by J. D. Robb
His back was crisscrossed with lash marks, proving that he didn’t always settle for virtual punishment.
Though it wasn’t quite proper procedure, Eve used her master to unlock the tube. His body was arched, his lips peeled back in a grimace of erotic pain. Eve hit the main switch and left him trembling on the brink.
“What the fuck.” His body sagged, muscles quivering. “Mistress, please. I beg you.”
“That’s Lieutenant Mistress to you, creep.” Eve whipped off his goggles. “Hi, Mook. Remember me?”
“This is a privacy booth.”
“No kidding? And here I was looking forward to a fun group session. Well, next time. Now, let’s you and me go somewhere quiet and talk.”
“I don’t have to talk to you. I got rights. Damn it, I was about to get off here.”
With someone else, she might have given him a quick little jab. But Mook, well, he’d just enjoy it. “I take you in, nobody’s going to hurt you for the next thirty-six hours. You don’t want to go that long without pain, do you, Mook? Let’s talk, then you can get back to Madam Electra and her—what is it?—six million tortures.”
He leaned in, straining against the restraints. “Make me.”
“Want me to rough you up, Mook?” She kept her voice low, in a purr. “Force you?” And when excitement filled his face, she shrugged. “Nope, not in the mood. But I will give your dominatrix here a quick blast. I don’t guess they’re real quick on repair and replacement of equipment in this joint.”
“Don’t!” His voice squeaked in protest. Moving fast now, he nudged the toe release so that the restraints popped open. “Why do you want to mess me up this way?”
“Just part of my daily entertainment. Let’s get us another privacy booth, Mook, one without the toys.”
She stepped back, and when he followed she saw his gaze land on Peabody’s bat. He made a lunge. Peabody flipped it out of her belt, zapped him dead center of the chest. His body jerked, danced, then shivered.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t encourage him, Peabody.” Taking Mook’s arm firmly in hand, she strode to the nearest private-table booth. As it was occupied by a couple of chemi-heads in the middle of an illegals deal, she kicked the tube, flashed her badge. Jerked her thumb.
They slithered out and away like smoke.
“This is cozy.” She settled in. “Watch the door, Peabody, and we’ll keep this quick and private. Who’s in the poison business these days, Mook?”
“I’m not your weasel.”
“A fact that has always brought me joy and cheer. As does the fact I can put you in solitary lockup for those thirty-six hours during which time your life will not be the living hell you know and love. The Reverend Munch is dead as Hitler, Mook, and so are all his merry men, but for you.”
“I testified,” he reminded her. “I gave the Feds all the info.”
“Yeah, you did. Seemed like mass suicide was just a little over the top even for someone with your particular appetites. But you never told them who provided that curare and cyanide cocktail the reverend mixed up with the lemonade for his congregation.”
“I was low on the feeding chain. I told them what I knew.”
“And the feebies were satisfied. But you know what? I’m not. Give me a name, and I walk out of your sick and pitiful life. Hold out on me, and I’ll be coming down here, or whatever cesspool you try to frequent, every fucking day. Every day, interrupting your S&M games until orgasms are just a fond and distant memory for you. Every time you try to get off, jack off, whack off, I’ll be there spoiling the fun. Come on, Mook, it’s been what . . . better than ten years since the cult offed itself. What do you care?”
“I was sucked in. I was brainwashed—”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Who brought in the poison?”
“I don’t know who he was. They just called him the doctor. Only saw him once. Skinny guy. Old.”
“Race?”
“White-bread, through and through. I figure he drank the shit, too.”
“Did he?”
“Look.” Mook looked around, and though they were in the tube, lowered his voice. “Most people, they don’t remember what went down back there; they don’t know about it. People find out I was in the Church of Hereafter, they get all weirded out.”
She glanced around as well, taking in the screams, the writhing bodies. “Oh yeah, I can see how people acting weird would be a major concern for you. Spill.”
“What’s it worth?”
