Secrets in Death

by J. D. Robb

  He heard her, a low, broken cry of release as he fell. He caught her against him as she fell after him.

  She went limp, soft melted wax, and the sound she made was a long, purring sigh.

  “I won.” She sighed again when he lay back with her pressed to his heart. “Bitch Cop wins.”

  “I’ll concede the round. But demand a rematch.”

  “I’ll take you on again.”

  Eyes closed, a hand stroking her back, he smiled. Her words tended to slur when she was all but asleep.

  He managed to maneuver them lengthwise on the bed, shifting her until she curled up against him. She muttered something incomprehensible, so he stroked her back again.

  “Not to worry now,” he whispered. “Lights off.”

  In the dark he felt the cat land on the bed, pad over, circle twice, then curl his considerable bulk in the small of Eve’s back.

  Not to worry now, he thought again. This was as good as any man could wish for.

  He gave the cat a stroke, then draped an arm over his wife and slept.

  * * *

  When Eve woke, the cat had switched allegiances and lay sprawled over Roarke’s lap. Roarke, dressed for another conquer-the-world day, sat on the new sofa in the sitting area, drinking coffee—mmm, coffee—working on his PPC. On the wall screen the day’s stocks and other mysterious financial information moved in a silent scroll.

  She sat up, brain still fuzzed, spotted her discarded sleep shirt at the foot of the bed. She crawled over to retrieve it.

  “Well now, that’s a fine sight to greet a man first thing in the morning.”

  She grunted, dragged the shirt over her head.

  “Even that.”

  She stumbled her way to the bar he’d left open for her, programmed coffee. Decided after the first gulp she’d be able to function.

  “How many ’link conferences already in the bag this morning?”

  “Only two.” Eyebrows arched, he glanced over. “Back-to-back they were, so essentially one.”

  She grunted again and went to shower. While the hot jetted water pumped more life into her, Eve outlined the start of her day.

  Check on any search results here. In the field, morgue, and Morris first, then the waitress—potential for consult with police artist on description. Briefing, Peabody and McNab. Briefing, Commander Whitney. Contact Nadine.

  And she had to be prepared to deal with the media. One of their own was dead—they’d push hard.

  She came out, grateful for the chocolate-brown cashmere robe, and eyed the two dome-covered plates on the table.

  She thought, Oatmeal. Damn it.

  Still, he’d set a pot of coffee on the table, and she was ready for a second.

  She poured, sat. “I want to check on the search results before I head out.”

  “I already have. No other accounts. No real property, so far, tied to any we have. I’ve gone down another level.”

  “Okay.”

  When he lifted the domes, rather than the expected oatmeal—

  “Waffles! How come?”

  “You won.”

  “Score!” She immediately drowned hers in syrup.

  Galahad, banished from the sofa, began what Eve thought of as a commando crawl toward the waffles.

  “Forget it,” she told him even before Roarke could give him the eye. “You didn’t win anything.”

  He rolled onto his back, lazily switching his tail, as if contemplating the ceiling.

  “We got lucky.” She ate waffles and felt lucky all around.

  “How so?”

  “Not only did Mars manage to get upstairs—though some bladder in the bar would have required emptying before too much longer anyway. But she managed to get upstairs. And there’s a cop right there. That’s a couple of lucky breaks for the investigation, and bad ones for the killer. Just have to make them work for us.”

  She ate more waffles. “Plus, you own the place, and that’s another break because the manager’s smart and competent—and cooperative. And the staff’s smooth. I’m hoping to have the next round of luck with the waitress. If we can get a sketch of the killer, that’ll tie it up pretty nice.”

  She studied her next bite of waffles. “Why do they call it a waffle iron?”

  He cut another bite. “Because it presses the batter?”

  “But does it? Does it really? They’re not flat, and isn’t that the goal with pressing and ironing? They’re sort of puffy with dents in them. Pancakes, I get the name. It’s batter, you pour it on a pan, and you’ve got yourself a pancake. What sort of name is waffle—were they just not sure what it was, so they, you know, waffled? Or does it mean something?”

