Fantasy in Death (In Death, #30)

by J.D. Robb

Peabody, her dark hair pulled back in a stubby tail, continued to bitch. “Why can’t they regulate the temperature?” “Who are they?” “The weather people. We must have the technology. Why not give us at least a couple weeks of steady mid-seventies? It’s not too much to ask. You could get Roarke to work on it.” “Oh yeah, I’ll tell him to get on that, right after he buys up the last ten percent of the universe.” Eve rocked back on her heels as they took the elevator up, and thought of her husband of almost two years. Actually, he probably could figure something. “If you want regulated temps, get a job where you work inside with climate control.” “June’s supposed to be daisies and wafty breezes.” Peabody waved a hand in the air. “Instead we’re getting thunder boomers and humiture to kill.” “I like the boomers.” Peabody’s dark eyes narrowed as she studied Eve’s angular face. “You probably had lots of sex last night. You’re almost perky.” “Shut up. I’m never perky.” “Almost. You’re verging on perk.” “You’re verging on a boot up the ass.” “That’s better anyway.” Amused despite herself, Eve straightened her long, lean frame, then strode out the elevator when the doors whisked open.

she’d decided U-Play was in reality the seventh circle of hell.

Book crossover - I'm also currently reading The Inferno of Dante.

His voice pitched into a whine threatening to reach dog-ears-only territory. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t kill people, sweetheart. I seduce them.” “Call me sweetheart again.” She leaned in, eyes flat. “Go ahead.” “No offense, no offense.” He held up his hands for peace. “I’m not denying I’ve taken my hobby too far a couple times. I get caught up, like anyone else. But if you’ve got my sheet, you know I don’t do violence. The fact is, sweet—Lieutenant,” he corrected quickly, “I don’t need to. And sure, Ro’s told me some things about the big secret project. He’s excited about it, and he likes to talk. Part of a good seduction is listening. I listen. Not a crime.”

The fifty-nine-year-old vice president was on wife two, who—no surprise—clocked in at twenty-eight years younger. They based their three-year marriage on the Upper East Side, with additional housing in Belize and the Italian Riviera. The current wife was a former lingerie model. Men were so simple, really.

Where’s your candy?” “What candy?” He gave her a look. “I know very well you hide candy in here. I need a boost. Give it over.” Her frown deepened, and she tracked her gaze toward the door. “Don’t let anybody come in. It’s a damn good hiding place.” “You know, you could easily rig a cam in here, and catch whoever’s lifting your stash in the act.” “One day I’ll catch the candy thief, but it’ll be by guile and wit, not technology. It’s a matter of pride and principle now.” She took a tool from her desk, then squatted in front of her recycler. After a few twists, she removed the facing and pulled an evidence bag from the back. “Your guile and wit contest causes you to keep candy in the recycler, with the trash?”

Other than they’ve closed two on-planet plants in the last sixteen months—small ones, outside the U.S. They have no plants or offices off-planet, so they’re either missing that market altogether, or the cost of distributing their products to that market would be prohibitive.” He arched his brows. “Well now, my heart swells with pride. Listen to the business acumen.” “Be a smartass, lose the candy.”

“DO YOU THINK THE PENIS EVER GETS TIRED?” As she drove, Eve turned her head toward Peabody, tipped down the shades she rarely remembered to wear. “Whose?” “Anybody’s. I mean anybody with one. Does the penis ever just think: For God’s sake, pal, give it a rest? Or is it all: Woo-hoo! Here we go again!” “Is this germane to the case, or have you lapsed into girl talk?” “It springs from the case. I was thinking about that asshole Dubrosky. There he is banging away at Britt Casey yesterday afternoon. A triple-header, according to her. Floor,” she said, ticking it off on her fingers, “bed, and against the door. Then last night he’s bucking with Roland in fantasy game-play. Pirate captain and cabin boy.” “Stop.” “Wait. And this morning? He sneaks in a coffee and a quickie with Chelsea Saxton, then gets a follow-up bj in the shower.” “Jesus, Peabody.” “Well, I didn’t ask for the dirty details, but all three of them just splurted it all out when they found out about the others. I really think most ginnies would say: Hey! Don’t even think about putting anything in there for a while.” “Ginnies?” “It’s a nice name for vagina. And I really think after a couple rounds, under most circumstances, your average ginnie would say, okay, that’ll hold me for a while. But does the penis just keep searching out the next orifice? I wonder since I don’t have one.” “In case you’re wondering, neither do I.” “I’ve seen you naked so I know this. I think even the most stalwart and energetic penis would,...

