The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  She could hardly be heard now. DeBlass was screaming, demanding immediate release. The Senate had erupted with voices and bodies. Through it, she spotted Rockman. He came toward her, his face a cold mask of fury.

  “You’re making a mistake, lieutenant.”

  “No, I’m not. But you made one in your statement. The way I see it, that’s going to make you accessory after the fact. I’m going to start working on that when I get back to New York.”

  “Senator DeBlass is a great man. You’re nothing but a pawn for the Liberal Party and their plans to destroy him.”

  “Senator DeBlass is an incestuous child molester. A rapist and a murderer. And what I am, pal, is the cop who’s taking him down. You’d better call a lawyer unless you want to sink with him.”

  Roarke had to force himself not to snatch her up as she swept through the hallowed Senate halls. Members of the media were already leaping toward her, but she cut through them as if they weren’t there.

  “I like your style, Lieutenant Dallas,” he said when they’d fought their way to the car. “I like it a lot. And by the way, I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore. I know I am.”

  She swallowed hard on the nausea rising in her throat. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Sheer force of will kept her steady until she got to the plane. It kept her voice flat and expressionless as she reported in to her superior. Then she stumbled, and shoving away from Roarke’s supporting arms, rushed into the head to be wretchedly and violently ill.

  On the other side of the door, Roarke stood helplessly. If he understood her at all, it was to know that comforting would make it worse. He murmured instructions to the flight attendant and took his seat. While he waited, he stared out at the tarmac.

  He looked up when the door opened. She was ice pale, her eyes too big, too dark. Her usually smooth gait was coltish and stiff.

  “Sorry. I guess it got to me.”

  When she sat, he offered a mug. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s tea, a whiff of whiskey.”

  “I’m on duty,” she began, but his quick, vicious eruption cut her off.

  “Drink, goddamn it, or I’ll pour it into you.” He flipped a switch and ordered the pilot to take off.

  Telling herself it was easier than arguing, she lifted the mug, but her hands weren’t steady. She barely managed to get a sip through her chattering teeth before she set it aside.

  She couldn’t stop shaking. When Roarke reached for her, she drew herself back. The sickness was still there, sliding slyly through her stomach, making her head pound evilly.

  “My father raped me.” She heard herself say it. The shock of it, hearing her own voice say the words, mirrored in her eyes. “Repeatedly. And he beat me, repeatedly. If I fought or I didn’t fight, it didn’t matter. He still raped me. He still beat me. And there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing you can do when the people who are supposed to take care of you abuse you that way. Use you. Hurt you.”

  “Eve.” He took her hand then, holding firm when she tried to yank free. “I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.”

  “They said I was eight when they found me, in some alley in Dallas. I was bleeding, and my arm was broken. He must have dumped me there. I don’t know. Maybe I ran away. I don’t remember. But he never came for me. No one ever came for me.”

  “Your mother?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember her. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was like Catherine’s mother and pretended not to know. I only get flashes, nightmares of the worst of it. I don’t even know my name. They weren’t able to identify me.”

  “You were safe then.”

  “You’ve never been shuffled through the system. There’s no feeling of safety. Only impotence. They strip you bare with good intentions.” She sighed, let her head fall back, her eyes close. “I didn’t want to arrest DeBlass, Roarke. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him with my own hands because of what happened to me. I let it get personal.”

  “You did your job.”

  “Yeah. I did my job. And I’ll keep doing it.” But it wasn’t the job she was thinking of now. It was life. Hers, and his. “Roarke, you’ve got to know I’ve got some bad stuff inside. It’s like a virus that sneaks around the system, pops out when your resistance is low. I’m not a good bet.”

  “I like long odds.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “Why don’t we see it through? Find out if we can both win.”

  “I’ve never told anybody before.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Christ, I’m so tired.”

  “You could lean on me.” He slipped an arm around her, nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

  “For a little while,” she murmured. “Until we get to New York.”

