[In Death 17] - Imitation in Death Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Imitation in Death

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Nora Roberts

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1011-9083-8

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: October, 2005

  Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

  REMEMBER WHEN

  Nora Roberts

  HOT ICE

  SACRED SINS

  BRAZEN VIRTUE

  SWEET REVENGE

  PUBLIC SECRETS

  GENUINE LIES

  CARNAL INNOCENCE

  DIVINE EVIL

  HONEST ILLUSIONS

  PRIVATE SCANDALS

  HIDDEN RICHES

  TRUE BETRAYALS

  MONTANA SKY

  SANCTUARY

  HOMEPORT

  THE REEF

  RIVER’S END

  CAROLINA MOON

  THE VILLA

  MIDNIGHT BAYOU

  THREE FATES

  BIRTHRIGHT

  Series

  In the Garden Trilogy

  BLUE DAHLIA

  Key Trilogy

  KEY OF LIGHT

  KEY OF KNOWLEDGE

  KEY OF VALOR

  Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

  JEWELS OF THE SUN

  TEARS OF THE MOON

  HEART OF THE SEA

  Chesapeake Bay Saga

  SEA SWEPT

  RISING TIDES

  INNER HARBOR

  CHESAPEAKE BLUE

  Three Sisters Island Trilogy

  DANCE UPON THE AIR

  HEAVEN AND EARTH

  FACE THE FIRE

  Born In Trilogy

  BORN IN FIRE

  BORN IN ICE

  BORN IN SHAME

  Dream Trilogy

  DARING TO DREAM

  HOLDING THE DREAM

  FINDING THE DREAM

  Anthologies

  FROM THE HEART

  A LITTLE MAGIC

  A LITTLE FATE

  MOON SHADOWS

  (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  The Once Upon Series

  (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  ONCE UPON A CASTLE

  ONCE UPON A STAR

  ONCE UPON A DREAM

  ONCE UPON A ROSE

  ONCE UPON A KISS

  ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT

  J. D. Robb

  NAKED IN DEATH

  GLORY IN DEATH

  IMMORTAL IN DEATH

  RAPTURE IN DEATH

  CEREMONY IN DEATH

  VENGEANCE IN DEATH

  HOLIDAY IN DEATH

  CONSPIRACY IN DEATH

  LOYALTY IN DEATH

  WITNESS IN DEATH

  JUDGMENT IN DEATH

  BETRAYAL IN DEATH

  SEDUCTION IN DEATH

  REUNION IN DEATH

  PURITY IN DEATH

  PORTRAIT IN DEATH

  IMITATION IN DEATH

  DIVIDED IN DEATH

  VISIONS IN DEATH

  Anthologies

  SILENT NIGHT

  (with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

  OUT OF THIS WORLD

  (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

  Also available . . .

  THE OFFICIAL NORA ROBERTS COMPANION

  (edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

  “No man ever yet became great by imitation.”

  —Samuel Johnson

  “And the Devil said to Simon Legree: ‘I like your style, so wicked and free.’ ”

  —Vachel Lindsay

  Prologue

  Summer of 2059 was a mean and murderous bitch who showed no sign of lightening her mood. September dragged in on the sweaty heels of August and smothered New York in a wet blanket of heat, humidity, and foul air.

  Summer, Jacie Wooton thought, was killing business.

  It was barely two A.M., prime time with the bars spitting out customers, and those customers looking for a little extra action before heading home. The heart of the night, as she liked to think of it, when those with a yen and the price to satisfy it came trolling for a companion.

  She was licensed for street work, since she’d screwed herself up with a little illegals addiction and a couple of busts. But she was clean now, and intended to work her way back up the prostitution ladder until she was back on the arm of the rich and lonely.

  But for now, she had to earn a goddamn living, and nobody wanted to have sex, and pay for it, in all this heat.

  The fact that she’d seen only a couple of associates on the stroll in the last two hours told her there weren’t many willing to have sex and be paid for it in the current climate either.

  But Jacie was a pro, had considered herself a complete professional since the night, more than twenty years ago, she’d put her first license to use.

  She might sweat in the heat, but she didn’t wilt. Just as she’d cracked a bit under the probationary street license, but it didn’t break her.

  She’d stay on her feet—or her knees or her back, depending on the client’s preference—and do the job.

  Do the job, she told herself. Bank the pay, mark the time. And in a few months, she’d be back in a penthouse on Park where she belonged.

  If the thought passed through her mind that she’d gotten a bit old and soft for street work, she blocked it out and focused on making one more score. Just one more score.

