The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  She choked back another scream, pressed her fingers against her eyes, and ordered herself not to be sick. She answered the call without turning the lights on, and blocked video.

  “Dallas.”

  “Dispatch. Voice print verified. Probable homicide, female. Report Five thirty-two Central Park South, rear of building. Code yellow.”

  “Acknowledged.” Eve ended the transmission and, still trembling from the aftershocks of the dream, crawled out of bed.

  It took her twenty minutes. She’d needed the comfort of a hot shower, even if it had only been for thirty seconds.

  It was a trendy neighborhood, peopled by residents who patronized fashionable shops and private clubs, and who aspired to move just another notch up the social and ecomonic ladder.

  The streets were quiet here, though it wasn’t quite out of the realm of public taxis and into private transpo-cars. Upper middle class all the way, she mused as she made her way around to the back of a sleek steel building with its pleasant view of the park.

  Then again, murder happened everywhere.

  It had certainly happened here.

  The rear of the building couldn’t boast a view of the park, but the developers had made up for it with a nice plot of green. Beyond the trim trees was a security wall that separated one building from the next.

  On the narrow stone path through a border of gold petunias, the body sprawled, facedown.

  Female, Eve noted, flashing her badge at the waiting uniforms. Dark hair, dark skin, well dressed. She studied the stylish red-and-white-striped heel that lay point up on the path.

  Death had knocked her out of her shoes.

  “Pictures?”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. ME on the way.”

  “Who reported it?”

  “Neighbor. Came out to let his dog use the facilities. We’ve got him inside.”

  “Do we have a name on her?”

  “Yvonne Metcalf, Lieutenant. She lives in eleven twenty-six.”

  “Actress,” Eve murmured as the name struck a cord. “Up and coming.”

  “Yes, sir.” One of the uniforms looked down at the body. “She won an Emmy last year. Been doing the talk show rounds. She’s pretty famous.”

  “Now she’s pretty dead. Keep the camera running. I need to turn her over.”

  Even before she used the protective spray to seal her hands, before she crouched down to turn the body, Eve knew. Blood was everywhere. Someone hissed sharply as the body rolled faceup, but it wasn’t Eve. She’d been braced for it.

  The throat was cut, and the cut was deep. Yvonne’s lovely green eyes stared up at Eve: two blank questions.

  “What the hell did you have to do with Cicely Towers?” she murmured. “Same MO: one wound to the throat, severed jugular. No robbery, no signs of sexual assault or struggle.” Gently, Eve lifted one of Yvonne’s limp hands, shone her light at the nails, under them. They were painted a sparkling scarlet with tiny white stripes. And they were perfect. No chips, no snags, no scrapes of flesh or stains of blood under them.

  “All dressed up and no place to go,” Eve commented, studying the victim’s flashy red-and-white-striped bodysuit. “Let’s find out where she’d been or where she was going,” Eve began. Her head came around as she heard the sound of approaching feet.

  But it wasn’t the medical examiner and his team, nor was it the sweepers. It was, she saw with disgust, C. J. Morse and a crew from Channel 75.

  “Get that camera out of here.” Temper vibrating, she sprang to her feet, instinctively shielding the body. “This is a crime scene.”

  “You haven’t posted it,” Morse said, smiling sweetly. “Until you do, it’s public access. Sherry, get a shot of that shoe.”

  “Post the goddamn scene,” Eve ordered a uniform. “Confiscate that camera, the recorders.”

  “You can’t confiscate media equipment until the scene’s posted,” C. J. reminded her, as he tried to rubberneck around her to get a good look. “Sherry, get me a nice pan, then focus on the lieutenant’s pretty face.”

  “I’m going to kick your ass, Morse.”

  “Oh, I wish you’d try, Dallas.” Some of his bubbling resentment simmered into his eyes. “I’d love to bring you up on charges, and broadcast it, after that stunt you pulled on me.”

  “If you’re still on this scene when it’s posted, you’ll be the one facing charges.”

