by J. D. Robb
The third weekend of every month, he stayed at his shore home in the Hamptons.
Some said he was rigid, including his two ex-wives, but Henry thought of himself as organized. As his current wife was nearly as detail- and routine-oriented as he was himself, Henry’s world was in perfect order.
The main floor of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch was as grand as a cathedral, and at seven A.M. quiet as a grave.
He walked straight to his corner office, with its eagle-perch view of uptown Manhattan. His desk was a perfect rectangular island topped only by his data and communication center, his sterling pen set, a fresh blotter bordered in burgundy leather, and a silver-framed photo of his wife, the third image to grace that same frame in the past twenty-four years.
He set his briefcase on the blotter, opened it, and removed his memo book and the disc files he’d taken home with him the night before.
While commuter trams streamed the sky at his back, Henry closed the briefcase, set it on the shelf beside his desk for easy access.
A faint sound had him glancing up, and frowning in puzzlement at the neatly dressed brunette in his doorway.
“And who might you be?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mouton. I’m Janet Drake, the new temp. I heard you come in. I didn’t realize anyone would be in this early.”
Julianna folded her hands at her waist and offered a shy smile. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You’re in early yourself, Miss Drake.”
“Yes, sir. It’s my first day. I wanted to familiarize myself with the office and organize my cube. I hope that’s all right.”
“Initiative is appreciated around here.” Attractive, Henry thought, well-spoken, eager. “Would you be hoping for a permanent slot here, Miss Drake?”
She worked up a faint flush. “I’d be thrilled to be offered a permanent position with your firm, sir. If my work warrants it.”
He nodded. “Carry on, then.”
“Yes, sir.” She stepped back, stopped. “Could I bring you a cup of coffee? I just programmed fresh.”
He let out a grunt as he slid a file disc into his desk unit. “Light, no sugar. Thank you.”
In her practical pumps, Julianna clipped back to the staff break room. There was plenty of time. Her careful research told her that the head of the firm arrived in the offices at least thirty minutes, often a full hour before anyone else. But there was always a chance some eager-beaver law clerk or drone, some maintenance droid could come in and interrupt things.
She preferred getting the job done and moving on while the day was young. She was sure Henry himself would applaud the efficiency.
The idea tickled her so much she chuckled as she poisoned his coffee.
“Could’ve worked out this way nine years ago, Henry,” she murmured as she stirred in the cyanide. “But you didn’t draw the short straw.” She patted her short, dark hair. “Sort of a pity, really. I think you’d have enjoyed being married to me. For the short-term.”
She carried the thick, practical mug back into his office. His computer was already blathering about some legal precedent. Outside the glass wall a traffic copter whisked by as the morning commute heated up. Julianna set the coffee by his elbow, stepped back.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mouton?”
Obviously lost in thought, he picked up the coffee, sipped absently while he stared out at the traffic, listened to his notes.
“No, I’ve everything I need, Miss . . .”
“Drake,” she said pleasantly, her gaze ice-cold as she watched him sip again. “Janet Drake.”
“Yes, well, good luck on your first day, Miss Drake. Just leave the door open when you go out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She stepped outside the office, and waited. She heard him begin to choke, that shocked, desperate attempt to draw air. Her face held a terrible beauty when she stepped back in to watch him die.
She liked to watch, when the opportunity presented itself.
His face was beet red, his eyes bulging. He’d knocked what was left of the coffee on the floor as he thrashed, and the brown seeped in to stain the stone gray carpet.
He stared at her, the pain and fear alive in the room as he died.
“Go down the wrong pipe?” she said cheerfully, and strolled over as he fell to the floor. “There’s been a little change in routine today, Henry.” She angled her head, her expression fascinated as his body convulsed. “You get to die.”
It was, Julianna thought, the most incredible sensation to witness death come, and know it marched in at the direction of your own hand.
It was a wonder to her more people didn’t try it.
When it was finished, she blew him a sassy kiss, and sauntering out, closed the door behind her. A pity it was too early for the shops to be open, she thought as she picked up her handbag and strolled to the elevator. She felt like a nice splurge.
Crouched over the body of Henry Mouton, Eve felt anger, frustration, and guilt. None of those emotions would help, so she did her best to clamp down on them.
“This is her work,” Eve stated. “How the hell does she just walk in, through building security, and get this guy to drink poisoned coffee? Blending. She blends. Who do I need to be, and that’s who I’ll be. She had to know he’d be here, alone. This wasn’t a lucky shot. And I’m off chasing fucking sheep.”
“Lieutenant. Mouton is sheep in French.” Peabody held out her PPC. “I looked it up.”
“Great, fine. Loopy comes through. A lot of good it did him.” Annoyed with herself, she straightened up. “Have him tagged and bagged and turned over to the ME. I need building security discs, the witness who found him, ah . . . office manager. Data on next-of-kin.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas?” Peabody hesitated, then spoke her mind. “You couldn’t have stopped this.”
“Sure I could have. Turn the right key in the right lock. But I didn’t, so we go from here.”
When Peabody moved out, Eve took out her notebook and began to plug in data.