“He equates his worth with his penis, and also uses it as a weapon.” “Okay, now I see it wearing a gold chain and toting a blaster. Stop now.” Shifting, Peabody gave Eve a look of delight. “You get the best pictures in your head. It’s why you’re a good cop. Dubrosky said all that crap about needing to be admired. But see, he’s probably talking about his looks, his manner, but subconsciously, he’s talking about his penis.”

But now, I don’t want to hear the word penis for the rest of the day.” “There’s really no nice word for ... that particular thing,” Peabody continued as they headed inside. “Everything’s either too hard—get it?—or too silly. But when you think about it, it’s pretty silly to have that particular thing swinging around down there. So—” “I will kill you. Save the taxpayers’ money by doing it right here in the morgue. It’s efficient.”

What I was going to say was about the sword. Not the euphemistic male sword, but the murder weapon. Last year I went to a con with McNab.”

The servant droid, all skinny dignity in a stark black suit, had Eve muffling a snort. He could have been Summerset’s brother, not only in appearance, but by the derisive dismissal on his face as he peered down at her. “Hey, he looks a lot like—” “The biggest pain in my ass,” Eve finished, and thinking of Roarke’s majordomo smiled thinly.

“Try to look like Peabody.” “Sorry?” “Serious, official, yet approachable.” “You forgot adorable.” “Peabody is not adorable.” “She is from my perspective. Besides, I was talking about me.” She barely smothered the laugh before the door opened.

“They’re a lovely family.” Her gaze tracked as they continued on, as she looked for anything out of place, anything she might have missed before. “I don’t know why it always surprises me to see that sort of thing. Maybe I don’t generally interview lovely families. Steady ones. My impression is Bart came from the same. Maybe it’s a disadvantage in its own way.” “What way would that be?” “You can end up too simple and too trusting.” She glanced at him. “That’s sure not our problem.”

That was pattern, she thought as she carted the dishes into the kitchen. When he was seriously peeved he walked away, closed up until he cooled off. Which was probably for the best as it saved a serious bout. But it was ... aggravating. She wondered why two people who loved each other to the point of stupid managed to aggravate each other as often as they seemed to.

Sometimes that middle ground between them was narrow and slippery. The trick was figuring out how to navigate it.

Going from Mira’s to EDD was something like leaving an elegant home where people engaged in quiet, intellectual discussion and being flung into an amusement park run by teenagers on a sugar rush.

Eve studied the victim’s choice of house droid. “That outfit wasn’t designed for fighting.” “Slave-girl version, episode six. But she handles herself. Girl’s a rebel and holds her own. Helped kick the Empire’s ass.” “Jesus, Feeney. It’s a droid—a replication of a fictional character from a space opera.” “I’m just saying,” he muttered.

The point is, you did a solid job. More than, if it matters what I think. You made it human and important, and you didn’t sentimentalize it—if that’s a word. You got it accurate, and that matters, but you made it real. And that’s probably just as important. So stop being a big baby about it.” “I knew I’d feel better if I came by here. You bitch.” She grabbed Eve’s hand. “I’d really like you to be there tomorrow night, even if you can’t stay long. I might need you to kick me in the ass again.” “What’re friends for? Look, I’ll try. I’ll plan on it, but if something breaks on this case—” “Remember who you’re talking to. I know the priorities of the job. Anyway, if you’re roasting the balls of whoever did this instead of kicking my ass and drinking champagne, I’ll be fine with it.” She sat another minute, finishing the coffee. “Okay. All right. That should hold me for a couple hours.” “Go bother somebody else if you need a booster shot.” “I do have other friends, you know.” She glanced at the board again. “Go get them, Dallas.” Eve sat again. After a moment, she opened the box and took out a cookie. She studied it a moment, then took a bite, sighed at the rush of sugar. And she thought about friendships.

