The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  Now, of course, he had a raging hangover that made him want to curl into a ball and weep for mercy. But she might come back, and he didn’t want her to see him in such a mortifying state. He made himself get up, hunted down some painkillers before programming her AutoChef for coffee, strong and black.

  Then he noticed the blood.

  It was dried, streaking down his arm, onto his hand. There was a gash on his forearm, long, fairly deep, that had crusted over. Blood, he thought again, stomach jittery as he noted that it stained his shirt, his pants.

  Breathing shallowly, he backed away from the counter, staring down at himself. Had he been in a fight? Had he hurt anyone?

  Nausea rose in his throat as his mind skipped over huge voids and blurry memories.

  Oh sweet Jesus, had he killed someone?

  Eve was staring grimly at the medical examiner’s preliminary report as she heard a quick, sharp rap on the door of her office. It opened before she acknowledged it.

  “Lieutenant Dallas?” The man had the look of a sun-bleached cowboy, from his shit-eating grin to his worn-heeled boots. “Goddamn, it’s good to see the legend in the flesh. Seen your picture, but you’re a long sight prettier.”

  “I’m all a-flutter.” Eyes narrowing, she leaned back. He was plenty pretty himself, with wheat-colored hair curling around a tan, lived-in face that creased appealingly around bottle-green eyes. A long, straight nose, the quick wink of a sly dimple at the corner of a grinning mouth. And a body that, well, looked like it could ride the range just fine. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Casto, Jake T.” He tugged a shield from the snug front pocket of his faded Levi’s. “Illegals. Heard you were tracking me.”

  Eve scanned the badge. “Did you? Did you hear why I might have been tracking you, Lieutenant Casto, Jake T.?”

  “Our mutual weasel.” He stepped all the way in and planted a hip companionably on her desk. That brought him close enough for her to catch the scent of his skin. Soap and leather. “Goddamn shame about old Boomer. Harmless little prick.”

  “If you knew Boomer was mine, what’s taken you so long to come see me?”

  “I’ve been tied up on something else. And to tell the truth, I didn’t think there was much to say or do. Then I heard Feeney from EDD was poking around.” Those eyes smiled again, with just a touch of sarcasm. “Feeney’s pretty much yours, too, isn’t he?”

  “Feeney’s his own. What were you working Boomer on?”

  “Usual.” Casto picked up an amethyst egg from her desk, admired the inclusions, passed it from hand to hand. “Information on illegals. Small shit. Boomer liked to think he was big time, but it was always little bits and pieces.”

  “Little bits and pieces can build the big picture.”

  “That’s why I used him, honey. He was pretty reliable for a bust here and there. Couple of times I tagged a middle level dealer on his data.” He grinned again. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

  “Yeah. So who beat him into putty?”

  The grin faded. Casto set the egg back down and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have a clue. Boomer wasn’t your lovable sort, but I don’t know anybody who hated him enough, or was pissed enough, to whack him that way.”

  Eve studied her man. He looked solid, and there had been a tone in his voice when he’d spoken of Boomer that reminded her of her own cautious affection. Still, she believed in holding her cards close. “Was he working on anything in particular? Something different? Something bigger?”

  Casto’s sandy brow lifted. “Such as?”

  “I’m asking you. Illegals aren’t my game.”

  “There wasn’t anything I knew of. Last I talked to him, hell, maybe two weeks before he went floating, he talked about sniffing out something outrageous. You know how he talked, Eve.”

  “Yeah, I know how he talked.” It was time to lay one of her cards down. “I also know I copped some unidentified substance hidden in his apartment. It’s in the lab now, and they’re analyzing. So far, all they tell me is it’s a new blend, and it’s more potent than anything currently on the street.”

  “New blend.” Casto’s brow creased. “Why the hell didn’t he tip me to that? If he tried to play both sides . . .” Casto hissed a breath between his teeth. “You think he got whacked over it?”

