Obsession in Death

by J. D. Robb

  His eyes opened. “I saw it.”

  “Saw what?” Eve prompted.

  “She said I had to sign—something like that. Man, I was pissed enough to break her in two. But I saw it, right before the jolt.” He rubbed a hand over his chest. “Jesus Christ on a tricycle it hurts. It fucking burns. But I saw it, in her eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Excitement.”

  When Peabody arrived, Eve turned Hastings over to her partner. She called for sweepers—had a moment of relief she wasn’t calling for a morgue team with them. Then went toward the kitchen.

  She could hear Roarke and Matilda had moved on to other things and were talking about distribution, markets, advertising, and God knows.

  “We’re about done here,” Eve said. “But I’d like you to run it through for me. What happened, what you heard, what you saw.”

  “No problem. Whatever I can do.”

  Eve listened, made notes. And considered if the timing had been off, even a little, Hastings might not be stewing on the sofa drinking whiskey.

  “I appreciate the cooperation. You can go back out if you like, Ms. Zebler.”

  “Oh, thanks. Can I ask you—if Dirk’s really in danger, can we leave, just leave New York for a while? I actually have a shoot next week in Australia. I could talk him into going with me.”

  “I’ve asked him to work with a police artist tomorrow, and I’m hoping you’ll agree to do the same.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “After that, you’re free to go where you like. I’d appreciate your contact information, in case I need to speak to either of you.”

  “That’s no problem at all. Did that man really come here tonight to kill Dirk?”

  Man, Eve thought, frustrated. She had two eye-wits. One saw a man, one saw a woman.

  “I believe Dirk’s lucky you were coming down with a bottle of red, and thought quick, thought smart.”

  “Australia,” Matilda said, then walked back to Hastings.

  Eve saw Peabody glance over, double take. Then nearly bump her jaw into her toes.

  “Peabody!”

  “Sir.”

  “Head down to the studio. I’ll coordinate with the police artist and get back to you,” she told Hastings. “We’ll get out of your way as soon as we can. We’re done up here.”

  “We appreciate you getting here so quickly,” Matilda began, and sent Dirk a long look.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “You’re going to have some soup,” Matilda began as Eve walked away. “And lie down.”

  “I’d nearly finished the imaging on—”

  “Dirk. Not tonight, baby.”

  “Okay. Okay, Matilda.”

  The calm tone and easy agreement had Eve rolling her eyes.

  Love turned everybody’s brain sideways, just like a stunner.

  When she got down to the studio a pair of sweepers were working the door, the landing, so the cold air blew through.

  They wouldn’t find anything, Eve thought, but it had to be done.

  She studied the splatter of red on the wall beside the door. Lucky for Hastings and Matilda it wasn’t blood but a very nice red wine.

  “We’ll have a uniform sit on them tonight,” she told Peabody.

  “That’s Matilda.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Matilda,” Peabody repeated. “She’s like the face of the decade.”

  “The decade that’s not quite a year old?”

  “Yeah, but still. She’s on McNab’s list. She bumped Lorilee Castle off—and she’d been on there for three years.”

  “List?”

  “The list of who you’re allowed to have sex with if the opportunity comes up. He’s going to pass out when I tell him. I don’t blame him. I use her hair mask.”

  “Why do you need a mask for your hair? If you want to hide it, wear a hat.”

  “A hydrating mask. It’s mag—and all natural. And she—”

  “Peabody, Matilda’s only relevant because she was here, and because by being here and thinking fast, she deflected the UNSUB from the target.”

  Eve gauged the distance from the steps to the stained wall. “And she has an excellent arm.”

  Hands on her hips, she circled around. She saw the comp station, still running—the imaging Hastings had been doing.

  Lights on, as they had been, privacy screens engaged.

  “Not hard to keep tabs on Hastings, get a sense of his routine—not if you’re patient, you’re determined. You could sit in the parking lot between the buildings. You could browse in the retail section, get employee routines. Maybe you even risk going up to the offices, make inquiries about having a portrait done, take information.”

  “This is a night he works late in the studio,” Peabody offered. “He gave me that. Every week, he works the same two nights alone, and tonight’s strictly for the imaging—his sideline.

  “But for the last couple weeks, Matilda’s been sneaking in the side door, coming up. Two or three, sometimes four nights a week if they can manage it. Maybe she does a little work upstairs, while he works in the studio. Or she’ll have brought in some carryout, and she’ll put a meal together.”

  “That’s what she was doing tonight,” Eve replied. “Setting up a sexy little dinner for two. Heard all this noise. Hastings shouting, then a loud thump, which would’ve been him hitting the floor. Down she comes, carrying the bottle of wine, sees him here.”

  Eve crouched by the small smear of blood. “Smacked his head good,” she commented. “Matilda sees him, sees the UNSUB.”

  Eve looked over at the door. “UNSUB sees her. Both fire—the stun stream goes wide, the bottle hits the wall, explodes. You’ve got to admire her instincts, her aim. I bet the brown coat has some pinot noir stains on it. And the UNSUB’s aim? Not so good. Has to be in close to do the job. No real skills there, or whatever skills crumbled in pure panic. Coward.”

