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From #1 New York Times bestselling author Nom Roberts, writing as J D. Robb, comes a tantalizing new novel in the futuristic series .... This time, Lieutenant Eve Dallas is searching for a Casanova killer with a deadly appetite for seduction ....
Lieutenant Eve Dallas is playing and replaying the clues in her mind. The candlelight, the music, the rose petals strewn across the bed-a seduction meant for his benefit, not hers. He hadn't intended to kill her. But now that he has, he is left with only two choices: He can either hole up in fear and guilt, or he can start hunting again ....
In the 13th installment of Robb's (aka Nora Roberts) futuristic In Death series (after Betrayal in Death), New York's Lieutenant Eve Dallas takes on a Casanova killer who targets young women via on-line poetry chat rooms. The killer sets the mood for murder with rose petals, candlelight and expensive wine laced with a deadly date-rape drug. The novel opens (as others have in the past) with Eve reliving the horror of stabbing her abusive father to death. The narrative then switches to another grim scene that of a woman who has been pushed from a balcony. With the technology available in 2059, identifying the culprit should be simple, but this killer is more inventive than most: he becomes each victim's fantasy man. To make Eve's job even more difficult, a psychological profile indicates that there may be two killers or one with a multiple-personality disorder. Robb sprinkles her narrative with the usual supporting characters: Roarke, Eve's rich husband, uses his state-of-the-art computers to assist her with the case; Peabody, Eve's assistant, is still dancing a sexual tango with Officer McNab; and Roarke's lofty but caring butler remains a thorn in Eve's side. Although Robb's energetic prose and hard-edged dialogue will keep readers engrossed, this installment offers little that is new or fresh. (Sept. 4) Forecast: Thirteen may very well be Robb's unlucky number. Although the recent revelation that J.D. Robb is Nora Roberts will prompt many new readers to pick up the latest book in the series, Robb's long-time fans may find that this well is running dry. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
More Reviews and RecommendationsOne of the most prolific and popular writers in the world, Nora Roberts (who also writes as her edgier alter-ego J. D. Robb) publishes multiple books a year. Not that it’s enough for her fans, who tear through her unconventional romances. With her trademark mix of fantasy, mystery, and romance, Roberts has created her own genre -- and romance fans are grateful for it!
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March 24, 2009: I always loved Nora Roberts books - especially her trilogies - but when I learned she also wrote the "In Death Series", I was at first skeptical. Not sure if I would get "into" a futuristic/romance type of book. But after the first chapter of the very first one - I was hooked and can't wait for the next one as soon as I finish the latest. Usually once a year, I start at the beginning and re-read them all. Not only are the plots excellent but the main characters keep growing to the point where they feel like family.
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September 23, 2006: I started this series with a much later book, Portrait in Death, and I was hooked! I had to go back to the beginning and find out who Summerset was, how Peabody and the gang got started. With few exceptions, I've loved every Nora Roberts book that I have picked up. This one actually gets a 4.5, the scale didn't allow for it though... My only disappointments were that Nora gave away the villains early in the book and they were very clichique as an archetype.
Name:
Nora Roberts
Also Known As:
J. D. Robb; Sarah Hardesty; Jill March; Eleanor Marie Robertson (birth name)
Current Home:
Keedysville, Maryland
Date of Birth:
1950
Place of Birth:
Silver Spring, Maryland
Awards:
Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, 1986; Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, 1991; Romance Writers of America Centennial Award, 1997; Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award (seven times); Quill Award for Blue Smoke, 2006
Not only has Nora Roberts written more bestsellers than anyone else in the world (according to Publishers Weekly), she’s also created a hybrid genre of her own: the futuristic detective romance. And that’s on top of mastering every subgenre in the romance pie: the family saga, the historical, the suspense novel. But this most prolific and versatile of authors might never have tapped into her native talent if it hadn't been for one fateful snowstorm.
