The Other Side Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Possession in Death

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  The Other Side of the Coin

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  The Dancing Ghost

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Almost Heaven

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Never Too Late to Love

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

  J. D. ROBB

  “One of the most prolific and bestselling authors writing today.”

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  “Each book in this superb bestselling futuristic police procedural series enhances the Eve Dallas mythos and deservedly the reputation of J. D. Robb.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  MARY BLAYNEY

  “Witty prose . . . simply superb.”

  —Booklist

  “Compelling.”

  —Romantic Times

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  PATRICIA GAFFNEY

  “Patricia Gaffney’s books are always heartfelt and wise.”

  —Janet Evanovich

  “Get acquainted with the work of this gifted writer.”

  —The Harrisburg Patriot-News

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  RUTH RYAN LANGAN

  “Heartwarming, emotionally involving.”

  —Library Journal

  “It’s a story that will linger with you.”

  —The (Columbia, SC) State

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  MARY KAY MCCOMAS

  “Inventive . . . spins an introspective and irresistible story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A remarkable talent.”

  —Romantic Times

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE OTHER SIDE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / December 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44548-8

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  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  Possession in Death

  J. D. ROBB

  Love is strong as death.

  SONG OF SOLOMON

  Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?

  JOHN MILTON

  One

  She spent the morning with a murderer.

  He’d been under guard in a hospital bed recovering from a near-fatal wound—courtesy of a misstep by his partner in crime—but she’d had no sympathy.

  She was glad he’d lived, wished him a long, long life—in an off-planet concrete cage. She believed the case she and her team had built to be solid—as did the nearly gleeful prosecuting attorney. The sprinkles on the icing of this particular cupcake was the confession she’d finessed out of him as he’d sneered at her.

  Given that he’d tried to kill her less than twenty-four hours before, the sneer was small change.

  Sylvester Moriarity would receive the best medical care New York could provide, then he’d join his friend Winston Dudley behind bars until what promised to be a sensational, media-soaked trial, given their family fortunes and names.

  Case closed, she told herself as she pushed her way through the heat-soaked Saturday afternoon traffic toward home. The dead now had the only justice she could offer, and their families and friends the comfort—if comfort it was—that those responsible would pay.

  But it haunted her: the waste, the cruelty, the utter selfishness of two men who were so puffed up by their own importance, their station, that they’d considered murder a form of entertainment, a twisted sort of indulgence.

  She manuevered through New York traffic, barely hearing the blasts of horns, the annoyingly cheerful hype of the ad blimps heralding midsummer sales at the Sky Mall. Tourists swarmed the city—and likely the Sky Mall as well—chowing down on soy dogs from the smoking glide-carts, looking for souvies and bargains among the shops and street vendors.

  A boiling stew, she thought, in the heat and humidity of summer 2060.

  She caught the lightning move of a nimble-fingered street thief, bumping through a couple of tourists more intent on gawking at the buildings and their ringing people glides than their own security. He had the wallet in the goody slit of his baggy car
gos in half a finger snap and slithered like a snake through the forest of people lumbering across the crosswalk.

  If she’d been on foot, or at least headed in the same direction, she’d have pursued—and the chase might’ve lifted her mood. But he and his booty smoked away, and he’d no doubt continue to score well on today’s target shoot.

  Life went on.

  When Lieutenant Eve Dallas finally drove through the stately gates of home, she reminded herself of that again. Life went on—and in her case, today, that included a cookout, a horde of cops, and her odd assortment of friends. A couple years before, it would’ve been the last way she’d have spent a Saturday, but things had changed.

  Her living arrangements certainly had, from a sparsely furnished apartment to the palace-fortress Roarke had built. Her husband—and that was a change, even if they’d just celebrated their second year of marriage—had the vision, the need, and, God knew, the means to create the gorgeous home with its myriad rooms filled with style and function. Here the grass was rich summer green, the trees and flowers plentiful.

  Here was peace and warmth and welcome. And she needed them, maybe just a little desperately at the moment.

  She left her vehicle at the front entrance, knowing Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo, would send it to its place in the garage. And hoped, just this once, he wasn’t looming like a scarecrow in the foyer.

  She wanted the cool and quiet of the bedroom she shared with Roarke, a few minutes of solitude. Time, she thought as she strode toward the doors, to shake off this mood before the invasion.

  Halfway to the doors, she stopped. The front wasn’t the only way in, for Christ’s sake—and why hadn’t she ever thought of that before? On impulse, she jogged around—long legs eating up ground—crossed one of the patios, turned through a small, walled garden, and went in through a side door. Into a parlor or sitting room or morning room—who knew? she thought with a roll of tired brown eyes—and made her way as sneakily as the street thief across the hallway, down and into the more familiar territory of the game room, where she knew the lay of the land.

  She called the elevator and considered it a small, personal victory when the doors shut her in. “Master bedroom,” she ordered, then just leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, while the unit navigated its way.

  When she stepped into the bedroom, she raked a hand through her messy cap of brown hair, stripped the jacket off her lanky frame, and tossed it at the handiest chair. She stepped onto the platform and sat on the side of the lake-sized bed. If she’d believed she could escape into sleep, she’d have stretched out, but there was too much in her head, in her belly, for rest.

