The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  “We need a fresh face. Garboesque with Little Bo Peep innocence.”

  “People don’t want depth, honeypot. Give ’em a choice between the ocean and a puddle, they’re going to splash in the puddle. We’re all children.”

  They approached a pair of double doors in sparkling silver. The guide opened them both with a dramatic sweep. “Your guests, Mr. Redford.”

  “Thank you, Caesar.”

  “Caesar,” Eve muttered. “I was so close.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” Paul Redford rose from behind a U-shaped workstation in the same glittery silver as his doors. The floor he crossed was smooth as glass and decorated with swirls of color. Behind him was the expected spectacular view of the city. His hand clasped Eve’s with easy, practiced warmth. “Thank you so much for agreeing to come here. I’m juggling meetings all day and it’s so much more convenient for me than coming to you.”

  “It’s not a problem. My aide, Officer Peabody.”

  The smile, as smooth and practiced as the handshake, encompassed them both. “Please sit down. What can I offer you?”

  “Just information.” Eve glanced at the seating arrangement, blinked. They were all animals: chairs, stools, sofas, all fashioned to resemble tigers, hounds, or giraffes.

  “My first wife was a decorator,” he explained. “After the divorce, I decided to keep them. They’re the best memory of that time in my life.” He chose a basset hound for himself propped his feet up on a cushion shaped like a curled cat. “You want to talk about Pandora.”

  “Yes.” If they’d been lovers, as reported, Eve decided he’d gotten over his grief quickly. A police interview apparently didn’t affect him, either. He was composed, the genial host in a five-thousand-dollar linen suit and melted-butter Italian loafers.

  He was, Eve mused, undoubtedly as screen friendly as any of the actors he worked with. A strong, bony face the color of fresh honey was accented with a well-trimmed, glossy moustache. His dark hair was slicked back and twisted into a complicated queue that dangled to his shoulder blades.

  He looked, Eve decided, like what he was: a successful producer who enjoyed his power and wealth.

  “I’d like to record this, Mr. Redford.”

  “I’d prefer that, Lieutenant.” He leaned back into the embrace of the sad-eyed hound and folded his hands on his stomach. “I heard you’ve made an arrest in this matter.”

  “We have. But the investigation is ongoing. You were acquainted with the deceased, known as Pandora.”

  “Well acquainted. I was considering a project with her, certainly had socialized with her on a number of occasions over the years, and when it was convenient, had sex with her.”

  “Were you and the victim lovers at the time of her death?”

  “We were never lovers, Lieutenant. We had sex. We did not make love. In fact, I doubt there was a man alive who ever made love to her, or attempted to. If he did, he was a fool. I’m not a fool.”

  “You didn’t like her.”

  “Like her?” Redford laughed. “God, no. She was the singularly most dislikable human being I’ve ever known. But she did have talent. Not as much as she believed, and none at all in certain areas, and yet . . .”

  He lifted his elegant hands; rings sparkled: dark stones in heavy gold. “Beauty is easy, Lieutenant. Some are born with it, others buy it. An attractive physical shell is moronically simple to come by today. It’s still desired. Pleasing looks never fade from fashion, but in order to make a living from those looks, a person has to have talent.”

  “And Pandora’s was?”

  “An aura, a power, an elemental, even animalistic ability to exude sex. Sex has always, will always sell.”

  Eve inclined her head. “Only now we license it.”

  Amused, Redford flashed her a smile. “The government needs its revenue. But I wasn’t referring to the selling of sex, but of using it to sell. And we do: everything from soft drinks to kitchen appliances. And fashion,” he added. “Always fashion.”

  “And that was Pandora’s particular specialty.”

  “You could drape her in kitchen curtains, point her toward a runway, and reasonably intelligent people would open their credit accounts wide to have that look. She was a sales-woman. There was nothing she couldn’t peddle. She wanted to act, which was unfortunate. She could never be anyone but herself, but Pandora.”

  “But you were working on a project with her.”

