The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  He saw it in Nadine Furst’s eyes. They were glassy now, the pupils huge, slick and black, with barely a rim of color at the edges. He was, he realized with great relish, literally scaring her to death.

  He hadn’t cut her again. Oh, he wanted to, and made sure he showed her the knife often so that she would never lose the fear that he could. But a part of him worried about the cunt cop.

  Not that he couldn’t handle her, Morse mused. He could handle her the only way women understood. By killing her. But he wouldn’t make it fast, like the others. She’d tried to outsmart him, and that was an insult he wouldn’t tolerate.

  Women always tried to run the show, always got in the way, just when you were about to grab that fat brass ring. It had happened to him all of his life. All of his fucking life starting with his pushy bitch of a mother.

  “You haven’t done your best, C. J. Use your brains, for God’s sake. You’ll never get through life on looks or charm. You haven’t got any. I expected more from you. If you can’t be the best, you’ll be nothing.”

  He’d taken it, hadn’t he? Smiling to himself, he began to stroke Nadine’s hair while she shuddered. He’d taken it for years, playing the good, devoted son, while at night he’d dreamed of ways to kill her. Wonderful dreams, sweaty and sweet, where he’d finally silenced that grating, demanding voice.

  “So I did,” he said conversationally, touching the tip of the knife to the pulse jerking in Nadine’s throat. “And it was so easy. She was all alone in that big, important house, busy with her big, important business. And I walked right in. ‘C. J.,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve lost your job again. You’ll never succeed in life unless you focus.’ And I just smiled at her and I said, ‘Shut up, Mother, shut the fuck up.’ And I cut her throat.”

  To demonstrate, he trailed the blade over Nadine’s throat, lightly, just enough to scrape the skin. “She gushed and she goggled, and she shut the fuck up. But you know, Nadine, I learned something from the old bitch. It was time I focused. I needed a goal. And I decided that goal would be to rid the world of loudmouthed, pushy women, the ball breakers of the world. Like Towers and Metcalf. Like you, Nadine.” He leaned over, kissed her dead center of the forehead. “Just like you.”

  She was reduced to whimpers. Her mind had frozen. She’d stopped trying to twist her wrists out of the restraints, stopped trying anything. She sat docile as a doll, with the occasional quiver breaking her stillness.

  “You kept trying to shove me aside. You even went to management to try to get me off the news desk. You told them I was a . . .” He tapped the blade against her throat for emphasis. “Pain in the ass. You know that bitch Towers wouldn’t even give me an interview. She embarrassed me, Nadine. Wouldn’t even acknowledge me at press conferences. But I fixed her. A good reporter digs, right Nadine? And I dug, and I got a nice juicy story about her darling daughter’s idiot lover. Oh, I sat on it, and sat on it, while the happy mother of the bride to be made all her wedding plans. I could have blackmailed her, but that wasn’t the goal, was it? She was so ticked when I called her that night, when I dumped it all in her face.”

  His eyes narrowed. They gleamed. “She was going to talk to me then, Nadine. Oh, you bet she was going to talk. She’d have tried to ruin me, even though I was only going to report the facts. But Towers was a big fucking deal, and she would have tried to squash me like a bug. That’s exactly what she said over the ’link. But she did exactly what she was told. And when I walked toward her on that nasty little street, she sneered at me. The bitch sneered at me and she said, ‘You’re late. Now, you little bastard, we’re going to set things straight.’”

  He laughed so hard he had to press a hand to his stomach. “Oh, I set her straight. Gush and goggle, just like my dear old mother.”

  He gave Nadine a quick slap on the top of the head, rose, and faced the camera he had set up. “This is C. J. Morse reporting. As the clock ticks away the seconds, it appears that the heroic Lieutenant Cunt will not arrive in time to save her fellow bitch from execution. Though it has long been considered a sexist cliché, this experiment has proven that women are always late.”

  He laughed uproariously and gave Nadine a careless backhanded slap that knocked her back on the bench where he’d put her. After one last, high-pitched giggle, he controlled himself and frowned soberly into the lens.