  He only smiled again, backing off. He calculated he had another fifteen seconds of video time before he ran into trouble. “Channel 75 has a fine team of lawyers.”

  “Detain him and his crew.” Eve flashed a snarl at a uniform. “Off scene, until I’m through.”

  “Interfering with media—”

  “Kiss ass, Morse.”

  “I bet yours is tasty.” He continued to grin as he was escorted away.

  When Eve came around the building, he was doing a sober stand-up report on the recent homicide. Without missing a beat, he angled himself toward her. “Lieutenant Dallas, will you confirm that Yvonne Metcalf, the star of Tune In has been murdered?”

  “The department has no comment to make at this time.”

  “Isn’t it true that Ms. Metcalf was a resident of this building, and that her body was discovered this morning on the rear patio? Hadn’t her throat been cut?”

  “No comment.”

  “Our viewing audience is waiting, Lieutenant. Two prominent women have been violently murdered by the same method, and in all likelihood by the same person, barely a week apart. And you have no comment?”

  “Unlike certain irresponsible reporters, the police are more careful, and more concerned with facts than speculation.”

  “Or is it that the police are simply unable to solve these crimes?” Quick on his feet, he sidestepped, came up in her face again. “Aren’t you concerned about your reputation, Lieutenant, and the connection between the two victims and your close friend Roarke?”

  “My reputation isn’t at issue here. The investigation is.”

  Morse turned back to the camera. “At this hour, the investigation, headed by Lieutenant Eve Dallas, is at an apparent deadlock. Another murder has taken place less than a hundred yards from where I stand. A young woman, talented, beautiful, and full of promise has had her life sliced off by a violent sweep of a knife. Just as only one week ago, the respected and dedicated defender of justice, Cicely Towers had her life brought to an end. Perhaps the question is not when will the killer be caught, but what prominent woman will be next? This is C. J. Morse for Channel 75, reporting live from Central Park South.”

  He nodded to the camera operator before turning to beam at Eve. “See, if you’d cooperate, Dallas, I might be able to help you out with public opinion.”

  “Fuck you, Morse.”

  “Oh, well, maybe if you asked nice.” His grin never wavered when she grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Now, now, don’t touch unless you mean it.”

  She was a full head taller than he, and gave serious thought to pounding him into the sidewalk. “Here’s what I want to know, Morse. I want to know how a third-rate reporter ends up on a crime scene, with a crew, ten minutes after the primary.”

  He smoothed down the front of his shirt. “Sources, Lieutenant, which, as you know I’m under no obligation to share with you.” His smile dimmed into a sneer. “And at this stage, I’d say we’re talking third-rate primary. You’d have been better off hooking up with me instead of Nadine. That was a nasty turn you served, helping her bump me off the Towers story.”

  “Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear that, C. J., because I just plain hate your guts. It didn’t bother you at all, did it, to go back there, camera running, and broadcast pictures of that woman? You didn’t think about her right to a little dignity or the fact that someone who cared about her might not have been notified. Her family, for instance.”

  “Hey, you do your job, I do mine. You didn’t look too bothered poking at her.”

  “What time did you get the tip?” Eve asked briefly. />
  He hesitated, stringing it out. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that. It came in on my private line at twelve thirty.”

  “From?”

  “Nope. I protect my sources. I called the station, drummed up a crew. Right, Sherry?”

  “Right.” The camera operator moved a shoulder. “The night desk sent us out to meet C. J. here. That’s show biz.”

  “I’m going to do whatever I can to confiscate your logs, Morse, to bring you in for questioning, to make your life hell.”

  “Oh, I hope you do.” His round face gleamed. “You’ll give me double my usual airtime and put my popularity quotient through the roof. And you know what’s going to be fun? The side story I’m going to work up on Roarke and his cozy relationship with Yvonne Metcalf.”

  Her stomach shuddered, but she kept her voice bland. “Watch your step there, C. J., Roarke’s not nearly as nice as I am. Keep your crew off scene,” she warned. “Put one toe on, and I confiscate your equipment.”