  “The question will haunt me now.”

  “Ha.” She ate the bite, deciding that whatever the name, it went down just fine. “I need to hook up with Nadine, go by Seventy-Five to talk to people. Sometimes Trina’s there. Lurking around with all her gunk and goo and paint.”

  Roarke gave her knee a bolstering pat. “Don’t be a coward, Lieutenant.”

  Scowling, Eve polished off her breakfast. “Lurking,” she repeated. “And I’ll lay down fifty right now, if she’s lurking, she’s going to want to do stuff to my hair, and that leads to doing other stuff. She gave me the hard eye when we went to Bella’s birthday deal—I know when she’s giving me that look. I’ve got to slap some of that cream gunk on my face before I go. She’ll know if I don’t. She just knows. It’s creepy.”

  Rising, she headed to the closet.

  This, she feared, would always give her a jolt. The remodel had swollen the space, expanded it, added stuff—like a computer.

  She gave the closet comp the hard eye.

  Damned if she’d use a stupid computer to put clothes on her ass.

  Brown, she decided. The brown robe was good, so brown was good.

  She grabbed a jacket, turned to the pants and trouser area, reached for brown, stopped, reached a couple of choices over. Not only brown—maybe a darker brown like the robe, but it had a line of still-darker leather down the outside of the legs, along the pockets.

  She had a weakness for leather.

  She didn’t want to try to think about what went with the browns, so she searched through the built-ins until she found a white sweater. Not snow-white, she thought as she began to dress, but sort of like the color of the oatmeal she hadn’t had to eat that morning.

  That sort of made it brown, too. Nice, easy brown.

  Belt, boots, done.

  She walked out to retrieve her weapon harness, clutch piece, restraints, and everything she carried on her person, her belt, in pockets.

  She caught Roarke’s eye as she strapped on her clutch piece.

  “What?” Part of her wanted to whine. “Forget it. I’m not changing.”

  “On the contrary. I was just thinking you look very professional, with an edge.”

  She glanced toward the mirror, thought she looked normal. “And that’s good?”

  “That’s you, Lieutenant.”

  “Then it works. I’m heading out, so—”

  He gestured with his coffee. “You forgot to slap your face.”

  “Slap my … Oh, crap.”

  She dashed into the bathroom, dug out the face cream. Slapped it on.

  Took a second or two to stare at herself. She, a trained observer, and one who damn well knew her own face, couldn’t see a damn bit of difference.

  But Trina would know. Yeah, it was creepy.

  She dashed out again.

  “I’m going to be like ten in my office, finishing up there, then I’m in the field.”

  “I’ve one or two things yet to see to here myself. I’d appreciate if you’d keep me updated on this case, and any progress you make. My place, after all.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She walked over, kissed him. “I’ll text you if I learn anything you’d want to know.”

  He pulled her back for another. “Take care of my cop.”

  “That�
��s Bitch Cop.”

  “Not to me—unless it’s to my advantage.”

  “It’s always to mine.”

  7

  Ad blimps chugged through washed-out winter skies blasting hype for midwinter sales. As if, Eve thought as she pushed through traffic, nobody had anything better to do than shop.

  And if the cost of winter coats could be Slashed! Sixty Percent Off! in February, why didn’t stores charge less for them in, say, October, and move the damn inventory?

  Just because certain people could toss around four figures for a pair of boots? To borrow from ancient slang, that was whack.

  She glanced down at the boots currently on her feet, told herself not to think about it. Reminded herself those boots would likely see considerable mileage before the closet fairies disappeared them.

  And she had a killer to catch.

  As she bulled her way downtown, she decided to multitask and tagged Nadine.

  It didn’t surprise her to see Nadine Furst, dogged crime-beat reporter, bestselling crime writer, and all-around smart girl, come on screen within seconds.

  Not camera ready for a change, Eve mused, and with her streaky blond hair sleek and wet.

  “Get you out of the shower?”

  “Nearly. If you’re heading into Central, I’ll be there in thirty.”