  “The public broadcasting of executions was banned in this country in 2012, five years before the Supreme Court once again ruled that capital punishment was unconstitutional. Of course, the court was forced into that decision by five idiot, bigmouthed women, so this reporter deems that ruling null and void.”

  He took a small pocket beam out of his jacket before turning to Nadine. “I’m going to key into the station now, Nadine. On air in twenty.” Thoughtfully, he tilted his head. “You know, you could use a little makeup. It’s a pity there isn’t time. I’m sure you’d want to look your best for your final broadcast.”

  He walked to her, laid the length of the knife at her throat, and faced the camera. “In ten, nine, eight . . .” He glanced over at the sound of rushing feet on the crushed stone path. “Well, well, here she is now. And with seconds to spare.”

  Eve skidded to a halt on the path and stared. She’d seen a great deal in her decade on the force. Plenty that she often wished could be erased from her memory. But she’d never seen anything to compare with this.

  She’d followed the light, the single light that beamed a circle around the tableau. The park bench where Nadine sat passively, blood drying on her skin, a knife at her throat. C. J. Morse behind her, dressed nattily in a round-collared shirt and color-coordinated jacket, facing a camera on a slim tripod. Its red light beamed as steadily as judgment’s eye.

  “What the hell are you doing, Morse?”

  “Live stand up,” he said cheerfully. “Please, step into the light, Lieutenant, so our viewers can see you.”

  Keeping her eyes on his, Eve stepped into the circle.

  She’d been gone too long, Roarke thought and found himself irritated by the party chat. Obviously, she’d been more upset than he’d realized, and he regretted not dealing with Angelini more effectively.

  Damn if he’d let her brood or take on blame. The only way to make sure she didn’t was to amuse or annoy the mood out of her. He slipped quietly from the room, away from the lights and music and voices. The house was too big to search, but he could pinpoint her location with one question.

  “Eve,” he said, the moment Summerset stepped from a room to the right.

  “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean gone? Gone where?”

  Because discussing the woman always put Summerset’s back up, he lifted his shoulders. “I couldn’t say, she simply ran out of the house, got into her vehicle, and drove off. She did not deign to inform me of her plans.”

  The nasty twisting in Roarke’s gut sharpened his voice. “Don’t fuck with me, Summerset. Why did she leave?”

  Insulted, Summerset tightened his jaw. “Perhaps it was due to the call she received a few moments ago. She took it in the library.”

  Turning on his heel, Roarke strode to the library door, uncoded it. With Summerset at his heels, he stepped up to the table. “Replay, last call.”

  As he watched, listened, the twisting in his gut turned to a burning that was fear. “Christ Jesus, she’s gone for him. She’s gone alone.”

  He was out of the door and moving fast, the order shot over his shoulder like a laser. “Relay that information to Chief Tibble—privately.”

  •••

  “Though our time is short, Lieutenant, I’m sure our viewers would be fascinated by the investigative process.” Morse kept the pleasant, camera smile on his face, the knife at Nadine’s throat. “You did pursue a false lead for a time, and were, I believe, on the point of charging an innocent man.”

  “Why did you kill them, Morse?”

  “Oh, I’ve documented that extensively, for fut
ure broadcast. Let’s talk about you.”

  “You must have felt terrible when you realized you’d killed Louise Kirski instead of Nadine.”

  “I felt very bad about that, sickened. Louise was a nice, quiet woman with an appropriate attitude. But it wasn’t my fault. It was yours and Nadine’s for trying to bait me.”

  “You wanted exposure.” She flicked a glance toward the camera. “You’re certainly getting it now. But this is putting you in a spot, Morse. You won’t get out of this park now.”

  “Oh, I have a plan, don’t worry about me. And we have just a few minutes left before we have to end this. The public has a right to know. I want them to see this execution. But I wanted you to see it in person. To witness what you caused.”

  She looked at Nadine. No help there, she noted. The woman was in deep shock, possibly drugged. “I won’t be as easy to take.”

  “You’ll be more fun.”

  “How did you take Nadine?” Eve stepped closer, keeping her eyes on his and her hands in sight. “You had to be clever.”