  “For a little while then.” He pressed his lips to her hair and hoped she would sleep.

  chapter nineteen

  DeBlass wouldn’t talk. His lawyers put the muzzle on him early, and they put in on tight. The interrogation process was slow, and it was tedious. There were times Eve thought he would burst, when the temper that reddened his face would tip the scales in her favor.

  She’d stopped denying it was personal. She didn’t want a tricky, media blitzed trial. She wanted a confession.

  “You were engaged in an incestuous affair with your granddaughter, Sharon DeBlass.”

  “My client has not confirmed those allegations.”

  Eve ignored the lawyer, watched DeBlass’s face. “I have here a transcript of a portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diary, dated on the night of her murder.”

  She shoved the paper across the table. DeBlass’s lawyer, a trim, tidy man with a neat sandy beard and mild blue eyes picked it up, studied it. Whatever his reaction was, he hid it behind cool indifference.

  “This proves nothing, lieutenant, as I’m sure you know. The destructive fantasies of a dead woman. A woman of dubious reputation who has long been estranged from her family.”

  “There’s a pattern here, Senator DeBlass.” Eve stubbornly continued to address the accused rather than his knight at arms. “You sexually abused your daughter, Catherine.”

  “Preposterous,” DeBlass blurted out before his attorney lifted a hand to silence him.

  “I have a statement, signed and verified before witnesses from Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass.” Eve offered it, and the lawyer nipped it out of her fingers before the senator could move.

  He scanned it, then folded his carefully manicured hands over it. “You may not be aware, lieutenant, that there is an unfortunate history of mental disorder here. Senator DeBlass’s wife is even now under observation for a breakdown.”

  “We are aware.” She spared the lawyer a glance. “And we will be investigating her condition, and the cause of it.”

  “Congresswoman DeBlass has also been treated for symptoms of depression, paranoia, and stress,” the lawyer continued in the same neutral tone.

  “If she has, Senator DeBlass, we’ll find that the roots of it are due to your systematic and continued abuse of her as a child. You were in New York on the night of Sharon DeBlass’s murder,” she said, switching gears smoothly. “Not, as you previously claimed, in East Washington.”

  Before the lawyer could block her, she leaned forward, her eyes steady on DeBlass’s face. “Let me tell you how it went down. You took your private shuttle, paying the pilot and the flight engineer to doctor the log. You went to Sharon’s apartment, had sex with her, recorded it for your own purposes. You took a weapon with you, a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson antique. And because she taunted you, because she threatened you, because you couldn’t take the pressure of possible exposure any longer, you shot her. You shot her three times, in the head, in the heart and in the genitalia.”

  She kept the words coming fast, kept her face close to his. It pleased her that she could smell his sweat. “The last shot was pretty clever. Messed up a
ny chance for us to verify sexual activity. You ripped her open at the crotch. Maybe it was symbolic, maybe it was self-preservation. Why’d you take the gun with you? Had you planned it? Had you decided to end it once and for all?”

  DeBlass’s eyes darted left and right. His breathing grew hard and fast.

  “My client does not acknowledge ownership of the weapon in question.”

  “Your client’s scum.”

  The lawyer puffed up. “Lieutenant Dallas, you’re speaking of a United States Senator.”

  “That makes him elected scum. It shocked you, didn’t it, senator? All the blood, the noise, the way the gun jerked in your hand. Maybe you hadn’t really believed you could go through with it. Not when push came to shove and you had to pull the trigger. But once you had, there was no going back. You had to cover it up. She would have ruined you, she never would have let you have peace. She wasn’t like Catherine. Sharon wouldn’t fade into the background and suffer all the shame and the guilt and the fear. She used it against you, so you had to kill her. Then you had to cover your tracks.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas—”

  She never took her eyes from DeBlass, and ignoring the lawyer’s warning, kept beating at him. “That was exciting, wasn’t it? You could get away with it. You’re a United States senator, the victim’s grandfather. Who would believe it of you? So you arranged her on the bed, indulged yourself, your ego. You could do it again, and why not? The killing had stirred something in you. What better way to hide than to make it seem as if there was some maniac at large?”

