The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  “It’s a theory, lieutenant. I’m sorry, but it’s just as likely, even more so, that all three murders were committed by one man who grows more calculating with each success. In my professional opinion, no one who wasn’t privy to the first crime, to the stages of it, could have so perfectly mirrored the events in the second two.”

  Her computer had ditched her theory as well, with a forty-eight-five. “Okay, thanks.” Deflated, Eve disconnected. Stupid to be disappointed, she told herself. How much worse could it be if she were after two men instead of one?

  Her ’link buzzed again. Teeth bared in annoyance, she flipped on. “Dallas, What?”

  “Hey, Lieutenant Sugar, a guy might think you didn’t care.”

  “I don’t have time to play, Charles.”

  “Hey, don’t cut me off. I got something for you.”

  “Or for lame innuendos—”

  “No, really. Boy, flirt with a woman once or twice and she never takes you seriously.” His perfect face registered hurt. “You asked me to call if I remembered anything, right?”

  “Right.” Patience, she warned herself. “So, did you?”

  “It was the diaries that got me thinking. You know how I said she was always recording everything. Since you’re looking for them, I figure they weren’t over at her place.”

  “You should be a detective.”

  “I like my line of work. Anyhow, I started wondering where she might put them for safekeeping. And I remembered the safe-deposit box.”

  “We’ve already checked it. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Oh. Well, how’d you get into it without me? She’s dead.” Eve paused on the point of cutting him off. “Without you?”

  “Yeah. A couple, three years ago, she asked me to sign for one for her. Said she didn’t want her name on the record.”

  Eve’s heart began to thump. “Then what good would it do her?”

  Charles’s smile was sheepish and charming. “Well, technically, I signed her on as my sister. I’ve got one in Kansas City. So we listed Sharon as Annie Monroe. She paid the rent, and I just forgot about it. I can’t even say for sure if she kept it, but I thought you might want to know.”

  “Where’s the bank?”

  “First Manhattan, on Madison.”

  “Listen to me, Charles. You’re home, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You stay there. Right there. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. We’re going to go banking, you and me.”

  “If that’s the best I can do. Hey, did I give you a hot lead, Lieutenant Sugar?”

  “Just stay put.”

  She was up and shrugging into her jacket when her ’link buzzed again. “Dallas.”

  “Dispatch, Dallas. We have a transmission on hold for you. Video blocked. Refuses to identify.”

  “Tracing?”

  “Tracing now.”

  “Then put it through.” She swung up her bag as the audio clicked. “This is Dallas.”

  “Are you alone?” It was a female voice, tremulous.

  “Yes. Do you want me to help you?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. You have to know it wasn’t my fault.”

  “No one’s blaming you.” Training had Eve picking up on both fear and grief. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “He raped me. I couldn’t stop him. He raped me. He raped her, too. Then he killed her. He could kill me.”

  “Tell me where you are.” She studied her screen, waiting for the trace to come through. “I want to help, but I have to know where you are.”

  Breath hitching, a whimper. “He said it was supposed to be a secret. I couldn’t tell. He killed her so she couldn’t tell. Now there’s me. No one will believe me.”

  “I believe you. I’ll help you. Tell me—” She swore as the transmission broke. “Where?” she demanded after switching to dispatch.

  “Front Royal, Virginia. Number seven oh three, five five five, thirty-nine oh eight. Address—”

  “I don’t need it. Get me Captain Ryan Feeney in EDD. Fast.”

  Two minutes wasn’t fast enough. Eve nearly drilled a hole in her temple rubbing it while she waited. “Feeney, I’ve got something, and it’s big.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t go into it yet, but I need you to go pick up Charles Monroe.”

  “Christ, Eve, have we got him?”

  “Not yet. Monroe’s going to take you to Sharon’s other safe box. You take good care of him, Feeney. We’re going to need him. And you take damn good care of whatever you find in the box.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “I’ve got to catch a plane.” She broke transmission, then called Roarke. It took another three minutes of very precious time before he came on-line.

  “I was about to call you, Eve. It looks like I have to fly to Dublin. Care to join me?”

  “Roarke, I need your plane. Now. I have to get to Virginia fast. If I go through channels or take public transport—”

  “The plane will be ready for you. Terminal C, Gate 22.”

  She closed her eyes. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  Her gratitude lasted until she arrived at the gate and found Roarke waiting for her.

  “I don’t have time to talk.” Her voice was a snap, her long legs eating up the distance from gate to lift.

  “We’ll talk on the plane.”

  “You’re not going with me. This is official—”

  “This is my plane, lieutenant,” he interrupted smoothly as the lift closed them in together, gliding silently up.

  “Can’t you do anything without strings?”

  “Yes. This isn’t one of them.” The hatch opened. The flight attendant waited efficiently.

  “Welcome aboard, sir, lieutenant. Can I offer you refreshments?”

  “No, thank you. Have the pilot take off as soon as we’re cleared.” Roarke took his seat while Eve stood fuming. “We can’t take off until you’re seated and secured.”

  “I thought you were going to Ireland.” She could argue with him just as easily sitting down.