  “I’m very clever. People—women in particular—don’t give me enough credit. I just leaked a tip to her about the murders. A message from a frightened witness who wanted to speak to her, alone. I knew she’d ditch her guard, an ambitious woman after the big story. I got her in the parking garage. Just as simple as that. Gave her a dose of a deep tranq, loaded her in her own trunk, and drove off. Left her and the car in a little rent space zone way downtown.”

  “You were smart.” She stepped closer, stopping when he lifted his brows and pressed the knife more firmly. “Really smart,” she said, lifting her hands up. “You knew I was coming for you. How did you know?”

  “You think your wrinkled pal Feeney knows everything about computers? Hell, I can run rings around that hacker. I’ve been keyed in to your system for weeks. Every transmission, every plan, every step you took. I was always ahead of you, Dallas.”

  “Yeah, you were ahead of me. You don’t want to kill her, Morse. You want me. I’m the one who ragged on you, gave you all the grief. Why don’t you let her go? She’s zoned, anyway. Take me on.”

  He flashed his quick, boyish smile. “Why don’t I kill her first, then you?”

  Eve lifted a shoulder. “I thought you liked a challenge. Guess I was wrong. Towers was a challenge. You had to do a lot of fast talking to get her where you wanted her. But Metcalf was nothing.”

  “Are you serious? She thought I was puss.” He bared his teeth, hissed through them. “She’d still be doing weather if she hadn’t had tits, and they were giving her my airtime. My fucking airtime! I had to pretend I was a big fan, tell her I was going to do a twenty-minute feature on her. Just her. Told her we had a shot at international satellite, and she bit good.”

  “So she met you that night on the patio.”

  “Yeah, she got herself all slicked up, was all smiles and no hard feelings. Tried to tell me she was glad I’d found my niche. My goddamn niche. Well, I shut her up.”

  “You did. I guess you were pretty smart with her, too. But Nadine, she’s not saying anything. She can’t even think right now. She won’t know you’re paying her back.”

  “I’ll know. Time’s up. You might want to stand to the side, Dallas, or you’re going to get blood all over your party dress.”

  “Wait.” She took a step and, feinting to the side and reaching a hand to the small of her back, she whipped out her weapon. “Blink, you bastard, and I’ll fry you.”

  He did blink, several times. It seemed to him the weapon had come from nowhere. “You use that, my hand’s going to jerk. She’ll be dead before I am.”

  “Maybe,” Eve said steadily. “Maybe not. You’re dead, either way. Drop the knife, Morse, step away from her, or your nervous system’s going to go on fast overload.”

  “Bitch. You think you’re going to beat me.” He jerked Nadine to her feet, shielding himself from a clean shot, then shoved her forward.

  Eve caught Nadine with one arm while she aimed with her weapon hand, but he was already into the trees. Seeing no choice, Eve slapped Nadine hard, front handed, then back. “Snap out of it. Goddamn it.”

  “He’s killing me.” Nadine’s eyes rolled back, then forward when Eve hit her again.

  “Get moving, do you hear me? You get moving, call this in. Now.”

  “Call it in.”

  “That way.” Eve gave Nadine a shove toward the path, hoped she’d stay on her feet, and dashed toward the trees.

  He’d said he had a plan, and she didn’t doubt it. Even if he managed to get out of the park, they’d bring him in, eventually. But he was primed to kill now—some woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, or someone coming home from a late date.

  He’d use the knife on anyone now because he’d failed again.

  She stopped in the shadows, ears straining for sound, breath rigidly controlled. Dimly, she could hear the sounds of street and air traffic, could see the lights of the city beyond the thick border of trees.

  A dozen paths spread out before her that would wind through the glade and the gardens so lovingly planted, so carefully designed.

  She heard something. Perhaps a footstep, perhaps a bush rustled by some small animal. With her weapon blinking ready, she stepped deeper into the shadows.

  There was a fountain, its waters silent in the dark. A small children’s playground, with glide swings, twisty slides, the foamy jungle gym that prevented little climbers from bruising shins and elbows.

  She scanned the area, cursing herself for not grabbing a search beam out of her car. There was too much dark pouring dangerously out of the trees. Too much silence hanging on the air like a shroud.

