The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [426]
She nodded. “Let’s go tonight,” she said as they walked to the car.
“Go?”
“Yeah, to Mexico. As soon as I’ve closed this, let’s just head out, take one of those snappy transpos of yours and get the hell out of town.”
He kissed her fingers before opening the door for her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
REUNION IN DEATH
J. D. Robb
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Reunion in Death
A BERKLEY Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0410-8
A BERKLEY BOOK®
BERKLEY Books first published by The Penguin Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic Edition: July, 2003
There are some meannesses which are too mean even for man—woman, lovely woman alone, can venture to commit them.
—W. M. Thackeray, A Shabby Genteel Story
The surest poison is time.
—Emerson
Chapter 1
Murder was work. Death was a serious chore for the killer, the victim, for the survivors. And for those who stood for the dead. Some went about the job devotedly, others carelessly.
And for some, murder was a labor of love.
When he left his Park Avenue condo for his regular morning stroll, Walter C. Pettibone was blissfully unaware he was in his last hours of life. He was a robust sixty and a canny businessman who’d increased his family’s already considerable fortune through flowers and sentiment.
He was wealthy, healthy, and just over a year before had acquired a young, blonde wife who had the sexual appetite of a Doberman in heat and the brains of a cabbage.
His world, in Walter C. Pettibone’s opinion, was just exactly so.
He had work he loved, two children from his first marriage who would one day take over the business he’d taken over from his own father. He maintained a reasonably friendly relationship with his ex, a fine, sensible woman, and his son and daughter were pleasant, intelligent individuals who brought him pride and satisfaction.
He had a grandson who was the apple of his eye.
In the summer of 2059, World of Flowers was a major intergalactic enterprise with florists, horticulturists, offices, and greenhouses both on and off planet.
Walter loved flowers. And not just for their profit margin. He loved the scents of them, the colors, the textures, the beauty of both foliage and blossom and the simple miracle of their existence.
Every morning he would visit a handful of florists, to check the stock, the arrangements, and just to sniff and chat and spend time among the flowers and the people who loved them.
Twice a week, he was up before dawn to attend the gardener’s market downtown. There he would wander and enjoy, order or critique.
It was a routine that rarely varied over the course of a half-century, and one he never tired of.
Today, after an hour or so among the blooms, he’d go into the corporate offices. He’d spend more time there than usual in order to give his wife the time and space