  “It’s not a priority. This is. Eve, before you state your case, I’ll outline mine. You’re going to Virginia in quite a rush. That points to the DeBlass case and some new information. Beth and Richard are friends, close friends. I don’t have many close friends, nor do you. Reverse situations. What would you do?”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair as the plane began to taxi. “This can’t be personal.”

  “Not for you. For me, it’s very personal. Beth contacted me even as I was arranging for the plane to be readied. She asked me to come.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She didn’t have to—she only had to ask.”

  Loyalty was a trait Eve had a difficult time arguing against. “I can’t stop you from going, but I’m warning you, this is department business.”

  “And the department is in upheaval this morning,” he said evenly, “because of certain information leaked to the media—by an unnamed source.”

  She hissed out a breath. Nothing like backing yourself into a corner. “I’m grateful for your help.”

  “Enough to tell me the outcome?”

  “I imagine the cap will be off by the end of the day.” She moved her shoulders restlessly, staring out the window, willing the miles away. “Simpson’s going to try to ditch the whole business on his accounting firm. I can’t see him pulling it off. The IRS’ll get him for tax fraud. I imagine the internal investigation will uncover where he got the money. Considering Simpson’s imagination, I’d bet on the standard kickbacks, bribes, and graft.”

  “And the blackmail?”

  “Oh, he was paying her. He admitted as much before his lawyer shut him up. And he’ll cop to it, once he realizes paying blackmail’s a lot less dicey than accessory to murder.”

  She took out her communicator, requested Feeney’s access.

  “Yo, Dallas.”

  “Did you get them?”
/>   Feeney held a small box up so that she could see it in the tiny viewing screen. “All labeled and dated. About twenty years’ worth.”

  “Start with the last entry, work back. I should hit destination in about twenty minutes. I’ll contact you as soon as I can for a status report.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant Sugar.” Charles edged his way on-screen and beamed at her. “How’d I do?”

  “You did good. Thanks. Now, until I say different, forget about the safe box, the diaries, everything.”

  “What diaries?” he said with a wink. He blew her a kiss before Feeney elbowed him aside.

  “I’m heading back to Cop Central now. Stay in touch.”

  “Out.” Eve switched off, slipped the communicator back in her pocket.

  Roarke waited a beat. “Lieutenant Sugar?”

  “Shut up, Roarke.” She closed her eyes to ignore him, but couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off her face.

  When they landed, she was forced to admit that Roarke’s name worked even faster than a badge. In minutes they were in a powerful rental car and eating up the miles to Front Royal. She might have objected about being delegated to the passenger seat, but she couldn’t fault his driving.

  “Ever done the Indy?”

  “No.” He spared her a brief glance as they bulleted up Route 95 at just under a hundred. “But I’ve driven in a few Grand Prix.”

  “Figures.” She tapped her fingers against the chicken stick when he shot the car into a vertical rise, skimmed daringly—and illegally—over the top of a small jam of cars. “You say Richard is a good friend. How would you describe him?”

  “Intelligent, dedicated, quiet. He rarely speaks unless he has something to say. Overshadowed by his father, often at odds with him.”

  “How would you describe his relationship with his father?”

  He brought the vehicle down again, wheels barely skidding on the road surface. “From the little he might have said, and the things Beth let drop, I’d have to say combative, frustrated.”

  “And his relationship with his daughter?”

  “The choices she made were in direct opposition to his lifestyle, his, well, morals, if you wish. He’s a staunch believer in freedom of choice and expression. Still, I can’t imagine any father wanting his daughter to become a woman who sells herself for a living.”

  “Wasn’t he involved in designing his father’s security for the last senatorial campaign?”

  He took the vehicle up again, maneuvered it off the road, muttering something about a shortcut. In the time he took to skim through a glade of trees, over a few residential buildings, and down again onto a quiet suburban street, he was silent.

  She stopped counting the traffic violations.

  “Family loyalty transcends politics. A man with DeBlass’s views is either well loved or well hated. Richard may disagree with his father, but he’d hardly want him assassinated. And as he specializes in security law, it follows he’d assist his father in the matter.”

  A son protects his father, Eve thought. “And how far would DeBlass go to protect his son?”

  “From what? Richard is a moderate’s moderate. He maintains a low profile, supports his causes quietly. He—” The import of the question struck. “You’re off target,” Roarke said between his teeth. “Way off target.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The house on the hill looked peaceful. Under the cold blue sky, it sat serenely, warmly, with a few brave crocuses beginning to peep out of the winter stung grass.

  Appearances, Eve thought, were deceiving more often than not. She knew this wasn’t a home of easy wealth, quiet happiness, and tidy lives. She was certain now that she knew what had gone on behind those rosy walls and gleaming glass.

  Elizabeth opened the door herself. If anything, she was paler and more drawn than when Eve had last seen her. Her eyes were puffy from weeping, and the mannishly tailored suit she wore bagged at the hips from recent weight loss.

  “Oh, Roarke.” As Elizabeth went into his arms, Eve could all but hear the fragile bones knocking together. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He tilted her face up with a gentleness that tugged at the heart Eve was struggling to hold distant. “Beth, you’re not taking care of yourself.”

