Festive in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She arched back, a strong and slender bow, with a moaning sigh as she gave herself to that heat, to that light.

  Then once again she bent to him, bracing herself as she captured his mouth. And moving, rocking, giving, took them both over that final wave.

  She lay on him again, heart to heart, beats fast and thick now. This time her sigh was long and lazy and replete.

  “They should make a law.”

  Eyes closed, body loose, he stroked her back again. “There are so many already, aren’t there?”

  “A law that every day has to start with an orgasm.”

  “I believe I could adhere to that law without complaint.”

  “You should run for office so you could make it the law.”

  “If I ran for office I’d have myself committed as I would have, unquestionably, lost my mind.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.” She snuggled in. “I had a dream.”

  “I know. It disturbed you.”

  “Some of it. Everybody was in this enormous gym. Like Buff Bodies, but bigger. Just as loud, but bigger. All my suspects and players pumping and sweating, with Ziegler on this platform running the show. Even in the dream he was a fuckhead. ‘I’m the trainer,’ he kept saying.”

  She lifted her head. “That’s the thing, was the thing for him. Without him, the way he figured, they’d all be fat, lazy slobs. He made them. He’s the trainer, and they did what he told them to do. The sex—willing or coerced—was just another aspect of it. Same with the money. All just his due because he—in his mind—was the one in charge. His whole existence, really, was one big power trip. The people who came to him for training had more money, more prestige, more whatever, but he called the shots, and they fell in line.”

  “Does that help you?”

  “Mostly it’s just reaffirming what I already knew, maybe kicking it up a little. Stay on a power trip long enough without real power? Somebody’s going to kick your ass. He put his hands on me.”

  “So you kicked his ass, dream-wise speaking?”

  “No. I could have. I could have done worse. He baited me. He said we were the same, taking money for service. That’s too stupid to get the rise, so he put his hands on me and asked what I was going to do about it? Was I going to carve him up like I had Richard Troy.”

  “Ah, Eve.” He shifted to wrap around her.

  “No, that’s the thing. Maybe part of me wanted to. And I closed my hand around the hilt of the knife—he had the knife in him, like he did when I found him. But I didn’t use it, didn’t even consider using it. Because I’m a cop. Because even though I can see he shared some traits with Troy—the power trip, the utter contempt for others—I’m a cop and he’s a victim. He’s mine, and that’s that. I walked out, and my hands were clean.”

  “Darling Eve, they always have been.”

  She pressed into him again, into comfort. “I wasn’t sure, I don’t know why, but I wasn’t a hundred percent until that moment in the stupid dream when I put my hand on the hilt of that knife if I’d kill him—if I hadn’t killed Troy back then and he walked up to me now, would I, could I, kill him for what he’d done to me?”

  She let out a breath. “No. I’d do whatever it took to lock him up, to put him away, to make him pay even though payment never balances the scales. I killed him then because I was powerless and terrified. I’m not either of those anymore. I’m a cop, and my hands are clean.”

  He took her hands, kissed them.

  “Maybe it’s not all the way behind me,” she said. “I keep thinking it is—when the worst of the nightmares stopped, when I went back to Dallas, when I got through my mother, McQueen. But there’s always some other angle to deal with. I’m okay with it. It happened, all of it happened, and it leaves a mark, like I said. But I’m okay with it.”

  She curled in close. “And I’ve got you on a Saturday morning.” They stayed as they were, taking just a little more time.

  Over breakfast in the bedroom sitting area, she outlined her strategy for the day.

  “I thought about tagging Reo, trying to wrangle a warrant to search Copley’s love nest.” Eve bit into some bacon—honestly, good sex, a hot shower, then bacon? Did a morning get any better? “Reo’s a smart APA, and she’ll follow the dots I lay out. But even so, it’s a long, skinny stretch for probable cause.”

  “I could get you in.”

  “Yeah.” She slid a glance his way. “It’s tempting to go the clever-fingers and lock-pick route, but no.”

  “I own the building,” he said and ate some eggs.

  “I should’ve figured. But even with that, there’s no legal peg to hang an entry and search on.”

  “General maintenance, possible gas leak, suspicious sounds, smells, behavior. I imagine there are pegs.”

  “Weak ones.”

  “So your plan is?”

  “To lie, if and when necessary. I’ll get through building security, I’ve got a badge. If nothing else, I’ll knock on doors, see if I can get a name and/or description of the side piece from neighbors, track her from that. I want a conversation.”

  “It may be she lives there.”

  “Yeah, that’s the hope, but I’m not counting on that much good luck. Either way, it won’t take long. Unless . . .”

  “Unless?”

  “Say I track her down, have a conversation and she says: JJ went to see that awful man, and there was a terrible accident. It wasn’t Sugar Daddy’s fault.”

  “Sugar Daddy.”

  “He qualifies. And she says how Copley tried to reason with Ziegler, but Ziegler got physical and then one thing led to another. Boo-hoo.”

  “But you’re not counting on much good luck.”

  “I’m just pointing out the—very slim—possibility I might be more than a couple hours, considering if I find her, if she blabs, I’d have to go arrest Copley and try to grill him before he screams get me a lawyer. Like that.”

