J Robb - Imitation in Death

Before Eve could think of a response, Mira walked over, carrying the now sleeping baby on her shoulder. “Did everyone get enough?”

“More than,” Gillian assured her. “Why don’t you give him to me? I’ll take him upstairs.”

“No, he’s fine. I don’t get to hold him nearly often enough.” Agilely, she sat, lightly patting the baby’s back. “Eve, I should warn you, Dennis has convinced Roarke he can’t live without a grill.”

“Well, he has everything else.” She polished off her burger. “And it works great.”

“Dennis would tell you it’s all in the cook, not the cooker. Which I’ll claim when you’ve tasted my strawberry shortcake and peach pie.”

“Pie? You made pie?” Obviously, Eve realized, there was a great deal to be said for family cookouts after all. “I could probably-”

Eve’s communicator beeped. Her face closed down; Mira’s cheerful smile vanished.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me a minute.”

She rose, pulling it out of her pocket as she walked back inside the kitchen, back into the quiet.

“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s the matter?”

“Her work,” Mira murmured, thinking of how Eve’s eyes went cool and flat. “Death. Take the baby, Gilly.”

She was rising when Eve stepped back out. “I have to go,” Eve began, then lowered her voice as Mira walked over, took her arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Is it the same?”

“No. It’s him, but it’s not the same. I’ll get you the details as soon as I can. Damn, brain’s a little sloshy. Too many margaritas.”

“I’ll get you some Sober-Up.”

“Appreciate it.” She nodded to Roarke when he joined her. “You can stay. This is going to take a while.”

“I’ll take you, and if need be I’ll get myself home and leave you the car. Another LC?”

She shook her head. “Later.” She took a breath, studying the patio, with its family sprawl, its flowers and food. “Life’s not always a goddamn picnic, is it?”

“Drop me off on the corner. You don’t have to go down the block.”

Roarke ignored her and breezed through the light. “But your associates would miss the opportunity to witness your arrival in this particular vehicle.”

The vehicle was a shiny silver jewel with a smoked glass retractable top and a snarling panther of an engine. It mortified her, they both knew, for other cops to whistle and hoot about her connection with Roarke’s fancy toys.

She sucked it up, yanked off her sunshades. They were new, one of the items that habitually, and mysteriously, appeared among her things. She suspected they were stylish, knew they were ridiculously expensive. To save herself a little grief, she stuck them in her pocket.

“There’s no reason for you to hang. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’ll stick around a while and stay out of your way.” He eased in behind a black-and-white and an emergency services vehicle.

“That is some ride, Lieutenant,” one of the uniforms said even as she climbed out. “Bet it burns on a straightaway.”

“Button it, Frohickie. What’ve we got here?”

“Sweet,” he murmured, sliding a hand over the gleaming hood. “Femalevic, strangled in her apartment. Lived alone. No sign of forced entry. Name’sLoisGregg, age sixty-one. Son became concerned when she didn’t show up at a family event or answer her ‘links. Came over, let himself in, found her.”

He spoke briskly, though he did shoot one more look over his shoulder at the car as they trooped into an apartment building.

“Strangled?”

“Yes, sir. Definite signs of sexual assault with object. Fourth floor,” he said when they were in the elevator. “Looks like he used a broomstick on her. It’s pretty bad.”

She said nothing, letting the new data filter through.

“He left a note,” Frohickie said. “Addressed to you. Bastard stuck the envelope between her toes.”

“DeSalvo,” she muttered. “GoodChrist.”

Then she blanked it out, blanked it all out so she would walk into the scene with no set images or preconceptions in her head.

“I need a field kit and a recorder.”

“Brought them up when we got word you were tagged away from home.”

She forgave him for his comments about the car. “Scene’s secured?” she questioned.

“Yes, sir. We’ve got the son in the kitchen, with a uniform and an MT. He’s in bad shape. He says he didn’t touch her.”

“My aide’s on her way. Send her in when she gets here. You have to stay out,” she said to Roarke.

“Understood.” But he felt a quick wrench that he would remain closed out while she walked into what was going to be another nightmare.

She marched in the open door, noted there were no signs of forced entry nor of struggle in the neat, simple living area. There were plain blue curtains at the window, sheer enough to let in the light. No privacy screens were engaged.

She squatted down to examine a few drops of blood on the edge of an area rug.

She could hear weeping from another room. The son in the kitchen, she thought, then blocked it out. Rising, she gestured the other cops back, sealed up, fixed on her recorder, then went into the bedroom.

LoisGregglay on the bed, nude, still bound, with the sash that had strangled her around her neck tied just under her chin in a festive bow.

The creamy envelope withEve ’s name printed on the front was stuck between the toes of her left foot.

There was more blood-not as much as Wooton-on the plain white sheets, on her thighs, on the broomstick he’d left on the floor.

She was a small woman, probably no more than a hundred and ten pounds, with the caramel complexion that indicated mixed-race heritage.

Broken capillaries in her face, in her eyes, the distended and swollen tongue, were signs of the strangulation. The body fought back,Eve thought. Even after the mind went dark, the body fought for air. For life.

Evespotted the long green robe beside the bed. He’d used the robe sash to strangle her.

He’d have wanted you conscious when he hurt you. He’d want to see your face, the pain, the horror, the terror. Yes, he’d want that this time. He’d want to hear you scream. Nice building like this ought to have decent soundproofing. He’d checked it out, checked you out before today.

Did he tell you what he was going to do to you? Or did he work in silence while you begged?

She recorded the scene, documenting the position of the body, the placement of the robe, the broomstick, the carefully drawn curtains.

Then she took the envelope, opened it, and read.

Hello again,LieutenantDallas. Isn’t it a gorgeous day? A day that just begs for heading down to the shore or strolling through the park. I hate to interrupt your Sunday, but you seem to enjoy your work so much-as I do mine-that I didn’t think you’d mind.

I’m a little disappointed in you, however, for a couple of reasons. First, tsk, tsk, on stonewalling the media reports on me. I was really looking forward to the buzz. Then again, you’re not going to be able to keep a lid on the barrel too much longer. Second, I thought you’d be giving me just a bit more of a challenge by this point.

Hopefully, my latest offer will inspire you.

Best of luck!

– Al

“Self-important bastard, aren’t you?” she stated aloud, then sealed the note and envelope before opening the field kit.

She’d completed the preliminary exam whenPeabody came in. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry. We were in theBronx.”

“What the hell were you…” She broke off. “What is that? What are you wearing?”

“It’s a, um, ah, it’s a sundress.”Flushing a little,Peabody brushed a hand over the poppy-pink skirt. “It took us so long to get back, I thought I should come straight here instead of heading home to change into uniform.”