Survivor in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She looked at the black bag being loaded into the morgue wagon. “Bad luck for her.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect before, Lieutenant, regarding the bad luck comment.”

  “I didn’t hear any disrespect.” As she walked back toward her vehicle, she scanned as she had before. Street, sidewalks, windows, roofs, faces. “Meredith Newman was dead the minute they laid hands on her. There was nothing we could do for her. So we do for her now.”

  “I shouldn’t have missed the points on-scene. The fact that the body had been sanitized.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. You won’t next time.” She drove south, taking her time. “You learning anything working under Baxter?”

  “He pushes the details, and he’s patient. I’m grateful you gave me the chance to work in Homicide, Lieutenant, and to train under Baxter.”

  “He hasn’t corrupted you yet.” She turned east, cruised.

  “He says he’s working on that,” Trueheart said with a quick smile. “He speaks highly of you, Lieutenant. I know he kids around, that’s his way. But he has nothing but the greatest respect for you as a police officer.”

  “He didn’t, he wouldn’t be on this investigative team.” She checked the rearview, the sideview, back to the front. She turned south again. “And if I didn’t have the same for him, he wouldn’t be on this team.”

  She pulled up at a bodega, dug out credits. “Run in, will you, get me a tube of Pepsi. Whatever you’re drinking.”

  The fact that he didn’t appear to find the request odd told her Baxter sent the kid off on similar errands routinely. While he dashed out and into the shop, Eve sat, watched, tapped her fingers lightly on the butt of her weapon.

  Trueheart came out with her Pepsi, and a cherry fizzy for himself. She waited until he’d strapped in, then began to cruise as before.

  “Do we have another stop to make, sir?” he asked a few moments later.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re well east now of your home.”

  “That’s right. Keep drinking that fizzy, Trueheart, keep facing front. But check the side mirror. You see that black panel van about five vehicles back?”

  He did as ordered. “Yes, sir.”

  “Same one’s been on us since we left the scene. Not all the time, didn’t pick us up until we were about four blocks south, but it keeps sliding in, four, five, six back. Gave them a chance to come at me when I sent you in for refreshing beverages.”

  “Sir!”

  “They didn’t take it. They’re just watching awhile. Just watching, maybe trying to catch a transmission, maybe thinking I might lead them to wherever we’ve got the kid stashed. Careful, careful, careful. Me, I’m getting a little tired of watching.”

  “I’ll call it in.”

  “No! They’re close enough, maybe they can monitor transmissions. You don’t call anything in until I say different. You strapped in all right and tight, Trueheart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Hold on to your fizzy.”

  She’d gone as far east as Second, and now at an intersection, whipped the wheel, slapped into a steep vertical lift, and executed a rapid and airborne three-sixty.

  “Hit the sirens,” she snapped at Trueheart. “Call it in now! Street and air support. Black panel van, New York plates. Abel-Abel-Delta- 4-6-1-3. And up they go.”

  The van shot into vertical, then blasted like cannon shot down Second. A white light exploded in front of Eve’s windshield and shook the air like thunder.

  “Shit on a stick. They’ve got laser rifles. Fricking armed and fricking dangerous, heading south on Second at Seventy-eight. Make that west on Seventy-seven, approaching Park. Look at that bastard move.”

  “Juiced up.” Trueheart’s voice was even as he spoke, as he gave dispatch a rapid-fire report of their direction. But it had gone up a full octave.

  The van shot out another blast, then dropped to street level, punching up speed in a shower of sparks as they streamed onto Fifth and aimed south.

  She saw two black-and-whites cut over from the west at Sixty-fifth, move to intercept. Pedestrians scattered, and some of them went airborne as the next blast boomed out. One of the black-and-whites was flung into the air to spiral like a top.

  Eve was forced to slap vertical again to avoid collision and panicked civilians. She lost nearly half a block before she could set down and increase speed. Then she screamed downtown after the building-block red squares of the van’s taillights.

