Imitation in Death

“Right. You have a standing order fromWhittier ’s inLondon for a certain type of stationery. Your last purchase of it was four months ago.”

“No. I never purchase anything. I can’t go into shops, you see. My fans are so enthusiastic. I have things brought in to me, or Li, or one of my staff goes into the shops. I do enjoy good stationery. I feel it’s important to send personal notes, on good paper, to friends or those who’ve made some contribution.”

“Cream-colored, heavy-eight bond. Unrecycled.”

“Unrecycled?” He ducked his head, smiling into his cup like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m ashamed to say I have been using something like that. Not very green of me, but it’s gorgeous paper. Li, does my writing paper come fromLondon?”

“I can check.”

“She’ll check.”

“Fine. I’d like a sample of it, too, if you don’t mind, and the names of any staff members who were authorized to make purchases for you inLondon.”

“I’ll take care of that.” Li glided out again.

“I don’t quite understand how my writing paper could interest you.”

“There was a note, written on that style of paper, left with the body.”

“Please.” He lifted both hands, drawing them up his own body as he breathed in, pushing them outward as he exhaled. “I don’t want that sort of image corrupting my senses. That’s why I listen only to my own music. I never watch the media reports, except for specially selected features on entertainment or society. There’s too much darkness in the world. Too much despair.”

“Tell me about it.”

WhenEve left, she had a sample of his writing paper, and the names of his staffers inLondon.

“He’s weird,” Peabody commented. “But he’s built. And he just doesn’t seem like the type who’d go hunting LCs.”

“He likes to have multi-partner sex, occasionally with minors.”

“Oh.” Peabody wrinkled her nose as she glanced back toward the house. “So much for my instincts on this one.”

“Maybe he figures underage groupies have less negativity, sexually speaking, than any grown woman who could listen to that crap he plays and not run screaming after five minutes.”

She got into the car, slammed the door. “If that stinking ‘Love Lights the World’ sticks in my head, I’m coming back here and beating him with a club.”

“Now that’s positive,” Peabody decided.

Chapter5

Knowing the security at the U.N. was tight,Eve decided to avoid a possible pissing match with guards and parked in a second-level street ramp onFirst Avenue.

The little cross-block hike would help work off the doughnuts.

They still allowed tours-she’d checked-but they were stringently regulated with the threat of terrorism always a thunderhead ready to storm. But nations throughout the world, and the recognized off-planet factions, had their meetings and assemblies, their votes and their agendas, inside the huge white building that dominated its six-block stretch.

The flags still waved, a colorful symbol,Eve supposed, of man’s willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.

Even with their names on the visitors’ list, she andPeabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always madeEve twitchy.

Their badges were sca

They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body sca

“Okay,”Eve declared. “Maybe they’ve got to be careful, but I’m drawing the line at a cavity search.”

“Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident.” Peabody stepped withEve and a uniformed guard into a bombproof elevator.

“Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us.”

They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were sca

They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide’s retina scan and voice command unlocked a bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.

It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-sealed and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.

A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled atEve.

“LieutenantDallas, I’mThomasNewkirk, personal assistant toMr.Renquist. I’ll escort you from here.”

“Some security you’ve got here,Mr.Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?

He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”

“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.

He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.

“You former military?”

“Captain, RAF.Mr.Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.

“Just one moment, please.”

While she waited,Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.

She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.

It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr.Renquistwill see you now, Lieutenant.”

It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with anEast River view at his back.

He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.

He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-ski

His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.

His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets-whatever the hell they were-to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.

“LieutenantDallas, I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve read and heard quite a bit about you already.” He held out a hand, and she was treated to a firm, dry, politician’s shake. “I believe we met once, some time back, at a charity function.”

“So I’m told.”

“Please have a seat.” He gestured, and sat behind his desk. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

She sat in a sturdy cloth chair. Not a comfortable one, she noted. Busy man, can’t have people sitting around in his office taking up too much of his time.

His desk was another hive of industry. The data and communication system with the screen blinking on hold, a short stack of discs, another stack of paper, the second ‘link. Among the work was a duet of framed photographs. She could see a slice of a young girl’s face and curly hair-both fair like her father’s-and assumed the other shot would be of his wife.