Whether or not they always agreed on the ways and the means of the work, that single fact shone through the gray between them. In her life no one had ever put her so completely, so absolutely first. And as she knew him, she knew the moment he sensed her. His fingers paused; he turned his head. Those brilliant eyes locked on hers as they had the very first time at a funeral for another of the dead they’d shared. Her heart opened, and it lifted, weightless and free. Marriage was a minefield, she thought again, but she’d risk every sweaty, breathless step for moments like this.

“Sometimes you get lucky with who you let in your life. Sometimes you don’t. I’m feeling lucky today.”

“Oh, nearly forgot. We got you a present.” “Why?” “Because.” She unzipped one of her pockets and pulled out a very small gun. “What is it?” “It’s a toy gun. A derringer—like cardsharps and saloon girls carry in western vids. It’s like a clutch piece.” “Hmmm.” “And check it.” Peabody cocked it, and a sultry female voice purred out of the barrel. Put those hands where I can see them, cowboy. “It has all sorts of audio streams—male, female. I figured you’d want the female. Plus—” She aimed it at Eve, pulled the trigger even as Eve said: “Hey!” The little gun let out a brave little bang. Next one goes lower, and you won’t be poking a woman with that stick of yours for the rest of your miserable life. “Isn’t it cute? You could play saloon girl and Roarke could be high-stakes gambler, then ... and that’s entirely none of my nevermind.” Peabody offered a big smile. “Yes, it’s cute, no, it’s none of your nevermind.” Eve took the derringer, recocked it. You’d better hightail it before that tail’s sporting another hole. “It could use better dialogue, but it’s apt enough. Hightail it.” “Yes, sir.” “Peabody? Thanks.” Eve studied the gun, shook her head. Unable to resist, she shot her computer, her AutoChef, amused by the lame insults that followed. That was another thing about partners, she decided. They knew what would make you laugh, often before you did.

THERE’D BEEN A TIME, ROARKE THOUGHT, NOT so long ago in the bigger scheme, when a few hours in a cop shop would’ve been something to be carefully and ruthlessly avoided. Now, he spent so much time in one he knew which Vending areas to avoid, which glides tended to drag or crowd up, and just how filthy cop coffee could be by the end of a tour. His life had taken a sharp and strange turn the first instant he’d laid eyes on a cop, his cop, in an ill-fitting coat and a truly ugly gray suit. He fingered the button from that suit, one he kept for luck and sentiment in his pocket.

Snapped his fingers and scored them a table for two at the most exclusive restaurant in the city. Somewhere with snooty waiters, a superior wine cellar, and a temperamental chef who created complex dishes with an artist’s skill. But he’d given her a crowded, noisy joint where the tables crammed so close together the patrons’ elbows bumped, where the scents of spices and onions and cheap wine in squat carafes stung the air. More, he’d given her a memory. When they’d ordered, she propped her chin on her hand. Yes, things were different now, she thought. She was hardly embarrassed at all that she went gooey over him. “Did you buy this place?” “No. Some things should remain constant. But we’re keeping an eye on it, in the event the owners decide to retire or sell off.”

And when were you going to remind me about this party deal tomorrow night?” “Tomorrow.” He smiled, sipped his beer. “Giving you less time to fuss and fret about having to go to a party when you’re deep into a case.” “I don’t fuss and fret.” “No, you bitch and complain, but it’s such a nice evening I used code.”

“How do they do that?” She pointed to the blond as she watched her lope along. “How do women, or the occasional talented tranny or cross-dresser-walk on streets like this in those heels, much less run like a gazelle across ... whatever gazelles run across.” “I imagine it’s the result of considerable practice, perhaps even for the gazelle.” “And if they didn’t? If women, trannies, and cross-dressers everywhere revolted and said, screw this, we’re not wearing these ankle-breaking stilts anymore—and they didn’t—wouldn’t the sadists who design those bastards have to throw in the towel?” “I’m sorry to tell you, your women, trannies, and cross-dressers will never revolt. Many of them actually appear to like the style and the lift.” “You just like them because they make the ass jiggle.” “Absolutely guilty.” “Men still rule the world. I don’t get it.” “No comment as any would be misconstrued.

