The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  “Good deal—since I have to go all the way to Second to find a store that’s licensed to sell smokes.” Resigned, she rose. “I’m using your raincoat.”

  “Go ahead.” Nadine passed her a handful of credits. “Just put my share in the pocket, okay? I’ll be in the newsroom.”

  They walked out together, with Louise bundling into the stylish blue coat. “Nice material.”

  “Sheds water like a duck.”

  They crossed the rampway, passed a series of editing and production rooms, and walked toward a descending people glide. Noise began to filter through, so Nadine pitched her voice over it.

  “Are you and Bongo still thinking of taking the big step?”

  “Thinking hard enough that we’ve started looking at apartments. We’re going the traditional route. We’ll give living together a try for a year. If it works, we’ll make it legal.”

  “Better you than me,” Nadine said with feeling. “I can’t think of a single reason why a rational person would lock themselves to another rational person.”

  “Love.” Louise put a dramatic hand to her heart. “It makes reason and rationality fly out the old window.”

  “You’re young and free, Louise.”

  “And if I’m lucky, I’m going to be old and chained to Bongo.”

  “Who the hell wants to be chained to anybody named Bongo?” Nadine muttered.

  “Me. Catch you later.” With a quick salute, Louise continued on the descent while Nadine stepped off toward the newsroom.

  And thinking of Bongo, Louise wondered if she’d be able to get home before one A.M. It was their night at her place. That was a little inconvenience that would end once they found one suitable apartment rather than shifting back and forth between his rooms and hers.

  Idly, she glanced over at one of the many monitors lining the walls, playing Channel 75’s current broadcast. Right now it was a popular sitcom, a dead medium that had been revived over the past couple years by talent such as Yvonne Metcalf’s.

  Louise shook her head over that thought, then chuckled a little as the life-sized actor on screen mugged outrageously for the viewing audience.

  Nadine might have been married to the news, but Louise liked sheer entertainment. She looked forward to those rare evenings when she and Bongo could cuddle up in front of the screen.

  In Channel 75’s wide lobby there were more monitors, security stations, and a pleasant sitting area ringed with holograms of the station’s stars. And, of course, a gift shop stocked with souvenir T-shirts, hats, signed mugs, and holograms of the station’s biggest stars.

  Twice a day, between the hours of ten and four, tours were guided through the station. Louise had taken one herself as a child, had gawked with the best of them, and had, she remembered with a smug smile, decided then and there on her career.

  She waved to the guard at the front entrance, detoured to the east end, which was the shortest route to Second. At the side door for employees, she passed her palm over the handplate to deactivate the lock. As the door swung open, she winced at the heavy sound of drumming rain. She almost changed her mind.

  Was one sneaky smoke worth a two-block sprint through the cold and damp? Damn right, she thought and flipped up the hood. The good, expensive raincoat would keep her dry enough, and she’d been stuck in Editing with Nadine for more than an hour.

  Hunching her shoulders, she bolted outside.

  The wind kicked so that she broke her stride just long enough to secure the coat at the waist. Her shoes were soaked before she reached the bottom of the steps, and looking down at them, she swore under her breath.

  “Well, shit.”

  They were the last words she spoke.

  A movement caught her attention and she looked up, blinking once to clear the rain from her eyes. She never saw the knife, already in an arching slash, glint wetly in the rain then slice viciously across her throat.

  The killer studied her for only a moment, watched the blood fountain, the body collapse like a puppet cut from its strings. There was shock, then anger, then a quick, jittering fear. The gored knife hurried back into a deep pocket before the darkly clad figure ran off into the shadows.

  “I think I could live like this.” After a meal of rare Montana beef accented with lobsters harvested from Icelandic waters, washed down with French champagne, Mavis lounged in the lush indoor lagoon off the solarium. She yawned, blissfully naked and just a little drunk. “You are living like this.”

  “Sort of.” Not quite as free-spirited as Mavis, Eve wore a snug one-piece tank suit. She’d cozied herself on a smooth seat made of stone, and was still drinking. She hadn’t allowed herself to relax to this extent in too long to remember. “I don’t really have a lot of time for this part of it.”

