Obsession in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Couldn’t wear shades, but the bill of the cap would help there. Old black boots, already sealed, with thick black trousers bagging over them.

  The makeup added a nice touch, darkening the skin on the face a few shades. And it covered the carefully applied putty that broadened the bridge of the nose. The appliance over the teeth—annoying—altered the shape of the mouth, added a distinct overbite.

  That’s what a witness would remember if anyone bothered to look and see. Dark complexion, overbite, short, straggly dark brown hair.

  Add the plaid scarf—navy and gray, bundled and wrapped over the chin, then the navy gloves over hands already sealed, and the bulk of a tattered black messenger bag.

  She studied herself now in the full-length triple mirror, assessing every angle, every detail. Compared it inch by inch with the sketches the department had released.

  Without the lifts she was nearly two inches shorter, and without the brown coat not as stocky in appearance.

  No one would look at the messenger and see the delivery person.

  Like going undercover, she thought. Eve would appreciate that. Eve would understand the time and trouble it took to make yourself into someone else to do what needed doing.

  She’d better start appreciating.

  Before strapping on the messenger bag, she checked the contents yet again. More sealant, in case, protective suit, high-powered flashlight to check the scene for trace, tweezers on the slim chance of trace, bags for sealing anything if necessary.

  Clamp for the tongue, though she planned something different this time. A little addition to the routine. And another kind of message.

  Thinking of it, she lifted out the thin, sharp scalpel in its protective case.

  Something different, she thought again. Smiled and smiled. Something creative.

  She slipped the scalpel back in place, took out the fresh marker, its backup. She wasn’t sure what she’d say this time, not like the first when she’d written so many drafts in her journal first. This time, she’d let it come to her, after the work was done.

  And this time, once she was clear, she’d send a message directly to Eve from one of the false front accounts she’d been collecting.

  You hurt me, she composed in her head, putting another over me who has been your loyal and unselfish friend. You came after me as if I were a common thief, a mad dog, a criminal. True justice calls for balance, so I must hurt you for us to regain our even ground. For us to understand true mutual respect.

  It’s for your sake I’ve done this as the constant attention, the glory and fame has, I fear, distracted you from your calling.

  To serve justice, you must be pure. I see now that you can’t be pure again until the author of this fame and attention is eliminated. It’s for the best, Eve. All that I’ve done, all that I will do, is always with your best interest in my heart.

  I remain,

  Your one true friend.

  Yes, that was what needed to be said. Maybe she should draft it out now, while it was fresh in her mind. The work tended to cloud things. Or did it clarify them?

  She’d wait. The work came first. Eve came first.

  • • •

  Cozy in her flannel pants covered with fluffy kittens—something she wore only when alone—Nadine read another batch of reader/viewer mail. She’d already had a couple of assistants separate it into correspondence that dealt with her weekly news show, Now, correspondence about the vid, correspondence about the book, and correspondence that mixed some of those together.

  She had a selection of news channels running on her screen muted, and music blaring to keep the energy pumping. If anything caught her eye on screen, she’d mute the music, unmute the screen.

  She had a pot of coffee—real coffee now that she could afford it, thanks to The Icove Agenda. Which meant thanks to Dallas.

  Or thanks to the Icoves—or the clones who’d killed them.

  Was it strange to be grateful to a mad scientist and his selfish son—or more accurately to be grateful they’d been murdered?

  Something to ponder another time, but she knew she secretly hoped one of the clones would eventually contact her, agree to a one-on-one.

  Of course, she got contacts constantly from people claiming to be an Icove clone, but so far, not a single one had checked out. Attention-seekers, she thought now. Or crazies.

  But one day, just maybe.

  What was it like knowing you’d been created in a secret lab, programmed from inception to look a certain way, to have certain skills, to fulfill specific purposes?

  How many of them had survived, and now lived lives with their secret? Working, sleeping, eating, having sex.

  She’d wondered if one of the clones, out of a weird sense of gratitude and connection, was the killer Dallas hunted. But it didn’t fly, or not high enough. To really fly she’d have found some correspondence that clicked with Dallas’s from the killer.

  And while that could be an interesting follow-up, she didn’t want to spend all her time and energies on the Icove business. She’d moved on. What she should be doing, she thought, as she lit an herbal, let some stress slide out with the smoke, was working on the draft of her true follow-up. The Red Horse Conspiracy.

  Not sure about the title, she thought. Maybe Legacy would be better. The Red Horse Legacy, as it had proven to be just that.

  She’d think about it, she told herself while she brought up the next e-mail. The title would be important, of course, but the story, that was the real winner. Mass murders brought on by delusions. The virus created by an Urban War cult leader, and brought into the here and now by his ambitious sociopath of a grandson.

  Yes, maybe legacy said it better.

  She still needed to pin Dallas down, shoehorn more details out of her, but she had more than enough for the first draft. And she’d get back to it once she’d gone through another hour—tops—of correspondence.

  Of course, she should still be basking in the sun—or starlight—warmed by island breezes and Bruno. But work came first.