  She waited while DeBlass reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily. “There was a maniac at large. You printed out the note, slipped it under her. And you dressed, calmer now, but excited. You set the ’link to call the cops at two fifty-five. You needed enough time to go down and fix the security tapes. Then you got back on your shuttle, flew back to East Washington, and waited to play the outraged grandfather.”

  Through it all, DeBlass said nothing. But a muscle jerked in his cheek and his eyes couldn’t find a place to land.

  “That’s a fascinating story, lieutenant,” the lawyer said. “But it remains that—a story. A supposition. A desperate attempt by the police department to fight their way out of a difficult situation with the media and the people of New York. And, of course, it’s perfect timing that such ridiculous and damaging accusation should be levied against the senator just as his Morals Bill is coming up for debate.”

  “How did you pick the other two? How did you select Lola Starr and Georgie Castle? Have you already picked the fourth, the fifth, the sixth? Do you think you could have stopped there? Could you have stopped when it made you feel so powerful, so invincible, so righteous?”

  DeBlass wasn’t red now. He was gray, and his breathing was harsh and choppy. When he reached for a glass again, his hand jerked and sent it rolling to the floor.

  “This interview is over.” The lawyer stood, helped DeBlass to his feet. “My client’s health is precarious. He requires medical attention immediately.”

  “Your client’s a murderer. He’ll get plenty of medical attention in a penal colony, for the rest of his life.” She pressed a button. When the doors of the interrogation room opened, a uniform stepped in. “Call the MTs,” she ordered. “The senator’s feeling a little stressed. It’s going to get worse,” she warned, turning back to DeBlass. “I haven’t even gotten started.”

  Two hours later, after filing reports and meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Eve fought her way through traffic. She had read a good portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diaries. It was something she needed to set aside for now, the pictures of a twisted man and how he had turned a young girl into a woman almost as unbalanced as he.

  Because she knew it could have been, all too easily, her story. Choices were there to be taken, she thought, brooding. Sharon’s had killed her.

  She wanted to blow off some steam, go over the events step by step with someone who would listen, appreciate, support. Someone who, for a little while, would stand between her and the ghosts of what was. And what could have been.

  She headed for Roarke’s.

  When the call came through on her car ’link, she prayed it wasn’t a summons back to duty. “Dallas.”

  “Hey, kid.” It was Feeney’s tired face on-screen. “I just watched the interrogation discs. Good job.”

  “Didn’t get as far as I’d like, fencing with the damn lawyer. I’m going to break him, Feeney. I swear it.”

  “Yeah, my money’s on you. But, ah, I got to tell you something that’s not going to go down well. DeBlass had a little heart blip.”

  “Christ, he’s not going to code out on us?”

  “No. No, they medicated him. Some talk about getting him a new one next week.”

  “Good.” She blew out a stream of breath. “I want him to live a long time—behind bars.”

  “We’ve got a strong case. The prosecutor’s ready to canonize you, but in the meantime, he’s sprung.”

  She hit the brakes. A volley of testy horn blasts behind her had her whipping over to the edge of Tenth and blocking the turning lane. “What the hell do you mean, he’s sprung?”

  Feeney winced, as much in empathy as reaction. “Released on his own recognizance. U.S. senator, lifetime of patriotic duty, salt of the earth, dinky heart—and a judge in his pocket.”

  “Fuck that.” She pulled her hair until the pain equaled her frustration. “We got him on murder, three counts. Prosecutor said she was going for no bail.”

  “She got shot down. DeBlass’s lawyer made a speech that would have wrung tears from a stone and had a corpse saluting the flag. DeBlass is back in East Washington by now, under doctor’s orders to rest. He got a thirty-six-hour hold on further interrogation.”

