The In Death Collection 06-10 (131 page)

Steam spilled out of glida grills, belched out of street vents, pumped out of the maxibus that creaked to a halt to pick up a scatter of drones who’d worked the graveyard shift.

A few obviously desperate street LCs strutted their stuff and called out to the drones.

“I’ll give you a ride, buddy. Twenty, cash or credit’ll buy you a hell of a ride.”

The drones shuffled on the bus, too tired for cheap sex.

Eve watched a drunk stumble along the sidewalk, swinging his bottle of brew like a baton. And a huddle of teenagers pooling money for soy dogs. The lower the temperatures fell, the higher the price.

Free enterprise.

Abruptly, she pulled over to the curb, leaned over the wheel. She was well beyond exhausted and into the tightly strung stage of brittle energy and racing thoughts.

She’d gone to a tidy little home in Westchester and had spoken the words that ripped a family to pieces. She’d told a man his wife was dead, listened to children cry for a mother who was never coming back.

Then she’d gone to her office and written the reports, filed them. Because it needed to be done, she’d cleaned out Anne’s locker herself.

And after all that, she thought, she could drive through the city, see the lights, the people, the deals, and the dregs, and feel . . . alive, she realized.

This was her place, with its dirt and its drama, its brilliance and its streak of nasty. Whores and hustlers, the weary and the wealthy. Every jittery heartbeat pumped in her blood.

This was hers.

“Lady.” A grimy fist rapped on her window. “Hey, lady, wanna buy a flower?”

She looked at the face peering through the glass. It was ancient and stupid and if the dirt in its folds were any indication, it hadn’t seen a bar of soap in this decade.

She put the window down. “Do I look like I want to buy a flower?”

“It’s the last one.” He grinned toothlessly and held up a pitiful, ragged bloom she supposed was trying to be a rose. “Give ya a good deal. Five bucks for it.”

“Five? Get a handful of reality.” She started to brush him off, put the glass between them. Then found herself digging in her pocket. “I got four.”

“Okay, good.” He snatched the credit chips and pushed the flower at her before heading off in a shambling run.

“To the nearest liquor store,” Eve muttered and pulled away from the curb with the window open. His breath had been amazingly foul.

She drove home with the flower across her lap. And saw, as she headed through the gates, the lights he’d left on for her.

After all she’d seen and done that day, the simple welcome of lights in the window had her fighting tears.

She went in quietly, tossing her jacket over the newel post, climbing the stairs. The scents here were quiet, elegant. The wood polished, the floors gleaming.

This, too, she thought, was hers.

And so, she knew, when she saw him waiting for her, was Roarke.

He’d put on a robe and had the screen on low. Nadine Furst was reporting, and looked pale and fierce on the scene of the explosion. She could see he’d been working—checking stock reports, juggling deals, whatever he did—on the bedroom unit.

Feeling foolish, she kept the flower behind her back. “Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He didn’t go to her. She looked stretched thin, he decided, as if she might snap at the slightest touch. Her eyes were bruised and fragile. “You need to rest.”

“Can’t.” She managed a half smile. “Wired up. I’m going to go back soon.”

“Eve.” He stepped toward her, but still didn’t touch. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

“I’m okay. Really. I was punchy for a while, but it passed. When it’s over, I’ll crash, but I’m okay now. I need to talk to you.”

“All right.”

She moved around him, shifting the flower out of sight, going to the window, staring at the dark. “I’m trying to figure out where to start. It’s been a rotten couple of days.”

“It was difficult, telling the Malloys.”

“Jesus.” She let her brow rest against the glass. “They know. Families of cops know as soon as they see us at the door. That’s what they live with, day in and out. They know when they see you, but they block it. You can see it in their faces—the knowledge and the denial. Some of them just stand there, others stop you—start talking, making conversation, picking up around the house. It’s like if you don’t say it, if you just don’t say it, it isn’t real.

“Then you say it, and it is.”

She turned back to him. “You live with that.”

“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. “I suppose I do.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about this morning. I—”

“So you’ve said already.” This time when he crossed to her, he touched, just a hand to her cheek. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. It does matter. I’ve got to get through this, okay?”