  So she simply sat, veteran cop, Homicide lieutenant who’d walked through blood and death more times than she could count, and mourned a little.

  Roarke found her there.

  He could gauge her state of mind by the slump of her shoulders, by the way she sat, staring out the window. He walked to her, sat beside her, took her hand.

  “I should’ve gone with you.”

  She shook her head but leaned against him. “No place for civilians in Interview, and nothing you could’ve done anyway if I’d stretched it and brought you in as expert consultant. I had him cold and cut through his battalion of expensive lawyers like a fucking machete. I thought the PA was going to kiss me on the mouth.”

  He brought the hand he held to his lips. “And still you’re sad.”

  She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. “Not sad, or . . . I don’t know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shut—and I got to look them both in the face and let them know it.”

  She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasn’t peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.

  “He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil.”

  “The one meant for you,” Roarke reminded her.

  “Yeah. And he’s pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasn’t me on a slab at the morgue.”

  “I expect he was,” Roarke said coolly. “But that’s not what’s got you going.”

  She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poet’s mouth set firm now because she’d made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.

  “You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there.”

  “And still he drew blood, didn’t he?” Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.

  She tapped it. “And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didn’t make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?”

  “I don’t, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today.”

  “Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarke—just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.”

  It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. “It makes me sick,” she repeated. “All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don’t know why, I just don’t know why it churns my stomach. I’ve seen worse. God, we’ve both seen worse.”

  “But rarely more futile.” He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. “No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn’t it make you sick? It does me as well.”

  “I contacted the next of kin,” she began. “Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That’s why I’m late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I’d feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked me why. Why had these men killed their daughter, their husband, their mother?”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Sometimes there’s no why, or not one we can understand.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I want to be pissed.”

  “You are, under it. And under that, you know you did good work. And you’re alive, darling Eve.” He drew her in to kiss her brow. “Which, to take this to their level, makes them losers.”

  “I guess it does. I guess that’s going to have to be enough.”

  She took his face in her hands, smiled a little. “And there’s the added bonus that they hate us both. Really hate us. That adds a boost.”

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be hated by, or anyone I’d rather be hated with.”

  Now the smile moved into her eyes. “Me either. If I keep that front and center, I could be in the mood to party. I guess we should go down and do whatever we’re supposed to do before everybody gets here.”

  “Change first. You’ll feel more in the party mode without your boots and weapon.”

  By the time she’d changed trousers for cotton pants, boots for skids, and made it downstairs, she heard voices in the foyer. She spotted her partner, Peabody, her short, dark ponytail bouncing, summery dress swirling. Peabody’s cohab, e-detective and premier geek McNab, stood beside her in a skin tank crisscrossed with more colors than an atomic rainbow paired with baggy, hot pink knee shorts and gel flips.

  He turned, the forest of silver rings on his left earlobe shimmering, and shot Eve a wide grin. “Hey, Dallas. We brought you something.”

  “My granny’s homemade wine.” Peabody held up the bottle. “I know you’ve got a wine cellar the size of California, but we thought you’d get a charge. It’s good stuff.”

  “Let’s go out and open it up. I’m ready for
some good stuff.”

  Peabody kept eye contact, quirked her brows. “All okay?”

  “The PA’s probably still doing his happy dance. Case closed,” she said, and left out the rest. No point in adding the details now that would leave her partner as troubled as she’d been.

  “We’ll have the first drink with a toast to the NYPSD’s Homicide—and Electronic Detectives divisions,” Roarke said with a wink for McNab.

  The wide stone terrace held tables already loaded with food and shaded by umbrellas, and the gardens exploded with color and scent. The monster grill Roarke had conquered—mostly—looked formidable, and the wine was indeed good stuff.

  Within thirty minutes, the scent of grilling meat mixed with the perfume of summer flowers. The terrace, the chairs around the tables, the gardens filled with people. It still amazed her she’d somehow collected so many.

  Her cops—everyone who’d worked the Dudley-Moriarity case—along with Cher Reo, the ADA, newlyweds Dr. Louise DiMatto and retired licensed companion Charles Monroe stood, sat, lounged, or stuffed their faces.

  Morris, the ME who’d inspired the impulse for her to arrange this shindig to help with his lingering grief over his murdered love, shared a brew with Father Lopez, who’d become his friend and counselor.

  Sort of weird having a priest at a party—even one she liked and respected—but at least he wasn’t wearing the getup.

  Nadine Furst, bestselling author and ace reporter, chatted happily with Dr. Mira, department shrink, and Mira’s adorable husband, Dennis.

  It was good, she decided, to blow off steam this way, to gather together to do it, even if gathering together wasn’t as natural for her as for some. It was good to watch Feeney kibitz Roarke’s grill technique, and watch Trueheart show off his pretty, shy-eyed girlfriend.

  Hell, she might just have another glass of Granny Peabody’s wine and—

  The thought winged away when she heard the bright laugh.

  Mavis Freestone rushed out on silver sandals that laced past the hem of her flippy, thigh-baring lavender skirt. Her hair, perched in a crowning tail, matched the skirt. In her arms she carried baby Bella. Leonardo, beaming at his girls, followed.