  “I’m not. I’m in the field.”

  “The morgue then.” Face naked, eyes hard, Nadine nodded. “A visit to Larinda.”

  “Figured you heard.”

  “Of course I heard.” As she spoke, she moved. Eve saw a blur of Nadine’s swanky new bedroom in her swanky new apartment. “Just like I heard you were on scene when it happened—Roarke’s bar. I need a one-on-one, and I need it this morning.”

  “I need an interview—official,” Eve countered, “and I need it this morning.”

  Movement stopped. “With me? Why?”

  Eve noted Nadine now stood in her closet—nearly as big as her own, and even more ruthlessly organized.

  “I’ll get to that during the interview. I have to come to the station anyway. I’ll talk to you there. About two hours, so be there.”

  “I want that one-on-one, Dallas. Larinda was—loosely—an associate, a coworker. The station’s already all over this, and I’m the top crime reporter—on screen and in the field.”

  “We’ll talk,” Eve repeated. “Two hours.”

  And clicked off.

  She’d be annoyed, Eve thought. And she’d push for the one-on-one. Which Eve already intended to give her—and which Nadine already knew she’d get.

  But the steps of investigation came first.

  She continued multitasking as she strode down the white, echoing tunnel of the morgue.

  Cesca the waitress came on screen, heavy-eyed, purple hair tousled. “Um,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to tag you so early,” Eve began. “I need a follow-up with you. I’d like you to come into Central.”

  “Into…” The heavy eyes popped wide. “Am I in trouble? Am I a, what, like a suspect?”

  “Neither. You may be able to help in our investigation. I can arrange for transportation if you need it.”

  “No. No, I can … Now?”

  “How about in an hour? If you come through the main entrance, go to the first security desk. I’m going to have you cleared up to me.”

  “Okay. Okay. But … Can I bring a friend? I don’t want to come by myself. Is that okay? Wow.” She shoved and pushed at her wedge of hair. “I’m so nervous.”

  “You can bring whoever you want, and there’s no reason to be nervous. I can come to your place, but this saves me some time. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Cesca pushed at her purple hair again, and didn’t look convinced. “You didn’t catch the killer yet?”

  “I’m working on it. An hour,” Eve said, clicking off as she reached the doors to Morris’s theater.

  Today’s music, hard-edged rock—beat low. Morris, a clear cape over a navy suit with thin, metallic red stripes, stood over Larinda Mars.

  His hair slicked back from his interesting face to form a looped braid twined in that same metallic red. The red—mirrored in his tie—told Eve grief hadn’t dogged him when he’d chosen today’s wardrobe.

  DeWinter, just being DeWinter, she supposed, earned some points for that.

  Larinda, her chest spread open, lay naked on the stainless-steel slab.

  If the dead had concerns about modesty, those who stood for them couldn’t accommodate it.

  “I wasn’t able to finish with her last night.” Morris studied a readout on his lab comp. “I had a suicide pact—neither of them old enough for a legal brew. Baxter and Trueheart caught it,” he said, glancing back toward his wall of drawers. “All evidence supports they considered themselves—with the influence of illegals—a Romeo and Juliet who would only find happiness in death. It’s sad they failed to understand what they based their decision on wasn’t a romance, but a tragedy.”

  “I never got it. A couple of kids take a look at each other and decide they’re crazy in love while their families are like the Coys and McHats.”

  “Hatfields and McCoys,” Morris corrected, the sorrow in his dark, exotic eyes fading to amusement. “Or in this case the Montagues and Capulets.”

  “Whatever. Stupid. So they both end up dead—self-terminations in the old ‘can’t be with you, I’ll die instead.’”

  She stuck her hands in her pockets, scanned the drawers. “I figure people who haven’t dealt with death up close don’t get it ends life and any and all potential therein. And even when life sucks wide, it can get better. Anyway, this one didn’t self-terminate.”

  “No, indeed. A single cut to the brachial artery with a sharp, smooth blade. A scalpel. There are no other wounds, offensive or defensive.”