  “All very reasonable, but you don’t have to explain to me. I’m bound to be fairly well occupied myself. I’ve some work to tidy up, then some preparation to oversee.”

  “Right, but . . .” She topped off his coffee, sent him a calculatedly innocent look. “If you should happen to run into Summerset while I’m gone, you could—”

  “No.”

  “Come on.”

  “Absolutely no. Your deal.”

  She sulked over her eggs. Even bacon lost some appeal with the prospect of wrangling with Summerset.

  “Isn’t it bad enough I have to face hours of swarming decorators, then end that small nightmare by having Trina pour gunk all over me? Now I have to face the smirking disapproval of our resident corpse?”

  “You run an entire division of murder cops firmly, cleverly, and efficiently. You’d step in front of a stunner to save an innocent bystander. You would, and have, faced off with vicious murderers. I think you can handle Summerset, decorators in our employ, and a hair-and-skin consultant.”

  He topped off her coffee in turn. “Buck up, Lieutenant.”

  “Bite me.”

  “I’ll schedule that in.”

  She downed the coffee, rose. “Fine, but it’s not my fault I don’t know where the hell he is, and it’s a really big house, so . . .”

  She broke off, had to hold back a snarl when Roarke simply lifted his eyebrows.

  “Okay, fine!” The battle lost, she stalked over to the house comp. “Where’s goddamn Summerset?”

  Good morning, darling Eve. Summerset is currently in the Park View guest room.

  “Great. Where the hell is that?”

  Before Roarke could answer, the computer continued in smooth tones.

  The Park View is located here.

  The little screen displayed a floor plan with a red dot pulsing in one of the rooms.

  “The elevator would take you
directly there if you request it,” Roarke pointed out.

  There was more chance Summerset would have moved on if she hoofed it. So she stalled. “Do all the guest rooms have names?”

  “It’s a simple way to organize them. Would you like a list?”

  “No. How many are there?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Ha!” She pointed at him. “Even you don’t know.”

  “The number can vary as some of the salons, the sitting rooms, even entertainment areas can be utilized as guest rooms, if needed. Shouldn’t you be on your way?”

  “I’m going.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to do whatever.”

  “I’m sure you will. And I’ll wish you luck even though with it you might be longer.”

  “Right.” She hesitated, but couldn’t find another reasonable excuse to stall. “If it’s longer, I’ll let you know.”

  When he only smiled, she walked out. She detoured to her office, fiddled for a few minutes, grabbed the coat she’d left there, then followed the route from the screen map.

  Everything smelled faintly of pine and cranberries—how was that even possible? Floors gleamed, art shone.

  She found the bedroom, started to knock. Stopped herself. It was her house, too, she reminded herself, and opened the door.

  Easy to see how it got its name as windows framed with shimmering drapes opened to a view of the great park.

  The bed struck her as sort of regal with a lot of deep carving on dark wood, and more shimmering stuff flowing over it under a bold garden of pillows.

  Galahad sprawled over the foot of the bed as if he lived there.

  Summerset, in his habitual funereal black, set a large painted vase filled with bloodred lilies on a table, turned to her.

  “Is there something you need, Lieutenant?”

  “No. What are you doing in here? Are those flowers for the cat or what?”

  “I’m sure he appreciates them, but no. You’re entertaining this evening, and there would be the possibility a guest might overindulge and be best served by staying the night.”

  “That’s what Sober-Up’s for.”

  “Regardless, hospitality decrees guest rooms are prepared for any eventuality. It’s called courtesy.”

  “I’d say courtesy is not getting shit-faced drunk when you come to someone’s house to a party, but that’s just me. I have to go out for about an hour. I’ll be back to do the stuff.”

  He arched one skinny eyebrow, made her teeth want to grind. “It’s police business. I’m the police. I’m not welshing on the deal. I’ll be back.”

  “As you say.”

  “That’s right, as I say. So . . . go fuss with other bedrooms for potential drunks.”

  She walked out. She would not feel guilty for doing her job. She had a possible lead, and she had to follow up while it was hot, didn’t she? Damn right.

  But she checked the time, quickened her steps.

  She considered pulling Peabody in, but didn’t see the point. If she pulled a name out of the fishing expedition, she could toss it to her partner, have Peabody do a run.

  While she herself told people, who knew better than she did anyway, where to put flowers and lights and shiny balls.

  And maybe, if she got through that fast, and Peabody came up with some solid information, she could squeeze out another hour to tug that line.

  She’d honor the deal, she’d contribute, but she wasn’t going to spend an entire day playing lady of the manor. It made her feel stupid.

  She headed east, zipping through traffic—blissfully light as the shops hadn’t opened yet. It didn’t stop the ad blimps blasting out with a kind of frenetic desperation about how many days, hours, minutes shopping time were left.

  The carts were open, smoking with offerings of egg pockets and seasonal chestnuts, doing early business for the poor saps who’d open those shops and deal with the Saturday-before-Christmas insanity.

