The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  “I could have, but I preferred to discuss this with you, face to face. Eve, you’re dealing with something, someone, very dangerous.”

  “I think I picked up on that, Doctor. Two women have had their throats slashed.”

  “Two women, thus far,” Mira said quietly and sat back. “I’m very much afraid there will be more. And soon.”

  Because she believed the same, Eve ignored the quick chill that sprinted up her spine. “Why?”

  “It was so easy, you see. And so simple. A job well done. There’s a satisfaction in that. There’s also the attention factor. Whoever accomplished the murders can now sit back in his or her home and watch the show. The reports, the editorials, the grieving, the services, the public arena of the investigation.”

  She paused to savor her tea. “You have your theory, Eve. You’re here so that I can corroborate it or argue against it.”

  “I have several theories.”

  “Only one you believe in.” Mira smiled her wise smile, aware that it made Eve bristle. “Fame. What else did these two women have in common but their public prominence? They didn’t share the same social circle or professional one. Knew few of the same people, even on a casual level. They didn’t patronize the same shops, health centers, or cosmetic experts. What they did share was fame, public interest, and a kind of power.”

  “Which the killer envied.”

  “I would say exactly that. Resented as well and wished, by killing them, to bask in the reflected attention. The murders themselves were both vicious and uncommonly clean. Their faces weren’t marred, nor their bodies. One quick slice across the throat, according to the ME, from the front. Face to face. A blade is a personal weapon, an extension of the hand. It isn’t distant like a laser, or aloof like poison. Your murderer wanted the feel of killing, the sight of blood, the smell of it. The full experience that makes him or her one who appreciates having control, following through on a plan.”

  “You don’t believe it was a hired hit.”

  “There’s always that possibility, Eve, but I’m more inclined to see the killer as an active participant rather than a hireling. Then there are the souvenirs.”

  “Towers’s umbrella.”

  “And Metcalf’s right shoe. You’ve managed to keep that out of the press.”

  “Barely.” Eve scowled over the memory of Morse and his crew invading the murder scene. “A pro wouldn’t have taken a souvenir, and the killings were too well thought out to have been planned by a street hit.”

  “I agree. You have an organized mind, an ambitious one. Your murderer is enjoying his work, which is why there’ll be another.”

  “Or hers,” Eve put in. “The envy factor can be leaned toward a female. These two women were what she wanted to be. Beautiful, successful, admired, famous, strong. It’s often the weak who kill.”

  “Yes, quite often. No, it isn’t possible to determine gender from the data we have at this point, only to access the probability factor that the killer targets females who have reached a high level of public attention.”

  “What am I supposed to do about that, Dr. Mira? Put a security beeper on every prominent, well-known, or successful woman in the city? Including yourself?”

  “Odd, I was thinking more about you.”

  “Me?” Eve jiggled the tea she hadn’t touched, then set it on the table with a snap. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve become a familiar face, Eve. For your work, certainly, and most particularly since the case last winter. You’re very respected in your field. And,” she continued before Eve could interrupt, “you also have one more important connection to both victims. All of you have had a relationship with Roarke.”

  Eve knew her blood drained from her face. That wasn’t something she could control. But she could keep her voice level and hard. “Roarke had a business partnership, a relatively minor one, with Towers. With Metcalf, the intimate side of their relationship has been over for quite some time.”

  “Yet you feel the need to defend him to me.”

  “I’m not defending him,” Eve snapped. “I’m stating facts. Roarke’s more than capable of defending himself.”

  “Undoubtedly. He’s a strong, vital, and clever man. Still, you worry for him.”

  “In your professional opinion, is Roarke the killer?”

  “Absolutely not. I have no doubt that were I to analyze him, I would find his killer instinct well developed.” The fact was, Mira would have loved the opportunity to study Roarke’s mind. “But his motive would have to be very defined. Great love or great hate. I doubt there is much else that would push him over the line. Relax, Eve,” Mira said quietly. “You’re not in love with a murderer.”

  “I’m not in love with anyone. And my personal feelings aren’t at issue here.”

  “On the contrary, the investigator’s state of mind is always an issue. And, if I’m required to give my opinion on yours, I’ll have to say I found you near exhaustion, emotionally torn, and deeply troubled.”

  Eve picked up the profile disc and rose. “Then it’s fortunate you’re not going to be required to give your opinion. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment. But at what cost to yourself?”

  “The cost would be higher if I didn’t do it. I’m going to find who killed these women. Then it’ll be up to someone like Cicely Towers to put them away.” Eve tucked the disk in her bag. “There’s a connection you left out, Dr. Mira. Something these two women had in common.” Eve’s eyes were hard and cold. “Family. Both of them had close family that was a large and important part of their lives. I’d say that lets me out as a possible target. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps. Have you been thinking of your family, Eve?”

  “Don’t play with me.”

  “You mentioned it,” Mira pointed out. “You’re always careful in what you say to me, so I must assume family is on your mind.”

  “I don’t have family,” Eve shot back. “And I’ve got murder on my mind. If you want to report to the commander that I’m unfit for duty, that’s just fine.”

