by J. D. Robb
While she committed the holo to memory, she called for additional backup.
When they pulled up behind the surveillance vehicle, she hopped out, demanded status. She detailed the situation, gave her orders quickly.
“Seal hasn’t been breached,” Whitney commented as they approached the front.
“He wouldn’t use the main door. There are three other entrances, twelve first-story windows.” She detoured at a jog to the side of the house farthest away from the surveillance. “Broken glass,” she reported. “He’s in there.”
Both she and Whitney pulled out masters. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
“No. Forgot myself. Go.” He replaced the master with his weapon.
She uncoded the seal. “On three.”
“She likes to go in low,” Roarke told Whitney, and on Eve’s count went in the door with her, high.
They speared off, three arrows. Eve called out the required warning as she took the stairs to the lower level with her back to the wall.
The droid met her at the bottom.
“I am programmed to deflect, restrain, or impede any and all unauthorized intruders on these premises. If you attempt to come any farther, I will be forced to cause you physical harm.”
“Back off. We’re the police, fully authorized and warranted to enter these premises and remand Lucias Dunwood into custody.”
“I am programmed to deflect, restrain, or impede,” he began, moving toward her.
“Fuck this,” she muttered, and blasted him.
While he sparked and shuddered, she kicked him aside. “Lights on,” she ordered, and didn’t bother to swear when her order was ignored. She moved in the dark, leading with her weapon each time she approached a doorway.
At the soft sound of footsteps behind her, she whirled, finger twitching. “Goddamn it, Roarke.”
“You have two men covering the first level. Additional backup on the way. This’ll go faster with two of us down here. And,” he continued, moving up to guard her back, “down here is where he is.”
Her instincts told her the same. Which was why she’d taken the area personally.
“Lab’s going to be straight back,” she said quietly, though she’d already picked up the security cameras tucked into the corners of the ceiling. “He’s boxed in, but he’s ready for us.”
The door was locked.
“I’m going to bypass,” she whispered in Roarke’s ear. “He’ll expect us to rush. That’s what he’s ready for. Don’t go through the door until I give the signal.”
She slipped the locks, kicked the door, then spun away.
The move saved her. Something crashed in the dark near the toes of her boots. She saw the smoke, heard the hiss, and was forced to sidestep before the acid eating into the floor hit leather.
There was a flash from inside. She felt a bright, shocking pain in her left shoulder. “Shit!”
“You’re hit.” Roarke dived across the open doorway, blocked her body with his as another series of blasts shot through like lightning bolts.
“Just glanced me.” Her arm was numb now, shoulder to fingertip. “Get my communicator out of my pocket. My left hand’s dead.”
He pulled it out. “Lowest level, east end,” he said into it. “Dunwood’s armed. The lieutenant’s been hit.”
“Minimal damage,” she snapped, irritated. “I’m not down. Repeat, I am not down. Security panel’s over there.” She jerked her head. “Bypass the damn voice command and get the lights on. Dunwood!” she shouted, duck-walking to the doorway with her left arm hanging useless and her weapon in her right hand. “It’s over. The house is surrounded. You’ve got nowhere to go. Throw out your weapon, and come out with your hands up.”
“It’s not over until I say it’s over! I’m not finished.” He fired again. “Do you think I’m losing to a woman?”
The lights went on, and gave her a good look at the blackened hole in the floor only inches from her feet. “Seduce and conquer. We accessed your game, Lucias. Not too smart of you to write it all down so nice and tidy for us. We know you did Kevin. That was slick, but you don’t know as much about law as you do about chemistry. His confession stands. And you were stupid enough to leave traces of putty and base in your bathroom. Really losing points fast.”
Glass crashed inside the room, and his voice raged as temper lashed out. “It’s my game, you bitch. My rules.”
She held up her gun hand, signaling the men back as she heard them rushing down the stairs.
“New game, new rules, and you’ll never beat me, Lucias. I’m better than you are. Throw out the weapon and come out or I’m going to hurt you.”
“You won’t win.” He was weeping now, a spoiled boy choked by a tantrum. “Nobody beats me. I’m undefeated. I’m a Dunwood.”
“Cover me.” She drew in a breath, tucked and rolled into the room. The stunner blasts jolted over her head, shot along the floor by her hip as she dived for cover.
“Not smart, Lucias.” She pressed her back into a wide cupboard. “Nope, not so smart. You keep missing. Aiming wild. You buy that off the street? Did they tell you it was fully charged? They lie. I bet if you check the discharge rate, you’re more than half out already. I’ve got a full load. And I don’t miss. I won the game. And my prize is locking you into a cage for the rest of your life. A woman’s going to lock you away, Lucias.”