  She turned, and when she was far enough away, pulled out her communicator. She was going outside of procedure, risking a reprimand or worse. But it had to be done.

  She could tell when Roarke answered that he hadn’t yet been to bed.

  “Well, Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”

  “I’ve only got a minute. Tell me what your relationship was with Yvonne Metcalf.”

  He lifted a brow. “We’re friends, were close at one time.”

  “You were lovers.”

  “Yes, briefly. Why?”

  “Because she’s dead, Roarke.”

  His faint smile faded. “Oh Christ, how?”

  “She had her throat cut. Stay available.”

  “Is that an official request, Lieutenant?” he asked, and his voice was hard as rock.

  “It has to be. Roarke . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He ended the transmission.

  chapter eight

  Eve had no problem listing several connections between Cicely Towers and Yvonne Metcalf. Number one was murder. The method and the perpetrator. They had both been women in the public eye, well respected, and held in great affection. They were successful in their chosen fields and were dedicated to that field. They both had families who loved and who mourned.

  Yet they had worked and played in dramatically different social and professional circles. Yvonne’s friends had been artists, actors, and musicians, while Cicely had socialized with law enforcers, businesspeople, and politicians.

  Cicely had been an organized career woman of impeccable taste who had guarded her privacy fiercely.

  Yvonne had been a cheerfully disorganized, borderline messy actor who courted the public eye.

  But someone had known them both well enough and felt strongly enough about both to kill them.

  The only name Eve found in Cicely’s tidy address book and Yvonne’s disordered one that matched was Roarke.

  For the third time in an hour, Eve ran the lists through her computer, pushing for a connection. A name that clicked with another name, an address, a profession, a personal interest. The few connections that came through were so loosely linked she could barely justify taking the next step toward the interview.

  But she would do it, because the alternative was Roarke.

  While the computer handled the short list, she took another pass through Yvonne’s electronic diary.

  “Why the hell didn’t the woman put in names?” Eve muttered. There were times, dates, occasionally initials, often little side notes or symbols of Yvonne’s mood.

  1:00—lunch at the Crown Room with B. C. Yippee! Don’t be late, Yvonne, and wear the green number with the short skirt. He likes prompt women with legs.

  Beauty day at Paradise. Thank God. 10:00. Should try to hit Fitness Palace at 8 for workout. Ugh.

  Fancy lunches, Eve mused. Pampering in the top salon in the city. Sweating a little in a luxury gym. Not a bad life, all in all. Who had wanted to end it?

  She flipped through to the day of the murder.

  8:00—Power breakfast—little blue suit with matching shoes. LOOK PROFESSIONAL FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, YVONNE!!

  11:00—P. P.’s office to discuss contract negotiations. Maybe sneak in some shopping first. SHOE SALE AT SAKS. Hot damn.

  Lunch—skip dessert. Maybe. Tell cutie he was wonderful in show. No penalty for lying to pals about their acting. God, wasn’t he awful?

  Call home.

  Hit Saks if you missed it earlier.

  5ish. Drinks. Stick with spring water, babe. You talk too much when you’re loose. Be bright, sparkle. Push Tune In. $$$***. Don’t forget photo layout in morning and stay away from that wine. Go home, take a nap.

  Midnight meeting. Could be hot stuff. Wear the red-and-white-striped number, and smile, smile, smile. Bygones are bygones, right? Never close that door. Small world, and so on. What a dumb ass.

  So she’d documented the meeting at midnight. Not who, not where, not what, but she’d wanted to be well dressed for it. Someone she’d known, had a history with. Bygones. A past problem with?

  Lover? Eve mused. She didn’t think so. Yvonne hadn’t put little hearts around the notation or told herself to be sexy, sexy, sexy. Eve thought she was beginning to understand the woman. Yvonne had been amused at herself, ready for fun, enjoying her lifestyle. And she’d been ambitious.

  Wouldn’t she have told herself to smile, smile, smile, for a career opportunity? A part, good press, a new script, an influential fan.

