The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [379]
“My aide. Do we come in, Stefanie, or do we discuss this in the hallway?”
Stefanie stepped back, closed the door behind them. “I just had two lucrative runs cancelled, my union rep is talking strike, which is going to put me in a bind. The shuttle they stuck me with should’ve been in the fucking scrap heap, and my gut’s telling me I could be out of a job within the year.”
“He never misses,” Eve muttered.
“I’ve got a cop hounding me to Europe and back, so I’m in a pisser of a mood, Lieutenant. If this is about my bastard ex, I’ve got one thing to say: He’s not my problem.”
“I’m not here about your bastard ex. You’ve been corresponding, via e-mail, with an individual who calls himself Wordsworth.”
“How do you know? E-mail’s private.”
“The individual who calls himself Wordsworth is a suspect in two murders and one attempted murder. Now, do you want to do a dance about the violation of cyber-privacy?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Peabody, look at my face. Is this my jokey face?”
“No, sir, Lieutenant.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, why don’t we sit down?”
“I’ve got a date with him tomorrow afternoon,” Stefanie said, and hugged her arms as if chilled. “When my runs were cancelled, I did some e-mail from the pilot’s lounge at Heathrow. He suggested we get together tomorrow for a picnic in Greenpeace Park.”
“What time?”
“One o’clock.”
He’s breaking pattern, Eve thought. Upping the stakes again. “Sit down, Stefanie.”
“You’re sure about this.” Stefanie sat, stared up at Eve. “Yeah, you’re sure. I bet that’s your dead-certain face. Well, I’m embarrassed and I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.”
“And you’re alive,” Eve told her. “I’m going to keep you that way. Describe Wordsworth for me.”
“Physically, I don’t have a clue. He’s an art dealer. International. Digs opera, ballet, poetry. I was looking for some class. My ex was an amoeba. If it wasn’t Arena Ball it wasn’t worth talking about. I supported the worthless bastard the last six months we were together. Bailed him out twice on drunk and disorderlies, then he . . .”
She trailed off. “Apparently, I still have issues. Point is, I was looking for his opposite. Somebody with some polish who could do more than grunt when he wanted another beer. I guess I was looking for a little romance.”
“And he said all the right things.”
“Bingo. If it’s too good to be true, it’s probably a big, fat lie. Looks like I forgot that motto. But a picnic in the park, middle of the damn day, you’d think that would be safe. I can handle myself,” she added. “I bench-press one twenty. I’m a fifth degree black belt. I’m nobody’s victim. No way he’d take me down.”
Eve sized her up and agreed. Under most conditions, the woman could probably handle herself just fine. “He plans to drug you, with a very potent sexual illegal. You’d bring him back here because you’d think it’s your call. He’d light candles, put on music, give you more laced wine. He’d sprinkle pink rose petals on the bed.”
“Bullshit.” But she’d gone white. “That’s bullshit.”
“You wouldn’t think of it as rape while it happened. You’d do everything he told you to do. When he gave you the second drug, you’d lap it right up for him. While your system overloaded, your heart would give out; you wouldn’t even know you’re dead.”
“You want to scare me?” Stefanie got to her feet, paced. “You’re doing a damn good job.”
“That’s right. I want to scare you. That’s what he plans, that’s what might have happened tomorrow afternoon. But it’s not going to happen because you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
Stefanie lowered into a chair again. “He doesn’t know where I live. Tell me he doesn’t know where I live.”
“He probably does. He’s spent some time watching you. Get any flowers lately?”
“Oh Jesus. Pink roses. The son of a bitch sent me pink roses yesterday. In my quarters in London. I hauled them home with me. They’re in the bedroom.”
“Would you like me to dispose of them for you, Pilot Finch?” Peabody asked.
“Dump them in the recycler.” Stefanie rubbed