Eve pulled out twenty credits, slapped it on the nail-head-sized table.
“Shit, Dallas, that don’t buy me an hour VR time. Give me a frigging break.”
“Take it. Or leave it and we’ll stop being so friendly and go into Central. You won’t see Madam Electra and her many exquisite tortures for thirty-six, minimum.”
He looked sad, sitting there in his studded dog collar. “Why you gotta be such a bitch?”
“Mook, I ask myself that very question every morning. Never have come up with a satisfactory answer.”
He scooped up the twenty, tucked it into his cock sheath. “Want you to remember I helped you out.”
“Mook, how could I ever forget you?”
“Right.” He looked around, through the smoky glass of the booth. Licked his lips. “Okay, right. Nothing coming down on me about this shit, right?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, see . . . I was going to tell the Feebs everything, total cooperation.”
“Get to it, Mook. I have a life to get back to.”
“I’m telling you. I was cooperating, and I was gonna name all the names. But I saw him outside, behind the barricades at the church when they started hauling bodies out. Man, that was some scene, right. You were there.”
“Yeah, I was there.
“So . . . He looked at me.”
Earnest now and just a little jazzed, he leaned in. “Scary guy, all pale and spooky. And me, I don’t want to go out with no slurp of some poison. I could tell he knew I went in with the cops instead of following through on the promise. So I had to cover myself, didn’t I? I just left him out of it. What’s the big deal?”
“So, he’s alive?”
“He was then.” Mook shrugged his massive shoulders. “I never saw him again, and that was fine by me. I didn’t know him,” Mook insisted. “Swear on my dick.”
“And that is a solemn oath.”
“Yeah, it is.” Pleased she understood, he nodded rapidly. “Only thing I ever heard was talk about how he used to be a real doctor, but they kicked him outta the club. And that he was fucking rich and fucking crazy.”
“Give me a name.”
“I didn’t know him. That’s solid, Dallas. Slave level wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone over the rank of soldier.”
“Need more.”
“I don’t got more. He was some old, crazy dude. Look liked a goddamn corpse. Skinny, sick-looking guy, come around and whisper with Munch time to time. Stare right through you so you got bone chills. Guys called him Doctor Doom. That’s all I know about it. Come on, that’s all I know about it. I want to get back to my game.”
“Yeah, go back to your game.” But she clamped a hand on his wrist as he started to rise. “If I find out you know more and aren’t telling me, I’ll pick you up, pull you in, and plunk you down in a locked room full of soft pillows, pastels, and moldy-oldy music.”
His face hardened. “You’re a cold bitch, Dallas.”
“Bet your ass.”
“Reverend Munch and the Church of Hereafter cult.” Peabody was so impressed she forgot to kiss the sidewalk when they reached street level again. “Were you in on that?”
“Peripheral. Way peripheral. That was a federal op, and local law was just background. Two hundred and fifty people self-terminating because one mad monster preached that death was the ultimate experience.” She shook her head. “Maybe it is, but we’re all going to get there eventually anyway. Why rush it?”
; “They said—people said not everyone in the cult was willing to go through to the end. But the soldier level forced them to drink. And there were kids. Little kids.”
“Yeah, there were kids.” She’d still been in uniform then, not quite a year out of the Academy. And it was one of the images that lived in the back of her brain. Always would. “Kids, and infants whose mothers fed them that shit in a bottle. Munch had vids taken of the ceremony. Part of his legacy. First and last time I ever saw a Feebie shed a tear. Some of them sobbed like babies.”
She shook her head again, pushed the memory away. “We need to start searching for doctors who lost their licenses to practice, going back ten to twenty years to start. Mook said he was old, so let’s assume, going by Mook’s criteria, this guy was at least sixty during Reverend Munch’s reign. Keep the search centered on men, Caucasian, sixty-five to eighty for now. Nearly all of Munch’s people were located in New York. So we’ll stick with the state’s medical board.”