  Because it was routine, Eve put a marker by the bloodstain. “You’re going to need to take a sample,” she called to the sweepers. “We need to verify it’s the wit’s blood.”

  Eve circled one last time. “Figured Hastings was sewn up. Creature of habit, and one who didn’t have any personal ties, didn’t like people as a species. Then along comes Matilda.”

  She studied the stained wall again, then the clean one across from her.

  A good spot for the message, she thought. A good, clean, wide space. And it would be here—you’d have done it here. Where he worked was more important to him than where he lived.

  What would you have written this time? Eve wondered.

  She turned to Peabody. “His exterior security cams are crap, and most of them don’t work, but we’ve got good interior cams in the retail space, and a couple on the office level. So let’s get those, see if there’s anything to see. I want uniforms canvassing again in the morning, with the sketches we have. Then you take a pass with both wits tomorrow. They’ll be calmer then, and a second interview with you might shake out another detail.”

  Eve glanced around again. A couple of sweepers on what would be grunt duty, and no morgue team. All in all, it had to be considered a good night.

  “Until then,” she said, “we’re done here.”

  In the car, Eve went over her notes, highlighted some, circled some.

  “It’s a woman,” she said.

  Roarke glanced at her. “Matilda seemed fairly certain it was a man.”

  “She was ten feet away. The first thing she really saw was Hastings, on the floor—that’s what impacted the most. She saw the person—the bulk, the brown, the box—and the big guy she’s sleeping with—big, wild-tempered guy out cold—or dead, for all she knew for sure. So she’d see male. It doesn’t occur that a woman’s going to break in, or get in and take down Hastings. Women, most
, are more afraid of men than other women.”

  “And you think a man would’ve gone after Matilda?”

  “Not necessarily. Gender doesn’t determine cowardice, and this one’s a coward. But Hastings was close, in close—face-to-face—and he sees female. Not a lot of face showing, but he senses female. Her skin—he said she had really nice skin.”

  Eve paused a moment, thoughtful as she studied Roarke. “You’ve got really nice skin, but . . . it doesn’t read female.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “He could be wrong—he was raging, and a stun hit rattles the brain. But I’m inclined to go with his instincts. And there’s no sexual component here. Friends, partners, my backup, so to speak. No sexual edge to any of it. So a female, a straight female, makes sense.”

  “Or a gay man with good skin.”

  “Shit. Yeah, yeah, that’s a factor.” Eve rubbed at her temple, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it yet. “But . . . such care to conceal body type as well as the face? Maybe it’s a leap, but I’m going to try this eliminating straight men, and anyone younger than thirty, older than forty. I’ll pass anyone outside those parameters on to somebody, narrow it down.”

  “It’s not just Hastings’s instincts you’re going with.”

  “No. She’s strong, she’s capable, she’s smart. She’s in law enforcement, in the periphery, or she’s studied it like a religion. She lives alone. She has a responsible job—she is responsible. Does what’s expected of her, doesn’t draw attention. She blends. She won’t have close friends. No children, no particular lover.”

  “She won’t go back for Hastings,” Roarke said. “Not now.”

  “No, not now. But she’s patient. She can wait. Once she gets over this failure, this scare, she’ll regroup. She’ll need to set Hastings aside for now. But in a couple months, three or four maybe, tops, people get comfortable again, fall back into routine again. She just has to wait for that.”

  Roarke parked in front of the house, turned to her. “You got physical with Hastings—when you met—because he was about to get physical with you. Who knows that?”

  “There was a model there, an assistant, the hair and—”

  “No, who fits your parameters who knows that?”

  “I can’t say. It went in my report. A cop kicks a civilian in the balls, she has to write it down, and she’d better have a good reason for it. One of the people who witnessed it may have told someone else.”

  “Eve. What are the chances one of them told someone who is somehow connected to someone who witnessed or talked about Ledo clocking you with a pool cue?”

  “Zero.” She shoved out of the car. “It’s someone who could access my reports. I know that.”

  She would have stormed straight into the house, but Roarke grabbed her, pulled her in, held even when she tried to push away.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not, and why would you be?” Despite the wind, he eased her back, looked into her face in the festive lights that shone around the house. “How many females between thirty and forty have access to your reports?”

  “Probably a handful. A couple handfuls, but—”

  “People talk.”

  “And cops are people,” she agreed. “A story over a brew, a laugh in the locker room. Some snot in IAB doing some digging. Hell, techs talk, the civilian support talk. For all I know . . . Maintenance. The cleaning crews. Any of them could get into my office, my files, if they had some e-skills and wanted to. I don’t have the same comp I used during the Barrow mess—and they’re supposed to wipe them clean. But—”

  “But,” Roarke agreed. “It’s a bit late to lock the barn door, but you should have Feeney or McNab put a block and wall on your machine, one that takes more than basic skills to break down. Or I’ll do it for you myself.”

  “I’ll probably end up locking myself out,” she muttered.