  “The angle. Face-to-face?”

  “That’s my conclusion. It would take only a second.” He lifted a scalpel off his tray, flicked his wrist. “And done.”

  “The medicals on scene speculated about the time frame for her to bleed out without intervention. What’s your take?”

  “I discussed that with Garnet last night.”

  “You … okay.”

  He set the scalpel down. “She contacted me. As you surely understand, she felt both frustration and guilt that she’d been right there, and could do nothing to save the victim, even with the assistance of another doctor, and you.”

  “Mars didn’t last ten seconds after she went down.” But Eve did get it, absolutely.

  “And you wouldn’t have changed that, as I explained to Garnet, if you’d reached her sooner. Both Garnet and the doctor who tried to help assumed, certainly hoped for, a slower leak.”

  “They didn’t see the bathroom, the spatter. She lost a pint—more—before she got out the door.”

  “The initial gush and spray.” Morris nodded. “She might have died then and there, within a minute or two, but— Conversely, we’ll say, you sever your arm, through an attack or due to an accident.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Who could blame you,” Morris said easily. “However, with this amputation, your brachial artery gushes with your heartbeat. Pulse and gush. Why don’t you die? Many who sever limbs are saved—most, in fact—and the severed limb can be reattached with excellent results.”

  “Still rather keep all mine where they are.”

  “That’s the hope. With the insult of a severed limb, the blood vessels compress, slowing the blood loss long enough for treatment—if treatment comes. In this case, there was some compression. Enough it allowed her to walk as far as she did, to try to get help.”

  “How much time?”

  “I’d estimate she lived for about four minutes, perhaps five. But she passed the point of saving within about ninety seconds. The blood loss was too severe, confirmed by your on-scene record. Without immediate intervention from that point, she was the walking dead.”

  And Morris smiled. “A marvelous,
classic screen series.”

  “What?”

  “The Walking Dead. Have you seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Zombie apocalypse, fascinating. You’d like it. But to Larinda here, a severed hand would have given her a better chance to survive than what would appear to be a smaller injury.”

  “He—fairly sure on he—could have stepped out, held the door shut for thirty seconds. Really wouldn’t have to bother,” she thought out loud as she circled the slab. “Even if she managed to get out and up the stairs in, say, a minute, nobody’s going to wade through the panic and—what? Do what?”

  “Tourniquet off the blood flow—the flow that’s pumping out with every heartbeat. Just as you and the medicals attempted. Or cauterize the wound. Administer a transfusion.”

  “Not going to happen in thirty seconds. Or ninety.”

  She glanced at her wrist unit, then mimed slicing her arm.

  “What do I do? That initial gush. I’m stunned, pissed. Look at my skin suit. What the fuck! I probably stumble back, grab at the wound. You son of a bitch. But he steps out, closes the door.”

  “You’re already woozy,” Morris told her. “Your reactions are slowed within only seconds.”

  “Right, so I stagger for the door, light-headed, maybe still too pissed to really be scared. I stumble toward the steps—it’s a good five feet. Already past the sixty-seconds mark by then. Maybe I try to call out. It’s noisy up there, and I’m weak. I pull myself up by the rail, brace a hand on the wall because I’m so dizzy. Maybe I grip the wound again, trying to stop the bleeding, but I can’t stop it. By the time I get up eighteen stairs, I’m past that two-minute mark. I still have to get to the doorway.”

  “The blood’s no longer feeding your brain.”

  “Not thinking now,” Eve murmured. “It’s just blind, animal instinct that keeps me moving forward. Really, I died back on the stairs. Zombie time,” she said and made him smile again.

  “Basically.”

  “Three minutes minimum before she made it into the bar.” She nodded at her wrist unit. “The suspect I’m leaning toward left the bar under two minutes before TOD, so likely no more than five minutes after the attack, likely nearer to four. He just had to walk up the stairs, across the bar, and out the door. I’d say he planned it out, timed it. He got lucky, as two couples were leaving as he did, but that was just a bonus.”