The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  Eve all but growled when her image filled the screen. Morse’s voice continued.

  “When reached by ’link, Lieutenant Dallas refused to comment on the murder and the progress of the investigation. No denial was issued as to the speculation that a cover-up is in process . . .”

  “Why that smarmy-faced bastard. He never asked about a cover-up. What cover-up?” The slap of her hand on the arm of the chair made Galahad leap away to safer ground. “I’ve barely had the case for thirty hours.”

  “Ssh,” Roarke said mildly and left her to spring up and stalk the room.

  “. . . the long list of prominent names that are linked with Prosecutor Towers, among them Commander Whitney, Dallas’s superior. The commander recently refused the offer of the position as Chief of Police and Security. A long-standing, intimate friend of the victim—”

  “That’s it!” Furious, Eve slapped the screen off manually. “I’m going to slice that worm into pieces. Where the hell is Nadine Furst? If we’ve got to have a reporter sniffing up our ass, at least she’s got a mind.”

  “I believe she’s on Penal Station Omega, a story on prison reform. You might consider a press conference, Eve. The simplest way to deal with this kind of heat is to toss a well-chosen log on the fire.”

  “Fuck that. What was that broadcast anyway, a report or an editorial?”

  “There’s little difference since the revised media bill passed thirty years ago. A reporter has the right to flavor a story with his opinion, as long as it’s expressed as such.”

  “I know the damn law.” The robe, brilliant with color, swirled around her legs as she turned. “He’s not going to get away with insinuating a cover-up. Whitney runs a clean department. I run a clean investigation. And he’s not going to get away with using your name to cloud it, either,” she continued. “That’s what he was leading up to with that excuse for news. That was next.”

  “He doesn’t worry me, Eve. He shouldn’t worry you.”

  “He doesn’t worry me. He pisses me off.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to settle herself. Slowly, very slowly and very wickedly, she began to smile. “I’ve got the perfect payback.” She opened her eyes again. “How do you think that little bastard would like it if I contacted Furst, gave her an exclusive?”

  Roarke set aside his cup. “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind.” He rose and went to her instead. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her hard. “I’m crazy about you.”

  “I take that to mean you think it’s a pretty good idea.”

  “My late unlamented father taught me one valuable lesson. ‘Boy,’ he would say to me in the thick brogue of a champion drunk, ‘the only way to fight is to fight dirty. The only place to hit is below the belt.’ I have a feeling you’ll have Morse nursing his balls before the day’s out.”

  “No, he won’t be nursing them.” Delighted with herself, Eve kissed him back. “Because I’ll have sliced them right off.”

  Roarke gave a mock shudder. “Vicious women are so attractive. Did you say you had a couple of hours?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I was afraid of that.” He stepped back, took a disc from his pocket. “You might find this useful.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some data I put together, on Towers’s ex, on Hammett. Files on Mercury.”

  Her fingers chilled as they closed over the disc. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”

  “No, you didn’t. You’d have gotten access to it, but it would have taken you longer. You know if you require my equipment, it’s available to you.”

  She understood he was talking about the room he had, the unregistered equipment that the sensors of Compuguard couldn’t detect. “I prefer going through proper channels for the moment.”

  “As you like. If you change your mind while I’m gone, Summerset’s aware you have access.”

  “Summerset wishes I had access to hell,” she muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got to get dressed.” She turned away, then stopped. “Roarke, I’m working on it.”

  “On what?”

  “On accepting what you seem to feel for me.”

  He lifted a brow. “Work harder,” he suggested.

  chapter three

  Eve didn’t waste time. Her first order of business when she hit her office was to contact Nadine Furst. The ’link buzzed and crackled over the galactic channel. Sunspots, a satellite dink, or simply the aging equipment held up the transmission for several minutes. Finally, a picture wavered onto the screen, then popped into clear focus.