  Laughing, he turned her toward the house. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “I need to see if we’ve got something solid from the word search.”

  “Then we will.”

  • • •

  While Eve worked into the night, worked through it until Roarke simply carried her, half sleeping, to bed, the killer paced.

  No mistakes, no mistakes, no accidents. What had happened? Unpredictable. The unpredictable could and did happen.

  But it shouldn’t! It shouldn’t when you’ve done everything right. When you’d studied and planned and practiced.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  It should have been easy, should have been right. It should have been done.

  Third time was supposed to be the charm!

  Where had the woman come from? The model. The star. Oh, the face was immediately recognizable—one to be coveted and admired. Admired for nothing more than fortunate DNA.

  Who could have known someone like Matilda would be with an ugly man—inside and out—like Hastings?

  No accounting for taste. No accounting for sense.

  Hands shaking now, shaking now in the solitude, in the quiet.

  Did Eve tremble in the quiet?

  Of course not! So the trembling must stop. The work must continue.

  To soothe there were candles to be lighted, and their glow illuminated the wall. The wall covered with photographs, drawings, clippings of Eve. Always watching, always vigilant.

  In the room stood a board—like Eve’s. Exactly like Eve’s.

  Many faces there, so many. Two looked out with a thick red X across their faces.

  Hastings should have looked through that thick red X tonight.

  One day he would, yes, he would, and he’d suffer first. Because tonight had been a humiliation. Failure scarred. Failure burned.

  But no matter, he’d have his day with justice. For now, there were others.

  There were so many others.

  And maybe it was time to be more bold. To make a bigger statement.

  But first there was an apology to write. Sitting, the killer poured out regret and shame—and fury—in the words written to Eve.

  Eve woke a little after five, groggy, blurry from dreams, and not surprised to find herself alone in bed. She lay in the dark, wishing for another hour’s sleep, knowing it wouldn’t come—and wondering, not for the first time, how Roarke managed on so little shut-eye.

  She shoved herself up, staggered to the AutoChef to clear her brain and boost her flagging system with coffee. And reminded herself she wouldn’t have to visit the morgue that morning.

  Coffee and a live witness—two live witnesses—made for a good start to the day.

  To give her spirit a boost along with her system and brain, she turned on the bedroom Christmas tree—it would be gone for another year in just a few days, so why not enjoy those pretty, cheerful lights? For more warmth, more light, she started the fire.

  She still had moments of amazement, and thought she always would, that she had this place, this home where she could enjoy the warmth and snap of a fire on a cold winter morning.

  All because someone extraordinary loved her.

  By the time she’d grabbed clothes from the closet, programmed her second cup of coffee of the morning, Roarke strolled in, the cat prancing at his heels.

  He was already dressed in a king-of-the-business-world suit—black with faint, needle-thin silver stripes, black shirt, a tie that picked up the stripes.

  He looked rested, awake, and gorgeous—and she only felt a small twinge of resentment.

  “I’d hoped you’d sleep longer.” He kissed her furrowed brow.

  “I know you’re not a droid, but I’d like a walk-through of your power-up system because nobody should look like you do on four hours of sleep.”

  “Lifelong habit. If I could be up and out before my father or Meg stirred, I’d av
oid the morning boot. And you’re not wearing that.”

  She’d been thinking she’d once escaped into sleep when she could to avoid her father’s boot—or worse—and frowned at him. “What?”

  “You may find yourself on screen again today, so you may as well dress for it.”

  “I can’t be worried about clothes when—”

  “I will.” He took the jacket and shirt she’d yet to put on. “The pants are fine—a nice rich caramel, classic, good fit. I’ll deal with this, you deal with breakfast. I’m past ready to eat.”

  She’d have argued, but the deal gave her control of breakfast. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be oatmeal.

  So in her support tank and rich caramel, classic, good-fitting pants, she went straight for the AutoChef.

  She wanted waffles—that’s right—waffles in an ocean of syrup. She added sides of mixed berries because he’d make some comment about a balanced meal. Besides, she liked them.

  When she turned with the tray, he had a vest the same brown as the pants, but with thin gold stripes, a crisp white shirt, and a jacket of deep, dark green with brown leather buttons.

  Okay, she thought, it would look put together, but not fancy, fussy, or showy. She set the tray down on the table in the sitting area—which instantly perked up Galahad’s ears.

  Roarke simply pointed a warning finger that had the cat shooting up a leg to wash as if a morning ablution had been his only intention.

  Eve put on the shirt over the tank and the fat diamond pendant Roarke had given her the day he told her he loved her. She buttoned on the vest, then sat to flood her waffles with syrup.

  “You could just pour a cup of that, drink it straight.”

  “Not the same,” she said over soaked waffles. “What wheel were you dealing this early?”

  “The village in Tuscany I told you about. We’re moving forward on that.”

  “Huh.” She couldn’t say why it struck her so odd he’d buy an Italian village. He owned an island—where they were due to take their winter break if she ever caught this obsessed killer. He owned the lion’s share of an off-planet resort. And those didn’t even make a dent in what made up his empire.