The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

“If he stays true to form, it’ll be within twenty-four hours. He’s holding to the pattern so far, though each of his victims has been a distinctly different type: with DeBlass you’ve got the glitz, the sophistication; with Starr you’ve got fresh, childlike; and with this one, we’ve got comfort, still young but mature.

  “We’re still interviewing neighbors, and I’m going to hit the family again, look into the divorce. It looks to me like she took this guy spur of the moment. She had a standing date with her daughter for Tuesdays. I’d like Feeney to run her ’link, see if he called her direct. We’re not going to be able to keep this from the media, commander. And they’re going to hit us hard.”

  “I’m already working on media control.”

  “It may be hotter than we think.” Feeney looked up from the terminal. His eyes lingered on Eve’s, made her blood chill.

  “The murder weapon’s registered. Purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s last fall. Roarke.”

  Eve didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t care. “It breaks pattern,” she managed. “And it’s stupid. Roarke’s not a stupid man.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “It’s a plant, commander. An obvious one. A silent auction. Any second-rate hacker can use someone’s ID and bid. How was it paid for?” she snapped at Feeney.

  “I’ll need to access Sotheby’s records after they open tomorrow.”

  “My bet’s cash, electronic transfer. The auction house gets the money, why should they question it?” Her voice might have been calm, but her mind was racing. “And the delivery. Odds are electronic pick-up station. You don’t need ID for an EPS; all you do is key in the delivery code.”

  “Dallas.” Whitney spoke patiently. “Pick him up for questioning.”

  “I can’t.”

  His eyes remained level, cool. “That’s a direct order. If you have a personal problem, save it for personal time.”

  “I can’t pick him up,” she repeated. “He’s on the FreeStar space station, a fair distance from the murder scene.”

  “If he put out that he’d be on FreeStar—”

  “He didn’t,” she interrupted. “And that’s where the killer made a mistake. Roarke’s trip is confidential, with only a few key people apprised. As far as it’s generally known, he’s right here in New York.”

  Commander Whitney inclined his head. “Then we’d better check his whereabouts. Now.”

  Her stomach churned as she engaged Whitney’s ’link. Within seconds she was listening to Summerset’s prune voice. “Summerset, Lieutenant Dallas. I have to contact Roarke.”

  “Roarke is in meetings, lieutenant. He can’t be disturbed.”

  “He told you to put me through, goddamn it. This is police business. Give me his access number or I’m coming over there and hauling your bony ass in for obstructing justice.”

  Summerset’s face puckered up. “I am not authorized to give out that data. I will, however, transfer you. Please stand by.”

  Eve’s palms began to sweat as the screen went to holding blue. She wondered whose idea it was to pipe in the sugary music. Certainly not Roarke’s. He had too much class.

  Oh God, what was she going to do if he wasn’t where he said he’d be?

  The blue screen contracted into a pinpoint, then opened up. There was Roarke, a trace of impatience in his eyes, a half smile on his mouth.

  “Lieutenant. You’ve caught me at a bad time. Can I get back to you?”

  “No.” She could see from the corner of her eye that Feeney was already tracing the transmission. “I need to verify your whereabouts.”

  “My whereabouts?” His brow cocked. He must have seen something in her face, though Eve would have sworn she kept it as smooth and unreadable as stone. “What’s wrong, Eve? What’s happened?”

  “Your whereabouts, Roarke. Please verify.”

  He remained silent, studying her. Eve heard someone speak to him. He flicked away the interruption with a dismissing gesture. “I’m in the middle of a meeting in the presidential chamber of Station FreeStar, the location of which is Quadrant Six, Slip Alpha. Scan,” he ordered, and the intergalactic ’link circled the room. A dozen men and women sat at a wide, circular table.

  The long, bowed port showed a scatter of stars and the perfect blue-green globe of Earth.

  “Location of transmission confirmed,” Feeney said in an undertone. “He’s just where he says he is.”

  “Roarke, please switch to privacy mode.”

  Without a flicker of expression, he lifted a headset. “Yes, lieutenant?”

  “A weapon registered to you was confiscated at a homicide. I have to ask you to come in for questioning at the first possible opportunity. You’re free to bring your attorney. I’m advising you to bring your attorney,” she added, hoping he understood the emphasis. “If you don’t comply within forty-eight hours, the Station Guard will escort you back on-planet. Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

  “Certainly. I’ll make arrangements. Good-bye, lieutenant.”

  The screen went blank.

  chapter fourteen

  More shaken than she cared to admit, Eve entered Dr. Mira’s office the following morning. At Mira’s invitation, she took a seat, folded her hands to keep them from any telltale restless movements.

  “Have you had time to profile?”

  “You requested urgent status.” Indeed, Mira had been up most of the night, reading reports, using her training and her psych diagnostics to compose a profile. “I’d like more time to work on this, but I can give you an overall view.”

  “Okay.” Eve leaned forward. “What is he?”

  “He is almost certainly correct. Traditionally, crimes of this nature are not committed within the same sex. He’s a man, above average intelligence, with sociopathic and voyeuristic tendencies. He’s bold, but not a risk taker, though he probably sees himself as such.”

