Divided in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Because emotion was flooding her throat again, she turned away. “You and me, we haven’t been this far apart from each other since the beginning. I can’t reach you, and I can’t let you reach me.”

  “You don’t see me, Eve. When you look at me, you don’t see the whole of me. Maybe I’ve preferred that.”

  She thought of Reva, of illusions, and a mockery of a marriage. Nothing could be further from what they were dealing with. Roarke had never lied, nor pretended to be something other than what he was. And she had seen him, right from the first moment.

  “You’re wrong, and you’re stupid.” There was more weariness than temper in the words, and as such struck him more forcefully. “I don’t know how to get through this. I can’t talk to you about it, because it just circles. I can’t talk to anyone else, because if I tell them what’s ripping at us, it makes them an accessory. You think I don’t see you?”

  She turned back, looked straight into his eyes. “I’m looking at you, and I see you. I know you’re capable of killing, and feeling justified, feeling right. I know that, and I’m still here. I don’t know what the hell to do, but I’m still here.”

  “If I wasn’t capable, I wouldn’t be who I am, what I am, where I am. Neither of us would be here, wrestling with this.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m too tired to wrestle. I have to go. I need to go.” She walked quickly to the door, wrenched it open. Then she shut her eyes. “Make it disappear. Fuck hypothetical. I take responsibility for what I say, what I do. Make it gone.”

  “Consider it done.”

  When she left him, he sat down at her desk in the quiet, and wished, with everything inside him, that he could make the rest of it vanish as easily.

  Reva waylaid her on the way outside. “I don’t have time,” Eve said curtly and kept moving. “It’ll only take a minute. I want to apologize. I asked you to give it to me straight, and when you did, I didn’t handle it. I’m sorry, and I’m pissed off at myself for reacting the way I did.”

  “Forget it. Are you going to handle it now?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to handle it now. What do you need?”

  “I need you to think. Where he might go, what his next steps would be in a crisis. What’s he doing now besides trying to find a way out? Think it through, lay it out. Have it ready for me when I get back.”

  “You’ll have it. He’d have to work,” she called out as Eve streamed out the door. “His art wasn’t just a cover, it couldn’t have been. It’s his passion, his escape, his ego. He’d have to have a place to work.”

  “Good. Keep it up. I’ll be back.”

  “That was well-done.” Tokimoto stepped out of the parlor, into the foyer.

  “I hope so. I’m not doing so well otherwise.”

  “You need time to adjust, to grieve, to be angry. I hope you’ll feel able to talk to me when you need someone.”

  “I’ve been talking you black-and-blue so far.” She sighed. “Tokimoto, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you hitting on me?”

  He stiffened like a rod. “That would be inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  “Because I might still be married or because you’re not interested?”

  “Your marriage would hardly be a factor, considering. But you’re not in a state of mind where . . . An advance of a personal nature is clearly inappropriate while your emotions and your situation are in flux.”

  She found herself smiling, just a little. And found something opening inside her again, just a little. “You didn’t say you weren’t interested, so I’ll just say I don’t think I’d mind. If you worked up to hitting on me.”

  To test it out, she rose on her toes and touched her lips lightly to his. “No,” she said after a moment, “I don’t think I’d mind. Why don’t you think about it?”

  She was still smiling, just a little, as she started back upstairs.

  19 QUINN SPARROW WOULD live. He might, with several months of intensive therapy and treatments, walk again—if he had the same level of will and guts

  Reva Ewing had called upon to recover from her injuries.

  It was, to Eve’s mind, a solid kind of justice.

  He had broken bones, a fractured spine, and a concussion among other insults. He would require reconstructive surgery on his face.

  But he would live.

  Eve was glad to hear it.

  He was and would remain in Intensive Care for at least forty-eight hours. He was sedated, but Eve’s badge and some bullying got her through.

  She left Peabody posted at the door.

  He was either sleeping or zoned when she walked in. She was banking on the zoned and shut off his IV drip of blockers without a twinge of remorse.

  It only took a few moments for him to surface, moaning.

