Apprentice in Death

“Give me a minute. No, I can work around you very well,” he said when she started to get up again. “Though your new command center will simplify this as well.”

  He programmed the new parameters manually, and quickly, in a way she’d never comprehend, then ordered the new results on screen.

  “That took out five more—or six maybe. How many do—”

  “Wait for it. Computer, split screen with identifying data on current display.”

  Acknowledged. Working . . .

  “So I’ll be able to do this holographically?”

  “You will, or I will until you get the hang of it.”

  “I know how to holo.” More or less. “Even with this setup.”

  “Simpler and advanced from what you can do now from here or, from my standpoint, at Central. And there you are.”

  She had addresses and the types of buildings. And with each building address were the floors that fit the criteria. The tally was twenty-three buildings.

  “I can work with twenty-three. And if this leads me to the nest, you can count on extreme appreciation sex.”

  “Would that include costumes and props?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It hasn’t led me anywhere yet.”

  “Perhaps a small advance.” He nipped lightly at the back of her neck.

  “Get your brain off sex.”

  “That would be beyond my programming capabilities. But until I collect my fee, you’ll want to cross-search the licenses, and the victims, with the twenty-three buildings.”

  “Just exactly right. Before I do that, let me ask you this: You’re an LDSK—organized, skilled, controlled.”

  “You assume controlled?”

  “Three vics only. Literally dozens who could have been killed or injured—making a bigger impact, giving a bigger thrill. If impact and thrill are motives. So yeah, I assume controlled. Whether or not these three, or any of these three, are target specific: Would you use your own home—your apartment, even your office—as your nest?”

  “Interesting question.” He picked up his whiskey again to mull it over. “The advantage there would be time. You’d have all the time in the world to observe the target area from that nest. Complete privacy, and the opportunity to take any number of dummy test strikes from the position.”

  “Huh. Hadn’t thought of the last one yet, but it applies. Practice, and practice from the exact spot. It weighs. Disadvantages?”

  “Clever cops, such as my own, diligently working through the potentials. Risking that clever cop making a connection. And an office? Unless it’s merely a front, most would have others working there, at least an assistant, building cleaning crew, and so on. Residence? Does your killer live alone, does whoever he might live with join in his desire to kill?

  “I’d be more inclined to rent a space under an assumed name—which takes a bit of work,” he added, “but would be worth it. That office space, small apartment, hotel room. Then after this was done, abandon it.”

  “So would I.” She nodded, as her thought process had run along the same lines. “Can’t rule out the other, but so would I. I’d trade the convenience of operating out of my own space for the lesser risk of using a temporary space. Hotels, work or living spaces leased within the last six months. He’s controlled, but I can’t see him using a rented space for longer. Okay.”

  Roarke held her in place another moment, then released her. “Why don’t you do that cross-search. I’ll do the other.”

  She rose, as did he, but she turned to him. “When this office thing happens, you could work in here on this kind of thing, if you wanted. Take the cop stuff out of your own space.”

  “I don’t mind the cop stuff in my space.”

  “I know. We’ll add that into the appreciation sex. I’ll look at the designs again when I finish this, pick one.”

  “If one suits.”

  “Yeah, if that.”

  She manned her desk again, solo, began the cross-search. While it ran, she managed to figure out how to send Peabody the complicated program Roarke had written and implemented in under two hours.

  She imagined fellow e-geek McNab would do a happy dance.

  After adding an update, she went into the kitchen to program more coffee, reminding herself that space would change, too.

  No need to hold on to the old, she told herself. And in reality, even the old had changed, since Mavis and Leonardo had her old apartment.

  Nothing about it looked like the Spartan and basic cop place she’d lived in, not with all the color, the clutter, the kid.

  The kid.

  When Bella blipped into her mind, she remembered the party. She had to go to a baby birthday party, where surely there would be more babies. Crawling or walking in that drunk way they did, making those weird noises.

  Staring like dolls.

  Why did they do that?

  She shook the thought away, got her coffee, went back to murder.

  The incoming from Roarke signaled moments before he came back.

  “Hotels, including an SRO flagged for you, and several rentals in the last six months. I’ve put those rented to families with children and multiple-use office spaces or with staff over three on low.”

  “You ran occupants?”

  “That would’ve been next, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a couple matches, but they don’t ring. A guy from the license list who has an aunt in one of the buildings—but she’s on a lower floor than works here. Plus, he’s got no military or police training, doesn’t actually appear to have any weapons training. We’ll check him out, but this isn’t our guy.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she picked up her coffee, propped up her boots in her think-it-through mode.

  “The other’s got a big residential on Park, does some designer hunting. It doesn’t strike—not much skill from my background check, but he could have downplayed that. But added to it, he lives with wife number three, has a live-in nanny for the kid with wife number three, and a teenage son from wife number two lives with him half the time. Full-time housekeeper—not a droid. Still, I bet he has a private space in his digs, so we’ll check.”

  She dropped her feet, pushed back. “No criminal to speak of on either. And no connection I could find to the rink or the victims.”