“All right. Sit down.”

“I can’t, I just can’t.” She lifted her hands in frustration. “I’ve got all this stuff churning inside me.”

“Then get rid of it.” He stopped her by putting a hand to hers, lifting the flower. “What’s this?”

“I think it’s a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you.”

It was so rare to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she thought—hoped—it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he looked down at the rose again. “You brought me a flower.”

“I think it’s sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up.”

“Darling Eve.” He took the stem. The edges of the bud were blackened and curled from the cold. The color was somewhere between the yellow of a healing bruise and urine. “You fascinate me.”

“Pretty pitiful, huh?”

“No.” This time his hand cupped her cheek, skimmed into her hair. “It’s delightful.”

“If it smells anything like the guy who sold it to me, you might want to have it fumigated.”

“Don’t spoil it,” he said mildly, and touched his lips to hers.

“I do that—spoil things.” She backed away again before she gave in and grabbed on. “I don’t do it on purpose. And I meant what I said this morning, even if it pisses you off. Mostly, I think cops are better off going solo. I don’t know, like priests or something, so they don’t keep dragging the sin and sorrow home with them.”

“I have sin and sorrow of my own,” he said evenly. “It’s washed over you a time or two.”

“I knew it would piss you off.”

“It does. And by God, Eve, it hurts me.”

Her mouth dropped open, trembled closed again. “I don’t mean to do that.” Hadn’t known she could do that. Part of the problem, she realized. Her problem. “I don’t have the words like you do. I don’t have them, Roarke, the kind you say to me—or even think, and I see you thinking them and it—my heart just stops.”

“Do you think loving you to excess is easy for me?”

“No. I don’t. I think it should be impossible. Don’t get mad.” She hurried on when she saw that dangerous flash in his eyes. “Don’t get mad yet. Let me finish.”

“Then make it good.” He set the flower aside. “Because I’m damn sick and I’m tired of having to justify my feelings to the woman who owns them.”

“I can’t keep my balance.” Oh, she hated to admit it, to say it out loud to the man who wobbled it so often and so easily. “I get it, and I cruise along for a while,
realizing this is who I am now, who we are now. And then, sometimes, I just look at you and stumble. And I can’t get my breath because all these feelings just rear up and grab me by the throat. I don’t know what to do about it, how to handle it. I think,
I’m married to him. I’ve been married to him for almost six months, and there are times he walks into the room and stops my heart
.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. In my life, you’re what matters most. I love you so much it scares me, and I guess if I had a choice about it, I wouldn’t change it. So . . . now you can get pissed off, because I’m done.”

“A fat lot of room you’ve given me for that.” He watched her lips twitch into a smile as he went to her. His hands slipped over her shoulders, down her back. “I’ve no choice either, Eve. I wouldn’t want one.”

“We’re not going to fight.”

“I don’t think so.”

She kept her eyes on his as she tugged at the belt of his robe. “I stored up this energy in case I needed it to fight with you.”

He lowered his head, bit her bottom lip. “It’s a shame to waste it.”

“I’m not going to.” Slowly, she backed him toward the bed, up the short steps to the platform. “I drove through the city tonight. I felt alive.” She tugged the robe away, closed her teeth over his shoulder. “I’m going to show you.”

She tumbled to the bed on top of him, and her mouth was like a fever. The frantic burst of energy reminded her of the first time they’d come together on this bed, the night she’d thrown all caution and restraint aside and let him take her where they’d needed to go.

Now she would drive him, with fast, rough hands, hot greedy lips. She took exactly what she wanted, and what she took was everything.

The light was gray and weak, trickling through the
sky window overhead, filtering down on her. His vision blurred, but he watched her as she destroyed him. Slim, agile, fierce, the bruises from the hideous night blooming on her skin like the medals of a warrior.

Her eyes gleamed as she worked them both toward frenzy.

Then, and then again, skin glowing, breath ragged, she lowered over him, sheathed him, surrounded him.

She arched back, arrowed with pleasure. He gripped her hips, said her name, and let her ride.

Her skin was slick with sweat when she collapsed onto him, melted into him. His arms came around her, holding her there. Her cheek to his heart.