  What would she have said about Roarke? Eve wondered. Most likely she’d have noted him down with a big, bold-faced capital R. She would have put hearts around the date, or dollar signs, or smiles. As she had eighteen months before she died.

  Eve didn’t have to look at Yvonne’s previous diaries. She remembered perfectly the woman’s last notation on Roarke.

  Dinner with R—8:30. YUM-YUM. Wear the white satin—matching teddy. Be prepared, might get lucky. The man’s body is awesome—wish I could figure out his head. Oh well, just think sexy and see what happens.

  Eve didn’t particularly want to know if Yvonne had gotten lucky. Obviously they’d been lovers—Roarke had said so himself. So why hadn’t she put down any more dates with him after the white satin?

  It was something, she supposed, she’d have to find out—for investigative purposes only.

  Meanwhile, she would make another trip to Yvonne’s apartment, try again to reconstruct the last day of her life. She had interviews to schedule. And, as Yvonne’s parents called her at least once a day, Eve knew she would have to talk with them again, steel herself against their horrible grief and disbelief.

  She didn’t mind the fourteen- and sixteen-hour days. In fact, at this stage of her life she welcomed them.

  Four days after Yvonne Metcalf’s murder, Eve was running on empty. She had questioned over three dozen people extensively, exhaustively. Not only had she been unable to discover a single viable motive, she’d found no one who hadn’t adored the victim.

  There wasn’t a hint of an obsessed fan. Yvonne’s mail had been mountainous, and Feeney and his computer were still scanning the correspondence. But among the first section, there had been no threats, veiled or overt, no weird or unsavory offers or suggestions.

  There had been a hefty percentage of marriage proposals and other propositions. Eve culled them out with little hope or enthusiasm. There was still a chance that someone who had written to Yvonne had written or contacted Cicely. As time passed, the chance became a long shot.

  Eve did what was expected in unsolved multiple homicides, what departmental procedure called for at this stage of an investigation. She made an appointment with the shrink.

  While she waited, Eve struggled with her mixed feelings for Dr. Mira. The woman was brilliant, insightful, quietly efficient, and compassionate.

  Those were the precise reasons Eve dragged her feet. She had to remind herself again that she hadn’t come to Mira for personal reasons or because
the department was sending her for therapy. She wasn’t going through Testing, they weren’t going to discuss her thoughts, her feelings—or her memory.

  They were going to dissect the mind of a killer.

  Still, she had to concentrate on keeping her heart rate level, her hands still and dry. When she was gestured into Mira’s office, Eve told herself her legs were shaky because she was tired, nothing more.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” Mira’s pale blue eyes skimmed over Eve’s face, noted the fatigue. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

  “No problem.” Though she would have preferred standing, Eve took the blue scoop chair beside Mira’s. “I appreciate you getting to the case so quickly.”

  “We all do our jobs as best we can,” Mira said in her soothing voice. “And I had a great deal of respect and affection for Cicely Towers.”

  “You knew her?”

  “We were contemporaries, and she consulted me on many cases. I often testified for the prosecution—as well as the defense,” she added, smiling a little. “But you knew that.”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “I also admired Yvonne Metcalf’s talent. She brought a lot of happiness to the world. She’ll be missed.”

  “Someone isn’t going to miss either of them.”

  “True enough.” In her smooth, graceful way, Mira programmed her AutoChef for tea. “I realize you might be a bit pressed for time, but I work better with a little stimulation. And you look as though you could use some.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Recognizing the tightly controlled hostility in the tone, Mira only lifted a brow. “Overworked, as usual. It happens to those who are particularly good at their jobs.” She handed Eve a cup of tea in one of the pretty china cups. “Now, I’ve read over your reports, the evidence you’ve gathered, and your theories. My psychiatric profile,” she said, tapping a sealed disc on the table between them.

  “You’ve completed it.” Eve didn’t trouble to mask the irritation. “You could have transmitted the data and saved me a trip.”