  In her graceful way, she linked her fingers together, crossed her legs. “His crimes are well thought out. Whether or not he has sex with his victims is incidental. His pleasure and satisfaction comes from the selection, the preparation, and the execution.”

  “Why prostitutes?”

  “Control. Sex is control. Death is control. And he needs to control people, situations. The first murder was probably impulse.”

  “Why?”

  “He was caught off guard by the violence, his own capability of violence. He had a reaction, a jerk of a movement, the indrawn breath, the shaky exhale. He recovered, systematically protected himself. He doesn’t want to be caught, but he wants—needs to be admired, feared. Hence the recordings.

  “He uses collector’s weapons,” she continued in that same moderate voice, “a status symbol of money. Again, power and control. He leaves them behind so that they can show he’s unique among men. He appreciates the overt violence of guns and the impersonal aspect of them. The kill from a comfortable distance, the aloofness of that. He’s decided on the number he’ll kill to show that he’s organized, precise. Ambitious.”

  “Could he have had the six women in mind from the beginning? Six targets?”

  “The only verified connection between the three victims is their profession,” Mira began, and saw that Eve had already reached the same conclusion, but wanted it confirmed. “He had the profession in mind. It would be my opinion the women are incidental. It’s likely he holds a high-level position, certainly a responsible one. If he has a sexual or marriage partner, he or she is subservient. His opinion of women is low. He debases and humiliates them after death to show his disgust and his superiority. He doesn’t perceive these as crimes but as moments of personal power, personal statement.

  “The prostitute, male or female, remains a profession of low esteem in many minds. Women are not his equals; a prostitute is beneath his contempt, even when he uses her for his own release. He enjoys his work, lieutenant. He enjoys it very much.”

  “Is it work, doctor, or a mission?”

  “
He has no mission. Only ambitions. It isn’t religion, not a moral statement, not a societal stance.”

  “No, the statement’s personal, the stance is control.”

  “I would agree,” Mira said, pleased with the straightforward workings of Eve’s mind. “It is, to him, an interest, a new and somewhat fascinating hobby that he has discovered himself adept at. He’s dangerous, lieutenant, not simply because he has no conscience, but because he’s good at what he does. And his success feeds him.”

  “He’ll stop at six,” Eve murmured. “With this method. But he’ll find another creative way to kill. He’s too vain to go back on his word to the authorities, but he’s enjoying his hobby too much to give it up.”

  Mira angled her head. “One would think, lieutenant, that you’ve already read my report. I believe you’re coming to understand him very well.”

  Eve nodded. “Yeah, piece by piece.” There was a question she had to ask, one she had suffered over through a long, sleepless night. “To protect himself, to make the game more difficult, would he hire someone, pay someone to kill a victim he’d chosen while he was alibied?”

  “No.” Mira’s eyes softened with compassion as she watched Eve’s close in relief. “In my opinion, he needs to be there. To watch, to record, most of all to experience. He doesn’t want vicarious satisfaction. Nor does he believe you’ll outsmart him. He enjoys watching you sweat, lieutenant. He’s an observer of people, and I believe he focused on you the moment he learned you were primary. He studies you, and knows you care. He sees that as a weakness to exploit, and does so by presenting you with the murders—not at your place of work, but where you live.”

  “He sent the last disc. It was in my morning mail drop, posted from a midtown slot about an hour after the murder. We had my building under surveillance. He’d have figured that and found a way to get around it.”

  “He’s a born button pusher.” Mira handed Eve a disc and a hard copy of the initial profile. “He is an intelligent and a mature man. Mature enough to restrain his impulses, a man of means and imagination. He would rarely show his emotions, rarely have them to show. It’s an intellect with him—and, as you said, vanity.”

  “I appreciate you getting this for me so quickly.”

  “Eve,” Mira said before Eve could rise. “There’s an addendum. The weapon that was left at the last murder. The man who committed these crimes would not make so foolish a mistake to leave a traceable weapon behind. The diagnostic rejected it at a probability of ninety-three point four percent.”

  “It was there,” Eve said flatly. “I bagged it myself.”

  “As I’m sure he wanted you to. It’s likely he enjoyed implicating someone else to further bog the system, twist the investigation process. And it’s likely he chose this particular person to upset you, to distract you, even to hurt you. I’ve included that in the profile. Personally, I want to tell you that I’m concerned about his interest in you.”

  “I’m going to see to it that he’s a hell of a lot more concerned with my interest in him. Thank you, doctor.”

  Eve went directly to Whitney’s office to deliver the psychiatric profile. With any luck at all, Feeney would have verified her suspicions about the purchase and delivery of the murder weapon.

  If she was right, and she had to believe she was, that and the weight of Mira’s profile would clear Roarke.

  She already knew, by the way Roarke had looked at her—through her—during their last transmission, that her professional duties had destroyed whatever personal bridge they’d been building.

  She was only more sure of it when she was cleared into the office, and found Roarke there.

  He must have used a private transport, she decided. It would have been impossible for him to have arrived so quickly through normal channels. He only inclined his head, said nothing as she crossed to give Commander Whitney the disc and file.

