Obsession in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “We’re out the door. Roarke’s driving. Talk to me. Where are you hurt?”

  She couldn’t quite draw in air. Her chest hurt, felt as if something very heavy, very jagged was pressing into it. Something greasy seemed to roll and roil in her belly.

  Reaction, she told herself. Just reaction.

  “Ah, my arm, my leg. Flesh wounds.” She gave a quick laugh that pitched too high and scared her. “Oh boy, is that shock? I think I’m in shock, and I can’t get a full breath in. I think I need to pass out now. She had your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes. Sorry. I really have to faint.”

  So clutching the ’link, she did just that.

  • • •

  Eve leaped out of the car before Roarke stopped in front of Nadine’s building. She pointed at the black-and-whites already double-parked. “Do that,” she told Roarke, and raced to the building.

  One swipe of her master and she was through. Though she’d have preferred the stairs, the elevator would be faster. She jumped into it, ordered Nadine’s floor.

  Another swipe and she was in the apartment, where Nadine sat in a chair the color of crushed rose petals clutching a glass of water and flanked by uniforms.

  She offered Eve a shaky smile. “I wasn’t out that long. You were fast.”

  “MTs?”

  Even as Nadine shook her head, one of the uniforms spoke up. “Ms. Furst doesn’t want medical attention. She’s lucid, Lieutenant, and there’s no sign of serious injury.”

  “Describe her.” Eve stared hard at Nadine’s ghost-pale face, over-wide eyes. She’d give the no medical attention a minute or two—she knew what it was to need to avoid just that.

  But then . . .

  Nadine breathed deep. “Dark complexion, dark brown hair—short, just the tips of it showing under this big hat with earflaps. Dark hat, dark coat. I’d just studied the latest sketches, and she didn’t match—not really. She had a pronounced overbite, and . . . the nose was off.

  “And her eyes, Dallas.” She had to stop, to drink because somehow the water helped keep her head from floating away. “They’re the same color as yours. Like custom-made eye dye.

  “I . . . I don’t think she was five-ten. Seemed shorter—taller than me, shorter than you. Smaller all around than the earlier descriptions. Peacoat,” she remembered. “She wore a dark peacoat, and a dark scarf, the hat had flaps and a bill.”

  “Hear that?” Eve said to the uniforms. “Canvass, now. Start knocking on doors, and get whoever’s in charge to get me the security feed from tonight. Push it!”

  She moved over to Nadine, crouched, studied her friend’s face. Still pale, maybe not as glassy. But her description had been lucid enough Eve decided to nix the idea of tagging MTs against Nadine’s wishes.

  “Why are you wearing cats on your pants?”

  “They’re pajama bottoms and they’re kittens. They’re cozy.”

  “They’re ridiculous.”

  “Yeah.” Nadine reached out, gripped Eve’s hand. Breathed out. “That’s what I like about them.”

  “Okay. Tell me what happened. Exactly.”

  “I was working—researching, reading correspondence. I— Roarke.”

  When he came in, he went straight to her, leaned down, cupped her chin in his hand. After a moment, he nodded, brushed his lips to her forehead. “Why don’t I get you a soother?”

  “Actually . . . I’ve got a bottle of bourbon, far left cabinet, top shelf, kitchen. I could use a double, straight up.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Nadine.”

  “Okay.” She kept Eve’s hand in hers, needed that link. “I got an e-mail, supposedly from an intern at the station, telling me my producer was messengering over a packet.”

  “Which, of course, you verified.”

  Nadine winced, clearly hearing the temper and sarcasm in the cool words. “It’s not unusual for Bing to shoot me out something this way.”

  “You opened the fucking door.”

  “Not exactly.” She puffed out a breath. “But I would have, I see that now, and it pisses me off. I would have if you hadn’t sent that last nagging e-mail about not opening the door, period. I was still rolling my eyes at it—at you—when she buzzed.”