  “I was considering one where she would essentially play herself. Nothing more, nothing less. It may have worked. And the merchandizing from it . . . well, that’s where the profits would have poured in. It was still in the planning stages.”

  “You were at her home the night she died.”

  “Yes, she wanted company. And, I suspect, wanted to rub Jerry’s nose in the idea of starring in one of my films.”

  “And how did Ms. Fitzgerald take it?”

  “She was surprised, irritated, I imagine. I was irritated myself as we were far from ready to go public. We might have had an interesting scene over it, but we were interrupted. The young woman, the fascinating young woman who arrived on the doorstep. The one you’ve arrested,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “The media claim you’re very close friends.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what happened when Ms. Freestone arrived?”

  “Melodrama, action, violence. Picture this,” he said and moved his hands to form the age-old sign for a screen. “The young, brave beauty comes to plead her case. She’s been weeping, her face is pale, her eyes desperate. She will step aside, give up the man both of them want, to protect him, to do what’s best for his career.

  “Close up on Pandora. Her face is filled with rage, disdain, a manic energy. Christ, the beauty. It’s almost evil. She won’t be satisfied with sacrifice. She wants her opponent to feel pain. Emotional pain first, by the cruel names she hurls, then physical pain by striking the first blow. Now you have the classic struggle. Two women locked in combat over a man. The younger woman has love on her side, but even that isn’t a match for the strength of Pandora’s vengeance. Or her sharpened nails. Fur, shall we say, flies, until the two male members of our fascinated audience step in. One of them is bitten for his pains.”

  Redford winced and rubbed his right shoulder. “Pandora sank her fangs into me as I was dragging her off. I have to say I was tempted to punch her myself. Your friend left. She tossed off some typical cliché about Pandora being sorry, but she looked more miserable than vindictive.”

  “And Pandora?”

  “Energized.” And so was he with the telling of the tale. “She’d been in a dangerous mood all evening, and it was only more treacherous after the bout. Jerry and Justin bowed out, with more dispatch than grace, and I stayed behind awhile to try to bring Pandora down.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “I didn’t come close. She was wild then. She threatened all manner of absurdities. She was going to go after the little bitch and rip her face off. She was going to castrate Leonardo. By the time she was finished, he wouldn’t be able to peddle buttons on the street corner. Not even beggars were going to wear his rags, and so on. After about twenty minutes, I gave it up. She was furious with me then for cutting the evening short, and shouted a lot of abuse after me. She didn’t need me, she had bigger deals, better deals.”

  “You claim to have left her at about twelve thirty?”

  “That would be close.”

  “And she was alone?”

  “She only kept domestic droids. She didn’t like people around unless she summoned them. There was no one else in the house, to my knowledge.”

  “Where did you go when you left?”

  “I came here; tended to my shoulder. It was a nasty bite. I thought I’d do a little work, made some calls to the coast. Then I went to my club, used the after-hours entrance, and spent a couple of hours having a steam, a swim.”

  “What time did you get to your club?”

  “I’d say it was aroun
d two. I know it was well past four when I got home.”

  “Did you see or speak to anyone during the hours of two and five A.M.?”

  “No. One of the reasons I often use the club at those hours is for the privacy. I have my own facilities on the coast, but here, I have to make do with membership.”

  “The name of your club?”

  “The Olympus, on Madison.” He arched a brow. “I see my alibi isn’t without its problems. I did, however, code in and out. It’s required.”

  “I’m sure it is.” And she would certainly see if he had. “Are you aware of anyone who would have wished Pandora harm?”

  “Lieutenant, the list would be as long as life.” He smiled again, perfect teeth, eyes that were both amused and predatory. “I don’t happen to count myself among them, merely because she didn’t matter that much to me.”

  “Did you share Pandora’s latest drug of choice?”

  He stiffened, hesitated, then relaxed again. “That was an excellent ploy. Non sequiturs often catch the unwary off guard. I’ll state, for the record, that I never touch illegals of any kind.” But his smile was wide and easy, and told her quite plainly, he lied. “I was aware that Pandora dabbled now and again. I considered it her own business. I’d have to agree that she’d found something new, something she seemed to be overdoing. In fact, I’d come into her bedroom earlier that last evening.”