  “Dr. Mira’s profile.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant.” His eyes shifted to Roarke’s. “Lieutenant Dallas will show you to an interview area. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  Still, he said nothing, only rose and waited for Eve to go to the door. “You’re entitled to have your attorney present,” she began as she called for an elevator.

  “I’m aware of that. Am I being charged with any crime, lieutenant?”

  “No.” Cursing him, she stepped inside, requested Area B. “This is just standard procedure.” His silence continued until she wanted to scream. “Damn it, I don’t have a choice here.”

  “Don’t you?” he murmured and preceded her out of the car when the doors opened.

  “This is my job.” The doors of the interview area whisked open, then snapped closed behind them. The surveillance cameras any petty thief would know were hidden in every wall engaged automatically. Eve took a seat at a small table and waited for him to sit across from her.

  “These proceedings are being recorded. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, ID 5347BQ, interviewer. Subject, Roarke. Initial date and time. Subject has waived the presence of an attorney. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, the subject has waived the presence of an attorney.”

  “Are you acquainted with a licensed companion, Georgie Castle?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been to 156 West Eighty-ninth Street?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “Do you own a Ruger P-ninety, automatic combat weapon, circa 2005?”

  “It’s likely that I own a weapon of that make and era. I’d have to check to be certain. But for argument’s sake, we’ll say I do.”

  “When did you purchase said weapon?”

  “Again, I’d have to check.” He never blinked, never took his eyes from hers. “I have an extensive collection, and don’t carry all the details of it in my head or in my pocket log.”

  “Did you purchase said weapon at Sotheby’s?”

  “It’s possible. I often add to my collection through auctions.”

  “Silent auctions?”

  “Occasionally.”

  Her stomach, already knotted, began to roll. “Did you add to your collection with the aforesaid weapon at a silent auction at Sotheby’s on October second of last year?”

  Roarke slipped his log out of his pocket, skimmed back to the date. “No. I don’t have a record of that. It seems I was in Tokyo on that date, engaged in meetings. You can verify that easily.”

  Damn you, damn you, she thought. You know that’s no answer. “Representatives are often used in auctions.”

  “They are.” Watching her dispassionately, he tucked the log away again. “If you check with Sotheby’s, you’ll be told that I don’t use representatives. When I decide to acquire something, it’s because I’ve seen it—with my own eyes. Gauged its worth to me. If and when I decide to bid, I do so personally. In a silent auction, I would either attend, or participate by ’link.”

  “Isn’t it traditional to use a sealed electronic bid, or a representative authorized to go to a certain ceiling?”

  “I don’t worry about traditions overmuch. The fact is, I could change my mind as to whether I want something. For one reason or another, it could lose its appeal.”

  She understood the underlying meaning of his statement, tried to accept that he was done with her. “The aforesaid weapon, registered in your name and purchased through silent auction at Sotheby’s in October of last year was used to murder Georgie Castle at approximately seven-thirty last evening.”

  “You and I both know I wasn’t in New York at seven-thirty last evening.” His gaze skimmed over her face. “You traced the transmission, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “Your weapon was found at the scene.”

  “Have we established it was mine?”

  “Who has access to your collection?”

  “I do. Only I do.”

  “Your staff?”

  “No. If you recall, lieutenant, my di
splay cases are locked. Only I have the code.”

  “Codes can be broken.”

  “Unlikely, but possible,” he agreed. “However, unless my palm print is used for entry, any case that is opened by any means triggers an alarm.”

  Goddamn it, give me an opening. Couldn’t he see she was pleading with him, trying to save him? “Alarm’s can be bypassed.”

  “True. When any case is opened without my authorization, all entry to the room is sealed off. There’s no way to get out, and security is notified simultaneously. I can assure you, lieutenant, it’s quite foolproof. I believe in protecting what’s mine.”

  She glanced up as Feeney came in. He jerked his head, and she rose.

  “Excuse me.”

  When the doors shut behind them, he dipped his hands into his pockets. “You called it, Dallas. Electronic bid, cash deal, delivered to an EPS. The head snoot at Sotheby’s claims this was an unusual procedure for Roarke. He always attends in person, or by direct ’link. Never used this line before in the fifteen years or so he’s dealt with them.”

  She allowed herself one satisfied breath. “That checks with Roarke’s statement. What else?”

  “Ran an undercheck on the registration. The Ruger only appeared on the books in Roarke’s name a week ago. No way in hell we can pin it on him. The commander says to spring him.”

  She couldn’t afford to be relieved, not yet, and only nodded. “Thanks, Feeney.”

  She slipped back inside. “You’re free to go.”

  He stood as she stepped backward through the open door. “Just like that?”

  “We have no reason, at this time, to detain or inconvenience you any further.”

  “Inconvenience?” He walked toward her until the doors snicked shut at his back. “Is that what you call this? An inconvenience?”

  He was, she told herself entitled to his anger, to his bitterness. She was obliged to do her job. “Three women are dead. Every possibility has to be explored.”

  “And I’m just one of your possibilities?” He reached out, the sudden violent movement of his hands closing over her shirt, surprising her. “Is that what it comes down to between us?”