  He looked considerably worse for wear, brutally bruised around his bandages, with a skin cast on his right arm, another along with a stability cage—that looked a little like one of Bissel’s sculptures—around his right leg.

  The wedge of collar prevented any movement of his head or neck.

  “You in there, Sparrow?”

  “Dallas.” White at the lips, he shifted his eyes, tried to focus on her. “What the fuck?”

  She moved closer, making it easier for him to keep her in his line of vision, and laid a hand in what she considered a “survivors of the battle” gesture on his shoulder. “You’re in the hospital. You’re strapped in to restrict movement.”

  “I don’t remember. How . . . how bad?”

  It was, she thought, a nice touch to look away for a moment as if she was struggling to speak. “It’s . . . it’s pretty bad. He hit us, hard. You took the worst. Vehicle went up like a rocket, crashed like a bomb. Slammed into a maxi on your side. You’re messed up bad, Sparrow.”

  She felt his shoulder tremble as he tried to move. “Christ, Christ, the pain.”

  “I know. It’s gotta be rugged. But we got him.” She closed a hand over his now, squeezed. “We got the bastard.”

  “What? Who?”

  “We got Bissel, wrapped and locked. Still had the shoulder launcher he used on us. Blair Bissel, Sparrow, alive and well, and singing like a canary.”

  “That’s crazy.” He groaned. “I need the doctor. I need something for the pain.”

  “I want you to listen, to dig down and pay attention. I don’t know how much time you’ve got.”

  “Time?” His fingers jerked under hers. “Time?”

  “I want to give you a chance to clear your conscience, Sparrow. To set the record straight. You deserve that much. He’s dumping the whole ball on you. Listen to me. Listen.” She tightened her fingers on his. “I’ve got to give it to you, and you’ve got to prepare yourself. You’re not going to make it.”

  His skin went sickly gray. “What are you talking about?”

  She leaned in close so he could see only her face. “They did everything they could. Worked on you for hours. There’s too much damage.”

  “I’m dying?” His voice, already a weak tremble, cracked. “No. No. I want a doctor.”

  “They’ll be back in a minute. They’ll give you . . . they’ll give you a humane dose. You’ll go out easy.”

  “I’m not going to die.” Tears swam, and spilled over. “I don’t want to die.”

  She pressed her lips together, as if overcome. “I thought you’d want to hear it from me, from . . . a colleague. His aim had been better, we’d both be on our way out. But he just sheered the front end, and we flipped. They saved your leg,” she continued, and paused to clear her throat. “They hoped that . . . Christ. The impact messed up your insides, messed them up bad. The son of a bitch killed you, Sparrow, and tried for me.”

  “I can’t see. I can’t move.”

  “You’ve gotta stay quiet, still. It’ll buy you time. You’ve been out of it, Sparrow, and he’s using that. He tried to wipe us both, and because of that I’m trying to give you a chance to go out wit
h some dignity. I’m going to read you your rights.” She paused again, shook her head. “Jesus, this sucks.”

  He began to tremble as she recited the revised Miranda. “You understand your rights and obligations, Assistant Director Sparrow?”

  “What the hell is this about?”

  “It’s about setting the record straight, and getting some of your own back here. A good lawyer’s going to get Bissel off with a few slaps if you don’t tell me how it went down. He’s counting on you just dying. Dying and taking the hard rap. He says you killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I know it, but he might convince the PA. Jesus, Sparrow, you’re dying! Tell me the truth, let me shut this down, put him away. He killed you.” She leaned in close, lowered her voice. “Make him pay.”

  “Stupid fuckup. Who knew he had it in him? How’d it all end up like this?”

  “Tell me, and I’ll see to it he goes down. You’ve got my word on it.”

  “He killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade.”

  “Who?”

  “Blair! Blair Bissel killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade. He sniffed a little Zeus to give himself some backbone and sliced them up.”

  “Why? Give me some juice so I can drown him in it.”

