoked. He’s ordered to turn himself over to my authority immediately.”

  “You can’t come in this way! Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah!”

  Roarke drew the shrieking maid aside, clearing Eve’s path. “You’ll want to sit down now, before you get hurt.”

  Scanning entries and exits, Eve strode into the living area. Her fingers twitched toward her weapon, then away again as a woman came rushing down the stairs.

  “What is it? What’s the matter? Who are you?”

  She was a small, rail-thin woman with a gleam of curly red hair, disordered now, and a mildly pretty face spoiled by bruising under her left eye and along the soft curve of her jaw.

  “Mrs. Dunwood?”

  “Yes, I’m Mrs. Dunwood. You’re the police. You’re the woman who arrested my son.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.” She offered her badge, but her eyes tracked for any movement and her ears were pricked for any sound. “Lucias Dunwood’s bail has been revoked. I’m here to take him into custody.”

  “You can’t. I paid. The judge—”

  “I have the revocation order and the warrant. Mrs. Dunwood, is your son upstairs?”

  “He’s not here. You can’t have him.”

  “Did he do that to your face?”

  There was terror now in the pitch of her voice. “I fell. Why won’t you leave him alone?” She began to cry. “He’s just a boy.”

  “That boy killed your father.”

  “That’s not true. That can’t be true.” She covered her face with her hands and broke into wild sobs.

  “Commander?”

  “Go. Mrs. Dunwood, you need to sit down.”

  Leaving the men to deal with the hysteria, Eve laid her hand on her weapon and started her search. She went upstairs first, trusting Lucias could be dealt with if he made any move on the lower level. She swept each room, entered, searched. When she came to a locked door, she drew out her master, bypassed the locks.

  He’d kept a room here, she noted as she stepped inside. A pampered, indulged boy’s room full of high-class toys. The entertainment unit spread over an entire wall—video, audio, screen, game components. The data and communication center took up most of an L-shaped counter. Shelves were stocked tight with discs, books, mementos.

  There was a minilab, fully equipped, set up in the adjoining room.

  In both areas, the drapes were drawn tight over the windows, the doors locked to the outside hallways. It was a little world of secrets, she thought.

  She searched the closets first, found more wigs stored in clear boxes along with what she assumed he considered his secondary wardrobe.

  In the bath she found traces of face putty and face base on the counter.

  No, he wasn’t here, she thought. And he hadn’t walked out as himself.

  Holstering her weapon, she walked back to the data center.

  “Computer, display last opened file, image or data.”

  CANNOT COMPLY WITHOUT PASSWORD . . .

  “We’ll see about that.” She hurried out, went to the top of the stairs. “Roarke, I need you a minute.”

  She walked back through the bedroom into the lab and helped herself to a can of Seal-It.

  “The maid claims Dunwood and his mother had a shouting match,” Roarke told her as he came in. “Or rather, Dunwood did the shouting. She heard his mother crying, heard the sound of blows. That’s when she ran out of the kitchen area. She heard him slam out, and found Mrs. Dunwood on the floor. Apparently, it’s not the first time he’s used his fists on her. Like his grandfather and father before him. The father’s in Seattle on business. He doesn’t spend much time here.”

  “Big, happy family. I want whatever you can get me out of this, last work first. It’s passcoded. If you have to touch anything, use this.”

  She tossed him the sealant. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She left him to it, went downstairs. “He’s not on the premises,” she told the commander. “Mrs. Dunwood, where did Lucias go?”

  “For a walk. He just went out for a walk. His mind’s troubled.”

  I’ll say, Eve thought, but crouched down. “Mrs. Dunwood, you’re not helping him. You’re not helping yourself. The longer it takes to find him, the harder it’s going to go on him. Tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know. He was upset and angry.”

  “How was he dressed when he left?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. He disguised himself again. And you knew when you saw him that way, you knew in some part of yourself that he’d done everything he’s been accused of.”

  “I don’t. I don’t believe it.”

  Eve turned away when her communicator signaled. She strode out of earshot, listened. Then she gave the order for an APB.

  “Kevin Morano’s dead.” She said it flatly, watched shock and horror pale Mrs. Dunwood’s face.

  “Kevin? No. No.”

  “He was poisoned. He had a visitor this evening in a consultation room. You know what that visitor looked like, don’t you, Mrs. Dunwood? Your son went to visit his friend, and he killed him. Then he walked away.”

  “How the hell did he get through security?” Whitney demanded to know.

  “By looking like this.” Roarke came back in, held out a hard copy of an image. “This data was the last work on his computer.”

  “Blackburn,” Eve said, without looking at the printout. “Morano’s attorney of record. They’d have passed him through with minimal checks. He’s a well-known criminal attorney.”

  “There’s something else.” Roarke offered her another printout. “The rules of the game.”

  SEDUCE AND CONQUER, Eve read, a contest of romantic and sexual exploits between Lucias Dunwood and Kevin Morano.

  And scanned the rest.

  It was all there, meticulously organized and detailed. The setup, the rules, the payoff system, the goals.

  Disgust tightened her belly as she whirled back. “Look at this,” she ordered Sarah Dunwood. “Re
ad this. This is what he’s done. This is what he is.” She pushed the sheet under Mrs. Dunwood’s face.

  “Do you want to leave me with nothing?” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared at Eve rather than the printout. “I carried him in my body. After months of tests and treatments, of grief and hope, I made him inside me. Will you leave me with nothing?”

  “I’m not the one leaving you with nothing, Mrs. Dunwood. He’s taken care of that himself.” She turned away again, and ordered two uniforms up to the apartment.

  “He needs a place to remove the disguise,” she said as they left the apartment. “He’ll come back here eventually, but he doesn’t have all his things here. He’ll want more of his toys. Clothes.”

  She tried to put herself in his head. “Gotta ditch the disguise first. He’ll know we’ll come around to him with Morano’s death. He can’t afford to leave any trace of that around. But he thinks we’re slow and stupid. He’s so much smarter. He’ll hurry, but he won’t rush. He’ll go home, take off the face and hair. Clean up. Spend some time gloating, packing some things up, destroying anything he thinks might be incriminating.”

  “You put men on the house,” Whitney reminded her. “They’ll spot him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Because he’ll expect them to be there. Will you drive, sir?” she asked as they stepped outside. “I need the civilian to draw me a picture.”

  He drove fast, and without sirens. Whitney’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing when at Eve’s request Roarke quickly called up blueprints of the townhouse on his PPC.

  “You got holo-features on there?”

  “Naturally. Display data holographically.” The image spilled out into Eve’s lap.

  She studied it. And planned. “We’ll move the surveillance team to the rear. One man in, one man out. Additional men entering here, and here. We go in the front. Roarke, you’ll go left, and up the stairs. The commander right to sweep the main level. I’ll take the steps down. He’s got full security, with video, so if he’s paying attention, and he pays attention, he’ll know we’re coming. Watch each other’s backs because at the core, he’s a coward.”