J. Robb - Judgment in Death

Roarke rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. "The cops who've been killed. For Christ's sake, Ricker, you're behind that?"

"And there'll be more before it's done. It amuses me."

"I don't want any part in cop killing. They'll bury you."

"Don't be ridiculous. They'll never touch me. I didn't kill anyone. I simply put the idea in the right head, the weapon in the most vulnerable hand. Just a game. You remember how fond I am of games? And how I enjoy winning them."

"Yes, I remember. No one did it better. How did you pull this off?"

"Arrangements, Roarke. I enjoy arrangements and watching how the pieces fall into place."

"I sleep with a woman in the department, and I can't get that close." Roarke's voice filled with admiration. "I underestimated you. It must have taken years to set up."

"Months. Only a few months. It's simply a matter of selecting the right target. A young cop, too stiff-necked to play the game. Eliminating him is simple enough, but the beauty is how it can be connected, how it can be expanded upon by planting the seeds in the heart of the grieving father. Then I simply sit back and watch a once-dedicated cop kill. Again and again. And it costs me nothing."

"Brilliant," Roarke murmured.

"Yes, and satisfying. Best, I can do it again, any time I like. Murder by proxy. No one's safe, certainly not you. Transfer the money, and until the wind changes, I'll protect you. And your wife."

"That was twenty million?"

"For the moment."

"A bargain," Roarke said quietly, brought the hand he'd slipped under the table, under his jacket back into view. And the gun with it. "But I find the idea of doing business with you turns my stomach. Oh, tell your man to hold, or it'll give me great pleasure to use this. Recognize it, Ricker? It's one of the banned weapons you trafficked in, years back. I have quite a collection of twentieth-century handguns-and a collector's license. They leave a horrible nasty hole in a man. This one's a nine-millimeter Glock and will blow your face right off the skull."

The shock of having a weapon aimed at him robbed Ricker of speech. It had been years, a lifetime, since anyone had dared. "You've lost your mind."

"No, indeed. Mine's sound enough." He slapped a hand on Ricker's wrist, twisted viciously until the laser scalpel fit into his own palm. "You always had a weakness for sharp things."

"You'll die painfully for this. Painfully. Do you think you'll walk out of this place breathing?"

"Certainly. Ah, there's my wife now. Lovely, isn't she? And by the sound of things through the scanner your inferior sweepers missed, it appears your team of fools is even now being rounded up and moved along."

He waited while Ricker focused beyond him, through the dome, and saw for himself.

"One of us has lost his touch, Ricker, and it appears to be you. I set you up, and it was child's play."

"For a cop." Eyes wild, Ricker leaped to his feet. "You rolled on me for a cop."

"I'd have done it for a mongrel dog, given half the chance. Ah, please, try for it," Roarke murmured. "And make my life worth living."

"Enough. Roarke, back off." Eve opened the door to the booth, slid her police issue into Ricker's ribs.

"You're dead. You're both dead." He whirled, backhanded Eve as he leaped. She took the blow and dropped him.

"Tell me you had it on full."

"He's stunned, that's all." She wiped the blood from her mouth with her sleeve and ignored the scramble of people who rushed away from the trouble. Onstage, the strippers continued to dance.

Roarke handed her a handkerchief, then reached down, lifting Ricker's head off the floor by his throat.

"Don't-"

"Keep back," he snapped as Eve crouched to hold him off. "You'll bloody well keep back till I've finished this."

"If you kill him, it's been for nothing."

He stared at her face, and all the strength, the purpose, all the danger he hadn't shown to Ricker leaped out of them. "It would be for everything, but I don't mean to kill him." To prove it, he handed her the Glock.

But he kept the scalpel and, holding its keen point to the pulse in Ricker's throat, imagined. "You can hear me, can't you, Ricker? You can hear me well enough. I'm the one who took you down, and you'll remember it while you're pacing the box they'll put you in. You'll think of it every day with what's left of your mind."

"Kill you," Ricker choked out, but he couldn't so much as lift his hand.

"Well, you haven't managed that as yet, have you? But you're welcome to try again. Listen to me now, and carefully. Touch her, put your hand on what's mine again, and I'll follow you to hell and peel the skin from your bones. I'll feed you your own eyes. I take an oath on it. Remember what I was, and you'll know I'll do it. And worse."

He straightened again, his body rigid. "Get someone to drag him out of here. This is my place."

She didn't sleep long, but she slept deeply, knowing Ricker was in a cage. He'd screamed for his lawyer, quite literally, once the effects of the stun had worn off.

Since she'd whipped right around and dumped Canarde in a cage as well, Ricker's lawyer was going to be a very busy boy for awhile.

She'd made two copies of every record disc of the operation in Purgatory. She sealed all of them, and secured one copy in her home office.

There would be no lost evidence, no missing data, no damaged files this time around.

And they had him cold.

She told herself it was enough, would have to be enough, then had tumbled into bed. She switched off like a frayed circuit, then came awake with a jolt when Roarke put a hand on her shoulder and said her name.

"What." Instinctively, she reached down where her weapon would have been had she not been naked.

"Easy, Lieutenant. I'm unarmed. And so are you."

"I was… whoa." She shook her head to clear it. "Out."

"I noticed. I'm sorry to wake you."

"Why are you up? Why are you dressed? What time is it?"

"A bit past seven. I had some early calls to take. And while I was at it, one came in. From the hospital."

"Webster," she whispered. She hadn't checked on him the night before after the operation was complete. And now… too late, she thought.

"He's awake," Roarke continued, "and it seems he'd like to see you."

"Awake? Alive and awake?"

"Apparently both. He improved last night. He's still in serious condition, but stable. They're cautiously hopeful. I'll take you."

"You don't need to do that."

"I'd like to. Besides, if he thinks I'm guarding my territory…" He lifted her hand, nipped the knuckle. "It might cheer him up."

"Territory, my ass."

"Your ass is, I'll point out, my exclusive territory."

She tossed the cover aside, and gave him a good view of that territory as she dashed toward the shower. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

"Take your time. I don't believe he's going anywhere."

She took twenty, because he bribed her with coffee. And she indulged in a second cup as he got behind the wheel. "Do we take him flowers or something?"

"I think not. If you did that, the shock would likely put him back in a coma."

"You're such a funny guy, and so early in the morning, too." She sipped her coffee, bided her time. "That, urn, phrase-feed you your own eyes? Is that some kind of Irish curse?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"So you just made it up on the spot last night? I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You're scary."

"I'd have killed him for striking you if you hadn't been in the way."

"I know it." So she'd made certain she'd stayed in the way. "You had no business bringing that handgun. Carrying a banned weapon into a public place. You know how much dancing I'm going to have to do on that one?"