The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [412]
And when we have destroyed, one by one, the symbols of this overfed society, demonstrating our power and our clean-minded plan for the new realm, they will tremble. They will see us, and they will remember him. The first symbol of our glorious victory will be a monument to him. In his image.
We are loyal, and our memory is long.
You will hear the first rumble of battle tomorrow.
Speak of us to all the patriots, to all the loyal.
We are Cassandra.
chapter one
On this particular night, a beggar died unnoticed under a bench in Greenpeace Park. A history professor fell bloodied, his throat slashed three feet from his front door for the twelve credits in his pocket. A woman choked out one last scream as she crumpled under her lover’s pounding fists.
And not yet done, death circled its bony finger, then jabbed it gleefully between the eyes of one J. Clarence Branson, the fifty-year-old copresident of Branson Tools and Toys.
He’d been rich, single, and successful, a jolly man with reason to be as co-owner of a major interplanetary corporation. A second son and the third generation of Bransons to provide the world and its satellites with implements and amusements, he’d lived lavishly.
And had died the same way.
J. Clarence’s heart had been skewered with one of his own multipower porta drills by his steely-eyed mistress, who’d bolted him to the wall with it, reported the incident to the police, then had calmly sat sipping claret until the first officers arrived on the scene.
She continued to sip her drink, settled cozily in a high-backed chair in front of a computer-generated fire while Lieutenant Eve Dallas examined the body.
“He’s absolutely dead,” she coolly informed Eve. Her name was Lisbeth Cooke, and she made her living as an advertising executive in her deceased lover’s company. She was forty, sleekly attractive, and very good at her job. “The Branson 8000 is an excellent product—designed to satisfy both the professional and the hobbyist. It’s very powerful and accurate.”
“Uh-huh.” Eve scanned the victim’s face. Pampered and handsome, even though death had etched a look of stunned and sorrowful surprise on his face. Blood soaked through the breast of his blue velvet dressing gown and puddled glossily on the floor. “Sure did the job here. Read Ms. Cooke her rights, Peabody.”
While her aide attended to the matter, Eve verified time and cause of death for the record. Even with the voluntary confession, the business of murder would follow routine. The weapon would be taken into evidence, the body transported and autopsied, the scene secured.
Gesturing to the crime scene team to take over, Eve crossed the royal red carpet, sat across from Lisbeth in front of the chirpy fire that blew out lush heat and light. She said nothing for a moment, waiting several beats to see what reaction she might get from the fashionable brunette with fresh blood splattered somehow gaily on her yellow silk jumpsuit.
She got nothing but a politely inquiring stare. “So . . . you want to tell me about it?”
“He was cheating on me,” Lisbeth said flatly. “I killed him.”
Eve studied the steady green eyes, saw anger but no shock or remorse. “Did you argue?”
“We had a few words.” Lisbeth lifted her claret to full lips painted the same rich tone as the wine. “Most of them mine. J. C. was weak-minded.” She shrugged her shoulders and silk rustled. “I accepted that, even found it endearing in many ways. But we had an arrangement. I gave him three years of my life.”
Now she leaned forward, eyes snapping with the temper behind the chill. “Three years, during which time I could have pursued other interests, other arrangements, other relationships. But I was faithful. He was not.”
She drew in a breath, leaned back again, very nearly smiled. “Now he’s dead.”
“Yeah, we got that