  “Make time, babe.” Mavis submerged, popped up again, perfect round breasts gleaming in the showy blue lights she’d programmed. Lazily, she paddled over to a water lily, gave a sniff. “Christ, this is the real thing. Do you know what you’ve got here, Dallas?”

  “Indoor swimming?”

  “What you’ve got,” Mavis began as she frog kicked her way over to the float that held her glass, “is a grade one fantasy. The kind you can’t get from the top-line VR goggles.” She took a long sip of icy champagne. “You’re not going to get all weirded out and blow it, are you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you. You’ll pick it apart, question everything, analyze.” Noting Eve’s glass was empty, Mavis did the honors. “Well, I’m telling you, pal. Don’t.”

  “I don’t pick things apart.”

  “You’re the champion picked—pick it part—damn it, pick it aparter. Whew. Try saying that five times fast when your tongue’s numb.” She used a bare hip to nudge Eve over and squeezed in next to her. “He’s crazy about you, isn’t he?”

  Eve jerked her shoulders and drank.

  “He’s rich, I mean mag rich, gorgeous as a god, and that body—”

  “What d’you know about his body?”

  “I got eyes. I use ’em. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he looks like naked.” Amused by the glint in Eve’s eyes, Mavis licked her lips. “Of course, any time you want to fill in the missing details, I’m here for you.”

  “What a pal.”

  “That’s me. Anyway, he’s all that stuff. Then there’s that power trip. He’s got all that power, sort of shoots out from him.” She highlighted the statement by splashing up water. “And he looks at you like he could eat you alive. In big . . . greedy . . . bites. Shit, I’m getting hot.”

  “Keep your hands off me.”

  Mavis snorted. “Maybe I’ll go seduce Summerset.”

  “I don’t think he has a dick.”

  “Bet I could find out.” But she was just too lazy at the moment. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  “Summerset? I’ve had a hell of a time controlling myself around him.”

  “Look me dead in the eye. Come on.” To ensure obedience, Mavis snagged Eve’s chin, swiveled until they were face to face, glassy eye to glassy eye. “You’re in love with Roarke.”

  “It looks that way. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Good. Don’t. Always said you thought too damn much.” Holding the glass over her head, Mavis pushed off into the lagoon. “Can we use the jets?”

  “Sure.” Impaired with wine, Eve fumbled a bit for the correct control. Once the water started to bubble and spew, Mavis let out a laughing moan.

  “Christ Jesus, who needs a man when you’ve got one of these? Come on, Eve, bump up the music. Let’s party.”

  Obliging, Eve doubled the volume on the controls so that the music screamed off the walls and water. The Rolling Stones, Mavis’s favorite classic artists, wailed. Lounged back, Eve laughed as Mavis improvised dance steps and started to send the server droid after another bottle.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Huh?” Bleary-eyed, Eve studied the glossy black shoes at the lip of
the lagoon. Slowly, and with mild curiosity, she let her gaze travel up the smoke-colored, pipe-stemmed pants, the short, stiff jacket, and into Summerset’s stony face. “Hey, you wanna take a little dip?”

  “Come on in, Summerset.” Water lapped around Mavis’s waist and dripped cheerfully from her classy breasts as she waved. “The more the merrier.”

  He sniffed, his lips curled. Sheer habit had the words dropping out of his mouth like knife-edged ice cubes, but his gaze kept wandering back to Mavis’s swirling body.

  “There’s a transmission for you, Lieutenant. Apparently you were unable to hear my attempts to inform you.”

  “What? Okay, okay.” She sniggered, paddled toward the ’link set in the side of the lagoon. “Is it Roarke?”

  “It is not.” It affronted his dignity to shout, but it would have offended his pride to order the music lower. “It is Dispatch from Cop Central.”