  Eve had the pleasure of seeing Nadine’s pale, groggy face. She hadn’t considered the time difference.

  “Dallas.” Nadine’s normally fluid voice was scratchy and weak. “Jesus, it’s the middle of the night here.”

  “Sorry. You awake, Nadine?”

  “Awake enough to hate you.”

  “Have you been getting Earth news up there?”

  “I’ve been a little busy.” Nadine pushed back her tumbled hair and reached for a cigarette.

  “When did you start that?”

  With a wince, Nadine drew in the first drag. “If you terrestrial cops ever came up here, you’d give tobacco a shot. Even this dog shit you can buy in this rat hole. And anything else you could get your hands on. It’s a fucking disgrace.” She hitched in more smoke. “Three people to a cage, most of them zoned on smuggled chemicals. The medical facilities are like something out of the twentieth century. They’re still sewing people up with string.”

  “And limited video privileges,” Eve finished. “Imagine, treating murderers like criminals. My heart’s breaking.”

  “You can’t get a decent meal anywhere in the entire colony,” Nadine griped. “What the hell do you want?”

  “To make you smile, Nadine. How soon will you be finished up there and back on planet?”

  “Depends.” As she began to waken fully, Nadine’s senses sharpened. “You have something for me.”

  “Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers was murdered about thirty hours ago.” Ignoring Nadine’s yelp, Eve continued briskly, “Her throat was slashed, and her body was discovered on the sidewalk of Hundred and forty-fourth between Ninth and Tenth.”

  “Towers. Jesus wept. I had a one-on-one with her two months ago after the DeBlass case. Hundred and forty-fourth?” The wheels were already turning. “Mugging?”

  “No. She still had her jewelry and credit tokens. A mugging in that neighborhood wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”

  “No.” Nadine closed her eyes a moment. “Damn. She was a hell of a woman. You’re primary?”

  “Right the first time.”

  “Okay.” Nadine let out a long breath. “So, why is the primary on what has to be the top case in the country contacting me?”

  “The devil you know, Nadine. Your illustrious associate Morse is drooling down my neck.”

  “Asshole,” Nadine muttered, tamping out the cigarette in quick, jerky bumps. “That’s why I didn’t get word of it. He’d have blocked me out.”

  “You play square with me, Nadine, I play square with you.”

  Nadine’s eyes sharpened, her nostrils all but quivered. “Exclusive?”

  “We’ll discuss terms when you get back. Make it fast.”

  “I’m practically on planet.”

  Eve smiled at the blank screen. That ought to stick in your greedy craw, C. J., she mused. She was humming as she pushed away from her desk. She had people to see.

  By nine A.M., Eve was cooling her heels in the plush living area of George Hammett’s uptown apartment. His taste ran to the dramatic, she noted. Huge squares of crimson and white tiles were cool under her boots. The tinkling music of water striking rock sang from the audio of the hologram sweeping an entire wall with an image of the tropics. The silver cushions of the long, low sofa glittered, and when she pushed a finger into one, it gave like silken flesh.

>   She decided she’d continue to stand.

  Objets d’art were placed selectively around the room. A carved tower that resembled the ruins of some ancient castle, the mask of a woman’s face embedded in translucent rose-colored glass, what appeared to be a bottle that flashed with vivid, changing colors with the heat of her hand.

  When Hammett entered from an adjoining room, Eve concluded that he was every bit as dramatic as his surroundings.

  He looked pale, heavy eyed, but it only increased his stunning looks. He was tall and elegantly slim. His face was poetically hollowed at the cheeks. Unlike many of his contemporaries—Eve knew him to be in his sixties—he had opted to let his hair gray naturally. An excellent choice for him, she thought, as his thick lion’s mane was as gleaming a silver as one of Roarke’s Georgian candlesticks.

  His eyes were the same striking color, though they were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness.

  He crossed to her, cupped her hand in both of his. “Eve.” When his lips brushed her cheek, she winced. He was making the connection personal. She thought they both knew it.