Eve glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting back at Central. Look, let’s try this. Head down to the Canal Street Clinic, see if Louise knows anybody who fits this guy’s ID, or if not, if she’ll nudge some of her medical sources for a name. She’s got good contacts, and it could save time.”
But Eve hesitated. “You okay dealing with Louise?”
“Sure. I like her. I think it’s really nice about her and Charles.”
“Whatever. Call in with whatever you get, then take an hour to surveil Maureen Stibbs.”
“Really? Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“You can take whatever time you can squeeze out tomorrow on the Stibbs matter when I’m out, but current load is priority.”
“Understood. Dallas, one thing, on a personal front. I just wondered if maybe my parents are getting on your nerves? It seemed like maybe you and my father were off each other the other night.”
“No, they’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay, but they’re only going to be here a few more days. I’ll keep them occupied as much as I can. I guess Dad was just sensing some of your stress over the case. He picks up on stuff like that, even when he’s blocking. About the only thing that shakes him up is getting something from somebody without their permission. Anyway.” She brightened up again. “I can catch the subway to the clinic. Maybe we’ll get lucky with Louise.”
“Yeah.” It was time, Eve thought, they got lucky with something.
Eve marched toward her office five minutes before the scheduled interview with Nadine. It didn’t surprise her in the least to find Nadine already there. The reporter’s silky legs were crossed as she meticulously applied fresh lip dye and checked her camera-ready face in her compact mirror.
Her camera operator stood slouched in a corner munching on a candy bar.
“Where’d you get that candy?” Eve demanded and moved in so quickly the operator’s eyes popped wide.
“V-v-v-vending. Just down the hall.” She offered what remained of the candy like a shield. “You want a hit?”
Eve scowled at her just long enough to see sweat bead on her brow, and concluded that the camera wasn’t her dastardly candy thief.
“No.” Eve dropped down at her desk, stretched out her legs.
“I was hoping you’d be late,” Nadine began. “Then I was going to lord it over you.”
“One of these days someone out there’s going to do his job and keep you in the media area instead of letting you back here when I’m not in my office.”
Nadine only smirked, clicked her compact closed. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Now if you’ve finished intimidating my camera and your usual bitching, what’s this about?”
“Murder.”
“With you, it always is. Pettibone and Mouton. Obviously connected. Before we start I can tell you there’s nothing in my searches that connects them personally and professionally. I’m sure you already know that. I’ve got nothing that puts any of their family on the same page, no particular links between colleagues. Pettibone used his own, in-house lawyers for WOF.”
Watching Eve, Nadine used her perfectly manicured fingers to click off points. “They may very well have known each other vaguely on some thin social level, but didn’t run in the same circles. The current wives used different salons, different health clubs, and tended to shop at different boutiques.” Nadine paused. “But I imagine you know that, too.”
“We do manage to cover some ground here at Central.”
“Which is why I’m wondering how I got a one-on-one with you without begging for it.”
“You don’t beg, you wheedle.”
“Yes, and quite well. Why the offer, Dallas?”
“I want to stop her, and I’ll use all available tools. The more media exposure on this one, the better chance someone might recognize her. She’ll be working toward her next target. Now this is off the record, Nadine, and I won’t answer any questions pertaining to it on record. There’s a better than fifty-fifty chance Roarke’s a target.”
“Roarke? Jesus, Dallas. That doesn’t play. He’s not her type. Hell, he’s every woman’s type, but you know what I mean. He’s too young, he’s too married.”
“Married to me,” Eve said. “That may be enough for her.”
Nadine sat back again, let it settle in. She valued friendship as much as she valued ratings. “Okay. What can I do?”
“The interview. Give the story as much play as you can manage. Keep it and her on everyone’s mind. She counts on being able to blend in. I want to take that advantage away from her.”
“You want to piss her off.”
“If she’s pissed off, she’ll make a mistake. She’s got ice for blood, that’s why she’s good at what she does. It’s time to heat it up.”