As her fans well know, in 1979 a blizzard trapped Roberts at home for a week with two bored little kids and a dwindling supply of chocolate. To maintain her sanity, Roberts started scribbling a story -- a romance novel like the Harlequin paperbacks she'd recently begun reading. The resulting manuscript was rejected by Harlequin, but that didn't matter to Roberts. She was hooked on writing. Several rejected manuscripts later, her first book was accepted for publication by Silhouette.
For several years, Roberts wrote category romances for Silhouette -- short books written to the publisher's specifications for length, subject matter and style, and marketed as part of a series of similar books. Roberts has said she never found the form restrictive. "If you write in category, you write knowing there's a framework, there are reader expectations," she explained. "If this doesn't suit you, you shouldn't write it. I don't believe for one moment you can write well what you wouldn't read for pleasure."
Roberts never violated the reader's expectations, but she did show a gift for bringing something fresh to the romance formula. Her first book, Irish Thoroughbred (1981), had as its heroine a strong-willed horse groom, in contrast to the fluttering young nurses and secretaries who populated most romances at the time. But Roberts's books didn't make significant waves until 1985, when she published Playing the Odds, which introduced the MacGregor clan. It was the first bestseller of many.
Roberts soon made a name for herself as a writer of spellbinding multigenerational sagas, creating families like the Scottish MacGregors, the Irish Donovans and the Ukrainian Stanislaskis. She also began working on romantic suspense novels, in which the love story unfolds beneath a looming threat of violence or disaster. She grew so prolific that she outstripped her publishers' ability to print and market Nora Roberts books, so she created an alter ego, J.D. Robb. Under the pseudonym, she began writing romantic detective novels set in the future. By then, millions of readers had discovered what Publishers Weekly called her "immeasurable diversity and talent."
Although the style and substance of her books has grown, Roberts remains loyal to the genre that launched her career. As she says, "The romance novel at its core celebrates that rush of emotions you have when you are falling in love, and it's a lovely thing to relive those feelings through a book."
Roberts still lives in the same Maryland house she occupied when she first started writing -- though her carpenter husband has built on some additions. She and her husband also own Turn the Page Bookstore Café in Boonsboro, Maryland. When Roberts isn't busy writing, she likes to drop by the store, which specializes in Civil War titles as well as autographed copies of her own books.
Roberts sued fellow writer Janet Dailey in 1997, accusing her of plagiarizing numerous passages of her work over a period of years. Dailey paid a settlement and publicly apologized, blaming stress and a psychological disorder for her misconduct.
One afternoon when Nora Roberts was four, her two oldest brothers broke into a violent argument while they were baby-sitting her. "I peeked out of the bedroom, and they're beating the hell out of each other," Roberts says. Then her mother walked in, with a grocery bag in each hand. "One bag goes here, one bag goes there, she steps right in the middle of these two six-foot guys and she goes, boom, bam. Two backhands. And both of them go, 'Maaaaaawwwmm.' I thought right then, There's the power. She's the power."
Elly, as her family still calls her, the youngest of five and the only girl, was a quick study. "She bossed her brothers around," says her mother, Eleanor; today, "her brothers have got her on a throne." Roberts reigns over more than her family, which now includes her husband and two sons. Since her writing debut in 1981, she has helped lead American romance away from its clichés of simpering heroines and heroic rapists toward more complex characters and contemporary, multifaceted plots. Of course, sex -- passionate, tender, delayed, avoided, forced, in castles, in fields, in treetops -- continues to be a central hook. And often, the prose remains purple; Roberts herself has a propensity for phrases like "she rocked them both toward madness." But the genre with which her name is synonymous is one -- the only one -- that always puts women at the center of the universe.
***
Two Mercedes -- a Kompressor convertible and an M-Class SUV -- and a Chrysler PT Cruiser are parked outside the rural Keedysville, Maryland, home Roberts shares with her husband. Inside, several gauzy photographs of nude models hang above the bed in the ground-floor master bedroom, and a rendition of the Casablanca movie poster -- with the couple painted in as Ilsa and Rick -- is prominent above the fireplace. Three ebullient dogs and one gnarled old mutt track in dirt and litter the house with deer bones that they've found outside.