  She paused, swiped at her eyes when they watered up. “Damn it. I hate being stupid, being played. She had the names right. My producer, my assistant producer, her intern, even the name of the messenger service we use most regularly. And as I said, Bing’s been known to send something off hours. I asked for ID, Dallas—she showed it, and it cleared the building scan. She didn’t match the description. Shorter, slimmer, the hair showing. I was about to open the door when I could feel you snarling at me for it.”

  She swiped at tears again, looked up as Roarke brought her drink. “Thanks.” Swiped then sighed when he sat on the arm of her chair, took out a pristine white handkerchief, dabbed at the tears.

  “There now, darling. You’re safe now.”

  “God. Why didn’t the Icoves clone you, then I could have one? Sorry, it’s just reaction. Stun streams freaking hurt, I now have reason to know, even when they’re just glancing.”

  “You opened the door,” Eve said again.

  “I left the chain on. Don’t beat me up over it, I’m doing such a good job of it myself. I thought, compromise, not really opening the door, but getting whatever Bing’s sending me. I had her show me the packet through the peep, and then I left the chain on, told her to pass it through.”

  After letting out a cleansing breath, she took a hit of bourbon.

  “She hesitated, and it set off an alarm, then . . . I looked through the peep again, and she was looking at the door. Your eyes, Dallas. About the same color as this bourbon.” She took another hit—long and slow this time.

  “More alarms, and I should’ve listened to them and slammed the door right then, but she angled the stunner in the gap, caught me on the arm. It still feels strange. Still tingles some, but it’s not hurting like it did. She threw herself against the door, and she got that damn stunner angled, caught me on the leg. Dropped me.”

  Her hand shook a little as she brought the glass up to drink, then steadied again.

  “I’ve been thinking about moving, better building, higher security, but I haven’t taken the time to figure out where and what I want. That one went through my head, too, because if the chain didn’t hold . . .”

  She drew a breath, let it out. Focusing on getting air in and out now that her chest no longer felt crushed.

  “I had my lighter in my pocket. I remembered I had it—had myself two herbals while I was working because I’m still officially vacationing. I burned her. It’s got a wicked flame on high, and I burned her, Dallas. Stuck it through, got her wrist, I think, maybe more, or her arm. I’m not sure. But she pulled back, screamed, so I know I hurt her. I got the door shut, and locked. And I tagged you.”

  Eve rose. “Which arm did she catch with the stream?”

  Nadine rubbed her left arm. “It’s better.”

  Eve punched Nadine’s right biceps—she pulled it, considerably, but she punched it.

  “Ow!”

  “Does ‘don’t open the goddamn, motherfucking door’ mean open the goddamn, motherfucking door with the stupid, nearly worthless chain on?”

  Nadine narrowed her eyes, took a long, slow drink of bourbon. “Bitch.” Then another long, slow drink. “I’m sorry. You’re a bitch, but you’re right, and I’m sorry and stupid. And I’m moving. You could find me a new place,” she said to Roarke.

  “I could give you some options. I’d be happy to give you some options if you give me the idea what you’d like.”

  Eve bared her teeth at both of them. “Do you think we could wait until whenever is not now for a real estate discussion?”

 
Eve paced away.

  “Maybe you should get her a soother,” Nadine murmured—very quietly. “Or a stiff double of bourbon.”

  Roarke only patted Nadine’s shoulder.

  “She changed her look, her approach. So she’s adaptable. And she didn’t run at the first sign it wasn’t going as planned. A little more aggressive, and desperate. I think desperate,” Eve decided. “Pissed, too. Seriously pissed. She’s had two strikeouts now. She’s going to be running on rage. And she’s hurt. You not only aren’t dead, you hurt her.”

  “Yay me.”

  “Bollocks to that. Pack up what you need. You’ll stay at our place until we have her. I’ll have a uniform transport you. Roarke, you’d better let Summerset know she’s coming.”

  “Do you think she’d come back?”

  “Low probability on that,” Eve told her. “But I think she needs a kill tonight, and I’d rather you’re not here in case she tries for a second shot at you.”

  “I’d rather not be here, too. Thanks. But if you hit me again, I’m calling a cop.”