“Excuse me. Lieutenant Dallas?”
She glanced back, saw the smartly dressed woman with jet-black hair in perfectly styled waves. “I have to ask you to keep clear of this room.”
“Yes, I understand. They told me you were in charge. I’m Olivia Fitch, one of Henry’s partners. And his second wife.” When her gaze wandered to the body, her lips trembled. But she pressed them together, and her voice stayed steady. “I was hoping you could tell me . . . something. Anything.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk, Ms. Fitch?”
“Yes, of course. My office? I want to be able to tell the staff something,” she began as she led the way. “And I need, for myself, to be able to think about this in some rational way.”
She opened the door to another corner office. It was similar in size to Mouton’s, faced east instead of north, and had a bit more flair and less spartan regimentation.
“This is a difficult time for you.”
“Yes, very.” Rather than move to the desk or the sitting area, Olivia walked to the wall of windows. “Henry and I were divorced four, no five years ago. He’s remarried and this will be a devastating blow for Ashley. His death would have been difficult enough, but murder. I’ve never known anyone who’s been murdered.” She turned back. “It shakes me down to the bone.”
“Do you know anyone who’d wish Mr. Mouton harm?”
“We’re lawyers,” Olivia returned with a shrug. “Who doesn’t wish us harm? But no, I honestly can’t think of anyone who’d do this to Henry. He’s an irritating man, impossible to live with in my viewpoint. He’s—he was so linear, so absolutely fixated on maintaining his routines, so absolutely set in his ways. You might want to kick him in the ass occasionally, but you wouldn’t want to kill him for it.”
“Not many people who’d been married would remain business partners.”
“Another one of Henry’s annoying traits.” Tears shimmered, but she held them back.
“He was a logical bastard. Why should we have an upheaval in the firm because the marriage was over? Worked together fine before, didn’t we? In this case, we were in agreement. The fact is we made better business partners than lovers. I don’t know if we were friends. I should probably be asking for my own lawyer by now.” She sighed. “I can’t work up the energy for it.”
“Why would he have been here before office hours?”
“Henry sat down at his desk every blessed morning at seven A.M. Rain, shine, flood, or famine. Whatever else could be said about him, his work ethic was golden. He cared about this firm, about his work, about the law.”
Now her voice caught and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “Damn it. Damn it, damn it.”
“Do you want something? A glass of water?”
“No. I’m not a crier.” She bore down, visibly. “And I also care about the law. I want whoever did this caught and punished. So ask your questions. I can promise you you’ll have full cooperation from everyone in this firm or I’ll skin them.”
“Appreciated.” Eve paused, turned when Peabody stepped in.
“Can I speak to you a minute, Lieutenant?”
“If you’ll hold here, Ms. Fitch.” She shifted to just outside the office door. “What have you got?”
“Julianna Dunne’s fingerprints in the break room. She was here, and she didn’t bother to seal up. I’ve got the discs from security. They’re labeled.”
“Good. Find me the office manager and send her in here when I’m done with Fitch.”
She stepped back inside. “Ms. Fitch, do you know a woman named Julianna Dunne?”
“Dunne? That name sounds familiar.” Her brow furrowed, then arched in surprise. “The Walter Pettibone murder—and the others. I saw the media reports and bulletins. Do you think she . . . but why? How could she just . . .” She did sit now, heavily.
“Have you seen a woman matching her description in or around these offices?”
“No.” Olivia pressed her hands to her face. “I can’t get my head around this.”
“She was here, in your break room. I assume your cleaning service wipes down that area every night.”
“Yes, yes. We have a very good, very thorough service.”
“If that’s the case, she was here this morning. Can I use this?” she asked, gesturing to the computer.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
Eve plugged in the lobby disc. “Do you know what time the cleaning service does this area?”
“They’re scheduled to do this floor between twelve and two A.M.”
Eve programmed the disc to begin its run at two A.M. She zipped through, pausing periodically when someone entered or exited the lobby. Traffic was light, running to weary office drones who’d put in a late shift, maintenance people, and a change of lobby personnel. At oh-six-forty-five, an attractive brunette in a smart business suit strode in and walked straight to the reception desk.
Eve froze the frame, enhanced. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Olivia turned back, studied the image. “No. I don’t recall seeing her before. There are a number of offices and companies in this building. I don’t see how—”
“Look closer. Just the face. Forget the hair.”
There was a flicker of impatience, but Olivia did as she was asked. “I know everyone on this level, and she’s not . . . Wait. My God. That’s Dunne, isn’t it? I didn’t recognize her at first glance.”
“Yeah, most people wouldn’t.”
By noon she had a conference room booked and her team assembled.
“Here’s how it went,” she began. “Julianna forges a firm ID—child’s play—and passes it off to the security guard. Same guard was on duty the day before—six to noon shift—and she signed in as Janet Drake, clerical temp for Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch at eight-forty-three on that date. Made a point in giving him a big, flirty smile and making some small talk so he’d remember her when she came in this morning. Walks in early,” Eve continued, gesturing to the disc running on-screen. “Bops right on up to the main floor of the firm. We’ve got her until she walks into the offices. Eight minutes later, we have Mouton following the same route. For the next twenty minutes, we deduce.”