Since moving here twenty-nine years ago, Roberts has divorced her first husband, raised their two sons (Dan, now twenty-nine, lives with his wife down the lane; Jason, twenty-six, is just over an hour away) and remarried. She has also added on a few rooms and an indoor pool; a few years ago, she bought twenty adjoining acres so she could continue to shoo deer out of the garden in her underwear without worrying about neighbors. She and her husband own a tiny bookshop in nearby Boonsboro, but Roberts spends most of her time in an upstairs office where she types, smokes and drinks diet colas eight hours a day, five days a week. It's a routine that's produced an average of seven books a year since 1981, many of them bestsellers.
Roberts knows that her work is commercial fiction and doesn't lose any sleep waiting for National Book Award nominations. The high-art literary tradition isn't what's gotten her to where she is; what has is her "real talent for storytelling," as author Jennifer Crusie (Fast Women; Welcome to Temptation) says, and a commensurate skill with plot and pacing. Readers are pulled into her story lines (which often bounce from one continent to the next) and her well-drawn characters. Fans especially admire Roberts' tough, independent heroines. "When they fit with your own circumstances," says Elizabeth Mayfield, a database administrator from Norwalk, Connecticut, "you think, Gee, there's hope for me." Roberts, however, contends that she's not writing to provide role models for anyone. "I'm gonna tell a good, entertaining story," she says. "I'm not looking to change the world."
Roberts was born Eleanor Marie Robertson, and she grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland, about an hour from where she lives now. Her father worked as a projectionist at the local movie theater and as a stagehand until 1964, when he started a lighting company -- which is where most of the Robertson family still works. Her mother ran the family. "Mom was a very strict disciplinarian," says Roberts' brother Buzz, who is now the president of his dad's company, "but as long as you followed the rules and were polite, you didn't have a problem." He says Nora had it a little easier than her brothers. "Us boys, we knew we were low men on the totem pole. Mom was tickled pink when she had Nora."
"Her daddy worked two jobs all his life, and during the Depression, I took in roomers," says Eleanor Robertson, who at eighty-five still lives in Silver Spring and is now secretary-treasurer of the company her husband started (Bernie Robertson died in 2000). "She knows how hard we worked to give them an education and a nice home." Roberts went to Catholic schools as a child and credits much of her success to the nuns who taught her -- the discipline and guilt in her formative years did her a lot of good.
In her sophomore year of high school, Roberts transferred to public school, where she met Ronald Aufdem-Brinke; she married him at seventeen, in 1968, right after graduation. The young couple moved to Keedysville and had a small house built in the woods. While Aufdem-Brinke worked at his father's sheet-metal business and later the Robertson lighting company, Roberts took care of their two children and the house. "Oh God, I had craft addictions," Roberts says, taking a drag on a cigarette. (She runs through a pack of Winstons at a pace that doesn't quite catch up to chain-smoking but runs several steps beyond casual.) "You name it, I made it. I macraméd two hammocks once. I did ceramics, I sewed the kids' clothes. I even put flies into overalls -- that is sick. I was a sick woman. I baked bread once a week. I canned jellies and made my own spaghetti sauce using my own tomatoes."
Sometime during the next decade (she calls the period her "Earth Mother" years), Roberts started to read Harlequin novels -- the short books were easy for her to finish while the kids were napping. During a blizzard in 1979, trapped inside with little more than her three- and six-year-old sons and a game of Candy Land, Roberts sat down with a pencil and wrote a manuscript of her own, a romance that she's since described as "very bad." In the next year and a half, while her kids were napping or at T-ball practice, she wrote at least six manuscripts in longhand. She submitted some of them to Harlequin, which at the time was using mainly British writers. Roberts didn't hear back, but her enthusiasm wasn't subdued. "I became a writing junkie," she says. Although she was rejected several times, she continued to write -- but started filing her manuscripts in a back drawer rather than submitting them.