“Naturally, you’d have already given your St. Crispin’s Day speech.” “My what?” “We’ll discuss Henry V later. You’d like it.

“You and I argue, and you’ve been known to shut me down and kick my ass. I’m not plotting your murder. At this time.” “I bet you’ve imagined kicking my ass.” Peabody cast her gaze up to the roof of the vehicle. “Imagination is not against the law or any departmental regulations.” “That’s the point.

“Easy not to care when you have a limo just by snapping your fingers.” Eve sighed. She supposed it was. “Look, if I get you and McNab a limo will you stop whining, and say nothing more about your damn shoes or anything else about the damn party?” Peabody let out a very uncoplike squeal and grabbed Eve in a hug before Eve could evade it. “Yes! Yes! Wow. Thanks, Dallas. Serious thanks. I can wear my new ... I can stop having any concerns about the weather.”

“Name’s Alfred,” Feeney told her. “Butler to Bruce Wayne, confidant of the Dark Knight.” She spun around. “What? The Dark Knight.” “Batman, kid. Even you’ve heard of Batman.” “Yeah, yeah, vigilante with psychotic tendencies who dresses up in a weird bat costume. Rich playboy by day, right?” She turned, frowned at the droid. “Hmm.” “The Dark Knight’s an icon.” Feeney’s jabbed finger matched his tone. Insult. “And he uses those so-called psycho tendencies for good.

“Wait. Shit. I promised Peabody a limo if she’d stop talking about her shoes.” “Naturally. I’ll take care of it.” “It’s your own fault,” she called out. “You make it too easy.” “Darling Eve, there’s enough hard in the world.” She couldn’t argue. She glanced back at the warehouse, thought of flowers and food and tears. There was plenty of hard in the world.

Trina, all slitty eyes and exploding red hair, lifted what sure as hell looked like a glass of champagne. She sipped, long and slow. “If you think you’re going to this shindig wearing that hair, somebody must’ve stunned you with your own weapon. We’re set up in that palace you guys call a bathroom.”

“You skated out before I could take care of it at Louise’s deal—murder and all that,” she added. “And it looks like somebody hacked it with an ice pick. Are you going to this mag deal with that hunk of superior man-flesh looking like you’ve been in a fight with a farm animal?” “I thought it was an ice pick.” “A farm animal with an ice pick. Do you look better when I’ve worked you or not?” Eve opened her mouth, tracked her gaze over to Roarke. Let it burn there. “I have nothing to say, whatsoever.” “Superior man-flesh with a brain,” Trina said approvingly. “You hit the jackpot squared, Dallas. Now get your skinny ass in that bathroom.” Trina flounced, on five-inch heels shaped like the heart Eve wasn’t certain she had, into the bathroom.

“I guess I’m now worthy of superior man-flesh.” “I feel so objectified,” he said as she took the first sip. “You ate it up with a spoon.” She took another sip, and a long look when he laughed.

“Why is late fashionable?” “I suppose because it gives the impression you have so many things to do you couldn’t possibly be on time.” “Hah. Who knew? I’m almost always fashionable.” She held out her hand. “Come on, man-flesh. We’ve got to rock.”

“You sicced Trina on me, didn’t you?” Mavis rounded midnight blue eyes in innocence. “Don’t you have to read me my rights before you question me?” “Another smartass. Speaking of reading you your rights, we go back.” “Yeah, to when you first arrested me on the grift. Now look at me. I’m a married woman and a mommy, and I’ve got a career. I didn’t have to steal any of it. Life’s twisty keen.” “At least. I’ve been friends with you longer than I’ve been friends with anyone.” “Double back at you.” “So, we’re tight, and we know each other about as well as people ever do. You could say we love each other, in a nonlesbian lifestyle way.” “We might’ve done the les, if we’d gone a really long time without men.