  “Funny. Get moving. I want you out of here while I—” She yanked out her ’link. “It’s the alarm McNab set up. She just tried the master.”

  She pulled out her communicator.

  “Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

  “All available units, 963 Ludlow. Attempted break-in. Female suspect is wearing a dark peacoat, dark hat with bill and earflaps. She is armed and dangerous.”

  “Who lives there?” Nadine demanded. “Do you know who lives there?”

  Even as Eve started to shake her head, Roarke spoke. “Jamie. His mother’s place.”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm as he turned toward the door. “We’re too far out. Cops’ll be there, in minutes, and she can’t get in with that master. Tag him, tag him now. Tell him to stay wherever he is, locked in. I’ll tag his mother.”

  Jamie, she’d never thought of Jamie. He was a kid—no more than twenty. Not even twenty, she corrected, as she called up the contact. Feeney’s godson, a kind of Roarke protégé. A kid who wanted to be a cop. And his mother . . . not a friend, not an enemy. Just Jamie’s mother.

  “Ms. Wojinski.” Eve felt a small flick of relief when the sleepy voice answered. “This is Eve Dallas. Listen to me carefully.”

  She looked at Roarke, nodded as she spoke and Jamie’s mother responded. “Wait for the police,” she said again. “When they get there, have them contact me so I can verify before you open the door. Do you understand me, don’t open the door. The police are on the way.”

  “I can hear sirens. I hear them.”

  “Good. Stay on, okay? Stay on until they get there and I verify. Just hold a minute.

  “They’re safe,” she said to Roarke.

  “I have Jamie on the ’link. He’s with her, spending a couple days with her on his winter break.”

  “Tell him if he opens a door, tries anything before I clear it, I’ll make sure he never gets a badge.”

  Roarke’s eyebrows lifted. “He heard you. See to your mother, Jamie. That’s your job.”

  Satisfied, Eve switched to her communicator to speak with the responding officers and clear them.

  Three strikes, she thought, and you’re out.

  Eve contacted Peabody, argued with her.

  “There’s no need or point in you coming in for this. Nadine’s handled. Jamie and his mother have cops in the house.”

  “Handled, my butt. I handled myself.”

  “Shut up, Nadine, and get your famous butt moving. Your transport’s waiting.”

  “I have things I need,” Nadine began, and continued to gather discs and notes into a bag that could hold a baby elephant.

  She already had a suitcase the size of Montana packed and ready.

  “If you have witnesses to interview,” Peabody complained from the ’link, “I should be there.”

  “I’ve got it covered. If you want to be up half the night, work on the new parameters. Have your e-genius run a search and match using the refinements Roarke made. If anything else comes through, I’ll let you know.”

  “But—”

  “She’s gone, Peabody. We won’t take her down tonight. But contact hospitals—emergency treatment centers, walk-in clinics. Maybe she’s burned bad enough to need medicals. Maybe she’d risk it. Hit facilities in your own neighborhood first. Let’s play the angle she lives close to my old place. Any hits, I hear about it, otherwise, zip it. Tomorrow,” she added, and cut transmission.

  She turned to one of the uniforms who was waiting. “You get something?”

  “A couple of teenage girls, Lieutenant, two floors down. Bocco family, apartment seven-twelve. Girls are Savannah Bocco, Thea Rossi, both age sixteen. They rode up in the elevator with her.” He handed her a pair of discs in an evidence bag. “Security feed from the exterior and the elevator, sir. No hallway cams in this building.”

  “Good. Secure this unit once Ms. Furst is the hell out of it. Expand the canvass to emergency treatment centers and clinics in the area. She’s burned, right hand and/or wrist. Try outlets that sell medical supplies—over-the-counter burn meds, pain meds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nadine!”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” She’d changed into black skin pants, boots, sweater, had actually taken time to slap some gunk on her face and fuss with her hair.

  Eve all but shoved her out of the apartment. “Make certain she’s secure,” she told the transport officers. “In and locked down.”