  Another blast knocked her back, had her fighting to keep control. Icy red liquid splattered over the dash.

  She was gaining. The shops of midtown were a colorful blur as she careened south. Lights and animated billboards were nothing but sparkle.

  Overhead, one of the ad blimps boomed out about a buy-one-get-one-half fall sale on winter coats.

  She stayed on him, weaving, dodging, matching maneuver to maneuver as he swung west again. She heard the scream of sirens, her own and others.

  She would tell herself later she should have anticipated, should have seen it coming.

  The maxibus was lumbering in the right-hand lane. The blast from the van rolled it like a turtle, had it skidding over the street. Even as she switched to a straight lift, the maxi’s spin caught a Rapid Cab, flipped it into the air like a big yellow ball.

  On an oath, Eve whipped right, dived down, managed to thread between the bus, the cab, and a pocket of people on the sidewalk who were standing with eyes and mouths wide open at the free show.

  “Abort standard safety factors!” she shouted and prayed the computer would act quickly enough. “Abort cushioning gel, goddamn it!” An instant later, she landed with a bone-crunching slap of tires to pavement.

  Safety factors aborted. Please reset.

  She was too busy swearing, shooting into reverse. But when she pulled out on Seventh, she saw nothing but chaos. And no sign of the van.

  She yanked the harness clear, shoved out of the door, and slammed a fist on the roof. “Son of a bitch! Tell me air support’s still got him. Tell me one of the black-and-whites still has him.”

  “That’s a negative, sir.”

  She studied the overturned bus, the wrecked cars, the still screaming pedestrians. There was going to be hell to pay.

  She looked over at Trueheart, and for one moment her heart stopped. His face, his uniform jacket, his hair were covered with red.

  Then she let out a breath. “Told you to hold on to that damn fizzy.”

  20

  SUMMERSET GLANCED UP FROM HIS BOOK WHEN Roarke tapped on the jamb of his open parlor door. It was rare for Roarke to come into his private quarters, so he put the book aside, rose.

  “No, don’t get up. I . . . have you got a minute?”

  “Of course.” He looked over at the monitor, saw that Nixie was in bed, sleeping. “I was about to get a brandy. Would you like one?”

  “Yes. I would, yes.”

  As he picked up the decanter, Summerset pondered over the fact that Roarke continued to stand, trouble written on his face. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. No.” Roarke let out a frustrated laugh. “Well now, I’ve been stepping on my own feet quite a bit the last days. I’ve something I want to say to you, and I’m not sure quite how to start it.”

  Stiffly now, Summerset handed Roarke a snifter of brandy. “I realize the lieutenant and I have had a number of difficulties. However—”

  “Christ, no, it’s nothing to do with that. If I came around every time the two of you locked horns I’d put in a bleeding revolving door.” He stared down at the brandy a moment, decided maybe it would be better done sitting.

  He took a chair, swirled the brandy while Summerset did the same. And the silence dragged on.

  “Ah, well.” It annoyed him that he had to clear his throat. “These murders. This child—the children—they’ve made me think about things I’d rather not. Things I make a point of not thinking of. My father, my own early years.”
<
br />   “I’ve gone back a few times myself.”

  “You think of Marlena.” Of the daughter, the young, pretty girl who’d been murdered. Raped, tortured, murdered. “I told Nixie the pain lessens. I think it must. But it never goes completely, does it?”

  “Should it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still grieving for my mother. I didn’t even know her, and I’m still grieving when I thought I’d be done. I wonder how long that little girl will grieve for hers.”

  “In some part of her, always, but she’ll go on.”

  “she’s lost more than I ever had. It’s humbling to think of. I don’t know how . . . You saved my life,” Roarke blurted out. “No, don’t say anything, not until I manage this. I might have lived through that beating, the one he gave me before you found me. I might have survived it, physically. But you saved me that day, and days after. You took me in, and tended to me. You gave me a home when you had no obligation. No one wanted me, and then . . . You did. I’m grateful.”