Roberts then heard that a new romance publisher, Silhouette, was looking specifically for American writers, so she sent in her work. In 1980 she got a call from Nancy Jackson, a Silhouette editor, saying she had plucked one of Roberts' manuscripts -- Irish Thoroughbred, a slender love story about an Irish stable hand and her boss -- out of the slush pile. Jackson told Roberts she wanted to publish it. Eleanor Aufdem-Brinke changed her name to Nora Roberts because she says she assumed all romance authors used a nom de plume. The book "didn't make waves when it first came out," says Isabel Swift, her current editor, but it sold well in reprint. Roberts was hooked on the process, though, and published five more books the following year, eight the following and ten the year after that.
Roberts hit it big in 1985 when she wrote the first of her MacGregor family series, Playing the Odds. The book, which focuses on a matchmaking Scottish patriarch and his brood, became an immediate bestseller. Romance readers began associating the name Nora Roberts with multigenerational sagas: In addition to the MacGregors, she has written about the Donovans, a modern family of Irish magicians; the Calhouns, a family of pigheaded sisters in Maine; and the Stanislaskis, tempestuous Ukrainian immigrants.
***
From the beginning, Roberts' heroines were not content to wear aprons or take dictation. In Irish Thoroughbred, though Roberts' heroine was young (early twenties) and virginal (well, she was a virgin), she was a horse groomer with an independent streak. Roberts wasn't alone in giving her female characters more authority in the workforce; other American romance authors -- like Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown and Elizabeth Lowell -- were doing the same. "I think one of the great things the American writer has brought to the romance novel," Krentz says, "is a modern interpretation of women's roles and women's values." Author Janet Evanovich adds, "The genre reflects the increased power and opportunity afforded today's women. We see more variety in the genre in terms of heroine age and occupation. And today's heroine is stronger, more self-reliant. Of course, Nora was always ahead of the pack. Her heroines were always strong."
Rebecca Sullivan, a heroine in Roberts' latest romantic suspense, Three Fates, is a quintessential Nora Roberts lead: She runs the family business (giving boat tours off the western coast of Ireland) and engineers the search for the family's lost treasure. Rebecca's a smart, capable lady with a sense of humor. In the course of the story, she falls in love with a computer expert who eventually marries her -- the book ends in Ireland with the assumption that the husband will help her with the business. "I'm not interested in telling stories about weak women," Roberts says. "Or if they're weak, I want to show how they grow and how they become strong. I'm not writing about Cinderella sitting waiting for her prince to come and take her away. She'll get out of it herself. The prince is a bonus, a completion, another element -- but it's not the answer to all of her problems."
***
Perched on a stool next to her kitchen counter, Roberts doesn't look like a purveyor of dreams. She could be any of a million women, taking a break from a million jobs, looking toward the end of a million days. Right now, her husband is outside, working in the yard before heading to town. Later on, he'll pick up groceries, and Nora will cook dinner; favorites are pasta with red sauce or Cajun chicken. Around 7:30, the two will retire for the evening, probably settling down for a while in front of the television -- it's Thursday, so they'll probably tune in for some of Friends or ER. And that's a typical end to a typical day for the world's most popular romance author. "I always wonder if they asked Agatha Christie if she was homicidal," Roberts says with a laugh. "I don't have a romantic lifestyle."
Still, she says, it's romance books she turns to when she wants to escape reality, so maybe the queen of the realm is, finally, one of its true citizens as well. Roberts, after all, spends her days holed up in her office, writing, researching and investigating the backgrounds for her books. She loves it, she says, but it's work. And when she's done, she's done. "When I read for pleasure," she says, "give me a story."
If today's romance is escapism, millions of its readers would argue that it is also girl-power between pastel covers: adventures that belong to characters who are at their strongest -- and sexiest -- because they are women. So Roberts essentially shrugs off the contempt reserved for romance novels as sexist and ignorant. Still, she recognizes that the genre carries a lot of baggage -- even she finds herself sneaking reads when she's out in public. A lot of the embarrassment, she says, has to do with the way the books look. "It's mostly hard for me when she's falling out of her dress, and he has his mouth on her tit," Roberts says, describing what she calls "nursing mother" covers. She taps her lighter against the counter and rolls her eyes. "To sit on an airplane and read that?"