  He paused a moment, as if thinking back, bringing a scene into focus. “She’d taken a pill of some kind out of a small, beautiful little wooden box. Chinese, I think. The box,” he added with a quick smile. “She was surprised because I was early, and shoved the box into a drawer on her vanity and locked it. I asked what she was protecting, and she said . . .” He paused again, eyes narrowed. “What did she say? Her treasure, her fortune. No, no, something like: Her reward. Yes, I’m sure that’s what she said. Then she popped the pill, chased it with champagne. Then we had sex. It seemed to me she was distracted at first, then suddenly she was wild, insatiable. I don’t believe it had ever been quite that potent between us. We dressed and went down. Jerry and Justin were just arriving. I never asked her any more about it. It just didn’t apply to me.”

  “Impressions, Peabody?”

  “He’s slick.”

  “So’s slime.” Eve shoved her hands into her pockets as the elevator descended, toyed with loose credit tokens. “He despised her, but he slept with her, was willing to use her.”

  “I think he found her pathetic, potentially dangerous, but marketable.”

  “And, if that marketability had waned or the danger increased, could he have killed her?”

  “In a heartbeat.” Peabody stepped into the garage first. “Conscience isn’t his priority. If this deal they had were tipping the wrong way, or if she had anything to pressure him with, he’d erase her. People that smug, that controlled, tend to have a lot of violence bubbling somewhere. And his alibi sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” The possibilities made Eve grin. “We’re going to check that out, right after we go by Pandora’s and find her cache. Inform Dispatch,” she ordered. “Make sure we’re clear to pop locks.”

  “That wouldn’t stop you,” Peabody murmured, but engaged the ’link.

  The box was gone. It was such a stunning letdown that Eve stood in Pandora’s lavishly ornate bedroom staring down at the drawer for a full ten seconds before it fully registered it was empty.

  “This is a vanity, right?”

  “That’s what they call it. Look at all the bottles and pots on it. Creams for this, creams for that. That’s why it’s called a vanity.” She couldn’t help herself. Peabody picked up a jar the size of the first joint of her thumb. “Ever Young cream. You know what this shit goes for, Dallas? Five hundred over the counter at Saks. Five hundred for a lousy half ounce. Talk about vanity.”

  She set it down again, ashamed she’d been tempted, even for an instant, to stick it in her pocket. “You add all this stuff up, she’s got ten, maybe fifteen thousand worth of enhancements.”

  “Get a grip, Peabody.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “We’re looking for a box. The sweepers have already done the standard here, taken in the discs from her ’links. We know she didn’t get any calls that night, or make any. From here, anyway. She’s pissed. She’s revved. What does she do?”

  Eve continued to open drawers, paw through them as she spoke. “She drinks more, maybe, rants around the house thinking of all the things she’d like to do to the people who’ve ticked her off. Bastards, bitches. Who the hell do they think they are? She can have anything and anyone she wants. Maybe she comes in here and pops another pill, just to keep the energy up.”

  Hopeful, though it was a plain, enameled box rather than an ornate wooden one, Eve flipped a lid. Inside was an assortment of rings. Gold, silver, gleaming porcelain, carved ivory.

  “Funny place to keep jewelry,” Peabody commented. “I mean she’s got this big glass chest here for her costume, and the safe for the real stuff.”

  Eve glanced up, saw her aide was perfectly serious, and didn’t quite muffle the laugh. “They’re not exactly jewelry, Peabody. Cock rings. You know, you put them over it, then—”

  “Sure.” Peabody shrugged, tried not to stare. “I knew that. Just—a funny place to keep them.”

  “Yeah, sure is silly to keep sex toys in a box next to the bed. Anyway, where was I? She’s using, chasing the pills with champagne. Somebody’s going to pay for ruining her evening. That fucker Leonardo is going to crawl, he’s going to beg. She’ll make him pay for screwing some worthless slut behind her back, and for letting the little bitch come around to her house—her house, goddamn it—and fuck with her.”

