“Well, shit. Mr. Mystery. Description and visual.” Roarke. Black hair, blue eyes, 6 feet, 2 inches, 173 pounds.
Eve grunted as the computer listed the description. She had to agree that in Roarke’s case, a picture was worth a couple hundred words.
His image stared back at her from the screen. He was almost ridiculously handsome: the narrow, aesthetic face; the slash of cheekbones; and sculpted mouth. Yes, his hair was black, but the computer didn’t say it was thick and full and swept back from a strong forehead to fall inches above broad shoulders. His eyes were blue, but the word was much too simple for the intensity of color or the power in them.
Even on an image, Eve could see this was a man who hunted down what or who he wanted, bagged it, used it, and didn’t bother with frivolities such as trophies.
And yes, she thought, this was a man who could kill if and when it suited him. He would do so coolly, methodically, and without breaking a sweat.
Gathering up the hard data, she decided she’d have a talk with Roarke. Very soon.
By the time Eve left the station to head home, the sky was miserably spitting snow. She checked her pockets without hope and found she had indeed l
eft her gloves in her apartment. Hatless, gloveless, with only her leather jacket as protection against the biting wind, she drove across town.
She’d meant to get her vehicle into repair. There just hadn’t been time. But there was plenty of time to regret it now as she fought traffic and shivered, thanks to a faulty heating system.
She swore if she got home without turning into a block of ice, she’d make the appointment with the mechanic.
But when she did arrive home, her primary thought was food. Even as she unlocked her door, she was dreaming about a hot bowl of soup, maybe a mound of chips, if she had any left, and coffee that didn’t taste like someone had spilled sewage into the water system.
She saw the package immediately, the slim square just inside the door. Her weapon was out and in her hand before she drew the next breath. Sweeping with weapon and eyes, she kicked the door shut behind her. She left the package where it was and moved from room to room until she was satisfied she was alone.
After holstering her weapon, she peeled out of her jacket and tossed it aside. Bending, she picked up the sealed disc by the edges. There was no label, no message.
Eve took it into the kitchen, tapping it carefully out of its seal, and slipped it into her computer.
And forgot all about food.
The video was top quality, as was the sound. She sat down slowly as the scene played on her monitor.
Naked, Sharon DeBlass lounged on the lake-size bed, rustling satin sheets. She lifted a hand, skimming it through that glorious tumbled mane of russet hair as the bed’s floating motion rocked her.
“Want me to do anything special, darling?” She chuckled, rose up on her knees, cupped her own breasts. “Why don’t you come back over here . . .” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “We’ll do it all again.” Her gaze lowered, and a little cat smile curved her lips. “Looks like you’re more than ready.” She laughed again, shook back her hair. “Oh, we want to play a game.” Still smiling, Sharon put her hands up. “Don’t hurt me.” She whimpered, shivering even as her eyes glinted with excitement. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Come on over here and force me. I want you to.” Lowering her hands, she began to stroke herself. “Hold that big bad gun on me while you rape me. I want you to. I want you to—”
The explosion had Eve jolting. Her stomach twisted as she saw the woman fly backward like a broken doll, the blood spurting out of her forehead. The second shot wasn’t such a shock, but Eve had to force herself to keep her eyes on the screen. After the final report there was silence, but for the quiet music, the fractured breathing. The killer’s breathing.
The camera moved in, panned the body in grisly detail. Then, through the magic of video, DeBlass was as Eve had first seen her, spread-eagled in a perfect x over bloody sheets. The image ended with a graphic overlay.
ONE OF SIX
It was easier to watch it through the second time. Or so Eve told herself. This time she noticed a slight bobble of the camera after the first shot, a quick, quiet gasp. She ran it back again, listening to each word, studying each movement, hoping for some clue. But he was too clever for that. And they both knew it.
He’d wanted her to see just how good he was. Just how cold.
And he wanted her to know that he knew just where to find her. Whenever he chose.
Furious that her hands weren’t quite steady, she rose. Rather than the coffee she’d intended, Eve took out a bottle of wine from the small cold cell, poured half a glass.
She drank it down quickly, promised herself the other half shortly, then punched in the code for her commander.
It was the commander’s wife who answered, and from the glittering drops at her ears and the perfect coiffure, Eve calculated that she’d interrupted one of the woman’s famous dinner parties.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Mrs. Whitney. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need to speak to the commander.”
“We’re entertaining, lieutenant.”
“Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” Fucking politics, Eve thought as she forced a smile. “It’s urgent.”