It's Dante's first date with his cyberspace lady love, and he's got the whole evening planned -- soft music, candlelight, a bed covered with rose petals and, just in case the lady is shy or unwilling, a rare, undetectable date-rape drug that's worth a fortune on the streets. He hadn't planned to kill her so quickly. He never guessed how thrilling it would be. And there's nothing to stop him from plying his fatal art of seduction on yet another unsuspecting woman, except invincible police lieutenant Eve Dallas, who's back on the beat and determined to stop this Casanova killer before he kisses -- and kills -- again.
Dante had been courting his victim in cyberspace for weeks before meeting her in person. A few sips of wine and a few hours later, she was dead. The murder weapon: a rare, usually undetectable date-rape drug with a street value of a quarter million dollars.
Detective Eve Dallas is playing and replaying the clues in her mind. The candlelight, the music, the rose petals strewn across the bed - a seduction meant for his benefit, not hers. He hadn't intended to kill her. But now that he has, he is left with only two choices: to either hole up in fear and guilt or start hunting again. . .
In the 13th installment of Robb's (aka Nora Roberts) futuristic In Death series (after Betrayal in Death), New York's Lieutenant Eve Dallas takes on a Casanova killer who targets young women via on-line poetry chat rooms. The killer sets the mood for murder with rose petals, candlelight and expensive wine laced with a deadly date-rape drug. The novel opens (as others have in the past) with Eve reliving the horror of stabbing her abusive father to death. The narrative then switches to another grim scene that of a woman who has been pushed from a balcony. With the technology available in 2059, identifying the culprit should be simple, but this killer is more inventive than most: he becomes each victim's fantasy man. To make Eve's job even more difficult, a psychological profile indicates that there may be two killers or one with a multiple-personality disorder. Robb sprinkles her narrative with the usual supporting characters: Roarke, Eve's rich husband, uses his state-of-the-art computers to assist her with the case; Peabody, Eve's assistant, is still dancing a sexual tango with Officer McNab; and Roarke's lofty but caring butler remains a thorn in Eve's side. Although Robb's energetic prose and hard-edged dialogue will keep readers engrossed, this installment offers little that is new or fresh. (Sept. 4) Forecast: Thirteen may very well be Robb's unlucky number. Although the recent revelation that J.D. Robb is Nora Roberts will prompt many new readers to pick up the latest book in the series, Robb's long-time fans may find that this well is running dry. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Loading...The room was cold as a grave, hazed by the red light that blinked, on and off, on and off, against the dirty window glass. The light spilled over the floor, over the blood, over his body. Over her as she huddled in the corner with the knife, covered with gore to the hilt, still in her hand.
Pain was everywhere, radiating through her in stupefying waves that had no beginning or end, but circled, endlessly circled, into every cell. The bone in her arm he'd snapped, the cheek where he'd backhanded her so carelessly. The center of her that had torn, again, during the rape.
She was mothered by the pain, coated with shock. And washed with his blood. She was eight.
She could see her own breath as she panted. Little ghosts that told her she was alive.
She could taste the blood inside her mouth, a bright and terrible flavor, and smell just under the ripeness of fresh death-the stink of whiskey.
She was alive, and he was not. She was alive, and he was not. Again and again she chanted those words in her head, and her mind tried to make sense of them.
She was alive. He was not.
And his eyes, open and staring, fixed on her.
Smiled.
You can't get rid of me so easy, little girl.
Her breath came faster, in hitching gasps that wanted to gather into a scream. That wanted to burst out of her throat. But all that came was a whimper.
Made a mess of things, haven't you? Just can't do what you're told.
His voice was so pleasant, bright with that grinning humor she knew was the most dangerous of all. While he laughed, blood poured out of the holes she'd hacked into him.
What's the matter, little girl? Cat got your tongue?
I'm alive and you're not. I'm alive and you're not.
Think so? He wiggled his fingers, a kind of teasing wave that made her moan in terror as wet red drops flicked from the tips.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Don't hurt me again. You hurt me. Why do you have to hurt me?
