The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [340]
Handed her the wine. Perfect gentleman.
She walked into the bedroom. The sweepers had bagged the rose petals. The bed had been stripped down to bare mattress. Ignoring it, Eve opened the balcony doors, stepped out.
The wind lifted the choppy ends of her hair, streamed it back away from her face. It was starting to rain, soft, thin drops that fell soundlessly.
Her stomach pitched but she made herself step to the rail, made herself look down. A long drop, she thought. Long last step.
What had made him think of the balcony? There was no indication he’d been to the apartment before.
She replayed the security disc in her head and watched Bryna and her killer approach the front door of the building from the street. No, he hadn’t looked up at the building, New Yorkers never did anyway. They’d been completely absorbed in each other.
Why had he thought of the balcony?
Why hadn’t he just run in panic as he had in the cyber-café? Because part of his brain had stayed cool enough to click into survival mode both times. Had he thought the chemicals wouldn’t show on a tox screen? Had he thought that far ahead?
Or just the first desperate step? He lives in the moment, Mira had said. And the moment had been shocking.
She’s dead, and I’m in such trouble. What should I do?
Self-termination ploy. Toss her away. Out of sight, out of mind. But why not clean up evidence and leave it as a potential self-overdose and buy more time to escape?
To cause confusion, she decided, as he had in the café. He could have uploaded a virus in the single unit, but programmed it to spread. And was knowledgeable enough about those who frequented such places to be sure a riot would result.
A woman splats on the sidewalk, witnesses are shocked, stunned, afraid. They might run to the body or away from it, but they don’t rush into the building looking for a killer—and the killer gains time to rush out and away.
But how did he think of the balcony?
As the rain thickened and began to plop, as her stomach churned at the height, she scanned the street, the neighboring buildings.
“Son of a bitch,” she cursed softly as she read the sign:
COFFEE AND A BYTE.
It was hardly more than a hole in the wall. Ten tables fitted with low-end units. Counter service for six. But the coffee smelled fresh and the floors were clean.
The counter was manned by a droid of the fresh-faced, geek variety. His hair was styled to fall in a pointed brown flap across his forehead.
Two of the tables were occupied by the same type in human form, and the waitress was young and too perky not to be another automation.
“Hi! Welcome to Coffee and a Byte. Would you like a table?”
She had poofy blonde hair and lips the color of bubblegum. Her breasts were like two ripe melons that peeked rosily out of the bodice of her snug white top.
Eve imagined the geeks had nightly wet dreams with her name on them.
“I need to ask you some questions. Both of you.”
The waitress, Bitsy according to her name tag, replied, “Everything’s on the menu, including specials, but either Tad or I will be really happy to explain anything.”
Bitsy and Tad. Eve shook her head. Jesus, who thought of this shit?
“Sit down, Bitsy.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to sit. Would you like to hear about today’s coffee beverage?”
“No.” Eve pulled out her badge. “This is a police investigation, and I have to ask you some questions.”
“We’re programmed to cooperate fully with the police and security, the fire, the health, and the emergency medical departments.” This was from Tad, who whisked his flap of hair back with his fingers.
“That’s good.” She sensed movement and shifted to point at the thin-shouldered man who was trying to slide invisibly from behind his table. “There’s no trouble here,” she told him. “Just questions. Why don’t you sit back down, relax? You might be able to answer some of them.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Good. Keep not doing anything,” she advised.
She turned back