  “Shit.” She punched the wheel with the heel of her hand. “It’s not going to make any difference,” she said grimly. “He can play the ill elder statesman, he can do a tap dance at the fucking Lincoln Memorial, I’ve got him.”

  “Commander’s worried that the time lag will give DeBlass an opportunity to pool his resources. He wants you back working with the prosecutor, going over everything we’ve got by oh eight hundred tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. Feeney, he’s not going to slip out of this noose.”

  “Just make sure you’ve got the knot nice and tight, kid. See you at eight.”

  “Yeah.” Steaming, she swung back into traffic. She considered going home, burying herself in the chain of evidence. But she was five minutes from Roarke’s. Eve opted to use him as a sounding board.

  She could count on him to play devil’s advocate if she needed it, to point out flaws. And, she admitted, to calm her down so that she could think without all these violent emotions getting in the way. She couldn’t afford those emotions, couldn’t afford to let Catherine’s face pop into her head, as it had time and time again. The shame and the fear and the guilt.

  It was impossibly hard to separate it. She knew she wanted DeBlass to pay every bit as much for Catherine as for the three dead women.

  She was cleared through Roarke’s gate, drove quickly up the sloped driveway. Her pulse began to thud as she raced up the steps. Idiot, she told herself. Like some hormonal plagued teenager. But she was smiling when Summerset opened the door.

  “I need to see Roarke,” she said, brushing by him.

  “I’m sorry, lieutenant. Roarke isn’t at home.”

  “Oh.” The sense of deflation made her feel ridiculous. “Where is he?”

  Summerset’s face pokered up. “I believe he’s in a meeting. He was forced to cancel an important trip to Europe, and was therefore compelled to work late.”

  “Right.” The cat pranced down the steps and immediately began twining himself through Eve’s legs. She picked him up, stroked his underbelly. “When do you expect him?”

  “Roarke’s time is his business, lieutenant. I don’t presume to expect him.”

  “Look, pal, I haven’t been twisti
ng Roarke’s arm to get him to spend his valuable time with me. So why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and tell me why you act like I’m some sort of embarrassing rodent whenever I show up.”

  Shock turned Summerset’s face paper white. “I am not comfortable with crude manners, Lieutenant Dallas. Obviously, you are.”

  “They fit me like old slippers.”

  “Indeed.” Summerset drew himself up. “Roarke is a man of taste, of style, of influence. He has the ear of presidents and kings. He has escorted women of unimpeachable breeding and pedigree.”

  “And I’ve got lousy breeding and no pedigree.” She would have laughed if the barb hadn’t stuck so close to the heart. “It seems even a man like Roarke can find the occasional mongrel appealing. Tell him I took the cat,” she added and walked out.

  It helped to tell herself Summerset was an insufferable snob. And the cat’s silent interest as she vented on the drive home was curiously smoothing. She didn’t need some tight-assed butler’s approval. As if in agreement, the cat walked over onto her lap and began to knead her thighs.

  She winced a little as his claws nipped through her trousers, but didn’t move him aside. “I guess we’ve got to come up with a name for you. Never had a pet before,” she murmured. “I don’t know what Georgie called you, but we’ll start fresh. Don’t worry, we won’t go for anything wimpy like Fluffy.”

  She pulled into her garage, parked, saw the yellow light blipping on the wall of her spot. A warning that her payment on the space was overdue. If it went red, the barricade would engage and she’d be screwed.

  She swore a little, more from habit than heat. She hadn’t had time to pay bills, damn it, and now realized she could face an evening of catching up playing the credit juggle with her bank account.

  Hauling the cat under her arm, she walked to the elevator. “Fred, maybe.” She tilted her head, stared into his unreadable two-toned eyes. “No, you don’t look like Fred. Jesus, you must weigh twenty pounds.” Shifting her bag, she stepped into the car. “We’ll give the name some thought, Tubbo.”