Because you're stupid. Because you don't listen! Because-and here's the real secret-I can. 1 can do what 1 want with you and nobody gives a stinking rat's ass. You're nothing, you're nobody, and don't you forget it, you little bitch. She began to cry now, thin cold tears that tracked through the mask of blood over her face. Go away. Just go away and leave me alone!
I'm not going to do that. I'm never going to do that.
To her horror, he pushed himself to his knees. Crouched there like some nightmarish toad, bloody and grinning. Watching her.
1 got a lot invested in you. Time and money. Who puts a fucking roof over your head? Who puts food in your belly? Who takes you traveling all over this great country of ours? Most kids your age haven't seen shit, but you have. But do you learn? No, you don't. Do you pull your weight? No, you don't. But you're gonna. You remember what I told you? You're gonna start earning your keep.
He got to his feet, a big man with his hands slowly balling into fists at his side. But now, Daddy has to punish you. He took a shambling step toward her. You've been a bad girl. And another. A very bad girl.
Her own screams woke her.
She was drenched in sweat, shuddering with cold. She fought for breath, wildly struggled to tear away the ropes of sheets that had wrapped around her as she'd thrashed through the nightmare.
Sometimes he'd tied her up. Remembering that, she made small, animal sounds in her throat as she tore at the sheets.
Freed, she rolled off the bed, crouched beside it in the dark like a woman prepared to flee or fight.
"Lights! On full. God, oh God:"
They flashed on, chasing even a hint of shadow out of the huge, beautiful room. Still, she scanned it, every corner, looking for ghosts as the nasty edge of the dream jabbed through her gut.
She forced back the tears. They were useless, and they were weak. Just as it was useless, it was weak, to let herself be frightened by dreams. By ghosts.
But she continued to shake as she crawled up to sit on the edge of the big bed.
An empty bed because Roarke was in Ireland and her experiment of trying to sleep in it without him, without dreams, had been a crashing failure.
Did that make her pitiful? she wondered. Stupid? Or just married?
When the fat cat, Galahad, bumped his big head against her arm, she gathered him up. She sat, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, eleven years a cop, and comforted herself with the cat as a child might a teddy bear.
Nausea coated her stomach, and she continued to rock, to pray she wouldn't be sick and add one more misery to the night.
"Time display," she ordered, and the dial of the bedside clock blinked on. One fifteen, she noted. Perfect. She'd barely made it an hour before she'd screamed herself awake.
She set the cat aside, got to her feet. As carefully as an old woman she stepped down from the platform, crossed the room, and walked into the bathroom.
She ran the water cold, as cold as she could stand, then sluiced it onto her face while Galahad wound himself like a plump ribbon between her legs.
While he purred into the silence, she lifted her head, examined her face in the mirror. It was nearly as colorless as the water that dripped from it. Her eyes were dark, looked bruised, looked exhausted. Her hair was a matted brown cap, and her facial bones seemed too sharp, too close to the surface. Her mouth was too big, her nose ordinary.
What the hell did Roarke see when he looked at her? she wondered.
She could call him now. It was after six in the morning in Ireland, and he was an early riser. Even if he were still asleep, it wouldn't matter. She could pick up the 'link and call, and his face would slide on-screen.
And he'd see the nightmare in her eyes. What good would that do either of them?
When a man owned the majority of the known universe, he had to be able to travel on business without being hounded by his wife. In this case, it was more than business that kept him away. He was attending a memorial to a dead friend, and didn't need more stress and worry heaped on him from her end.
She knew, though they'd never really discussed it, that he'd cut his overnight trips down to the bone. The nightmares rarely came so violently when he was in bed beside her.
She'd never had one like this, one where her father had spoken to her after she'd killed him. Said things to her she thought-was nearly sure-he'd said to her when he'd been alive.
Eve imagined Dr. Mira, NYPSD's star psychologist and profiler, would have a field day with the meanings and symbolism and Christ-all.
That wouldn't do any good either, she decided. So she'd just keep this little gem to herself. She'd take a shower, grab the cat, and go upstairs to her office. She and Galahad would stretch out in her sleep chair and conk out for the rest of the night.