She angled herself, signaled to Roarke to lay down fire to her right. On the blast, she leaped up. She swore, fired a stun shot. But was already too late.
The vial he held slid out of his hand as he shuddered and collapsed.
“Call for MTs,” she shouted, and leaped over the broken glass. She kicked his weapon away, crouched. “What did you take?”
“What I gave Kevin.” He smiled, coldly. “Double the dose for speed. No woman’s locking me away. I end the game my way, so I win. I always win. You lose, bitch.”
She watched him die, and felt nothing. “No. Everybody wins.”
Epilogue
She stood outside, breathing in the night air, cradling her now tingling left arm in the palm of her right hand.
Sarah Dunwood would be burying both her father and her son. Daughter and mother, trapped in loves and loyalties that made no sense.
Maybe they weren’t meant to.
“Do you want medical attention, Lieutenant?”
She glanced over at Whitney. “No, sir.” Flexed her fingers. “It’s coming back.”
“You played him as well as anyone could.” Together, they watched the black bag that held Lucias Dunwood, twenty-two, boy genius, beloved son and predator, being carried out of the house. “You couldn’t guess he’d self-terminate rather than surrender to you.”
But she had, Eve thought. A part of her had known exactly what she was doing—and had done it, had goaded him to it, with cold calculation.
Had they carried her father out of that freezing, filthy room in a black bag?
Then she closed her eyes because she was a cop—and the badge stood for . . . Everything. “I knew it was a risk, Commander. I pushed his buttons fully aware there was a probability he’d take himself out rather than lose when we had him cornered. I could have ordered the room rushed. Potentially he’d be on his way to lockup instead of the morgue.”
“He was armed, dangerous, and had already fired on you with a black market weapon set on full. Men might have been lost, certainly injured, who are going home to their families tonight. You played him as well as anyone could,” he repeated. “File your report, then go get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Rolling her awakening shoulder, she crossed the street to where Roarke waited. “I have to go in, write and file my report.”
“How’s your arm?”
“It feels like there are about six million hot needles sticking in it.” She wiggled her fingers again. “Should be back to normal in a couple hours, which is about what it’ll take to do the paperwork.”
Because he knew h
er, and what she was thinking he said, “The world’s better off with him out of it, Eve.”
“Maybe, but that wasn’t my decision to make.”
“You didn’t make it. He did. He had only to give up. You’d have taken him in, turned him into the system, and been satisfied.”
“Yeah.” Because it was true, she settled again. “I’m sending a police counselor to his mother. She doesn’t need to hear about this from me, and she’ll need someone who has the right words.”
“Later, when her grief’s not so raw, we might send someone from the abuse shelter to talk to her.” He took her good hand in his. “Walk away, Eve.”
She nodded. “Let’s go tonight,” she said as they walked to the car.
“Go?”
“Yeah, to Mexico. As soon as I’ve closed this, let’s just head out, take one of those snappy transpos of yours and get the hell out of town.”
He kissed her fingers before opening the door for her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
REUNION IN DEATH
J. D. Robb
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Reunion in Death
A BERKLEY Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0410-8
A BERKLEY BOOK®
BERKLEY Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic Edition: July, 2003
There are some meannesses which are too mean even for man—woman, lovely woman alone, can venture to commit them.
—W. M. Thackeray, A Shabby Genteel Story
The surest poison is time.
—Emerson
Chapter 1
Murder was work. Death was a serious chore for the killer, the victim, for the survivors. And for those who stood for the dead. Some went about the job devotedly, others carelessly.
And for some, murder was a labor of love.
When he left his Park Avenue condo for his regular morning stroll, Walter C. Pettibone was blissfully unaware he was in his last hours of life. He was a robust sixty and a canny businessman who’d increased his family’s already considerable fortune through flowers and sentiment.
He was wealthy, healthy, and just over a year before had acquired a young, blonde wife who had the sexual appetite of a Doberman in heat and the brains of a cabbage.
His world, in Walter C. Pettibone’s opinion, was just exactly so.
He had work he loved, two children from his first marriage who would one day take over the business he’d taken over from his own father. He maintained a reasonably friendly relationship with his ex, a fine, sensible woman, and his son and daughter were pleasant, intelligent individuals who brought him pride and satisfaction.
He had a grandson who was the apple of his eye.