  Besides, if she didn’t make that one more score tonight, she wasn’t going to have anything left over for body treatments after the rent. And she needed a tune-up.

  Not that she wasn’t still choice, she told herself as she strolled by a lamppost in the three-block area she’d staked as her own in the bowels of the city. She kept in shape. Maybe she’d traded the Push for a bottle of vodka—and she could sure as hell use a drink right now—but she still looked good. Damn good.

  And she was showing off the merchandise in a go-glo halter and
crotch skirt, both pulsing red. Until she hit the body sculptor, she needed the halter to boost up her boobs. But her legs were still her best feature. Long and shapely, and given an erotic touch with the silver spike sandals with lattice straps that crossed to her knees.

  They were fucking killing her as she walked the streets looking for one more job.

  To give her feet a break, she leaned on the next lamppost, cocked out a hip, and scanned the all-but-deserted street out of tired brown eyes. She should’ve gone for the long silver wig, she told herself. Johns always went for hair. But she hadn’t been able to face the weight of a wig tonight, and had simply spiked up her own ink black, and given it a careless spray of silver netting.

  A cab streamed by, and a couple of cars passed. Though she leaned over, gave them each the standard come-on, nobody so much as paused.

  Ten more minutes and she’d call it a night. And she’d give the landlord a free blowjob if she was short on the rent.

  She pushed off the post and began to walk, slowly on aching feet, in the direction of the one room she’d been reduced to. She remembered she’d once had a high-toned apartment on the Upper West Side, a closet full of beautiful clothes, and a full appointment book.

  Illegals, as her counselor had told her, sent you into a downward spiral that often ended in miserable death.

  She’d lived through it, Jacie thought, but she was right dead center of misery.

  Six more months, she promised herself. And she’d be back on top again.

  She saw him walking toward her. Rich, eccentric, and out of place—you didn’t see many guys wandering around this area done up in evening clothes. With a cape and top hat, no less. He carried a black satchel.

  Jacie put on her game face, and slicked a hand down her hip. “Hey, baby. Since you’re all dressed up, why don’t we have a party?”

  He smiled at her, a quick, appreciative smile that showed her a flash of white, even teeth. “What did you have in mind?”

  His voice suited his dress. Upper-class, she thought, with both pleasure and nostalgia. Style, culture. “Whatever you want. You’re the boss.”

  “A private party then, somewhere . . . close.” He glanced around, then gestured toward a narrow alley. “I’m afraid I’m a bit pressed for time right now.”

  The alley meant a quick bang, which was fine with her. They could get the business done, and if she played it right, she’d get herself the fee and a nice tip. More than enough for the rent and the boob job, she planned as she led the way.

  “You’re not from around here, right?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Don’t sound like it, don’t look like it.” She shrugged, none of her business. “Tell me what you want, baby, and we’ll get the financials out of the way.”

  “Oh, I want it all.”

  She laughed, then reached out to run a hand over his crotch. “Mmm. You sure do. You can have it all.” Then I can get out of these shoes and into a nice, cold drink. She named a fee, elevating it as much as she thought possible. When he nodded, didn’t blink at the inflated price, she cursed herself for not adding more.

  “I need to have it up front,” she told him. “Once you pay, we start having fun.”

  “Right. Payment first.”

  Still smiling, he spun her around to face the wall, jerked her head back by the hair. He slit her throat so she couldn’t scream, sliced it with one stroke with the knife he’d held under his cloak. Her mouth opened as she gaped at him, and she made a gurgling sound as she slid down the dirty wall.

  “And now the fun,” he said, and went to work on her.

  Chapter 1

  You never saw it all. No matter how many times you walked through the blood and the gore, no matter how often you looked at the horror man inflicted on man, you never saw it all.

  There was always something worse, something meaner, or crazier, more vicious, more cruel.

  As Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood over what had once been a woman, she wondered when she would see worse than this.

  Two of the uniform cops on scene were still retching at the mouth of the alley. The sound of their sickness echoed back to her. She stood where she was, hands and boots already sealed, and waited for her own shuddering stomach to settle.

  Had she seen this much blood before? It was hard to remember. It was best not to.

  She crouched, opened her field kit, and took out her ID pad to run the victim’s fingerprints. She couldn’t avoid the blood, so she stopped thinking about it. Lifting the limp hand, she pressed the thumb to her pad.

  “Victim is female, Caucasian. The body was discovered at approximately oh three-thirty by officers responding to anonymous nine-one-one, and is herewith identified through fingerprint check as Wooton, Jacie, age forty-one, licensed companion, residing 375 Doyers.”

