The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [146]
He hooked an arm around her throat, lifting her off the ground—she was a little thing, barely a hundred pounds—until the lack of oxygen had her going limp.
He had the pressure syringe of potent downers as a backup, but wouldn’t need it with such a tiny woman.
When he released her, and she dropped to her knees, he rubbed his hands together, smiled brilliantly.
“Music on,” he ordered, and the swelling sounds of the aria from Carmen he’d already programmed into the entertainment system filled the room.
Gorgeous, he thought, drawing in breath deeply as if he could draw in the notes.
“Well now, let’s get to work.”
He whistled as he beat her. He hummed as he raped her. By the time he’d strangled her, he was singing.
chapter one
In death there were many layers. Violent death added more. It was her job to sift through those layers and find cause. In cause, to meet justice.
However the act of murder was committed, in cold blood or hot, she was sworn to pursue it to its root. And serve the dead.
For tonight, Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the New York City Police and Security Department wore no badge. It, along with her service weapon and communicator, was currently tucked in an elegant, palm-sized silk purse she considered embarrassingly frivolous.
She wasn’t dressed like a cop, but wore a shimmering apricot-hued gown that skimmed down her long, slim body and was sliced in a dramatic V in the back. A slender chain of diamonds hung glittering around her neck. More sparkled at ears she recently, and in a weak moment, had been persuaded to have pierced.
Still more were scattered like raindrops through her short chop of brown hair and made her feel faintly ridiculous.
However glamorous the silk and diamonds made her appear, her eyes were all cop. Tawny brown and cool, they scanned the sumptuous ballroom, skimmed over faces, bodies, and considered security.
Cameras worked into the fancy plasterwork overhead were unobtrusive, powerful, and would provide full scope. Scanners would flag any guests or staff who happened to be carrying concealeds. And among the staff, weaving their way through the chatter to offer drinks, were a half-dozen trained security personnel.
The affair was invitation only, and those invitations carried a holographic seal that was scanned at the door.
The reason for these precautions, and others, was an estimated five hundred and seventy-eight million dollars’ worth of jewelry, art, and memorabilia currently on dazzling display throughout the ballroom.
Each display was craftily arranged for impact and guarded by individual sensor fields that measured motion, heat, light, and weight. If any of the guests or staff had sticky fingers and attempted to remove so much as an earring from its proper place, all exits would close and lock, alarms would sound, and a second team of guards hand-selected from an elite NYPSD task force would be ordered to the scene to join the private security.
To her cynical frame of mind, the entire deal was a foolishly elaborate temptation for too many, in too large an area, in too public a venue. But it was tough to argue with the slick setup.
Then again, slick was just what she expected from Roarke.
“Well, Lieutenant?” The question, delivered with a whiff of amusement in a voice that carried the misty air of Ireland, drew her attention to the man.
Then again, everything about Roarke drew a woman’s attention.
His eyes, sinfully blue, set off a face that had been sculpted on one of God’s best days. As he watched her, his poet’s mouth, one that often made her want to lean in for just one quick bite, curved, one dark brow lifted, and his long fingers skimmed possessively down her bare arm.
They’d been married nearly a year, and that sort of casually intimate stroke could still trip her pulse.
“Some party,” she said and turned his smile into a fast, devastating grin.
“Yes, isn’t it?” With his hand still lightly on her arm, he scanned the room.
His hair was black as midnight and fell nearly