Eve laid a hand on hers. “You wouldn’t do it even then. You might want to, even think it, and you’d hate me, but you wouldn’t kill me.” “I’d really want to, but no. But you’d never go after my man because you’d never hurt me that way, ever, much less cheat on Roarke. Real friends, real lovers don’t do that shit to each other. Not the reals.” “Exactly. You’re exactly right.

“Could these injuries have been the result of a fall?” “A fall? Are you considering the holo-room a dump site rather than the attack site?” Eve hesitated. Not yet, she thought. Not ready to share quite yet.

The Dark Knight connection.” Roarke lowered the coffee, obviously baffled. “What would Batman have to do with it?” “How do you know that?” Baffled, she tossed up her hands. “How do I say ‘Dark Knight’ and you immediately click to Batman. How do you know this stuff?” “The question might be how do you not know. Batman’s been part of the popular culture lexicon for more than a century.” “Never mind. It’s just weird. I could ...” She narrowed her eyes. “Who murdered sixteen male prostitutes between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three over a three-year period and fed their remains to his prizewinning hogs?” “Christ Jesus.” Despite the image, Roarke had to laugh. “I’m delighted to say I have no idea.” “Hanson J. Flick, 2012—2015.” She smirked. “You don’t know everything.” “And your particular area of expertise is occasionally revolting.”

Hope she makes it, but I gotta say, I hate she might pop up and say, ‘Hey, it was Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick’ and make it easy after we put this much time in.” “Who the hell is Colonel Mustard?” “You know, from the game. Clue. You should play it. You’d kill.”

“Roarke might be late. He’s working on something for me.” “Wouldn’t mind him working on something for me.” “Excuse me?” “Hmm? Oh, just talking to myself,” Peabody sang. “You know how it is.” Eve strolled over, clipped the back of Peabody’s head with the flat of her hand. “Ow.” “Oh, sorry, just an involuntary reflex.

She folded the sleeve, pressed the cushion of material to the wound in his side. “It’s not bad.” Well, he hoped to Christ it wasn’t, and concentrated on her face. Eve’s face. Just Eve. “Hurts like the bloody fires of hell, but it’s not that bad. I’ve been stabbed before.” “Shut up, just shut up.” She yanked out her communicator. “Officer needs assistance. Officer down. Officer down.” “I’m an officer now, am I? That’s insult to injury.” As she shouted out the address, he turned his head at the violent thumping at the door. “Ah, well, there’s the backup. Wipe your face, baby. You’d hate them to see the tears.” “Screw that.” But she swiped the back of one bloody hand over her cheeks. She pressed his hand to the makeshift bandage. “Hold that? Can you hold that?” She ripped off the second sleeve. “You’re not leaving me.” “Darling Eve. I’m not going anywhere.” Her face, he thought again as the pain seared up his side.

She walked away, found Mira. “I’m going to ask you for a favor. I need you to keep your eye on Roarke. If he looks like he needs it, jab him with a damn pressure syringe full of tranqs. I’ll take the rap.” “Don’t worry.” Mira slipped her arm around Eve’s waist, just for a moment. “We’ll have him outnumbered.”

And tonight... It was so fast. Blasting that damn room to pieces trying to find the controls. And I did. I did, but seconds too late. In seconds I saw that knife go into you, and the world just stopped. It just ended.”

“When we were in there, and it looked like we wouldn’t walk out again, I could deal with it. Because... I know it’s stupid.” “We’d die together,” he finished. She let out a half-laugh at the beauty, and the oddity, of being understood so well. “Which is probably sick and selfish, and a bunch of other neurotic shit Mira could pick at. But, yeah. Going down together’s one thing. Taking the next breath without you? That’s not possible. But you have that... possibility to cope with every day. Roarke, I wish—”

Friendship to love—maybe it would work for them. Then there was the other choice. Love to friendship, she thought as they took the elevator down. She supposed she and Roarke had taken that route. It seemed to be working out just fine.