  Rising, she approached her board. “If this wasn’t his mission, just this, he’ll hit again and soon. Three strikes, three down. It’s too successful not to hit again. Not the rink, that’s done—unless it is the rink.”

  “You think, and I agree, if it were the rink, there would be more than three on your board.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think. Another public place, another multiple strike. If that’s the plan, he’s already got it selected, scoped, and has his nest. Anyone, anywhere, anytime. He’s holding the cards now.”

  “You’ve plenty of your own.”

  “But I can’t add more to them tonight, not with what’s here. Morris, Berenski, they might add more tomorrow. Peabody and McNab are working their end. I’ll get a profile from Mira, see if that refines things. It’s not a pro.”

  She narrowed those cop’s eyes at the board again. “A pro doesn’t take out three unrelated targets, and they’re not connected. Correction, a working pro doesn’t. We could have a pro who’s gone loony, but this wasn’t murder for hire—or unlikely. Client could have paid to have three hits, with two as cover. Can’t disregard even that.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re circling.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She took one long last look at the girl in red. As Roarke said, she haunted. “Okay. Let’s have another look at the design stuff.”

  “You don’t have to do that tonight.”

  “It’ll bug me until I clear it. How hard can it be to just pick something?”

  “You’re a rare woman, darling, as you not only actually b
elieve that, but make it true.”

  He called the first design on screen.

  “I don’t much like this one. The colors are kind of girlie, and the stuff’s sort of . . . I don’t know, sharp and . . . slick. So plain it’s fancy. I don’t know the word, but that’s how it hits. I mean, the setup’s okay—where she’s got things—but the things are going to make me feel like I’m in somebody else’s place.”

  “Then we move on. Number two.”

  She shifted her feet as she studied it. Felt stupid and ungrateful. “The stuff here’s okay. It doesn’t have that I’m-new-and-cutting-edge-and-really-important deal going on. I could work here without feeling like somebody whose name begins with Summerset would give me the fish eye if I messed it up or spilled something.”

  “But?”

  “Well, the colors are strong. Strong colors are good, I guess, but it’s a little in-your-face. Distracting, I guess.”

  “How about these?” He brought up the third option.

  She didn’t know what fancy name the colors went by in some designer speak. Bullshit names like Contented Fawn and Zen Retreat and Chocolate Drizzle.

  To her it was browns and sort of greens and whites that weren’t bright and shiny.

  “Yeah, see, the colors are good, and they’re quiet but not girlie. They’re not saying, Hey look at me. It’s more like they’ve been there awhile. And the command center looks, well, commanding. No bullshit. But, I guess, most of the other stuff doesn’t look like anybody lives with it.”

  “Try this.” He stepped over to her computer, keyed in a code. The second design slid on—with the color scheme from the third.

  “Huh. You can just . . . Okay, yeah, this is . . .”

  “If you’re not sure, not pleased, we wait. I’ll give her your input and she’ll incorporate what you like and take away what you don’t.”

  “It’s just that . . . I like it. I really like it, and I didn’t expect to. The stuff doesn’t look as, I don’t know, fussy in these colors like it does in the in-your-face ones. It looks more . . . real, I guess. I like it. I figured I’d live with the one I could live with, and that would be okay. But I like it. It’s efficient, it’s not fussy or weird.” Sincerely baffled, she turned to him. “I like it. Jesus, the appreciation sex is going to get out of hand.”

  “My fondest wish.” Hip-to-hip with her, he studied her choice, and found himself pleased he liked it, very much, as well. Still.

  “Do you want to take a few days, think it over, make any changes that might occur to you?”

  “No. Really no. It would make me crazy. Let’s just go for it. But I can’t have this place torn up or people running around in there when I’m working an investigation.”

  “Leave that to me.” He turned to her, took her shoulders, dropped a kiss on her forehead. “This will be good for both of us.”

  “I know that, too. I won’t miss it. I remember how I felt when you first brought me in here, when I saw what you’d made for me. That doesn’t change.”

  “The reason I made it for you doesn’t change, either.” He slid an arm around her waist, led her out. “Hopefully you remember how you felt the first time I took you into the bedroom.”

  “That’s imprinted.”

  “Good, as she’ll have designs for the bedroom for us to go over in a day or two.”

  “You were serious about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But the bedroom—”

  “Is ours, but was designed for me. Now it will reflect both of us, our needs, wants, tastes.”

  “We don’t have the same tastes, exactly. I don’t even know if I have tastes.”

  “You know what you like, what you don’t. And won’t it be interesting to see how it all melds? And as with your office, it has to suit you. It has to suit me as well, so may it take a bit more work than the two minutes you spent picking your office design.”

  It wouldn’t take two minutes, no, not with Roarke weighing in on it. “Are we going to fight over, like, fabric?”

  “I sincerely doubt it, but if we do, I’m sure we’ll make up, on whatever bed we choose together.”