  “He was going to disappear, with a big chunk of change. Set up the wife so the cops closed the book. Open, shut. Shoulda been open, shut.”

  “You sent Reva the photographs of Blair and Kade?”

  “Yeah. I took them, dropped them on her when the rest was in place. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs.”

  “Hold on. Just hold on. I’m recording this, Sparrow. You’re going on record. You’re going to put him away for doing this to you. Why’d he kill Kade?”

  “Needed her to tie the bow on the package. And she knew too much about both of us. Couldn’t risk it.”

  “You were the brains in this. You can’t tell me that jerkoff thought this up on his own.”

  “I had it all worked out. Should’ve been a walk. Couple more weeks, I’d be on a beach sipping fucking mai tais, but he just kept screwing things up.”

  “Kade was in on it? She pulled the brother in.”

  “Know a hell of a lot, don’t you?” He stared at Eve with dead eyes.

  “I’m putting it together. I’ve got to be straight with you. You deserve that. A deathbed confession . . .” She trailed off, watching his face blanch and crumble. “Well, you know the weight of that. You’ll be the one to lock the cage on him. I want to give you that last act. Professional courtesy. Felicity Kade drew Carter Bissel into the mix.”

  “Pulled him in.” Sparrow’s breath wheezed in, wheezed out, and Eve had the sudden thought that the bastard might die on her just through the power of suggestion. “Had the stupid son of a bitch convinced he was working for the HSO. Going to take over his brother’s position. He bought it. Change his face, make a few deliveries. Get to sleep with his trainer. He was a dunk.”

  “I bet. Who took out the guy who did the face and body work? Kade?”

  “No. No, she wouldn’t get her hands dirty. She had Bissel do it—Carter. She was good at getting men to do what she wanted.”

  “But you were the architect, right? Not Kade, certainly not Blair Bissel. You’re not stupid enough to go around killing people right and left, but you knew how to pull the strings. He thought he had the comp worm. He thought he could sell it. Live off the proceeds the rest of his life. But he never had it.”

  “Can’t have what doesn’t exist. I made it up.” His smile turned to a grimace. “I can’t take this pain, Dallas. I can’t take it.”

  His whine set her teeth on edge, but she gave his hand another bolstering squeeze. “It won’t be much longer. There’s no worm?”

  “Yeah, there’s a worm. It’s just not as advertised. I invented it, hyped it, documented the skewed data and intel. Doomsday’s been trying to create one, a fricking decade. Works in theory, but in practice it just self-cannibalizes or mutates when it hits the shields. You insert at port, it’ll mess up a unit, fry its ass, but it won’t network, and won’t infect by remote. But if it did . . .”—his pale, battered face shone for a moment with pleasure—“ . . . it’d be worth billions.”

  “So it was all just a con—on HSO and the global agencies, on Doomsday. You created the intel that supported the myth that the worm was real, that it was a threat. Then you planted your man with the project head of the company who nabs the Code Red. Feed the HSO data, sell same to interested parties. You’re raking it in on both ends, and all over something that doesn’t yet exist, and may never exist. But Securecomp’s working on it, and they might just create the worm for you. Yeah, you’re smart.”

  “They were getting close. Roarke’s got some brain trust at Securecomp. I get what they’ve got together with what I’ve got, what I’m pulling from Doomsday, maybe I can put it together and get myself a nice bonus. You know what you make annually as an AD? You make shit. Just like a cop.”

  “And being as we’re so underpaid, you didn’t figure the cops would dig too deep into the Bissel/Kade murders.”

  “Served it up so neat and pretty. But things went wrong.”

  “You could stall, though, pressure to have the locals turn over the investigation. And you had your goat with Bissel. He tries to sell the disc, and it’s worthless.”

  “Figured the buyer would execute him, bury the body, once they figured out the worm wasn’t what he claimed. That would take some time, put some distance between him and me. He wiggled out of that, though. He talks a pretty good game.”