In the summer of 2059, World of Flowers was a major intergalactic enterprise with florists, horticulturists, offices, and greenhouses both on and off planet.
Walter loved flowers. And not just for their profit margin. He loved the scents of them, the colors, the textures, the beauty of both foliage and blossom and the simple miracle of their existence.
Every morning he would visit a handful of florists, to check the stock, the arrangements, and just to sniff and chat and spend time among the flowers and the people who loved them.
Twice a week, he was up before dawn to attend the gardener’s market downtown. There he would wander and enjoy, order or critique.
It was a routine that rarely varied over the course of a half-century, and one he never tired of.
Today, after an hour or so among the blooms, he’d go into the corporate offices. He’d spend more time there than usual in order to give his wife the time and space to finish preparations for his surprise birthday party.
It made him chuckle to think of it.
The sweetheart couldn’t keep a secret if she stapled her lips together. He’d known about the party for weeks, and was looking forward to the evening with the glee of a child.
Naturally he would act surprised and had practiced stunned expressions in his mirror only that morning.
So Walter went through his daily routine with a smile at the corners of his mouth—having no idea just how surprised he was going to be.
Eve doubted she’d ever felt better in her life. Rested, recharged, limber and loose, she prepared for her first day back on the job after a wonderfully undemanding two-week vacation where the peskiest task facing her had been whether to eat or sleep.
One week at the villa in Mexico, the second on a private island. And in both spots there had been no lack of opportunities for sun, sex, and snoozing.
Roarke had been right again. They’d needed the time together. Away. They’d both needed a period of healing. And if the way she felt this morning was any indication, they’d done the job.
She stood in front of her closet, frowning at the jungle of clothes she’d acquired since her marriage. She didn’t think her confusion was due to the fact that she’d spent most of the last fourteen days naked or near to it. Unless she was very much mistaken, the man had managed to sneak more clothes in on her.
She yanked out a long blue gown in some material that managed to sizzle and sparkle at the same time. “Have I ever seen this before?”
“It’s your closet.” In the sitting area of their bedroom, Roarke scanned the stock reports on the wall screen while he enjoyed a second cup of coffee. But he glanced over. “If you’re planning to wear that today, the criminal element in the city’s going to be very impressed.”
“There’s more stuff in here than there was two weeks ago.”
“Really? I wonder how that happened.”
“You have to stop buying me clothes.”
He reached over to stroke Galahad, but the cat turned his nose in the air. He’d been sulking since their return the night before. “Why?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.” She muttered it as she dived inside to find something reasonable to wear.
He only smiled at her, watching as she hunted up a sleeveless top and trousers to slip over that long, lean body he never quite stopped craving.
She’d tanned herself to a pale gold, and the sun had teased out blonde streaks in her short brown hair. She dressed quickly, economically, with the air of a woman who never thought about fashion. Which was why, he supposed, he could never resist heaping fashion on her.
She’d rested during their time away, he thought
. He’d seen, hour by hour, day by day, the clouds of fatigue and worry lift away from her. There was a light in her whiskey-colored eyes now, a healthy glow in her narrow, fine-boned face.
And when she strapped on her weapon harness, there was a set to her mouth—that wide and generous mouth—that told him Lieutenant Eve Dallas was back. And ready to kick some ass.
“What is it about an armed woman that arouses me?”
She shot him a look, reached in the closet for a light jacket. “Cut it out. I’m not going to be late my first day back because you’ve got some residual horniness.”
Oh yes, he thought, rising. She was back. “Darling Eve.” He managed, barely, not to wince. “Not that jacket.”
“What?” She paused in the act of shoving her arm in a sleeve. “It’s summer weight; it covers my weapon.”
“It’s wrong with those trousers.” He stepped to her closet, reached in, and plucked out another jacket of the same weight and material as the khaki trousers. “This one is correct.”
“I’m not planning on doing a video shoot.” But she changed it because it was easier than arguing.
“Here.” After another dip into her closet, he came out with a pair of half-boots in rich chestnut brown leather.
“Where’d those come from?”
“The closet fairy.”
She frowned at the boots suspiciously, poked a finger into the toes. “I don’t need new boots. My old ones are all broken in.”
“That’s a polite term for what they are. Try these.”
“Just gonna mess them up,” she muttered, but sat on the arm of the sofa to pull them on. They slid onto her feet like butter. Which only made her eye him narrowly. He’d probably had them hand-tooled for her in one of his countless factories and they surely cost more than a New York murder cop made in two months. “How about that. The closet fairy seems to know my shoe size.”
“An amazing fellow.”