Imitation in Death

“She wants me to know, she’ll tell me.”

He leaned down closer, brushing his lips over her hair, then speaking directly into her ear. “She thinks she tanked it.”

“Shit.”Eve fisted her hands. “Shit, fuck, damn.” She swung to the freezer, sorted through it, and confiscated a quart of Strawberry Fields Frozen Dessert.

She found a spoon, stuck it in, then marched off toward the bedroom.

“There’s my girl,” Roarke murmured.

Peabodysat on the edge of the bed, studying the morning briefing on her PPC. She glanced up whenEve entered, nearly had her sulky look in place when she spotted the quart of ice cream.

“Here.”Eve shoved it into her hand. “Eat this and stop pouting. I need you at a hundred percent.”

“It’s just… I think I fucked up, really bad.”

“I don’t want you to think. You put it out of your mind, all the way. You have to be focused. You can’t afford to miss a move, miss a signal. In a few hours, you’re going to be lying in that bed, in the dark. When he comes in, his whole purpose will be to kill you. He’ll be wearing night-vision goggles. He likes to work in the dark. He’ll see you, but you won’t see him. Until we make the move, you won’t see him. So you can’t fuck that up, or you’re going to get hurt. You get hurt, you’ll really piss me off.”

“I’m sorry about this afternoon.”Peabody shoved in the strawberry ice cream. “I had myself all worked up. I’d kicked my own ass as many times as I could on the way back from the exam. I just needed to kick somebody else’s. And I started thinking, if you’d just called me in I wouldn’t have taken that stupid, goddamn exam.”

“You did take it. And tomorrow you’ll know the results. Now put it aside and do the job.”

“I will.” She held out a spoonful of ice cream toEve.

Taking it,Eve sampled. “Christ. That’s just horrible.”

“I think it’s pretty good.” More cheerful,Peabody took the spoon back and dug in for more. “You’re just spoiled because you get the real thing now. Thanks for not being mad at me anymore.”

“Who says I’m not? If I liked you, I’d have sent somebody out for real ice cream instead of stealing a civilian’s frozen crap.”

Peabodyjust smiled, and licked the spoon.

Chapter23

He’d be getting dressed now,Eve figured, as she looked out through the privacy-screened windows ofMitchell ’s loft. It would be full dark soon. Marsonini had always had a long, leisurely meal, with two glasses of wine, before a kill. Always an upscale restaurant, booking a corner table.

He could spend two, even three hours over it. Savoring the food, sipping the wine. Ending with coffee and dessert. A man who enjoyed the finer things.

Renquist would appreciate that.

Evecould see him now, in her mind’s eye. Buttoning a perfectly white, bespoke shirt. Watching his own fingers in the mirror. It would be a good room, well appointed. He wouldn’t tolerate anything but the best-as Renquist or Marsonini.

A silk tie. Probably a silk tie. He’d like the way it felt in his fingers as he slipped it on, as he finessed the perfect knot.

He would take it off after his victim was subdued and restrained. Carefully hanging every article of clothing to avoid creasing. He wouldn’t want creases any more than bloodstains.

But for now, he’d enjoy the act of dressing well, of good material against his skin, and the anticipation of the food and wine, and what followed it.

She could see him, Renquist, turning himself into Marsonini. Grooming the long red hair that was his pride and his vanity. Would Renquist see Marsonini’s face in the mirror now? She imagined he would. The darker complexion, the less even features, the fuller mouth, the pale, pale eyes that would peer out from behind tinted shades. He would need to see it or the night wouldn’t have the same flavor.

Now the jacket. Something in light gray, maybe, perhaps with a faint pinstripe. A good summer suit for a man of discriminating tastes. Then the lightest splash of cologne.

He would check his briefcase. Take a long breath to draw in the scent of the leather. Would he take out all of his tools? Probably. He would run his hands along the lengths of rope. Thin, strong rope that would leave painful grooves in his victim’s flesh.

He loved the thought of their pain. Then the ball gag. He preferred the humiliation of that over cloth. The condoms, for his own safety and protection. The thin cigars and slim gold lighter. He enjoyed a good smoke nearly as much as burning those tiny circles into his victims’ skin and watching the agony scream in their eyes. The little antique bottle he’d filled with alcohol, to pour over the wounds for that extra panache.

A retractable bat, honed steel. Strong enough to break bones, shatter cartilage. And phallic enough to suit another purpose should he be in the mood.

Blades, of course. Smooth ones, jagged ones, in case he found the woman’s kitchen knives under par.

His music discs, the night-vision goggles, the hand blaster or the ministu

His own towel. White, Egyptian cotton, and his own fresh cake of unscented soap for washing up after the job was done.

And lastly, the security codes, cloned the day before during his visit to the loft. The jammer that would disengage the cameras so that he could stroll into the building without leaving a trace.

All neatly packed now, and locked into the elegant case.

One last look in the mirror, a full-length to show himself the entire effect. It had to be perfect. A flick of the finger over a lapel to remove a minute speck of lint.

Then he would stroll out the door, to begin his evening out.

“Where were you?” Roarke asked when her eyes changed, when her shoulders relaxed.

“With him.” She looked over, saw he held two mugs of coffee. “Thanks,” she said, taking one.

“And where is he?”

“Heading out to di

“How did they catch him?” He knew, but he wantedEve to say it, to talk it out.

“His intended victim lived in a loft, not so different than this. Makes sense. One of her friends had a major fight with her boyfriend, and came over to cry on Lisel’s-that was her name-came over to cry on her shoulder or whatever women do.”

“Eat strawberry ice cream.”

“Shut up. So the friend finally cried it out and bunked on the sofa. It was the music that woke her up. She hadn’t heard him come in-apparently they’d killed a bottle of cheap wine or brew. Something. Marsonini hadn’t spotted her sleeping there, which was a break. So the friend goes toward the bedroom to see about the music. Lisel was already bound, gagged, with a broken kneecap. Marsonini was naked. His back was to the doorway. He was climbing onto the bed, getting ready to rape Lisel.”

She knew what had been in the victim’s head, swimming over the pain. She knew that the awful terror of what was to come was worse, so much worse than pain.

“The friend kept her head,”Eve continued. “She ran back to the living room, called nine-one-one, then hurried back to the bedroom, picked up this bat he’d used to break Lisel’s kneecap, and she whaled on him. Fractured his skull, broke his jaw, his nose, his elbow. By the time the cops got there, Marsonini was unconscious and in a sorry state. She’d untied Lisel, covered her up, and was holding a knife to the bastard’s throat, hoping-she said in her statement-he’d come around so she could stick it in his gullet.”

“I’d say it stuck in his gullet that a woman stopped him.”

Her lips quirked a little, because she understood. “I’m counting on it. He died in prison two years later when an unidentified inmate or guard castrated him and left him lying in his own cage. Bled to death.”