“Sleep awhile,” he murmured.

“I can’t. I have to go in.”

“You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

“I’m okay,” she answered as she sat up. “Almost better than okay. I needed this more than sleep—really, Roarke. And if you think you’re going to force a tranq down my throat, think again.”

She rolled off him and up. “I need to keep moving. If there’s any down time, I’ll catch a nap at the crib at Central.”

She glanced around for a robe, took his. “I need a favor.”

“Now would be an excellent time to ask for one.”

She glanced over, grinned. He looked sleek and satisfied. “I bet. Anyway, I don’t want Zeke stuck at the station the way he has been, but I need to keep him under wraps awhile longer.”

“Send him here.”

“Ah . . . if I took one of your vehicles in, I could leave mine here. Working on it would give him something to do.”

Roarke turned his head. Eyed her. “Do you plan to be involved in any wrecks or explosions today?”

“You never know.”

“Take anything but the 3X-2000. I’ve only driven it once.”

She made some comment about men and their toys, but he was feeling mellow and let it pass.

Dear Comrade,

We are Cassandra.

We are loyal.

We are sure you’ve been watching the bleeding liberal media puppets report on the incidents in New York City. It sickens us to listen to their sobbing, their wailing. While we are nothing but amused by their condemnation of the destruction of their pathetic symbols of the blindly opportunistic society that now holds this country under its rigid thumb, we are angry at their one-dimensional and predictable stand on the issues.

Where is their faith? Where is their comprehension?

They still don’t see, still don’t understand what we are and what we will mean to them.

Tonight we struck with the fury of the gods. Tonight we watched the scrambling rats. But this is nothing, nothing to what we will do.

Our adversary, the woman that fate and circumstance deemed we face down for our mission, has
proven difficult. She is skilled and strong, but we would be satisfied with no less. It is true that through her, we have lost a certain monetary payment, which we understand you had hoped to secure quickly. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Our finances are very solvent, and we will bleed this heedless city to its bones before we are finished.

You must trust that we will finish what he began. You must not falter in your faith and your commitment to the cause. Soon, very soon, the most precious symbol of their corrupt and weeping nation will fall. It is all but done.

When this is accomplished, they will pay.

We will see you, face to face, within forty-eight hours. The necessary papers are in order. This next battle to be waged and won in this place, we will complete personally. He would have expected this. He would have demanded it.

Prepare for the next stage, dear comrade. For we will be with you soon to drink to the one who set us on this path. To celebrate our victory and to set the stage for our new republic.

We are Cassandra.

Peabody strode toward the conference room. She’d just left Zeke and was feeling a little shaky over the conversation they’d had with their parents over the ’link. Both of them had put the pressure on for their parents to stay out west, though each had separate reasons.

Zeke couldn’t stand the thought of them seeing him under the current circumstances. He wasn’t in a cell, but it was close.

Peabody was determined to clear her brother and put him back on the path of his life in her own way.

But her mother had struggled not to cry, and her father had looked dazed and helpless. She wasn’t going to get the image of their faces out of her head any time soon.

Work was the remedy, she decided. Unearthing that
lying, murdering bitch Clarissa. Then snapping her skinny neck like a twig.

It was with violence brewing under her starched uniform that she walked into the room and saw McNab.

Oh hell,
was all she could think, and she marched straight over for coffee. “You’re early.”

“I figured you’d be.” He’d also figured out what he intended to do, and he took the first step by going over and closing the door. “You’re not kicking me out of your way without an explanation.”

“I don’t need to explain anything to you. We wanted to have sex, we had it. Done and over. The lab reports come up?”

“I say it’s not done and over.” It should be, he knew it should be. But he’d been thinking about that square, serious face and amazingly lush body for days. Weeks. Jesus, maybe months.
He’d
damn well say when it was done and over.

“I’ve got more important things on my mind than your ego, McNab.” She took a deliberate sip of coffee. “Like my semiannual dentist appointment.”

“Why don’t you save up your lame insults until you have a better selection? They don’t work. I’ve had you under me.”

And over him, she thought. Around and through. “
Had
’s the operative word. Past tense.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it is.”