  “But he can’t access his money without sending up a flag, to you. And even if he got desperate enough to try, we started finding and freezing his accounts. So he stages McCoy’s suicide. What did she have that he wanted?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where she fits. He should’ve slipped off, counted his losses, but the stupid son of a bitch panics, kills her, kills that stupid orderly, steals the body. What’s he think the cops’re going to do? Might as well have taken out a fricking ad on an airblimp.”

  “How long have you two been doing the corporate espionage on the side?”

  “What the hell does it matter?”

  He was pouting now, she thought. Wimp was pouting because his big plans had blown up in his face and killed him.

  “The more you give me, the deeper I can bury him.”

  “Six, seven years. I’ve got a nice retirement fund, got a place on Maui, and another I’ve got my eye on in Tuscany. I’d’ve been set, living large, before I was forty. Had to start covering my tracks.”

  “Eliminate your partners,” Eve agreed. “Better, smarter, have them eliminate each other. And move to a one-man, more profitable organization. All those listening posts planted in Bissel’s sculptures all over the world—and off—all yours alone now. You can gather your intel, invest, anticipate. Yeah, you’d’ve been sipping mai tais, and still raking it in. I gotta say, Sparrow, it’s brilliant.”

  His damp eyes shone for a moment in pleasure. “It’s what I do. Crunch data, think up scenarios, blueprint dirty tricks to compromise or dispose of targets. You have to know how and when to use people.”

  “And you knew how to use Bissel. Both of them. And Kade. And Ewing.”

  “Wasn’t supposed to be so complicated. Bissel hits Kade, goes under. Was supposed to go under for a few weeks, then make the sale. But he went right after it. Didn’t give it time to settle, for me to see if it worked and cooled off.”

  “Cooled off so you could make certain you didn’t need him, so he could be eliminated.”

  “You don’t throw away tools until you’re sure they’ve outlived their usefulness. Terminations are part of the game. You know that. Death’s necessary. I’ve never killed anybody, and I wouldn’t have had to do him. Leak some intel, point the right person in the right direction. He’d be taken out. I’m not a murderer, Dallas. I just engaged a tool. Blair Bissel did t
he killing. Every one of them. I was at the Flatiron, corrupting his data units, when he did the hit on his brother and Kade.”

  “Why go there?”

  “I needed to upload any data he might’ve kept on the operation there, and to crash his units so he couldn’t use them. Just covering tracks. I wasn’t anywhere near Kade’s place when it went down, and I’ve got alibis for the hits on McCoy and Powell. Blair Bissel did the terminations. I’m going to die, but I’ll be damned if he’s going to hang me with murder.”

  “I think we can make that conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder, before and after the fact. Multiple counts. We can probably throw in all sorts of nice pluses like obstruction of justice, tampering with government files, espionage, and that big mama, treason. I think you can say bye-bye to Maui, Sparrow, and those pretty hills in Tuscany.”

  “I’m fucking dying. Give me a break.”

  “Right.” She pulled her hand free of his and smiled. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Good news, from your point of view, is you’re not dying. I exaggerated your medical condition a bit.”

  “What?” He struggled to sit up and only went sheet-white with the pain. “I’m going to be all right?”

  “You’ll live. You might not walk again, and you’re going to have some serious pain with the physical therapy and treatments over the next few months. But you’ll live. Bad news? Doctors say you’re pretty strong and healthy otherwise, so you should last decades in a cage.”

  “You said I was dead. You said—”

  “Yeah.” She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “Cops’re such liars. I don’t know why you assholes believe us.”

  “Bitch. Goddamn bitch.” He fought to raise himself, going white, then red as he strained against the stabilizers. “I want a lawyer. I want a doctor.”

  “You can have both. Excuse me, Sparrow, I’ve got to go arrange for a meeting between your superiors and mine. I bet they’re going to have a high old time with this recording.”

  “You walk out of here with that . . .” He gasped against the pain, and the fear. Eve read them both in his eyes. “You walk out of here with that recording, and I’ll have your records all over the media within the hour. Everything that happened in Dallas. Everything in that file, including the speculation that you committed patricide. You’re finished as a cop when I get finished spinning those records out to the media.”