  “When are you going to trust me?” There was impatience, for the first time in Eve’s memory, in the careful voice. “Is it so impossible for you to believe that I care about you? Yes, I care,” Mira said when Eve blinked in surprise. “And I understand you better than you wish to admit.”

  “I don’t need for you to understand me.” But there were nerves in Eve’s voice now. She heard them herself. “I’m not in Testing or here for a therapy session.”

  “There are no recorders on here.” Mira set her tea down with a snap that had Eve jamming her hands in her pockets. “Do you think you’re the only child who lived with horror and abuse? The only woman who’s struggled to overcome it?”

  “I don’t have to overcome anything. I don’t remember—”

  “My stepfather raped me repeatedly from the time I was twelve until I was fifteen,” Mira said calmly, and stopped Eve’s protest cold. “For those three years I lived never knowing when it would happen, only that it would. And no one would listen to me.”

  Shaken, sick, Eve wrapped her arms around her body. “I don’t want to know this. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I look in your eyes and see myself. But you have someone who’ll listen to you, Eve.”

  Eve stood where she was, moistened her dry lips. “Why did it stop?”

  “Because I finally found the courage to go to an abuse center, tell the counselor everything, to submit to the examinations, both physical and psychiatric. The terror of that, the humiliation of that, was no longer as huge as the alternative.”

  “Why should I have to remember it?” Eve demanded. “It’s over.”

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “The investigation—”

  “Eve.”

  The gentle tone had Eve closing her eyes. It was so hard, so trying, to fight that quiet compassion. “Flashbacks,�
�� she murmured, hating herself for the weakness. “Nightmares.”

  “Of before you were found in Texas?”

  “Just blips, just pieces.”

  “I can help you put them together.”

  “Why should I want to put them together?”

  “Haven’t you already started to?” Now Mira rose. “You can work with this haunting your subconscious. I’ve watched you do so for years. But happiness eludes you, and will continue to do so until you’ve convinced yourself you deserve it.”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “No.” Mira touched a gentle hand to Eve’s arm. “No, it wasn’t your fault.”

  Tears were threatening, and that was a shock and an embarrassment. “I can’t talk about this.”

  “My dear, you’ve already begun to. I’ll be here when you’re ready to do so again.” She waited until Eve had reached the door. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You always ask questions.”

  “Why stop now?” Mira said and smiled. “Does Roarke make you happy?”

  “Sometimes.” Eve squeezed her eyes shut and swore. “Yes, yes, he makes me happy. Unless he’s making me miserable.”

  “That’s lovely. I’m very pleased for both of you. Try to get some sleep, Eve. If you won’t take chemicals, you might use simple visualization.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Eve opened the door, kept her back to the room. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Visualization wouldn’t be much help, Eve decided. Not after a rescan of autopsy reports.

  The apartment was too quiet, too empty. She was sorry she’d left the cat with Roarke. At least Galahad would have been company.

  Because her eyes burned from studying data, she pushed away from her desk. She didn’t have the energy to seek out Mavis, and she was bored senseless with the video offerings on her screen.

  She ordered music, listened for thirty seconds, then switched it off.

  Food usually worked, but when she poked into the kitchen, she was reminded she hadn’t restocked her AutoChef in weeks. The pickings were slim, and she didn’t have enough of an appetite to order in.

  Determined to relax, she tried out the virtual reality goggles Mavis had given her for Christmas. Because Mavis had used them last, they were set for Nightclub, at full volume. After a hurried adjustment and a great deal of swearing, Eve programmed Tropics, Beach.

  She could feel the grit of hot, white sand under her bare feet, the punch of the sun on her skin, the soft, ocean breeze. It was lovely to stand in the gentle surf, watch the swoop of gulls, and sip from an icy drink that carried the zing of rum and fruit.

  There were hands on her bare shoulders, rubbing. Sighing, she leaned back into them, felt the firm length of male against her back. Far out on the blue sea a white ship sailed toward the horizon.

  It was easy to turn into the arms that waited for her, to lift her mouth to the mouth she wanted. And to lie on the hot sand with the body that fit so perfectly with hers.

  The excitement was as sweet as the peace. The rhythm as old as the waves that lapped over her skin. She let herself be taken, shivered as the needs built toward fulfillment. His breath was on her face, his body linked with her when she groaned out his name.

  Roarke.

  Furious with herself, Eve tore off the goggles and heaved them aside. He had no right to intrude, even here, inside her head. No right to bring her pain and pleasure when all she wanted was privacy.

  Oh, he knew what he was doing, she thought as she sprang up to pace. He knew exactly what he was doing. And they were going to settle it, once and for all.

  She slammed the apartment door behind her. It didn’t occur to her until she was speeding through his gates that he might not be alone.

  The idea of that was so infuriating, so devastating, that she took the stone steps two at a time, hit the door with a fresh burst of violent energy.

  Summerset was waiting for her. “Lieutenant, it’s one twenty in the morning.”