He stepped closer, pulled the cup out of her hand, slammed it down. “Why?”

Her heart began to pound. Damn it, she wasn’t supposed to feel anything. “Because that’s the way I want it.”

“Why?”

“Because if I hadn’t been rolling around with you, I’d have been with Zeke. If I’d been with him, I wouldn’t have just told my parents my lieutenant is trying to clear him on murder charges.”

“That’s not your fault. It’s not mine.” Her breath had begun to hitch, unnerving him. He was mortally afraid she might cry. “It’s on the Bransons. And Dallas isn’t going to let him take the heat from it. Get a hold here, Dee.”

“I should’ve been with him! I should’ve been with him, not you.”

“You were with me.” He took her arms, gave her a quick, surprising shake. “You can’t change that. And I want you with me again. Damn it, Dee, I’m not done.”

He was kissing her, with all the helpless rage and lust and confusion that roared through him. She made some little sound, a sound caught between despair and relief. And was kissing him with all the vivid fury and need and bafflement that pumped inside her.

Eve walked in, stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, jeez.”

They were too busy trying to swallow each other to hear her.

“Man.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, half hoping they’d disappear before she lowered them. No such luck. “Break it up.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and tried to ignore the inarguable fact that McNab’s hands were clamped on her aide’s ass.

“I said break it
up
!”

The shout got through. They leaped apart as if someone had snapped a spring between them. McNab hit a chair, knocked it over, then stared at Eve as if he’d never seen her before.

“Oh. Whoa.”

“Clamp it shut,” Eve warned him. “Not a word out of you. Sit down, shut up. Peabody, damn it to hell and back again. Why don’t I have my coffee?”

“Coffee.” Eyes dazed, blood screaming, Peabody blinked. “Coffee?”

“Now.” Eve pointed to the AutoChef, then made a show of looking at her wrist unit. “You are now on
duty. Anything that happened here before this mark was on your own time. Is that clear?”

“Uh-huh, you bet. Listen, Lieutenant—”

“Zip it, McNab,” she ordered him. “I don’t want any discussion, any explanations, any verbal pictures drawn of activities pursued on your own time.”

“Your coffee, sir.” Peabody set it down, shot McNab a look of dire warning.

“Lab reports?”

“I’ll check on them now.” Relieved, Peabody hurried to a chair.

Feeney came in. The bags under his eyes were in danger of drooping past his nose. Seeing him, Peabody got up again, ordered more coffee.

He sat, nodded absently in thanks. “The emergency teams managed to clear down to the site of the last explosion, Malloy’s last known location.” He cleared his throat, lifted his cup, drank. “The shield appeared to be in place, but the blast took it out. They said it would have been over quick.”

No one spoke for a moment; then Eve got to her feet. “Lieutenant Malloy was a good cop. That’s the best I can say about anybody. She died doing her job and trying to give her men time to reach safety. It’s our job to find the people responsible for her death and take them down.”

She opened the file she’d brought in, took out two photos, and moved to the boards to fix them in place.

“Clarissa Branson, aka Charlotte Rowan. B. Donald Branson. We don’t stop,” Eve said, turning, with eyes bright and cold. “We don’t rest until these two people are in a cage or dead. Labs, Peabody. McNab, I want the report on Monica Rowan’s ’link. Feeney, I need Zeke in interview one more time. Maybe if you take him, you’ll push a button I missed. He might have heard something, seen something, that can give us a line on where to look.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And I want another round with Lisbeth Cooke, too. Same deal. If you can spare the time, you’d probably get more out of her by going to her place and playing the sympathetic ear.”

“She a weeper?” Feeney wanted to know.

“Could be.”

He sighed. “I’ll take extra hankies.”

“There’ll be a trail,” Eve continued, scanning the faces of her team. “Where they went under, where they’re going next, where and when they’ve targeted the next one. They’ll know we’re following the Apollo line now and probably know we’ve made—or will make—Clarissa as James Rowan’s daughter.”