She paused the run. “Statements from staff and associates confirm that Mouton habitually entered his office at oh-seven hundred. He was a creature of routine, and no doubt Julianna researched his habits. The most likely scenario is she introduced herself as a temp, claimed to be eager to start work, flattered him in the area most important to him—his firm, his work, his work ethic. She offers to bring him coffee, goes to the break room, orders a cup, poisons it. She’d have stayed to make sure he drank it, make sure he died. She likes to see the job through. At seven-eighteen, she exits the offices.”
Eve ordered the run to continue, zipped it up. “She’s got a glow about her now,” she commented. “She really gets off on this. Exits by a second-floor fire door so she doesn’t have to bother with the guard. She could catch the glide to street level and be home for brunch.”
“She’s changed her pattern,” Feeney put in. “She’s stayed in New York, she’s greasing guys not previously known to her. But some habits die hard. She’s still going for the same type of target, still modifying her appearance without any permanent changes.”
“She’s dug in here.” Eve reached for coffee as a matter of habit more than need. “Mira’s opinion is I’m part of the appeal—the only woman she’s ever really combated with. She needs to be better than I am, and the way to do that is to kill on my turf while I chase my tail.”
“Good.” McNab caught her attention. “Then it’ll hurt more when you rear back and bite out her throat.”
“Sucking up, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.” He flashed a grin as bright as his trio of earrings. “But hey, what is, is. She’s not better than you.”
“Right now I’ve got two dead men who aren’t likely to agree with you. We need to keep on those units impounded from Dockport. She’s got a place here.”
Somewhere, Eve thought. Classy uptown digs, trendy downtown.
“Swank apartment or house, in the city. She either bought it while she was in the cage, or arranged for it to be maintained during that period.” She gulped more coffee, waited for the kick. “There have to be transmissions. She’s smart enough to have used her smuggled PPC for that, but she might have gotten sloppy. She researched targets. There has to be data.”
“We’re cleaning out the excess,” Feeney assured her. “If it’s there, we’ll find it.”
“Find it fast. There are disc copies of Mira’s report for all of you. You’ll read her opinion, and I concur with it, that Julianna’s story regarding her step-father sexually abusing her is inaccurate. I need to interview him, push out the truth. The more we know about her, the quicker we hunt her down. In addition, it’s possible he’s a future target. I’ll be going to Texas as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Am I with you, sir?” Peabody asked.
“No, I need you here.” Can’t take you to Dallas. Can’t risk it. Can’t stand it. “Keep running the poison. She’s getting it from somewhere.” She was careful to keep her voice professional as she continued. “You’ll also read in Mira’s report that regardless of the low probability percentage on the computer scans, she believes Roarke is also a potential target.”
“Fucking A.”
Though it arrowed straight to her heart, she ignored McNab’s outburst. “While he doesn’t fit her standard profile, and the accumulated data, which gives this target a negligible computer probability, he suits her needs to war with me. Being aware of the identity of a potential target will help us close in. I have Roarke’s schedule for the next five days, and there are copies of that as well in your packets. He’s refused direct police protection, but has agreed to basic precautions.”
Her mind flashed back to Mouton’s body, sprawled on his office floor. Before Roarke’s face could superimpose over the image, she shut it down. “
His security is superior, but as primary . . .”
She let out an oath, short, vicious, pushed her fisted hands in her pockets. “Feeney, I’d like you to go over security at his offices, at home, in his vehicles.”
“He tagged me an hour ago. I’m meeting him this afternoon.”
“Thanks. Okay. That’s all we’ve got, so let’s make it work. I’ll be in my office.”
“She’s shook,” McNab whispered to Peabody when Eve headed out. “And she doesn’t shake easy.”
“I’m going to go talk to her.” She bolted out of the room, scanned the corridor, and just caught sight of Eve moving down on a glide. She had to run, then elbow a few people aside, but she caught up just as Eve stepped off.
“Dallas. Hold on just a minute.”
“I don’t have time for chatter, Peabody. If I’m going to clean things up so I can take this travel time, I’ve got to move.”
“She won’t get to him. She won’t even get close.” She touched Eve’s arm, then took hold of it to stop Eve’s forward progress. “Maybe if it was just one of you she could get lucky and do some damage. But she’s going up against both of you. There’s no way. Just no way in the known universe.”
The frustration and fear bottled up in Eve’s throat spewed out in a low, harsh tone. “All she has to do is tip something in a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, a fucking glass of water.”
“No, that’s not all.” More than shook, Peabody thought. Scared to the bone. “You know it’s not. She has to get through his radar and yours. Look, I don’t know the facts about where he came from, how he got here, but I can deduce. It’s not just that he knows how to handle himself, which he does. It’s that he’s dangerous. It’s one of the things that makes him so goddamn sexy.”
Eve turned, stared blindly at a vending machine. “He’s not even worried, particularly.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t be careful, that he won’t be smart.”
“No, it doesn’t. I know it doesn’t.” To give her hands something to do, she dug out a credit, plugged it in, and ordered a candy bar.