  She took a shallow breath, then another. “Victim’s throat has been cut. Spatter pattern indicates wound was inflicted while victim stood against the north-facing wall of the alley. Blood pattern and trail would indicate victim fell or was laid across alley floor by assailant or assailants who then . . .”

  Jesus. Oh Jesus.

  “Who then mutilated the victim by removing the pelvic area. Both the throat and pelvic wounds indicate the use of a sharp implement and some precision.”

  Despite the heat her skin prickled, cold and clammy as she took out gauges, recorded data.

  “I’m sorry.” Peabody, her aide, spoke from behind her. Eve didn’t have to look around to know Peabody’s face would still be pale and glossy from shock and nausea. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant; I couldn’t maintain.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You okay now?”

  “I . . . Yes, sir.”

  Eve nodded and continued to work. Stalwart, steady, and as dependable as the tide, Peabody had taken one look at what lay in the alley, turned sheet-white, and stumbled back toward the street at Eve’s sharp order to puke elsewhere.

  “I’ve got an ID on her. Jacie Wooton, Doyers. An LC. Do a run for me.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. Just never seen . . .”

  “Get the data. Do it down there. You’re in my light here.”

  She wasn’t, Peabody knew. Her lieutenant was cutting her a break, and because her head wanted to spin again, she took it, moving toward the mouth of the alley.

  She’d sweated through her uniform shirt, and her dark bowl of hair was damp at the temples under her cap. Her throat was raw, her voice weak, but she initiated the run. And watched Eve work.

  Efficient, thorough, and some would say cold. But Peabody had seen the leap of shock and horror, and of pity on Eve’s face before her own vision had blurred. Cold wasn’t the word, but driven was.

  She was pale now, Peabody noted, and it wasn’t just the work lights that bleached the color from her narrow face. Her brown eyes were focused and flat, and unwavering as they examined the atrocity. Her hands were steady, and her boots smeared with blood.

  There was a line of sweat down the middle of the back of her shirt, but she wouldn’t stumble away. She would stay until it was done.

  When Eve straightened, Peabody saw a tall, lean woman in stained boots, worn jeans, and a gorgeous linen jacket, a fine-boned face with a wide mouth, wide eyes of gilded brown, and a short and disordered cap of hair nearly the same color.

  More: She saw a cop who never turned away from death.

  “Dallas—”

  “Peabody, I don’t care if you puke as long as you don’t contaminate the scene. Give me the data.”

  “Victim’s lived in New York for twenty-two years. Previous residence on Central Park West. She’s resided down here for eighteen months.”

  “That’s quite a change of venue. What she get popped for?”

  “Illegals. Three strikes. Lost her top-drawer license, did six months in, rehab, counseling, and was given a probationary street license about a year ago.”

  “She roll on her dealer?”

  “No, sir.”

&
nbsp; “We’ll see what the tox screen tells us once she’s in the morgue, but I don’t think Jack here is her dealer.” Eve lifted the envelope that had been left—sealed to prevent bloodstains—on the body.

  LIEUTENANT EVE DALLAS, NYPSD

  Computer-generated, she guessed, in a fancy font on elegant cream-colored paper. Thick, weighty, and expensive. The sort of thing used for high-class invites. She should know, she mused, as her husband was big on sending and receiving high-class invites.

  She took out the second evidence bag and read the note again.

  Hello, Lieutenant Dallas:

  Hot enough for ya? I know you’ve had a busy summer, and I’ve been admiring your work. I can think of no one on the police force of our fair city I’d rather have join me on what I hope will be a very intimate level.

  Here is a sample of my work. What do you think?

  Looking forward to our continued association.

  —Jack

  “I’ll tell you what I think, Jack. I think you’re a very sick fuck. Tag and bag,” she ordered with a last glance down the alley. “Homicide.”

  Wooton’s apartment was on the fourth floor of one of the housing structures thrown up as a temporary shelter for refugees and victims of the Urban Wars. A number of them stood in the poorer sections of the city, and were always slated for replacement.

  The city dickered back and forth between tossing out the low-rent LC’s, chemi-heads, and dealers along with the working poor and mowing down the shaky structures or revitalizing.

  While they dickered, the buildings decayed and nothing was done.

  Eve expected nothing would be done until the dumps collapsed inward on their residents and the city fathers found themselves in the throes of a class-action suit.

  But until that time, it was the sort of place you expected to find a down-on-her-luck whore.

  Her room was a hot little box with a stingy bump-out for a kitchen and a thin sliver for a bathroom. Her view was the wall of the identical building to the west.

  Through the thin walls Eve could clearly hear the heroic snoring from the apartment next door.