“Okay.” Nadine nodded and signalled her camera. “Let’s start the fire.”
Chapter 11
“Julianna Dunne is a failure of the system to identify an active threat and separate that threat from society.” Eve’s voice was calm and clear. The camera crept in until her face filled the screen. “It was a failure of the system to properly incarcerate and punish Julianna Dunne as suited her crimes against society.”
“And yet—” The camera cut to Nadine. Earnest. Interested. “You’re part of that system. You purport to believe in that system.”
“I do believe in the system. I’m speaking to you as a representative of that system and stating that where we failed, we will correct. The search for Julianna Dunne continues in every possible direction, on every possible level. Whether or not she remains in New York, Julianna Dunne will be tracked down, she will be found, she will be taken into custody, and charged with the murders of Walter C. Pettibone and Henry Mouton.”
“In what directions, on what levels is this investigation proceeding?”
“I can’t discuss the investigative details of this matter except to say that we’re pursuing all leads. We know who and what she is.”
“What is she, Lieutenant?”
“Julianna Dunne is a killer. It’s what she does, what she’ll continue to do until she’s stopped.”
“As a representative of the people of New York—”
“I’m not a representative of the people of New York,” Eve interrupted. “I’m sworn to protect and to serve the people of New York. And I will. I’ll keep that oath and for the second time assist in separating Julianna Dunne from society. I will, personally, put her in a cage.”
“Is that right?” In her bedroom Julianna brushed her newly gilded curls and pouted at Eve’s image on-screen. “You cocky bitch. You got lucky once, that’s all. You got lucky. This time out, you’re not even close. I’m sitting here right under your nose, and you don’t have a clue!”
Infuriated, she threw the brush across the room. “We’ll see what you have to say when that man you married falls dead at your feet. We’ll see if you’re so goddamn cocky when he’s gasping for his last breath. We’ll see how you like that! You keep right on chasing the trail on
those two sorry old men. They meant nothing. It’s you and yours, this time, Dallas. I’m taking you and yours down. It’s payback time.”
She turned, comforting, soothing herself with her own reflection in the mirror. “But you’re right about one thing, Dallas. Killing is what I do. And I do it very well.”
Smart, Roarke thought as he, too, watched his wife’s interview. Very smart. Keep saying her name, the whole of it, so it becomes printed on the minds of everyone who hears it. And Nadine had done her part, flashing Dunne’s various images on-screen.
No one who would view the four-minute interview, which was being rebroadcast every ninety minutes, would forget Julianna Dunne.
And the name and image of Eve Dallas would be similarly imprinted on Julianna Dunne’s mind.
She was trying to turn Dunne’s focus onto her, Roarke concluded. To save another innocent. Even if that innocent was her own, far from pure husband.
He had his own ideas about that, ideas they would undoubtedly clash over. But before it came to that, they would deal with the city of Dallas, and the memories that lived there still.
A part of him was relieved she would go, that she would face this nightmare. It might not free her, but he could hope it would at least lighten the burden she carried with her every day of her life.
But another part wanted her to turn away from it all, as she had turned away from it for so many years. Bury it deep, and look ahead.
And he of all people knew that the past was always stalking your back like a great black dog. Ready to pounce and sink fangs into your throat just when you thought you were safe.
Whatever he’d done to bury the past, it was never quite enough. It lived with him, even here in this grand house with all its treasures and comfort and beauty, the stink of Dublin’s slums lived with him. Easier perhaps, he mused, than the past lived with his wife. His before was more like a poor and somewhat regrettable family relation that sat stubbornly in a corner and would never leave.
He knew what it was like to be hungry and afraid, to feel fists pounding him. Fists from hands that should have tended him, embraced him as fathers were meant to embrace sons. But he’d escaped from that. Even as a child he’d had his means of escape. With friends, bad company, with enterprises that, while far from legal, were vastly entertaining. And profitable.