She moved back to the board, pinning up another photo. “This was Charlotte Rowan’s mother. I believe her daughter gave the order for her execution. If this is true, understand we’re dealing with an individual with a cool and focused mind. A skilled actor who doesn’t mind getting blood on her hands. She has, with her husband, arranged or carried out the murder of four people we are aware of, one tied to her by blood, one by marriage, and is responsible for the deaths of hundreds through terrorist acts that are no more than disguised blackmail for gain.

“She won’t hesitate to kill again. She has no conscience, no morals, and no loyalty to anyone but herself and a man who’s been dead for over three decades. This is not a creature of impulse but of calculation. She’s had thirty years to plan what she’s now setting out to accomplish. And so far, she’s kicking the shit out of us.”

“You took out two of her droids,” McNab pointed out. “And she didn’t get the bonds.”

“That’s why she’s going to hit again and hit hard. Money’s part of the motive, but it’s not all. Mira’s analysis indicated a large ego, a mission, and a sense of pride. Pulling from that, she
is
Cassandra.” Eve tapped a finger on the photo. “Not just the woman, but the whole. And her ego and pride took a hit last night—and
she hasn’t yet accomplished her mission. She can’t be dealt or bargained with because she’s a liar, and she’s enjoying playing the goddess, high on power and blood. She believes what she’s saying. Even when what she’s saying is a lie.”

“We’ve still got the scanners,” McNab pointed out.

“And we’ll use them. E and B’s going to be shaken up, and they’re also going to want payback for Anne. They’ll work their asses off on this one.”

“Labs, Lieutenant.” Peabody held out the copy. “Blood, skin, and hair samples from the Branson hearth match B. Donald Branson’s DNA.”

Eve took them, noted the fresh worry in Peabody’s eyes. “They’d have been clever enough to think of that. They stored the blood, and she had plenty of time to plant the other samples while she was pretending to clean up the mess.”

“They haven’t come up with a body yet.” When McNab spoke, Peabody turned her head to watch him. “They’ve got divers down now.” He moved his shoulders. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Her mouth wanted to tremble, but she firmed it, nodded briskly. “Appreciate it.”

“Maine’s shooting me down the ’link unit from Monica Rowan’s place,” he continued. “They found a slew of jammers and code-spanners in the kitchen. Her ’link log’s been blocked. I’ll unblock it.”

“Get it down. I’ll take the Branson house and the offices. Anything develops, I want a tag, pronto.” She yanked out her communicator when it signaled. “Dallas.”

“Sergeant Howard, Search and Rescue. My divers found something. I think you’ll want to see this.”

“Send through your location. I’m on my way.” She glanced toward McNab. As he rose, Peabody stepped forward.

“Sir, I know you have reason to keep me off this part of the investigation. I don’t believe those reasons are
valid at this time. I request, respectfully, to accompany you as your aide.”

Eve considered, tapped her fingers on her thigh. “Are you going to keep talking to me that way? All tight-assed and formal, using long, polite sentences?”

“If I don’t get what I want, yes, sir.”

“I admire a good threat,” Eve decided. “You’re with me, Peabody.”

The wind whipped like a nest of angry snakes and had the ugly water of the river churning. Eve stood on the scarred and littered dock, cold to the bone, as one of the search team uncovered the body.

“We probably wouldn’t have come on it for days if you hadn’t told us to start looking for a mechanical. Even with that, we got lucky. You wouldn’t fucking believe what people dump in this river.”

He crouched down with her. “Looks a hell of a lot better than a floater would by this time. No bloat, no decay. Fish gave him a try, but they don’t get off on synthetics.”

“Yeah.” She could see the nicks and dents where fish had taken nibbling samples. One had apparently given the left eye a hell of a go before giving up. But the diver was right; he looked a hell of a lot better than a floater.

He looked like B. Donald Branson—handsome and fit, if considerably bedragged. She used a fingertip on the chin to turn the head, then studied the massive damage to the back of the skull.

“When I saw it down there, I thought the sensors were whacked. Never seen a droid this good before. Wouldn’t have known for sure it wasn’t a fresh dead guy if it wasn’t for the hand.”

Somewhere along the line, the wrist had been injured enough to split the skin casing. The structure, riddled with sensors and chips, showed clearly.

“Of course, when we got him out and gave him a good look-see in the light—”