Imitation in Death (In Death #17)(112)

"All yours," she said as Roarke swore and stepped in to catch Katie before she toppled over.

"You could have done that in a more sensitive and delicate way."

"Sure. But-this was quicker. When she comes to, she can pack what she needs. Then you get her out."

He hefted Katie, headed with her to a sofa. "You're not staying here alone and waiting for him to come hunting." "That's my job," she began. "But I'm calling for backup."

"Call for it now, and I'll have her out of your way inside twenty minutes."

She pulled out her, communicator and prepared to set up the next stage of her operation.

She spent the hours until dawn sitting in the dark, waiting. A surveillance vehicle sat outside, and two armed uniforms were stationed` in the living area of the Mitchell apartment. But the watch team had its orders.

Renquist, when he came, was hers.

And he sat in his quiet room in a small apartment on the edge of the Village. He'd decorated it carefully, selecting each piece so that it would have a European feel, and a rich one, rich and colorful and sexy.

So unlike the cool, stagnant home he shared with his wife when he was Niles.

When he was in this warm, deeply toned room, he was Victor Clarence. A small, amusing joke and a play on His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, who some credited with the Ripper murders of Whitechapel.

Renquist liked to believe it, enjoyed the notion of a killer prince. He considered himself no less.

A prince among men. A king among killers.

And like that famed stylist of death, he would never be caught. But he was more than his prototypes. Because he would never stop.

He drank a brandy and smoked a thin cigar laced with just a whiff of loner. He loved these times alone, the quiet, reflective times when all the preparation was done.

He was pleased he'd decided to feign a business trip, to get away on his own for a few days. Pamela was irritating him more than usual with her long, speculative stares, her pointed questions.

Who was she to question him, to look at him?

If she only knew how many times he'd imagined killing her. The many and creative ways he'd devised. She'd run screaming. The image of his cold and rigid wife running for her life made him chuckle.

Of course, he would never do it. It would bring it all too close to home, and he was no fool. Pamela was safe simply because he was stuck with her. Besides, if he killed her, who would handle all the annoying details of his social life?

No, it was enough just to have these periodic rests from her, and the female she'd saddled him with. Irritating, sneaky little brat. Children were, as he'd learned from his dear old nanny, meant to be neither seen nor heard.

If they rebelled or failed to obey smartly, they were to be put somewhere, in the dark. Where they were no longer seen, where they couldn't be heard no matter how loud they screamed.

Oh yes, he remembered-remembered the dark room. Nanny Gable had had a way about her. He would like to kill her, slowly, painfully, while she screamed and screamed as he'd once done.

But that wouldn't be wise. Like Pamela, she was safe because he was stuck with-her.

In any case, she'd taught him, hadn't she? Nanny Gable had certainly taught him. Children were meant to-be raised by someone paid and paid well to discipline and tutor. Not that the sly little Italian thing disciplined his girl., Spoiled her, coddled her. But she was convenient. Her fear and loathing of him gave him such a rush of pleasure.

Everything in his life had finally fallen into place. He was respected, admired, obeyed. He was comfortable financially, and had an active and rarified social life. He had a-wife who presented the proper image, and a young mistress who was just fearful enough to do anything, absolutely anything, he required.

And he had the most fascinating and entertaining hobby.

Years of study, of planning, of strategy. Of practice. It was all coming to fruition now in ways even he hadn't anticipated. How could he have known how much fun it would be, to assume the guise of one of his heroes, and follow in their bloody footsteps?

Men who took charge, who took life. Who did what they wished to women because they understood, as others couldn't, that women needed to be debased, hurt, killed. They asked for death with their first breath.

Trying to run the world. Trying to run him.

He took a slow drag of the cigar, letting the Zoner calm him before one of his rages could take over. It wasn't the time for rage, but for cool, calculating action.

He worried that he'd been too clever. But really, could one be too clever? Some might consider it a mistake to have deliberately put himself forward as a suspect. But it was so much more satisfying, so much more exciting that way. It allowed him to participate on two levels and made it all so intimate.

In a way, he'd already f**ked the whore cop. What a thrill it was to watch her scramble around, unable to out think him, to anticipate him. Being forced to come to him and apolotizc. He hugged himself -as he played that scene over in his head. Oh that had been a moment.

Selecting Eve Dallas had been a brilliant stroke, if he did say so himself. And oh; he did.

A man wouldn't have given him nearly the same buzz. But a woman, a woman who like most of her kind considered herself superior to a man simply because she could trap him between her legs. That added spice to the brew.

He could think about choking her, beating her, raping her, gutting her even as she watched him with those cool, flat eyes.