  Eve closed a drawer, opened another. “Her security tags her as leaving the place just after two. The door’s on automatic lock. She doesn’t call a car. It’s at least a sixty-block walk to Leonardo’s, she’s in ice-pick heels, but she doesn’t take a cab. There’s no record of any company picking her up or dropping her. She’s registered for a palm ’link, but we haven’t found it. If she had it with her and made a call, either she or someone else disposed of the unit.”

  “If she called her killer, he or she should have been smart enough to ditch it.” Peabody began a search of the two-level closet and managed not to hyperventilate over the racks of clothes, many with price tags still attached. “She might have been wired on something, but no way would she walk downtown. Half the shoes in this closet aren’t even scraped on the soles. She wasn’t the walking kind.”

  “She was wired, all right. Damned if she’s taking some stinking cab. All she has to do is snap her fingers and she can have half a dozen eager slaves slathering to take her anywhere she wants to go. So she snaps them. Somebody picks her up. They go to Leonardo’s. Why?”

  Fascinated by the way Eve juggled Pandora’s point of view with her own, Peabody stopped the search and watched Eve. “She insists. She demands. She threatens.”

  “Maybe it’s Leonardo she calls. Or maybe it’s somebody else. They get there, the security camera’s smashed. Or she smashes it.”

  “Or the killer smashes it.” Peabody pushed her way through a sea of ivory silk. “Because he’s already planning to do her.”

  “Why take her to Leonardo’s if he’s already planning it?” Eve demanded. “Or if it was Leonardo, why dirty your own nest? I’m not sure murder was the priority, not yet. They get there, and if Leonardo’s story holds, the place is empty. He’s off drinking himself into a stupor and looking for Mavis, who is drinking herself into a stupor. Pandora wants Leonardo there, she wants to punish him. She starts to wreck the place, maybe she takes out some of her rage on her companion. They fight. It escalates. He grabs the cane, maybe to defend himself, maybe to attack. She’s shocked, hurt, afraid. Nobody hurts her. What the hell is this? Then he can’t stop, or doesn’t want to stop. She’s lying there, and there’s blood everywhere.”

  Peabody said nothing. She’d seen th
e pictures of the scene. Could imagine it all happening just as Eve related.

  “He’s standing over her, breathing hard.” Eyes half closed, Eve tried to bring the shadowy figure into focus. “Her blood’s all over him. The smell of it’s everywhere. But he doesn’t panic, can’t afford to panic, doesn’t let himself panic. What ties her to him? The palm ’link. He takes that, pockets it. If he’s smart, and he has to be smart now, he goes through her things, makes sure there’s nothing that can lead to him. He wipes off the cane where he gripped it, anything else he thinks he might have touched.”

  In Eve’s mind it played like an old video, cloudy and full of shadows. The figure—male, female—hurrying to cover tracks, moving around the body, stepping around the pools of blood. “Have to be quick. Someone might come back. But have to be thorough. Almost clean now. Then he hears someone coming in. Mavis. She calls out for Leonardo, rushes back, sees the body, kneels beside it. Now it’s even more perfect. He knocks her out, then he curls her fingers around the cane, maybe he even gives Pandora a few extra whacks. He takes that dead hand and rakes its nails over Mavis’s face, uses it to tear her clothes. He puts on something, one of Leonardo’s robes, to conceal his own clothes.”

  She straightened from her search of a bottom drawer and found Peabody staring at her. “It’s like you were there,” Peabody murmured. “I want to be able to do that, to go in the way you do.”

  “Walk in to a few more murder scenes, and you will. The hard part’s getting out again. Where the hell is the box?”

  “She could have taken it with her.”

  “I don’t buy that. Where’s the key, Peabody? She locked this drawer. Where’s the key?”

  In silence, Peabody took out her field unit, requested the list of items found in the victim’s purse or on her person. “There was no key taken into evidence.”

  “So he got the key, didn’t he? And he came back here and took the box and anything else he needed. Let’s check the security disc.”

  “Wouldn’t the sweepers have done that?”