  Frowning, she stepped into the bedroom, looked at the enormous bed on its platform under the sky window. And couldn’t imagine anything that could suit her more.

  “I like that bed.”

  “And we may end up designing around it, but if not, we should bid it farewell as we did your desk. In anticipation.”

  “The way you are, we’ll have nailed each other another five dozen times on this one before it’s gone.”

  “Think of it as an undress rehearsal,” he said, and scooped her up.

  Since it was hard to laugh and protest at the same time, she just went with it, so when she hit the bed, she wrapped her legs, boots and all, around him.

  “We’re still dressed.”

  “I can fix that. In a minute,” he added, and took her mouth.

  Here was the payoff for a long and difficult day. His body pressed down on hers, that magic mouth sparking heat, spreading thrills. No dark thoughts pressing like bloody fingers against glass, pushing, pushing to come in. Here, she could have, she could take, love.

  She heard the click as his fingers—as magical as his mouth—released her weapon harness. She shifted so he could tug it off, shove it aside.

  “You’re disarmed, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s not my only weapon.”

  “I’m aware. But I’ve a few of my own.”

  When his teeth scraped lightly down the side of her neck, she thought: Yeah, you do. In response, she pressed up, center to center.

  “And yours is, as usual, already cocked.”

  Against her skin, his lips curved. “Someone has her punny pants on.”

  “I’m thinking about trading them in for naked.”

  She managed to toe off her boots, the rise and fall of her hips with the effort pleasing them both. Rather than pull her sweater off, he slid his hands under it, skimmed them over the tank she wore beneath. When her nipples hardened against the snug material, he roamed down to unhook her belt, then up again to mold her breasts, to tease.

  Down to unclasp a button, to slowly, slowly ease the zipper open.

  He could spend years on her with just his hands. The firm breasts and long, lean torso under the thin, simple tank, the taut belly, the narrow hips.

  He tugged her trousers down, just another inch, traced a fingertip under the waistband of the panties—as simple as the tank. His cop wasn’t one for frills and lace. Yet those simple, unadorned underpinnings never failed to entice him.

  He knew what lived beneath.

  Just as he knew she’d relaxed, she’d put all else aside—the blood and the dead—for this. For him. For them. So he’d give her everything he had in this time away from the cold and the dark.

  Now he peeled her sweater up and away, and the tank with it. When he cupped her breasts in his hands, she cupped his face in hers. Smiled.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Nice, is it?”

  “Yeah.” Lowering her hands, she began unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s nice.”

  “I can do better than nice.”

  “I’m aware,” she said, making him laugh as his lips brushed over hers.

  She could do better than nice, too, but didn’t mind that pace. For now. Like sliding into comfort. Under his shirt, that tough, disciplined body was hers to touch, to take—all that warm, warm skin, those tight muscles.

  Hers to take, she thought again as he deepened the kiss. Fire kindled under her skin. With her legs again hooked around him, she levered over, reversed their positions. Now straddling him, she curved down, using her teeth to nip at his lips, his tongue while she rocked them both to quivering.

  Even as she tugged off his belt, he flipped her over again. Dr
agging off her trousers, his hand brushed over the clutch piece strapped above her ankle. It added a quick, dangerous thrill. Leaving it, he used his mouth, his hands to destroy her.

  She cried out, tossed up as his tongue swept over her, into her. Her fingers dug into the sheets, then into his back as he drove her relentlessly higher.

  The orgasm ripped through her, a fast, hard jolt of staggering pleasure. Then the aftershocks, shuddering, shuddering, even as he urged her up again.

  Breathless, blind, she dragged him up to her, rolling together now over the blue lake of the bed while she fought to strip away the rest of his clothes.

  When he plunged into her, the world quaked.

  His mouth—God, she loved his mouth—took hers again, ravishing like a man starving. Then he drove her, they drove each other, hands gripped together, bodies joined. On the edge, fused to the edge as the pleasure swelled to bursting.

  When she came again, all she could see was the wild blue of his eyes.

  After a long moment, after they both lay limp, like survivors of some brutal wreck, he turned his head enough to graze her throat with his lips.

  “Nice, was it?”

  “Worked for me. Appreciation?”

  “Paid in full.”

  “Huh. And no costumes or props.”

  “You’re still wearing your clutch piece.”

  Her eyes blinked open. “What?”

  “That worked for me.” On a half groan, he rolled off her, sat up. Letting his gaze wander over her as she sprawled, naked but for the fat diamond around her neck and the weapon at her ankle. “And would again.”

  “Men are just twisted.”

  He only smiled, then got up and fetched a bottle of water. After he drank, he held it out. “Hydrate.”

  She propped up on an elbow and did just that. But when she started to reach for her clutch piece, he took her hands.

  “Not quite yet.”

  “I’m not going to sleep wearing it.”

  “Not sleep.” Stretching out, he picked up her weapon harness. As he began to put it on her, she shoved out at him.

  “What the hell?”

  “Indulge my curiosity.” Quick and efficient, he hooked it on her, then pushed off the bed again to take a good long look.