  “I know what time it is.” She bared her teeth when he stepped in front of her to block the staircase. “Let’s understand each other, pal. I hate you, you hate me. The difference is I’ve got a badge. Now get the hell out of my way or I’ll haul your bony ass in for obstructing an officer.”

  Dignity coated him like silk. “Do I take that to mean you’re here, at this hour, in an official capacity, Lieutenant?”

  “Take it any way you want. Where is he?”

  “If you’ll state your business, I’ll be happy to determine Roarke’s current whereabouts and see if he’s available to you.”

  Out of patience, Eve jammed an elbow in his gut and skirted his wheezing form. “I’ll find him myself,” she stated as she bounded up the stairs.

  He wasn’t in bed, alone or otherwise. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, or what she would have done if she’d found him twined around some blonde. Refusing to think about it, she turned on her heel and marched away toward his office, with Summerset hot on her trail.

  “I intend to file a complaint.”

  “File away,” she shot back over her shoulder.

  “You have no right to intrude on private property, in the middle of the night. You will not disturb Roarke.” He slapped a hand on the door as she reached it. “I will not allow it.”

  To Eve’s surprise, he was out of breath and red-faced. His eyes were all but jittering in their sockets. It was, she decided, more emotion than she’d believed him capable of.

  “This really puts your jocks in a twist, doesn’t it?” Before he could prevent it, she hit the mechanism and the door slid open.

  He made a grab for her, and Roarke, who turned from his study of the city, had the curious surprise of watching them grapple.

  “Put a hand on me again, you tight-assed son of a bitch, and I’ll deck you.” She lifted a fist to demonstrate. “The satisfaction would be worth my badge.”

  “Summerset,” Roarke said mildly. “I believe she means it. Leave us alone.”

  “She’s exceeded her authority—”

  “Leave us alone,” Roarke repeated. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “As you wish.” Summerset jerked his starched jacket back into place and strode out—with only the slightest of limps.

  “If you want to keep me out,” Eve snapped on her march toward the desk, “you’re going to have to do better than that flat-assed guard dog.”

  Roarke merely folded his hands on the desktop. “If I’d wanted to keep you out, you would no longer be cleared through gate security.” Deliberately, he flicked a glance at his watch. “It’s a bit late for official interviews.”

  “I’m tired of people telling me what time it is.”

  “Well then.” He leaned back in the chair. “What can I do for you?”

  chapter nine

  Attack was the emotional choice. Eve could justify it as the logical one as well.

  “You were involved with Yvonne Metcalf.”

  “As I told you, we were friends.” He opened an antique silver box on the desk and took out a cigarette. “At one time, intimate friends.”

  “Who changed the aspect of your relationship, and when?”

  “Who? Hmmm.” Roarke thought it over as he lighted the cigarette, blew out a thin haze of smoke. “I believe it was a mutual decision. Her career was rising quickly, causing numerous demands on her time and energy. You could say we drifted apart.”

  “You quarreled?”

  “I don’t believe we did. Yvonne was rarely quarrelsome. She found life too . . . amusing. Would you like a brandy?”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Yes, of course you are. I’m not.”

  When he rose, Eve saw the cat spring from his lap. Galahad examined her with his bicolored eyes before plunking down to wash. She was too busy scowling at the cat to note that Roarke’s hands weren’t quite steady as he stood at the carved liquor cabinet pouring brandy from decanter to snifter.

&n
bsp; “Well,” he said, swirling the glass with half the width of the room between them. “Is that all?”

  No, she thought, that was far from all. If he wouldn’t help her voluntarily, she would poke and prod and use his canny brain without mercy and without a qualm. “The last time you’re noted in her diary was a year and a half ago.”

  “So long,” Roarke murmured. He had regret, a great deal of it, for Yvonne. But he had his own problems at the moment, the biggest of which was standing across the room, watching him with turbulent eyes. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Was that the last time you saw her?”

  “No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He stared into his brandy, remembering her. “I recall dancing with her at a party, last New Year’s Eve. She came back here with me.”

  “You slept with her,” Eve said evenly.

  “Technically, no.” His voice took on a clip of annoyance. “I had sex with her, conversation, brunch.”

  “You resumed your former relationship?”

  “No.” He chose a chair and ordered himself to enjoy his brandy and cigarette. Casually, he crossed his feet at the ankles. “We might have, but we were both quite busy with our own projects. I didn’t hear from her again for six weeks, maybe seven.”

  “And?”

  He’d brushed her off, he recalled. Casually, easily. Perhaps thoughtlessly. “I told her I was . . . involved.” He examined the bright tip of his cigarette. “At that time I was falling in love with someone else.”

  Her heartbeat hitched. She stared at him, jammed her hands in her pockets. “I can’t eliminate you from the list unless you help me.”

  “Can’t you? Well, then.”

  “Damn it, Roarke, you’re the only one who was involved with both victims.”

  “And what’s my motive, Lieutenant?”

  “Don’t use that tone with me. I hate it when you do that. Cold, controlled, superior.” Giving up, she began to pace. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with the murders, and there’s no evidence to support your involvement. But that doesn’t break the link.”

  “And that makes it difficult for you, because your name is, in turn, linked with mine. Or was.”