  “If there was a debt, it was paid long ago.”

  “It can never be paid. I might have lived through that beating, and the next, and whatever came after. But I wouldn’t be the man I am, sitting here now. That’s a debt I’m not looking to pay, or one you’re looking to collect.”

  Summerset sipped brandy, two slow sips. “I would have been lost without you, after Marlena. That’s another debt that’s not looking for payment.”

  “There’s been a weight inside me,” Roarke said quietly. “Since this began, since I found myself faced with the blood of children I didn’t know. I could shift it aside, do whatever I needed to do, but it kept rolling back on me. I think, like grief, it might stay there awhile. But it’s less now.”

  He drank down the brandy, got to his feet. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” When he was alone, Summerset went into his bedroom, opened a drawer, and took out a photograph taken a lifetime ago.

  Marlena, fresh and sweet, smiling out at him. Roarke, young and tough, with his arms slung around her shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.

  Some children you could save, you could keep, he thought. And some you couldn’t.

  She got home late enough to consider just going up and dropping fully dressed onto the bed. A headache clamped the back of her neck, digging its hot fingers into the base of her skull. To avoid increasing it with sheer irritation, she pushed Trueheart at Summerset the minute they came in the door.

  “Do something with his uniform,” she said, already heading up the stairs. “And put him to bed. I want him daisy fresh by seven hundred.”

  “Your jacket, Lieutenant.”

  She peeled it off, still walking, and tossed it over her shoulder. He probably had some household magic that got cherry fizzy off leather.

  She aimed straight for the bedroom, then only stood, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to dissolve the rocks that were forming a small mountain range from that point and out to her shoulders. The bed was empty. If he was still working, and likely on her behalf, she could hardly crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head until morning.

  She turned, her hand automatically slapping to her weapon, when she saw the movement behind her.

  “Christ on airskates, kid. What is it with you and skulking around in the dark?”

  “I heard you come in.” Nixie stood, this time in a yellow nightgown, with those sleep-starved eyes locked on Eve’s face.

  “No, not yet.” Eve watched the gaze drop to the floor and didn’t know whether to curse or sigh. “But I know who they are.”

  Nixie’s eyes flew up again. “Who?”

  “You don’t know them. I know who they are. And I know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your father was a good man who did good work. Because he was good, and these people aren’t, they wanted to hurt him and everyone he loved.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  She looked, Eve thought, like a wounded angel with all that tangled blonde hair surrounding a face haunted by fatigue, and worse. “You’re not supposed to understand it. Nobody’s supposed to understand why some people decide to take lives instead of living decent ones of their own. But that’s the way it is. You’re supposed to understand that your father was a good man, your family was a good family. And the people who did this to them, to you, are wrong people. You’re supposed to understand that I’ll find them and put them in a goddamn cage where they’ll spend what’s left of their miserable, selfish lives. That has to be good enough, because that’s all we’ve got.”

  “Will it be soon?”

  “Sooner if I’m working instead of standing here in the damn hallway talking to you.”

  The slightest flicker of a smile curved Nixie’s lips. “You’re not really mean.”

  Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “Am, too. Mean as spit, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Are not. Baxter says you’re tough, and sometimes you’re scary, but it’s because you care about helping people, even when they’re dead.”

  “Yeah? Well, what does he know? Go back to bed.”

  Nixie started toward her room, then paused. “I think, when you catch them, when you put them in a goddamn cage, my dad and my mom, and Coyle and Inga and Linnie, I think they’ll be okay then. That’s what I think.”

  “Then I better get working on it.”

  She waited until Nixie was back in her room, then walked away.

  She found Roarke still working with the unregistered, and with barely a grunt of greeting crossed over to take the coffee he had on the console and gulp some down.

  A second later she was coughing and shoving it back in his hand. “Oh, blech. Brandy.”