  “That’s my best theory.”

  “Yeah. Dumb shit. Probably tried to shake down the maker or the distributor. Listen, I’ll talk to the lab, and I’ll see if there’s any buzz on the street about something new coming in.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” He shifted, let his gaze linger on her mouth for a beat, with a kind of talent that missed insulting by miles and bull’s-eyed on flattering. “Maybe you’d like to catch a bite to eat, discuss strategy. Or whatever comes to mind.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Is that no because you’re not hungry, or because you’re getting married?”

  “Both.”

  “Well, then.” He rose, and being human, she had to appreciate the way the denim snugged over long, lanky legs. “If you change your mind about either, you know where to find me now. I’ll be in touch.” He sauntered toward the door, paused, and turned. “You know, Eve, you’ve got eyes like good, aged whiskey. Sure brings out a powerful thirst in a man.”

  She frowned at the door he closed behind him, annoyed at the fact that her pulse was a little quick, a little unsteady. Shaking it off, she dragged both hands through her hair and looked back at the report on her screen.

  She hadn’t needed to be told how Pandora had died, but it was interesting to see that the ME believed the first three head blows had been fatal. Anything after that had just been indulgence on the killer’s part.

  She’d put up a fight before the head blows, Eve noted. Lacerations and abrasions on other parts of the body were concordant with a struggle.

  The time of death was listed at oh two fifty, and stomach contents indicated the victim had enjoyed an elegant last meal, at about twenty-one hundred, of lobster, escarole, Bavarian cream, and vintage champagne.

  There had also been heavy traces of chemicals in her bloodstream which had yet to be analyzed.

  So, Mavis had probably been right. It looked as though Pandora was jazzed on something, possibly on the illegals list. In the grand scheme of things, that might or might not make a difference.

  But the traces of skin under the victim’s nails were going to make a difference. Eve was terrifyingly sure when the lab finished its work, it was going to prove to be Mavis’s skin. Just as the strands of hair the sweepers had bagged near the body were going to be Mavis’s hair. And most damning, she was afraid, the prints on the murder weapon could be Mavis’s.

  As a setup, Eve thought and let her eyes close, it was perfect. Mavis comes in, wrong time, wrong place, and the killer sees a tailor-made scapegoat.

  Had he or she known the history between Mavis and the victim, or had that just been one more stroke of luck?

  In any case, he knocks Mavis out, plants some evidence, even adds the master stroke of scraping the dead woman’s nails over Mavis’s face. Easy enough to press her fingers onto the weapon, then slip out and away with the satisfaction of a job well done.

  It wouldn’t take a genius, she mused. But it would take a cold, practical mind. And how did that jibe with the rage and the insanity of the attack on Pandora?

  She would have to make it jibe, Eve told herself. And she would have to find a way to clear Mavis and find the kind of killer who could batter a woman’s face into nothing, then tidy up after himself.

  Even as she started to rise, her door burst open. Wild-eyed, Leonardo lurched inside.

  “I killed her. I killed Pandora. God help me.”

  With that, his wild eyes rolled back and all two hundred and sixty pounds of him thudded to the floor in a dead faint.

  “Jesus. Jesus Christ.” Rather than try to catch him, Eve nipped back out of the way of his falling body.
It was like watching a redwood go down. Now he was stretched, feet on her threshold, his head nearly brushing the opposite wall. She crouched down, put her back into it and managed to roll him over. She tried a couple of sharp, light slaps, then waited. Muttering to herself, she put her back into that as well as rapped his cheeks hard.

  He moaned, and his bloodshot eyes fluttered open. “What—where—”

  “Shut up, Leonardo.” Eve snapped out the order as she rose, went to the doorway, and kicked his feet inside. With the door firmly shut, she looked down at him. “I’m going to read you your rights.”

  “My rights?” He looked dazed, but managed to heave himself up until he was sitting on the floor instead of lying on it.