  A SkyMall blimp announced the first two hundred paying customers would receive a FREE GIFT! She decided working security at the SkyMall ranked high on her list of worst ten jobs, right up there with shark tank cleaners—somebody had to do it—and proctologists.

  Considering the motivations of obtaining a medical degree to poke into assholes kept her entertained until she pulled up in front of the shiny glass-and-steel building overlooking the East River.

  She expected the doorman in his black-and-gold livery to hustle over and bitch about her substandard vehicle, and was prepared to snarl at him.

  He was quick on his feet, actually opened the car door before she could.

  “Lieutenant.” He offered her a hand and a dignified smile. “I’ll keep an eye on your vehicle.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Roarke contacted you.”

  “Moments ago. I’m Brent if there’s anything I can help you with. I did check our records, as Roarke requested. I’m afraid we have no John Jake Copley listed.”

  Eve pulled out her PPC, scrolled through to Copley’s ID shot.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s Mr. Jakes.” Brent’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see! Mr. Jakes—or Mr. Copley—has number 37-A. The northeast corner unit on thirty-seven. He shares the unit with Ms. Prinze.”

  “Full name?”

  “One minute.” He took out his own handheld. “Mr. John Jakes and Ms. Felicity Prinze.”

  “Okay. Give me a sense.”

  “They’re relatively new to the building. I don’t see Mr. Jakes—Copley,” he corrected, “often. I’m pretty sure he works downtown as I chatted once or twice with his driver. Ms. Prinze is very nice, ah, considerably younger. She’s a . . . performer.”

  “I bet. What sort?”

  “From what I’ve heard, she was a dancer. She’s taking acting classes, dance classes, and I believe voice lessons.”

  “Okay. Is she up there?”

  “I’d say yes. She’s not what you’d call an early riser. Has she done something wrong, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  “I hope not,” he said as he opened the door of the building for her. “She’s a very nice young woman. Should I call up for you?”

  “No, thanks. Do you know if Copley’s up there?”

  “I can’t be sure as I came on this morning at eight. He hasn’t gone in or out since I’ve been on the door.”

  “If you see him—come in or go out—tag me. This number.”

  She passed Brent a card, walked to the elevator. “I appreciate the help, Brent.”

  “Anything I can do, Lieutenant.”

  She stepped into the elevator, texted Peabody the name of the side piece, the address, the bare bones, with instructions to do a full run.

  The elevator rode smooth, but then Roarke knew how to bring smooth into a building. The hallway on thirty-seven was wide, quiet and tastefully painted, with carpets of classy black swirls on elegant gray.

  Good security—and she’d have expected nothing less there in a Roarke’s property. Discreet cams worked into the crown molding, and each apartment outfitted with top-grade palm screens, cams, and alarms.

  She stopped at 37-A. Double doors, she noted, to add that more powerful, important touch. She pressed the buzzer, waited.

  She gave it three tries—increasing the length of the buzz—before the intercom clicked.

  “Is that you, baby?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.” Eve held up her badge. “I’d like to speak with you, Ms. Prinze.”

  “You’re really not supposed to try to sell stuff in the building. You could get in trouble.”

  “I’m not selling anything. I’m the police.”

  “The polic
e?”

  “NYPSD. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

  “Oh . . . But . . . How can I be sure you’re the police, Officer Eve?”

  “Lieutenant.” For the second time that morning Eve struggled not to grind her teeth. “Lieutenant Dallas. Look at the badge, Ms. Prinze. You can scan it.”

  “I don’t think I know how to do that. This whole security thingy is so complicated.”

  Since she had some sympathy for technology fumblers, Eve dug for patience. “Okay. Do you know Brent—the doorman?”

  “Oh, sure. He’s just a sweetheart.”

  “You can call down, verify with him. I can wait.”

  “Oh, well, shoot, that’s okay.” Locks clicked and snicked before the doors opened to frame a serious bombshell.

  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Curvy as a country road, she stood maybe five-two in her bare feet with their glittery red toes. Each big toe sported a painted snowflake in bright white.

  She wore what Eve supposed would be called a peignoir—white as the snowflakes—a duet of a long silky gown, cut low on very healthy breasts, and an unbelted robe with fluffy white feathers decking the collar.

  She had a heart-shaped face, all rose and cream, with a deeply bowed mouth—accented with a tiny beauty mark at the corner. Sleepy eyes in china-doll blue smiled out of a thick fringe of dark lashes.

  “I’m not supposed to let just anybody in, you know? But since you’re the police . . . OH! I just love your coat. It’s so totally mag! I couldn’t carry it, but—OH! Is it real leather?”

  Before Eve could respond or evade, Felicity reached out to stroke the sleeve. “OH! It is! It’s just gooshy-smooshy. I love real leather, don’t you? I wonder if they make it in red. I love red, and I could have it cut down to knee-length maybe. Where’d you get it?”

  “It was a gift.”

  The china-doll eyes sparkled. “I just love gifts, don’t you?”

  “Can I come in and speak with you, Ms. Prinze?”

  “Oh, sure, sorry. You can call me Felicity. I’m sort of thinking of dropping the last name—professionally, you know? It’s more fun, and sexier. Just one name. You know, like Roarke.”