  “George,” she began, subtly drawing back. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. A call I had to complete.” He gestured toward the sofa, the sleeves of his casual shirt billowing with the movement. Eve resigned herself to sitting on it. “What can I offer you?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Coffee.” He smiled a little. “I recall you’re very fond of it. I have some of Roarke’s blend.” He pressed a button on the arm of the sofa. A small screen popped up. “A pot of Argentine Gold,” he ordered, “two cups.” Then, with that faint and sober smile still on his lips, he turned back to her. “It’ll help me relax,” he explained. “I’m not surprised to find you here this morning, Eve. Or perhaps I should be calling you Lieutenant Dallas, under the circumstances.”

  “Then you understand why I’m here.”

  “Of course. Cicely. I can’t get used to it.” His cream-over-cream voice shook a little. “I’ve heard it countless times on the news. I’ve spoken with her children and with Marco. But I can’t seem to take in the fact that she’s gone.”

  “You saw her the night she was killed.”

  A muscle in his cheek jerked. “Yes. We had dinner. We often did when our schedules allowed. Once a week at least. More, if we could manage it. We were close.”

  He paused as a small server droid glided in with the coffee. Hammett poured it himself, concentrating on the small task almost fiercely. “How close?” he murmured, and Eve saw his hand wasn’t quite steady as he lifted his cup. “Intimate. We’d been lovers, exclusive lovers, for several years. I loved her very much.”

  “You maintained separate residences.”

  “Yes, she—we both preferred it that way. Our tastes, aesthetically speaking, were very different, and the simple truth was we both liked our independence and personal space. We enjoyed each other more, I think, by keeping a certain distance.” He took a long breath. “But it was no secret that we had a relationship, at least not among our families and friends.” He let the breath out. “Publicly, we both preferred to keep our private lives private. I don’t expect that will be possible now.”

  “I doubt it.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What should matter is finding out who did this to her. I just can’t seem to work myself up about it. Nothing can change the fact that she’s gone. Cicely was,” he said slowly, “the most admirable woman I’ve ever known.”

  Every instinct, human and cop, told her this was a man in deep mourning, but she knew that even killers mourned their dead. “I need you to tell me what time you last saw her. George, I’m recording this.”

  “Yes, of course. It was about ten o’clock. We had dinner at Robert’s on East Twelfth. We shared a cab after. I dropped her off first. About ten,” he repeated. “I know I got in about quarter after because I had several messages waiting.”

  “Was that your usual routine?”

  “What? Oh.” He snapped himself back from some inner world. “We really didn’t have one. Often we’d come back here, or go to her apartment. Now and again, when we felt adventurous, we’d take a suite at the Palace for a night.” He broke off, and his eyes were suddenly blank and devastated as he shoved off the soft, silver sofa. “Oh God. My God.”

  “I’m sorry.” Useless, she knew, against grief. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m starting to believe it,” he said in a voice thick and low. “It’s worse, I realize, when you begin to believe it. She laughed when she got out of the cab, and she blew me a kiss from her fingertips. She had such beautiful hands. And I went home, and forgot about her because I had messages waiting. I was in bed by midnight, took a mild tranq because I had an early meeting. While I was in bed, safe, she was lying dead in the rain. I don’t know if I can bear that.” He turned back, his already pale face bloodless now. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

  She couldn’t help him. Even though his pain was so tangible she could feel it herself, she couldn’t help him. “I wish I could do this later, give you time, but I just can’t. As far as we know, you’re the last person who saw her alive.”

  “Except her killer.” He drew himself up. “Unless, of course, I killed her.”

  “It would be best for everyone if I ruled that out quickly.”

  “Yes, naturally, it would—Lieutenant.”

  She accepted the bitterness in his voice and did her job. “If you could give me the name of the cab company so that I can verify your movements.”

  “The restaurant called for one. I believe it was a Rapid.”