  She and Dallas had that in common. Work ethic—maybe workaholism, she admitted—and a bone-deep belief in truth, in justice, had formed their friendship.

  Would this killer really understand that? She doubted it. Like the Red Horse victims, this woman ran on delusion.

  What had infected her? Nadine wondered, sitting back, blowing fragrant smoke at the ceiling. Childhood trauma, a tragic love affair, or just fucked-up DNA? Any or all, she thought, or a dozen more roots. Madness, the little crazies and the big, had all manner of beginnings.

  She shifted tasks as her comp signaled an incoming.

  Ms. Furst,

  Mr. Cabott is messengering over a packet for your attention. Please respond directly to Mr. Cabott tomorrow morning after eight a.m., after you’ve received and reviewed the contents. He will be unavailable until that time.

  Mistique Brady

  Intern to Della Bonds

  Nadine frowned at the e-mail. Unavailable, my ass, she thought, and was tempted to contact her producer right then. She was supposedly still on vacation.

  Still, Bing Cabott wouldn’t spring for a messenger unless he thought it was something solid, so she’d look it over—then contact him. Or maybe just tag Della, who’d likely know more in any case.

  • • •

  She looked down at her kitty-cat pants and decided she wasn’t going to put on more professional pants for a damn messenger. But she would, pride demanded, wash off the bright pink super-hydrating facial mask, which blew because she could’ve left it on for another hour.

  She scuffed off to the bathroom in her fuzzy blue slippers—again only worn when flying solo—and ran the water in the sink to warm.

  It took far too long to get from tepid to warm, in her opinion, and gave her time to glance around her bathroom.

 
; Dated, she decided. The whole place was dated—and had been fine and dandy when she worked only the crime beat. But now her finances had changed, as had her career path.

  She’d never give up the crime beat, but writing, well, that had been an unexpected love. She could work the crime beat, write, and do her weekly show—none of which she’d give up without a bitter and bloody fight. But she’d give up the apartment without a whimper.

  Did she want to invest in a lovely and dignified old brownstone—along the lines Louise and Charles had chosen? Or did she want some shiny penthouse with a killer view? Maybe a creative loft space in the Village? A converted warehouse where she could throw amazing parties?

  This was the dilemma, and why she’d made no move at all. Yet.

  Time to decide, time to make that move. She’d contact a realtor after the first of the year. Or . . . she’d ask Roarke. Who knew more about real estate than the guy who owned so much of it?

  One thing for certain, wherever she landed would have a kick-ass bathroom—and a spacious dressing area. Time to reap some of the benefits of her hard work, and the good luck that had landed sizzling stories in her lap.

  With a glance in the mirror she considered pulling her hair out of the band that held it back in a little tail—reminded herself it was only a messenger, and she didn’t have to be camera ready.

  The buzz decided her, and she walked out, as is, to answer the intercom.

  • • •

  Be calm, the messenger told herself. No, bored, a little bored is better. It’s late, it’s cold, you want to get this finished and go home. Bored and impatient, not calm.

  She ran a hand over the bill of the flapped cap, made sure it was tilted low—and ran her fingers over the stunner in her pocket.

  Nervous, she admitted. Nervous this time because this time was different. But . . . no, not really. Not really different.

  Didn’t Nadine Furst profit from death and crime? The bigger, the more profit and glory? What did she do that was productive?

  Nothing.

  She only reaped in the fame, the fortune, and helped soil Eve’s purity.

  No, not different at all. True justice, true friendship meant this was as necessary and as right as Bastwick and Ledo.

  Settling, she waited, even as she itched to press the buzzer again.

  When Nadine’s voice came through the speaker, she was careful to keep her head angled, her face shielded by shadows.

  There were no more nerves, but only the first waves of excitement.

  “Nadine Furst?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve got a packet from a Cabott, Channel Seventy-five.”

  “Let’s see your ID.”

  She’d prepared for this—it irritated to be asked, but she’d prepared. She pulled out the ID she’d made. It would pass a low-level scan; she’d tested it herself.

  And when it did, she felt another tickle of excitement.

  “Come on up.”

  When Nadine buzzed her in, her heart began to beat hard, hard at the base of her throat. So hard, she couldn’t swallow, but she crossed the tiny lobby, called the elevator.

  As she did, a couple of teenagers came barreling in the main doors, squealing with laughter.

  “His face! His face! Total caution!”

  “I know, right? Ultramazing. We abso have to tag Flo-lo, give her the deal and the deets.”

  They clambered on the elevator with her in their thick-soled boots and hats with bouncing puffy balls, smelling of sugar and strawberry shampoo.

  “I’m just twee!”

  “You are? I’m twee-squared. Flo-lo’s going to completely pop. Screwed she’s under house arrest. We need her to trio like now.”

  “Her mom’s down, so no chance.”

  She could kill them, she thought. The squealing girls with their strawberry hair and shining faces.

  Stun them both, cut their throats, leave their bodies smelling of blood and strawberries.