  “If you’d asked, I’d have warned you there was brandy in it. You look a bit worse for wear, Lieutenant. Brandy might be a good idea.”

  She shook her head and got herself a cup, strong and black and without additives. “How’s it going here?”

  “He’s very good—or one of them is very good. Every thread I tug on leads to another knot, which leads to another set of threads. I’ll unravel it—I’m bloody determined now—but it won’t be quick. But a thought occurred while I’ve been picking these threads apart. I wonder how he’d feel if his funds were frozen.”

  “I’ve got no forensics, nothing solid tying him to the murders. The best I’ve got is a composite from a street LC’s perspective, which looks nothing like him. I know it’s him, but I’ll never get the flag to freeze his assets based on nothing much more than my gut.”

  “It would be a fairly simple matter for me, at this point, to make a sizable withdrawal from these accounts.”

  “Steal the money.”

  “Let’s say transfer the money. Steal is such a . . . Well, it’s a fine word, isn’t it? But transfer would be more to your taste.”

  She thought it over. Tempting, tempting, tempting. Still, it wasn’t only not by the book, it exploded the book entirely. “Nixie intercepted me, for a change. She said she thought her family would be okay once I caught these guys, once I put them in a goddamn cage.”

  “I see.”

  “She probably shouldn’t swear, I’m a bad influence. Spank me. But—” She broke off at the wide grin that spread over his face, and found herself laughing. She covered her face, rubbed it. “Just stop. Anyway, that kind of thing gives me a nudge to go out of bounds—more out of bounds,” she added, looking around the room. “But say you did. Say it pisses him off enough to make the kind of mistake that opens him up to me. Hooray for our side. But it could, given his profile, piss him off enough to have him taking out a couple of Swiss bankers first, or a lawyer in—what was it? Eden. So let’s just hold that in reserve.”

  “You make a point.”

  “You know, this day has just been crap.” She sprawled in the chair, stretched out her legs. “Making progress, I can feel it, but overall it’s been weighed down with big piles of crap. And I finished it up with a cargo ship of shit.”

/>   “Would it have something to do with the blood on your trousers?”

  She looked down, saw the streaks and sprinkles of red. “It’s not blood. It’s cherry fizzy.”

  She drank her coffee and began to take him through. “So when I made them, I pulled up at a twenty-four/seven, sent Trueheart inside for drinks, and—”

  “Hold.” He held up a hand. “You realized one or more of these people, people responsible for several murders and who are, very likely, hoping to get to you, were trailing you, and you sent your backup off for sodas?”

  She didn’t squirm under his gaze, one she imagined he aimed at underlings who’d cocked up some deal and were about to be demolished by his iciest wrath.

  But it was close.

  “I wanted to see what they’d do.”

  “You were hoping they’d move on you, and got Trueheart out of the way.”

  “Not exactly. Close, but—”

  “I asked one thing, Eve. That when you decided to use yourself as bait you’d tell me.”

  “I wasn’t—it was an immediate sort of . . .” She trailed off as the headache moved along from the base of her skull to squeeze into the top of her head. “Now you’re pissed, at me.”

  “What gave you your first clue?”

  “You’ll have to be pissed, then.” She shoved to her feet to prowl. “You’ll just have to be pissed because I can’t stop and check every move with you when I’m out there. I can’t stop and say, ‘Hmm, would Roarke approve of this action, or gee, should I tag Roarke and run this by him?’ ”

  “Don’t you swat away my concerns like they’re gnats around your ears.” He got to his feet as well. “Don’t you dare make light of them, Eve, or what it is to me to sit and wait.”

  “I’m not.” But of course she was, a knee-jerk defense mechanism. Before she could say anything else, he was plowing on.

  “I bury my own instincts every bloody day to stay out of your way as much as I do. Not to let myself think, every minute of every bloody day you’re out there if tonight’s the night you don’t come back.”