  “Did you see or speak with anyone between the hours of midnight and two A.M.?”

  “I told you, I took a pill and was in bed by midnight. Alone.”

  She could verify that with the building security discs, though she had reason to know such things could be doctored. “Can you tell me her mood when you left her?”

  “She was a bit distracted, the case she was prosecuting. Optimistic about it. We talked a bit about her children, her daughter in particular. Mirina’s planning on getting married next fall. Cicely was pleased with the idea, and excited because Mirina wanted a big wedding with all the old-fashioned trimmings.”

  “Did she mention anything that was worrying her? Anything or anyone she was concerned about?”

  “Nothing that would apply to this. The right wedding gown, flowers. Her hopes that she could swing the maximum sentence in the case.”

  “Did she mention any threats, any unusual transmissions, messages, contacts?”

  “No.” He put a hand over his eyes briefly, let it drop to his side. “Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had the slightest inkling of why this happened?”

  “Why would she have gone to the Upper West Side at that time of night?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was she in the habit of meeting snitches, sources?”

  He opened his mouth then closed it again. “I don’t know,” he murmured, struck by it. “I wouldn’t have thought . . . but she was so stubborn, so sure of herself.”

  “Her relationship with her former husband. How would you describe it?”

  “Friendly. A bit reserved, but amiable. They were both devoted to the children and that united them. He was a little annoyed when we became intimate, but . . .” Hammett broke off, stared at Eve. “You can’t possibly think . . .” With what might have been a laugh, he covered his face. “Marco Angelini skulking around that neighborhood with a knife, plotting to kill his ex? No, Lieutenant.” He dropped his hands again. “Marco has his flaws, but he’d never hurt Cicely. And the sight of blood would offend his sense of propriety. He’s much too cold, much too conservative to resort to violence. And he’d have no reason, no possible motive for wishing her harm.”

  That, Eve thought, was for her to decide.

  She tripped from one world to another by leaving Hammett
’s apartment and going to the West End. Here she would find no silvery cushions, no tinkling waterfalls. Instead there were cracked sidewalks, ignored by the latest spruce-up-the-city campaign, graffiti-laced buildings that invited the onlookers to fuck all manner of man and beast. Storefronts were covered by security grills, which were so much cheaper and less effective than the force fields employed in the posher areas.

  She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few rodents overlooked by the feline droids that roamed the alleyways.

  Of the two-legged rodents, she saw plenty. One chemi-head grinned at her toothily and rubbed his crotch proudly. A street hawker sized her up quickly and accurately as cop, ducked his head under the wreath of feathers he sported around his magenta hair, and scurried off to safer pastures.

  A selected list of drugs were still illegal. Some cops actually bothered to pay attention.

  At the moment, Eve wasn’t one of them. Unless a little arm twisting helped her get answers.

  The rain had washed most of the blood away. The sweepers from the department would have sucked up anything in the immediate area that could be sifted through for evidence. But she stood for a moment over the spot where Towers had died, and she had no trouble envisioning the scene.

  Now, she needed to work backward. Had she stood here, Eve wondered, facing her killer? Most likely. Did she see the knife before it sliced across her throat? Possibly. But not quickly enough to react with anything more than a jerk, a gasp.

  Lifting her gaze, Eve scanned the street. Her skin prickled, but she ignored the stares of those leaning against the buildings or loitering around rusting cars.

  Cicely Towers had come uptown. Not by cab. There was, to date, no record of a pickup or drop-off from any of the official companies. Eve doubted she would have been foolish enough to try a gypsy.

  The subway, she deduced. It was fast and, with the scanners and droid cops, safe as a church, at least until you hit the street. Eve spotted the signal for the underground less than half a block away.

  The subway, she decided. Maybe she was in a hurry? Annoyed to be dragged out on a wet night. Sure of herself, as Hammett had said. She wouldn’t have been afraid.