  “I appreciate the hospitality,” Nadine said, “however rudely offered.”

  “Get the hell out.”

  She turned to Roarke. “I’m going to talk to the teenagers—God help us all. You can be Peabody, if you swear not to sulk.”

  “I think I can mask my bruised feelings. She wants to help—and be in on the action,” he added as Eve stepped out.

  “She is helping, and there’s not likely to be much action.”

  He patted her back, called for the seventh floor in the elevator. “A bit more action than there would’ve been, don’t you think, if Nadine hadn’t opened the goddamn motherfucking door.”

  Eve just leaned back against the wall a moment. “If the bitch had gotten a better angle through the gap, Nadine’s dead. That chain wouldn’t have stopped her. No hallway cams, apartments around her soundproofed. You could see the bolt on the chain was already compromised on the jamb. A few good kicks, it gives, and that’s that.”

  “If,” Roarke repeated. “And if didn’t happen.”

  “What did happen is Nadine didn’t think.” She stepped out on seven. “And okay, yeah, yeah, I can see how it went in her head. A routine, the producer, what struck as a standard e-mail from the job. And at the push, she wasn’t fatally stupid. But it’s the kind of daily action, the acting on auto, that proves this individual can get to anyone. Louise gets an emergency call, heads out. Mavis takes five in her dressing room. Reo gets a damn messengered packet from her boss, whatever.

  “She’s revved up now, blocked up, needs the release, needs the win. She’ll take more chances.”

  “Taking chances leads to making mistakes.”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to catch her mistake when I’m standing over the body of a dead friend.” She pushed the buzzer on the Bocco apartment, held her badge up to the security peep.

  The door opened a couple inches, hit the chain. Eve considered giving it a few kicks just to see how many it would take.

  “Mr. Bocco? Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and civilian consultant. We’d like to speak with Savannah, and with Thea Rossi.”

  “Could I see your badge again?”

  “Sure.” Eve held it to the gap, figured if she’d been a crazed killer she could’ve stunned the man between the eyes in under three seconds.

  “Sorry. We’r
e a little nervous.” He closed the door, released the chain, opened it again. A long-eared dog with short legs hobbled over to sniff at her boots, at Roarke’s, then wagged the entire back end of its body.

  Charmed, Roarke crouched to give the dog a rub that had it quivering with joy.

  “Officer Osgood told us you’d be coming to talk to the girls.” He stepped back, ushered them into a cheerfully disordered living area with a shining Christmas tree slowly revolving in front of the window.

  “Go on, Tink, go lie down now.”

  With a sigh, the dog hobbled to a purple pillow, groaned in what sounded like pleasure as it flopped down.

  “She’s ancient, but still game. I’m Nick Bocco, Savannah’s father. Sorry, we’re still pretty tossed around from Christmas.” He shoved at a mop of brown hair, looked owlishly around the cheerfully messy living space. “And no school till the second—a day I have circled in red on every calendar. I’ve been mostly working at home this week, and that doesn’t matter at all.”

  He stopped himself, scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry again, I’m a little shaken at the idea the girls were in the elevator with a murder suspect.”

  “Did Officer Osgood say this individual is a murder suspect?”

  “He didn’t have to. He showed me the sketch—like the one I’ve seen on screen off and on all day. It’s not just paranoia, leading me to the girls were in the elevator with the person the police are after for the two murders since Christmas.

  “He said Nadine was okay?”

  “She is,” Eve confirmed. “Do you know her?”

  “Oh, no. I mean I watch her on screen. Never miss Now, and I catch her a lot on her reports. She’s in here a lot—virtually,” he added with a sheepish smile. “It starts to feel like you know her. Anyway, I’m glad she’s okay. Sorry one more time. Have a seat. You want some really bad coffee? Savannah did the marketing last, and whatever she picked up there is pretty awful, but it’ll be hot.”

  “We’re fine. Where is Savannah?”

  “In her room with Thea, probably on the ’link with Flo-lo. Florence Louise—the three of them are like this.” He linked his fingers together. “I’ll get them.”