  “You listen up.” She gave him the standard revised Miranda, then held up a hand before he could speak. “You understand your rights and your options?”

  “Yeah.” Weary, he rubbed his hands over his face. “I know what’s going on.”

  “You wish to make a statement?”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  Eyes flat, she held up a hand again. “Yes or no. Just yes or no.”

  “Yes, yes, I want to make a statement.”

  “Get up off the floor. I’m going to record this.” She turned to her desk. She could have hauled him down to Interview. Probably should have, but it could wait. “You understand whatever you say now is going on record?”

  “Yes.” He got to his feet, then dropped into a chair that groaned under his weight. “Dallas—”

  She shook her head to cut him off. After engaging her recorder, she noted the necessary information, then gave him his Miranda again for the record. “Leonardo, you understand these rights and options, and at this time have waived counsel and are prepared to make a statement?”

  “I just want to get it over with.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes. Yes, damn it.”

  “You were acquainted with Pandora?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “You had a relationship with her?”

  “I did.” He covered his face again, but could still see the image that had flashed on Mavis’s viewing screen when he’d decided to flip on the news. The long black bag being carried out of his own apartment building. “I can’t believe this has happened.”

  “What was the nature of your relationship with the victim?”

  It was so cold, he thought, the way she said it. “The victim.” Leonardo dropped his hands into his lap and stared at Eve. “You know we were lovers. You know I was trying to break it off because—”

  “You were no longer intimate,” Eve interrupted, “at the time of her death.”

  “No, we hadn’t been together for weeks. She’d been off planet. Things had cooled between us even before she left. And then I met Mavis, and everything changed for me. Dallas, where is Mavis? Where is she?”

  “I’m not at liberty to give you Ms. Freestone’s whereabouts at this time.”

  “Just tell me she’s all right.” His eyes filled, swam. “Just tell me she’s all right.”

  “She’s being taken care of,” was all Eve would say. Could say. “Leonardo, is it true that Pandora was threatening to ruin you professionally? That she demanded you continue your relationship with her, and that if you refused, she would pull out of the showing of your fashion designs. A show that you had invested with a great deal of time and money.”

  “You were there, you heard her. She didn’t give a rat’s damn about me, but she wouldn’t tolerate me being the one to pull back. Unless I stopped seeing Mavis, unless I was her lapdog again, she would have seen to it that the show was a failure, if it ran at all.”

  “You didn’t want to stop seeing Ms. Freestone.”

  “I love Mavis,” he said with great dignity. “She’s the most important thing in my life.”

  “And yet, if you didn’t accede to Pandora’s demands, you would in all probability be left with enormous debts and a stain on your professional reputation that would have been intolerable. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. I put everything I had into the show. I borrowed a great deal of money. More, I put my heart into it. My soul.”

  “She could have wiped that all out.”

  “Oh yes.” His lips curled. “She would have enjoyed it.”

  “Did you ask her to come to your apartment last night?”

  “No. I never wanted to see her again.”

  “What time did she come to your apartment last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did she get in? Did you let her in?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. She would have had my key code. I never thought to get it back from her or to change it. Everything’s been so crazy.”

  “You argued with her.”

  His eyes glazed over, went blank. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. But I must have. I would have.”

  “Recently, Pandora came into your apartment uninvited, threatened you, attacked your current companion physically.”

  “Yes, yes, she did.” He could remember that. It was a relief to be able to remember that.

  “What was Pandora’s state of mind when she came to your apartment this time?”

  “She must have been angry. I would have told her I wasn’t giving Mavis up. That would have infuriated her. Dallas . . .” His eyes focused again, and desperation shone in them. “I just don’t remember. Any of it. When I woke up this morning, I was in Mavis’s apartment. I think I remember using my key code to get in. I’d been drinking, walking and drinking. I rarely drink because I tend to lose time, black holes in my mind. When I woke up, I saw the blood.”