  It’s what happened to girls who weren’t careful. Girls who weren’t respectful.

  Didn’t they see her standing here?

  Her ears rang with pressure, her chest ached with it. Fingering the stunner, just brushing her fingertips over it, eased the pressure. As the elevator climbed, and the girls’ voices squealed and shrieked in her head, she started to draw the stunner out.

  The elevator doors opened; the girls clumped out, laughing like hyenas.

  Not the plan, she reminded herself, annoyed her fingers trembled. Focus was essential. Nadine.

  But girls that age made her so angry, so full of grief and despair and rage.

  Had to put them, all of them, out of her mind. Work to be done.

  And when it was done, the happiness would come again.

  To settle, she brought Eve’s face into her mind, and understood, like a light blooming, she was doing exactly the right thing. For Eve, for herself. For their friendship.

  Some part of her had always planned to do this—just not on a fully conscious level. Otherwise she wouldn’t have taken all that time, put in all that effort to learn about all these distractions, these obstacles.

  Removing them was key to their partnership, their happiness. Their unity.

  How could Eve understand she was the true friend if there were others trying to push her aside?

  People always pushed her aside.

  All her life, they’d pushed her aside, put her into corners, told her to be good, to be quiet. Behave.

  No more.

  Steady again, focused again, she walked off the elevator. Face angled away from the camera, tipped down.

  She slipped her right hand in her pocket, pressed the buzzer with her left.

  Nadine, she thought, would never shunt her aside in Eve’s affections again.

  Inside, Nadine rolled her eyes at Eve’s last e-mail. Who’d have thought the tough, kick-your-ass-to-next-Tuesday cop would be such a fussy mother hen?

  But she studied the latest sketch with interest. She’d check, be sure it was cleared—because she really didn’t want her ass kicked to next Tuesday—and if so she could go in tonight, do a special bulletin, get herself a nice scoop on the competition.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she called at the sound of the buzzer. “Just hang on.”

  She went to the door, looked through the security peep, saw a bit of profile and a big winter hat, some messy strands of brown hair poking out the bottom.

  She reached for the locks, and Eve’s last e-mail sounded in her head.

  Do not, under any circumstances, open the door to someone you don’t know. Do not, under any circumstances, open the door to anyone you’re not expecting.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just a messenger.”

  But Eve’s flat, cop’s eyes seemed to bore into her brain.

  “Fine, fine.” Nadine pushed the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Yeah, Mercury Messengers. Package for Nadine Furst.”

  “Let’s see it. Hold it up to the peep.”

  “What’s the problem, lady?” But prepared, always prepared, she reached in the messenger bag, pulled out a thick envelope. “For Nadine Furst, from Bing Corbett, Channel Seventy-five. You want it or not? I’m on overtime here.”

  Dallas had her spooked, Nadine thought, and reached for the locks again. So she’d compromise and leave the thick chain on, open the door just enough to get whatever her producer had sent her, and be done with it.

  She clicked off the locks, let the door open two inches. “Pass it through.”

  The brief hesitation had her angling back to look through the peep again.

  “You gotta sign.”

  “Pass it through,” she repeated, and this time felt a chill along her skin.

  She called herself a nervous idiot when the envelope started thro
ugh the gap. She shifted again, started to reach for it, then stumbled to the side as the stunner followed.

  The stream blasted heat on the chill, left her left arm tingling numb from the edge of the jolt. She half fell against the door as the stunner fired again, and whoever fired it threw their body weight on the door.

  The next stream angled lower, skimmed along her calf, took her down to her knees.

  She told herself the chain would hold, she could crawl away, out of range, get to her ’link. Get help.

  But she wasn’t sure the chain would hold.

  Why had she put off moving?

  Her body trembled, not just fear, but a reaction to the stream swipes. She put her back against the door, drew her legs in thinking another hit, even a glancing one, might be enough to put her down.

  A weapon, she told herself as the door vibrated and the chain thunked from another body blow. Any weapon would do.

  Desperate, she dug in the pocket of her silly pants, closed her hand over the fancy little lighter Corbett had given her for Christmas—for the herbal habit she wasn’t supposed to have.

  She flicked it on, prayed, then, inching up the door, waited for the next thump.

  The instant it came, she stuck the lighter, flame on high, through the gap.

  The resulting scream emboldened, empowered. Nadine threw her full weight against the door, sobbing as it slammed. It took her three tries to secure the locks.

  When she gathered the courage to look out the security peep, no one was there.

  The lighter fell out of her trembling fingers. She cradled her tingling arm as she hobbled across the room. Once again she went down to her knees, but now she had her pocket ’link with her.

  “Dallas. Nadine, I’m working.”

  “She was here, Dallas. She was at the door. She’s gone now.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “A little, I think. I can’t tell. I think you’d better get over here. I need help.”

  “I’m on my way. I’m sending in the closest units. Don’t open the door, Nadine, until I clear them. Understood?”

  “I understood the first time. It’s why I’m a little hurt and not dead. Maybe you could hurry. Can you hurry? I think I’m going to be sick now.”