J. Robb - Divided in Death

“Ah yes, a pair of my precious shoes, soon doomed to the recycler.”

She had to admit, he had a great smirk. “If you don’t watch your step, pal.”

She stripped off the boots, the jacket, her weapon harness, then crawled into bed.

“You’d sleep better without the clothes.”

“You get ideas when I’m naked.”

“Darling Eve, I get ideas when you’re wearing riot armor. All I’m after is a bit of sleep, I promise you.”

She wiggled out of the jeans, the shirt, then gave him a mock scowl when he slid in beside her, drew her against him. “Don’t even think about engaging thrusters.”

“Quiet.” He kissed the top of her head, snuggled her in. “Go to sleep.”

Because she was warm, comfortable, and her head was perfectly pillowed on his shoulder, she did. A moment after he felt her float off, he followed.

How could things have gone so wrong? How could it have fallen apart when it was all so perfect, so meticulously planned? And executed, he reminded himself as he huddled in the dark.

He’d done everything right. Absolutely everything. And now he was hiding behind locked doors and shaded windows, in fear for his life.

His life.

There’d been a mistake. That had to be it. Something had gone wrong, somewhere. But it made no sense.

He calmed himself with slow sips of whiskey. He hadn’t made a mistake. He’d gone into the brownstone at exactly the right time. His skin sealed, his clothes protected by the thin, clear lab suit, and his hair covered with a zero-contamination skullcap. There would be no trace of him inside the house.

He’d checked the house droid to verify it had been shut down for the night. Then he’d gone upstairs. God, how his heart had pounded. He’d been afraid, almost afraid, he amended, that they’d be able to hear the wild beat of it over the music, over their own moans as they’d fucked.

He’d had the stunner in his hand, the knife in the sheath on his belt. He’d liked the way the sheath had bumped against his thigh. Anticipation.

He’d moved quickly, just as planned. Just as he’d practiced. One shot between the shoulder-blades, and the first half of the target was done. Maybe, just maybe he’d hesitated a fraction of a second then. Maybe, just maybe he’d watched Felicity’s eyes, and had caught the shock in them an instant before he’d rammed the stunner between those beautiful breasts.

But he hadn’t hesitated after that. He hadn’t.

The knife now, drawing steel out of leather with a sexy little swish. Then the killing. His first kills.

He had to admit he’d liked it. More, much more than he’d expected. The feel of the knife driving into flesh, and the warm wash of blood.

So primal. So basic.

And so, well, easy, he mused as the whiskey soothed his nerves. So easy once you got started.

He’d set the stage then, and he’d been very, very careful. So careful, so precise, he’d been barely finished when Reva had arrived, when his alarm had beeped quietly to signal she’d begun to disengage the security.

But he’d stayed calm, he’d stayed cool. Silent as a shadow, he thought with some pride, as he’d waited for her to come into the room.

Had he grinned when she’d marched to the bed, spewing temper? Maybe he had, but it hadn’t affected his performance.

One quick spray of the anesthetic, and she’d been out.

He’d added a few touches there. Genius, really. Dragging her into the bath to get her fingerprint on the sink, smearing a bit of blood on her shirt. And he thought the knife stabbed into the mattress spoke for itself.

It was so Reva, after all.

He’d left the front door ajar, just as planned, when he left. She should’ve been out long enough for security to find her on the routine check. All right, all right, maybe that had been a small miscalculation. He hadn’t sprayed enough, or he’d wasted a little time with the extra touches.

But even that shouldn’t matter. She was charged. Blair Bissel and Felicity Kade were dead, and she was the only suspect.

He should’ve been away by now. His accounts bursting with fresh money. Instead, he was a marked man.

He had to get away. He had to protect himself. He wasn’t even safe here. Not completely safe. But he could fix that. He could fix that, he realized, and sat up as the clouds of fear and self-pity began to clear. And solve some of the financial squeeze at the same time.

Then he’d deal with the rest.

A little more time to think, and he’d deal with it all.

Steadier, he rose to pour more whiskey, and to plan his next steps.

Eve was alone when she woke, and a quick check showed her she’d slept a half hour longer than she’d intended.

Too groggy to curse, she crawled out of bed, stumbled to the AutoChef, and got coffee. She carried it with her to the shower, called for water on full at a hundred and one, then glugged down caffeine while the hot water pounded on her.

She was halfway through with the oversized mug when she realized she was still wearing her underwear.

Now she did curse. After downing the rest of the coffee, she peeled off the tank and panties and tossed them into a sopping heap in the corner of the shower.

Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both connected to the art world. Possible connection to techno-terrorists. Super computer worm. Security compromised in several areas. Preplanned frame on security expert in charge of developing extermination program and shield.

What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the plate. No one was indispensable.

She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn’t like any of the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy once you chipped off the shine?

Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her life in a cage, what did it accomplish?

She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when Roarke walked into the bedroom.

“Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people and frame an employee?” she asked.

“There are all kinds of people in the world.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with the world. There are people in it. But there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don’t think you’re it.”

“Darling, I’m shattered. I was so sure I was it for you.”

“But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more specifically Securecomp. We’ll have to play with that some. But first I want a closer look at the victims.”

“I started the runs for you. I was up,” he said when she frowned at him. “Now that we both are, I’m thinking seriously about food.”

“You’ll have to have it in my office.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re pretty agreeable.”

“No, actually, just hungry.”

Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. “You can have a look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer, data on screen one.”

“Any sealeds?”

“No. At least none that show.”

“What do you mean, none that show?”

“Just that it’s all very, very tidy. See for yourself.”

She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.

Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB… March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass, divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.

Occupation: sculptor.

Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York.

“Serenity Lane.” Eve shook her head as she chewed. “What twink comes up with that stuff?”