  Even as Eve reached for the ’link, she stopped, swore. Then slicked the hair back from her face. “Music off,” she snapped, and had Mick and his pals echoing into silence. “Mavis, stay out of video range, please.” Eve sucked in a deep breath, then opened the ’link. “Dallas.”

  “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Voice print verified. Report immediately to Broadcast Avenue, Channel 75. Confirmed Homicide. Code Yellow.”

  Eve’s blood ran cold. Her fingers gripped on the edge of the pool. “Victim’s name?”

  “That information is not cleared for transmission at this time. Confirm receipt of orders, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

  “Confirmed. ETA twenty minutes. Request Feeney, Captain, EDD on scene.”

  “Request verified. Dispatch out.”

  “Oh God. Oh God.” Weak with guilt and liquor, Eve laid her head on the edge of the pool. “I fucking killed her.”

  “Stop it.” Mavis swam over, laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “Cut it out, Eve,” she said briskly.

  “He took the wrong bait, the wrong bait, Mavis, and she’s dead. It was supposed to be me.”

  “I said stop it.” Confused by the words, but not by the sentiment, Mavis pulled her back and gave Eve a quick shake. “Snap out of it, Dallas.”

  Helpless, Eve pressed a hand to her spinning head. “Oh my Christ, I’m drunk. That’s perfect.”

  “I can fix that. I’ve got some Sober Up in my bag.” At Eve’s moan, Mavis gave her another shake. “I know you hate pills, but they’ll clean the alcohol out of your bloodstream in ten minutes flat. Come on, we’ll get some into you.”

  “Fine. Dandy. I’ll be sober when I have to look at her.”

  She started up the steps, slipped, was surprised to find her arm taken firmly. “Lieutenant.” Summerset’s voice was still cool, but he held out a towel and helped her up onto the stone skirt of the pool. “I’ll see that your car’s ready.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  chapter twelve

  Mavis’s handy antidote worked like a charm. Eve had a foul taste in the back of her throat, but she was stone-cold sober when she reached Channel 75’s sleek silver building.

  It had been constructed in the mid-twenties when the media boom had hit such astronomical proportions as to generate more profits than a small country. One of the loftier buildings on Broadcast Avenue, it towered up from a wide, flat hilt, housed several thousand employees, five elaborate studios, including the most lavish new set on the East Coast, and enough power to beam transmissions to every pocket of the planet and its orbiting stations.

  The east wing, where Eve was directed, faced Third with its tony mutiplexes and apartment buildings designed for the convenience of the broadcast industry.

  Due to the thick air traffic, Eve realized word had already hit. Control was going to be a problem. Even as she rounded the building, she called Dispatch and requested air barricades as well as ground security. A homicide right in the lap of the media was going to be hard enough to deal with, without the vultures flying.

  Steady now, she locked away guilt and stepped from her car to approach the scene. The uniforms had been busy, she saw with some relief. They’d cleared the area and had the outside door sealed off. Reporters and their teams were there, naturally. There would be no keeping them away. But she’d have room to breathe.

  She’d already attached her badge to her jacket and moved through the rain to the porta-tarp some wise soul had tossed over the crime scene. Raindrops pinged musically against the strong, clear plastic.

  She recognized the raincoat, dealt viciously with the quick, instinctive lurch of her stomach. She asked if the immediate scene had been scanned and recorded, and receiving the affirmative, crouched down.

  Her hands were rock steady as they reached for the hood that had fallen forward over the victim’s face. She ignored the blood that pooled in a sticky puddle at the toes of her boots and managed to smother the gasp and the shudder as she tossed the hood away from a stranger’s face.

  “Who the hell is this?” she demanded.

  “Victim’s been preliminarily identified as Louise Kirski, editorial tech for Channel 75.” The uniform pulled a log out of the pocket of her slick black raincoat. “She was found at approximately eleven fifteen by C. J. Morse. He tossed his cookies just over there,” she went on with light disdain for civilian delicacy. “Went inside through this door, screaming his head off. Building security verified his story, such as it was, called it in. Dispatch logged the call at eleven twenty-two. I arrived on scene at eleven twenty-seven.”