  “I can’t seem to function, to think, or to do. Everything’s crumbling away at my feet, and I—” She broke off, remembering abruptly that they weren’t alone. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  Eve caught the quick accusation in Elizabeth’s eyes when she looked at Roarke. “He didn’t bring me, Ms. Barrister. I brought him. I received a call this morning from this location. Did you make it?”

  “No.” Elizabeth stepped back. Her hands reached for each other, twisted. “No, I didn’t. It must have been Catherine. She arrived here last night, suddenly. Hysterical, overwrought. Her mother has been hospitalized, and the prognosis is poor. I can only think the stress of the last few weeks has been too much for her. That’s why I called you, Roarke. Richard’s at his wit’s end. I don’t seem to be any help. We needed someone.”

  “Why don’t we go in and sit down?”

  “They’re in the parlor.” In a jittery move, Elizabeth turned to look down the hall. “She won’t take a sedative, she won’t explain. She refused to let us do more than call her husband and son and tell them she was here, and not to come. She’s frantic at the idea they might be in some sort of danger. I suppose what happened to Sharon has made her worry more about her own child. She’s obsessed with saving him from God knows what.”

  “If she called me,” Eve put in. “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  “Yes. Yes, all right.”

  She led the way down the hall, and into the tidy, sunwashed parlor. Catherine DeBlass sat on a sofa, leaning into her brother’s arms. Eve couldn’t be sure if he was comforting, or restraining.

  Richard raised stricken eyes to Roarke’s. “It’s good of you to come. We’re a mess, Roarke.” His voice shook, nearly broke. “We’re a mess.”

  “Elizabeth.” Roarke crouched in front of Catherine. “Why don’t you ring for coffee?”

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “Catherine.” His voice was gentle, as was the hand he laid on her arm. But the touch had Catherine jerking up, her eyes going wide.

  “Don’t. What—what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Beth and Richard. I’m sorry you’re not well.”

  “Well?” She gave what might have been a laugh as she curled into herself. “None of us will ever be well again. How can we? We’re all tainted. We’re all to blame.”

  “For what?”

  She shook her head, pushed herself into the far corner of the sofa. “I can’t talk to you.”

  “Congresswoman DeBlass, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You called me a little while ago.”

  “No, no I didn’t.” Panicked, Catherine wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. “I didn’t call. I didn’t say anything.”

  As Richard leaned over to touch her, Eve shot him a warning glance. Deliberately, she put herself between them, sat and took Catherine’s frigid hand. “You wanted me to help. And I will help you.”

  “You can’t. No one can. I was wrong to call. We have to keep it in the family. I have a husband, I have a little boy.” Tears began to swim in her eyes. “I have to protect them. I have to go away, far away, so I can protect them.”

  “We’ll protect them,” Eve said quietly. “We’ll protect you. It was too late to protect Sharon. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I didn’t try to stop it,” Catherine said in a whisper. “Maybe I was even glad, because it wasn’t me anymore. It wasn’t me.”

  “Ms. DeBlass, I can help you. I can protect you and your family. Tell me who raped you.”

  Richard let out a hiss of shock. “My God, what are you saying? What—”

  Eve turned on him, eyes fierce. “Be quiet. There’s no more secrets here.”
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br />   “Secrets,” Catherine said between trembling lips. “It has to be a secret.”

  “No, it doesn’t. This kind of secret hurts. It crawls inside you and eats at you. It makes you scared, and it makes you guilty. The ones who want it to be secret use that—the guilt, the fear, the shame. The only way you can fight back is to tell. Tell me who raped you.”

  Catherine’s breath shuddered out. She looked at her brother, terror bright in her eyes. Eve turned her face back, held it.

  “Look at me. Just me. And tell me who raped you. Who raped Sharon?”

  “My father.” The words burst from her in a howl of pain. “My father. My father. My father.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  “Oh God.” Across the room, Elizabeth stumbled back into the server droid. China shattered. Coffee seeped dark into the lovely rug. “Oh my God. My baby.”

  Richard shot off the couch, reaching her as she swayed. He caught her hard against him. “I’ll kill him for this. I’ll kill him.” Then he pressed his face into her hair. “Beth. Oh, Beth.”

  “Do what you can for them,” Eve murmured to Roarke as she gathered Catherine to her.

  “You thought it was Richard,” Roarke said in an undertone.

  “Yes.” Her eyes were dull and flat when she lifted them to his. “I thought it was Sharon’s father. Maybe I didn’t want to think that something so foul could flourish in two generations.”

  Roarke leaned forward. His face was hard as rock. “One way or the other, DeBlass is a dead man.”

  “Help your friends,” Eve said evenly. “I have work to do here.”

  chapter eighteen

  She let Catherine cry it out, though she knew, too well, that the tears wouldn’t wash the wound clean. She knew, too, that she wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation alone. It was Roarke who calmed Elizabeth and Richard, who ordered in the domestic droid to gather up the broken crockery, who held their hands, and when he gauged the time was right, it was he who gently suggested bringing Catherine some tea.