  Then she heard the scream.

  He’d circled back, she thought. The bastard has circled back and gone for Nadine after all. Eve spun around, and her instinct to protect saved her life.

  The knife caught her on the collarbone, a long, shallow cut that stung ridiculously. She blocked with her elbow, connected with his jaw, spoiled his aim. But the blade flew out, slicing her just above the wrist. Her weapon spun uselessly out of her wounded hand.

  “You thought I was going to run.” His eyes glowed sickly in the dark as he circled her. “Women always underestimate me, Dallas. I’m going to cut you to pieces. I’m going to rip your throat.” He jabbed, sending her back a step. “I’m going to rip your guts.” He swung again, and she felt the wind from the blade. “I’m in charge now, aren’t I?”

  “Like hell.” Her kick was well aimed, a woman’s ultimate defense. He went down, air bursting through his lips like a popped balloon. The knife clattered on stone. And she was on him.

  He fought like what he was—a madman. His fingers tore at her, his teeth snapped as they sought flesh to sink into. Her wounded arm was slick with blood, and slipped off him as she struggled to find the point under his jaw that would immobilize him.

  They rolled over the crushed stone and trimmed sod, viciously silent but for grunts and labored breathing. His hand dug along the path for the hilt of the knife, hers clawing after it. Then stars exploded in her head as he pumped his fist into her face.

  She was dazed for only an instant, but she knew she was dead. She saw the knife, and her fate, and sucked in her breath to meet it.

  Later she would think it had sounded like a wolf, that howl of rage, a blood cry. Morse’s weight was off of her, his body spinning away. She rolled to her hands and knees, shaking her head.

  The knife, she thought frantically, the goddamn knife. But she couldn’t find it, and crawled toward the dull gleam of her weapon.

  It was in her hand, poised, when her mind cleared enough to understand. Two men were fighting, grappling like dogs in the pretty playground. And one of them was Roarke.

  “Get away from him.” She scrambled to her feet, teetered, braced. “Get away from him so I can get a shot.”

  They rolled again, end over end. Roarke’s hand gripped Morse’s, but Morse’s held the knife. Through the rage, th
e duty, the instinct, came a titanic, jittering fear.

  Weak, still losing blood, she leaned back on the padded bars of the gym, steadied her weapon hand with the other. In the dappled moonlight she could see Roarke’s fist plunge, hear the crack of bone on bone. The knife strained, the blade angling.

  Then she watched it plunge, watched it quiver as it found its home in Morse’s throat.

  Someone was praying. When Roarke got to his feet, she realized it was herself. She stared at him, let her weapon lower. His face was fierce, his eyes hot enough to burn. There was blood soaking his elegant dinner jacket.

  “You’re a goddamn mess,” she managed.

  “You should look at yourself.” His breathing was labored, and he knew from experience that he would feel every miserable bruise and scrape later. “Don’t you know it’s rude to leave a party without making your excuses?”

  Legs trembling with reaction, she took a step toward him, then stopped, swallowing the sob that was bubbled in her throat. “Sorry. I’m sorry. God, are you hurt?”

  She launched herself at him, all but burrowing when he caught her close. “Did he cut you? Are you cut?” She yanked back, began to fumble at his clothes.

  “Eve.” He jerked her chin up, steadied it. “You’re bleeding badly.”

  “He caught me a couple times.” She swiped a hand under her nose. “It’s not bad.” But Roarke was already using a square of Irish linen from his pocket to staunch and wrap the arm wound. “And it’s my job.” She took a deep breath, felt the black edges around her vision creeping back until she could see clearly. “Where are you cut?”

  “It’s his blood,” Roarke said calmly. “Not mine.”

  “His blood.” She nearly wobbled again, forced her knees to lock. “You’re not hurt?”

  “Nothing major.” Concerned, he angled her head back to examine the shallow slice along her collarbone, the rapidly swelling eye. “You need a medic, Lieutenant.”

  “In a minute. Let me ask you something.”

  “Ask away.” Having nothing else, he tore part of his ripped sleeve to dab at the blood on her shoulder.