Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“I’m going to explain. Roarke, why don’t you take Ms. Lomare downstairs, get her that wine. I’ll be down shortly.”

“One question first. Would you have fired while she had those sheers to my throat?”

“I’d have fired before she jabbed them into your throat.”

“I thought so. Good for you.” She laughed when Roarke offered her his arm. “Such a charmer. You married a cop, didn’t you? Of course you did, I remember now.” She glanced back. “That one?”

“That’s my cop.”

“Handsome, charming, and excellent taste. Let’s have some wine.”

“I think she’s my new hero,” Peabody said. “Suspect is out cold.”

“Call for the wagon. Let’s have her hauled down and booked. I really want her in the box.”

Eve pulled out her comm when it signaled. “Santiago, suspect is secure.”

“Glad to hear it. We’re in her place, Dallas, and I’m going to say she’s going to stay secure, in a cage, for the rest of her natural life. Take a look at this.”

The screen shifted, showed her a wall, dingy behind photos of victims. And their alternates, Eve noted. The three she’d killed had bloodred X’s over their faces. She’d labeled each with their fictional name, and added a picture of herself as she’d been dressed for the kill.

The victim wall panned down to Felicity, and Eve saw she’d been right about Berkle being the alternate. Four more sections revealed she had other targets selected, and alternates.

With a large photo of DeLano framed after the eight targets. And, Eve noted, not without some small satisfaction, one of herself as the final chapter.

Along with the photos were street maps, transportation routes, schedules. Sketches of outfits—the coats, trousers, hairstyles.

Interesting, Eve noted. The character written—or being written—to kill her dressed as a uniform cop. Smith had named her Officer Lucy Borgia.

“Plotting to kill a police officer.” Santiago tipped his hat. “That’s going to leave a mark. Anyway, we sent for an e-person—locals are cooperating and working with us. She’s got a cheap little comp here, but it’s passcoded. We figured to let the geeks take it. I don’t know why she bothered, as she’s got handwritten notes all over the damn place. Souvenirs, too. Looks like she has a used tube of lip dye—Carmichael’s betting she took it off the first vic.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t bet her. You’ll be wearing that hat until spring.”

“I learned my lesson. She printed out the ticket from the vids on the second killing, took a bar coaster from the third. She’s got them in this handmade box marked TREASURES. It’s all decorated. She’s got her work stuff—actual work. The sewing machine thing and supplies, one of those dummies. Looks like she was in the middle of making some fancy dress.”

“The next killer in the series is a married socialite who killed her secret working-class lover in her workshop with a hammer after she dumped her.”

“Well, hell hath no fury, right? We got her cold, LT.”

Eve glanced back at the unconscious Smith. “In more ways than one.”

23

Often Eve faced a suspect in the box with the goal of squeezing out a confession, tripping them up, pulling out details to polish off a case.

This time she had what she needed. But the courts liked everything spelled out, so she’d push Smith to spell it out.

And there was, in addition, the sheer satisfaction of facing off with a killer.

“I’ve

got this,” Eve told Peabody. “You can go home, get some sleep.”

“No way I’m missing the end of this story. We can call it Dark Justice, The Final Chapter.”

“You’ve been saving that one.”

“All damn day.”