  He held out his arm where the wound had been poorly bandaged. “There was blood on my hands, on my clothes. Dried blood. I must have fought with her. I must have killed her.”

  “Where are the clothes you were wearing last night?”

  “I left them at Mavis’s. I showered, and I changed. I didn’t want her to come home and find me looking like that. I was waiting for her, trying to figure out what to do, and I turned on the news. I heard—I saw. And I knew.”

  “You’re saying that you don’t remember seeing Pandora last night. You don’t remember having an altercation with her. You don’t remember killing her.”

  “But I must have,” he insisted. “She died in my apartment.”

  “What time did you leave your apartment last night?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d been drinking before. A lot. I was upset, and I was angry.”

  “Did you see anyone, speak with anyone?”

  “I bought another bottle. From a street hawker, I think.”

  “Did you see Ms. Freestone last night?”

  “No. I’m sure of that. If I’d seen her, if I could have talked to her, everything would have been all right.”

  “What if I tell you Mavis was in your apartment last night?”

  “Mavis came to see me.” His face brightened. “She came back to me? But that can’t be right. I couldn’t have forgotten that.”

  “Was Mavis there when you fought with Pandora? When you killed Pandora?”

  “No. No.”

  “Did she come in after Pandora was dead, after you’d killed her? You were panicked then, weren’t you? Terrified.”

  There was panic in his eyes now. “Mavis couldn’t have been there.”

  “But she was. She called me from your apartment, after she found the body.”

  “Mavis saw?” Beneath the copper tone, his skin went pasty. “Oh, God, no.”

  “Someone struck Mavis, knocked her unconscious. Was it you, Leonardo?”

  “Someone hit her? She’s hurt?” He was up, out of the chair, dragging his hands through his hair. “Where is she?”

  “Was it you?”

  He held out his arms. “I’d cut my hands off before I’d hurt Mavis. For Christ’s pity, Dallas, tell me where she is. Let me see if she’s all right.”

  “How did you kill Pandora?”

>   “I—the reporter said I beat her to death.” And he shuddered.

  “How did you beat her? What did you use?”

  “I—My hands?” Again he held them out. Eve noted there was no sign of bruising, no tears or abrasions on the knuckles. They were perfect, as if they’d been carved from rich, glossy wood.

  “She was a strong woman. She must have fought back.”

  “The cut on my arm.”

  “I’d like the cut to be examined, as well as the clothes you say you left at Mavis’s.”

  “Are you going to arrest me now?”

  “You are not being charged at this time. You will, however, be held until the results of the tests are complete.”

  She took him over the same ground again, pushing for times, for places, for his movements. Again and again, she bumped up against the wall blocking his memory. Far from satisfied, she concluded the interview, took him to holding, then made arrangements for the tests.

  Her next stop was Commander Whitney.

  Ignoring his offer of a chair, she stood facing him as he sat behind his desk. Briskly, she gave him the results of her initial interviews. Whitney folded his hands and watched her. He had good eyes, cop’s eyes, and recognized nerves.

  “You have a man who has confessed to the murder. A man with motive and opportunity.”

  “A man who doesn’t remember seeing the victim on the night in question, much less bludgeoning her to death.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a perp confessed in such a way to make himself seem innocent.”

  “No, sir. But I don’t believe he’s our killer. The tests may prove me wrong, but his personality type doesn’t fit the crime. I was a witness to another altercation where the victim attacked Mavis. Rather than attempting to stop the fight, or showing any signs of violence, he stood back and wrung his hands.”

  “By his own statement, he was under the influence on the night of the murder. Drink can and does induce personality changes.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was reasonable. In her heart she wanted to pin it on him, to take his confession at face value and run with it. Mavis would be miserable, but she’d be safe. She’d be cleared. “It’s not him,” she said flatly. “I recommend holding him for the maximum amount of time, reinterviewing to try to jog his memory. But we can’t charge him for thinking he committed murder.”