The dream would have faded away by morning.
You remember what I told you.
She couldn't, Eve thought as she stepped into the shower and ordered all jets on full at a hundred and one degrees. She couldn't remember.
And she didn't want to.
She was steadier when she stepped out of the shower, and however pathetic it was, dragged on one of Roarke's shirts for comfort. She'd just scooped up the cat when the bedside 'link beeped.
Roarke, she thought and her spirits lifted considerably.
She rubbed her cheek against Galahad's head as she answered. "Dallas." Dispatch. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve . . .
Death didn't only come in dreams.
Eve stood over it now, in the balmy early morning air of a Tuesday n June. The New York City sidewalk was cordoned off the sensors and blocks squaring around the pavement and the cheerful tubs of petunias used to spruce up the building's entrance.
She had a particular fondness for petunias, but she didn't think they were going to do the job this time. And not for some time to come.
The woman was facedown on the sidewalk. From the angle of the body, the splatter and pools of blood, there wasn't going to be a lot of that face left. Eve looked up at the dignified gray tower with its semicircle balconies, its silver ribbon of people glides. Until they identified the body, they'd have a hard time pinning down the area from which she'd fallen. Or jumped. Or been pushed.
The one thing Eve was sure of: It had been a very long drop.
"Get her prints and run them," she ordered.
She glanced down at her aide as Peabody squatted, opened a field kit. Peabody's uniform cap sat squarely on her ruler-straight dark hair. She had steady hands, Eve thought, and a good eye. "Why don't you do time of death:'
"Me?" Peabody asked in surprise.
"Get me an ID, establish time of death. Log in description of scene and body." Now, despite the grisly circumstance, it was excitement that moved over Peabody's face. "Yes, sir. Sir, first officer on-scene has a potential witness." "A witness from up there, or down here?"
"Down here."
"I'll take it." But Eve stayed where she was a moment longer, watching Peabody scan the dead woman's fingerprints. Though Peabody's hands and feet were sealed, she made no contact with the body and did the scan quickly, delicately.
After one nod of approval, Eve strode away to question the uniforms flanking the perimeter.
It might have been nearly three in the morning, but there were bystanders, gapers, and they had to be encouraged along blocked out. News hawks were already in evidence, calling out questions, trying to snag a few minutes of recording to pump into the airwaves before the first morning commute.
An ambitious glide-cart operator had jumped on the opportunity and was putting in some overtime selling to the crowd. His grill pumped out smoke that spewed the scents of soy dogs and rehydrated onions into the air.
He appeared to be doing brisk business.
In the gorgeous spring of 2059, death continued to draw an audience from the living, and those who knew how to make a quick buck out of the deal.
A cab winged by, didn't bother to so much as tap the brakes. From somewhere farther downtown, a siren screamed.
Eve blocked it out, turned to the uniform. "Rumor is we've got eyes:' "Yes, sir. Officer Young's got her in the squad car keeping her away from the ghouls."
"Good." Eve scanned the faces behind the barrier. In them she saw horror, excitement, curiosity, and a kind of relief.
I'm alive, and you're not.
Shaking it off, she hunted down Young and the witness.
Given the neighborhood-for in spite of the dignity and the petunias, the apartment building was right on the border of midtown bustle and downtown sleaze-Eve was expecting a licensed companion, maybe a jonesing chemi-head or a dealer on the way to a mark. She certainly hadn't expected the tiny, snappily dressed blonde with the pretty and familiar face.
"Dr. Dimatto."
"Lieutenant Dallas?" Louise Dimatto angled her head, and the ruby clusters at her ears gleamed like glassy blood. "Do you come in, or do I come out?" Eve jerked a thumb, held the car door wider. "Come on out."
They'd me the previous winter, at the Canal Street Clinic where Louise fought against the tide to heal the homeless an the hopeless. She came from money, and her bloodline was blue, but Eve had good reason to know Louise didn't quibble about getting her hands dirty.
She'd nearly died helping Eve fight an ugly war during that bitter winter....
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Hear our exclusive audio interview with Nora Roberts (11:41).
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