  “You made good time, Officer . . . ?”

  “Peabody, Lieutenant. I was on a swing of First Avenue. I verified homicide, secured the outer door, called for additional uniforms and a primary.”

  Eve nodded toward the building. “They get any of this on camera?”

  “Sir.” Peabody’s mouth thinned. “I ordered a news team off scene when I arrived. I’d say they got plenty before we secured.”

  “Okay.” With fingertips encased in clear seal, Eve did a search of the body. A few credits, a little jingling change, a pricey mini ’link attached to the belt. No defense wounds, no signs of struggle or assault.

  She recorded it all dutifully, her mind working fast. Yes, she recognized the raincoat, she thought, and her initial exam complete, she straightened.

  “I’m going in. I’m expecting Captain Feeney. Pass him through. She can go with the ME.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You stand, Peabody,” Eve decided. The cop had a good, firm style. “Keep those reporters in line.” Eve glanced over her shoulder, ignoring the shouted questions, the glint of lenses. “Give no comment, no statement.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to them.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  Eve unsealed the door, passed through, resealed it. The lobby was nearly empty. Peabody, or someone like her, had cleared it of all but essential personnel. Eve shot a look at the security behind the main console. “C. J. Morse. Where?”

  “His station’s on level six, section eight. Some of your people took him up that way.”

  “I’m expecting another cop. Send him after me.” Eve turned and stepped onto the ascent.

  There were people here and there, some huddled together, others standing against video backdrops talking furiously to cameras. She caught the scent of coffee, the stale just-burned fragrance so similar to a cop’s bull pen. Another time, it might have made her smile.

  The noise level was climbing, even as she did. She stepped off on level six into the frantic buzz of the newsroom.

  Consoles were set back to back, with traffic areas snaking through. Like police work, broadcasting was a twenty-four-hour business. Even at this hour, there were more than a dozen stations manned.

  The difference, Eve noted, was that cops looked overworked, rumpled, even sweaty. This crew was video perfect. Clothes were streamlined, jewelry camera friendly, faces carefully polished.

  Everyone seemed to have a job to do. Some were talking quickly to their ’link screens—feeding their sat
ellites updates, Eve imagined. Others barked at their computers or were barked at by them as data was requested, accessed, and transmitted to the desired source.

  It all looked perfectly normal, except mixed with the stale scent of bad coffee was the sticky odor of fear.

  One or two noticed her, started to rise, questions in their eyes. Her brutally cold stare was as effective as a steel shield.

  She turned to the wall where screens hugged against each other. Roarke had a similar setup, and she knew each screen could be used for a separate image, or in any combination. Now the wall was filled with a huge picture of Nadine Furst on the news set. The familiar three-dimensional view of New York’s skyline rose behind her.

  She, too, looked polished, perfect. Her eyes seemed to meet and hold on Eve’s as Eve stepped closer to listen to the audio.

  “And again tonight, a senseless killing. Louise Kirski, an employee of this station, was murdered only a few steps away from the building where I am now broadcasting this report.”

  Eve didn’t bother to curse as Nadine added a few more details and segued to Morse. She’d expected this.

  “An ordinary evening,” Morse said in a clear reporter’s voice. “A rainy night in the city. But once again, despite the best offered by our police force, murder happens. This reporter is now able to give you a first-hand view of the horror, the shock, and the waste.”

  He paused, timing perfect, as the camera zoomed in on his face. “I found Louise Kirski’s body, crumpled, bleeding, at the bottom of the steps of this building where both she and I have worked many nights. Her throat had been slashed, her blood pouring out on the wet pavement. I’m not ashamed to say that I froze, that I was revolted, that the smell of death clogged in my lungs. I stood, looking down at her, unable to believe what I saw with my own eyes. How could this be? A woman I knew, a woman who I had often shared a friendly word with, a woman I had occasionally had the privilege of working with. How could she be lying there, lifeless?”

  The screen dissolved from his pale, serious face, to a gruesomely graphic shot of the body.