Naked in Death (In Death #1)(94)

“Did you think I should?” He laughed at that. “Who they were hardly mattered. Only what. Whores offend me. Women who spread their legs to weaken a man offend me. You offend me, lieutenant.”

“Why the discs?” Where the hell was Feeney? Why wasn’t a roving unit breaking down her door right now? “Why did you send me the discs?”

“I liked watching you scramble around like a mouse after cheese — a woman who believed she could think like a man. I pointed you at Roarke, but you let him talk you onto your back. All too typical. You disappointed me. You were emotional, lieutenant: over the deaths, over that little girl you didn’t save. But you got lucky. Which is why you’re about to become very unlucky.”

He sidestepped over to the dresser where he had a camera waiting. He switched it on. “Take off your clothes.”

“You can kill me,” she said as her stomach began to churn. “But you’re not going to rape me.”

“You’ll do exactly what I want you to do. They always do.” He lowered the gun until it pointed at her midsection. “With the others, it was a shot to the head first. Instant death, probably painless. Do you have any idea what sort of pain you’ll experience with a forty-five slug in your gut? You’ll be begging me to kill you.”

His eyes lit brilliantly. “Strip.”

Eve’s hands fell to her sides. She’d face the pain, but not the nightmare. Neither of them saw the cat slink into the room.

“Your choice, lieutenant,” Rockman said, then jerked when the cat brushed between his legs.

Eve sprang forward, head low, and used the force of her body to drive him against the wall.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Feeney stopped on his way back from the eatery, a half a soy burger in his hand. He loitered by the coffee dispenser, gossiping with a couple of cops on robbery detail. They swapped stories, and Feeney decided he could use one more cup of coffee before calling it a night.

He nearly bypassed his office altogether, with visions of an evening in front of the TV screen and a nice cold beer swimming in his head. His wife might even be up for a little cuddle if he was lucky.

But he was a creature of habit. He breezed in to make certain his precious computer was secured for the night. And heard Eve’s voice.

“Hey, Dallas, what brings you — ” He stopped, scanning his empty office. “Working too hard,” he muttered, then heard her again.

“You were with him. You were with him the night he killed Sharon.”

“Oh my Jesus.”

He could see little on the screen: Eve’s back, the side of the bed. Rockman was blocked from view, but the audio was clear. Feeney was already praying when he called Dispatch.

Eve heard the cat’s annoyed screech when her foot stomped his tail, heard too, the clatter as the gun hit the floor. Rockman had her in height, he had her in weight. And he’d recovered from her full body slam too quickly. He proved graphically that he was military trained.

She fought viciously, unable to restrain herself to the cool, efficient moves of hand to hand. She used nails and teeth.

The shortened blow to the ribs stole her breath. She knew she was going down, and she made sure she took him with her. They hit the floor hard, and though she rolled, he came down on top of her.

Lights starred behind her eyes when her head rapped hard against the floor.

His hand was around her throat, bruising her windpipe. She went for the eyes, missed, and raked furrows down his cheek that had him howling like an animal. If he’d used his other hand for a blow to the face, he might have stunned her, but he was too focused on reaching the gun. Her stiff-handed chop to his elbow had his hand shaking from her throat. Painfully gasping in air, she scrambled with him for the gun.

His hand closed over it first.

Roarke tucked a package under his arm as he walked into the lobby of Eve’s building. He enjoyed the fact that she’d come to him. It was a habit he didn’t intend to see her break. He thought now that she’d closed her case, he could talk her into taking a couple of days off. He had an island in the West Indies he thought she’d enjoy.

He pressed her intercom, and was smiling over the image of swimming naked with her in clear blue water, making love under a hot, white sun when all hell broke loose behind him.

“Get the hell out of the way.” Feeney came in like a steamroller, a dozen uniforms in his wake. “Police business.”

“Eve!” Roarke’s blood drained even as he muscled his way onto the elevator.

Feeney ignored him and barked into his communicator. “Secure all exits. Get those f**king sharpshooters in position.”

Roarke fisted his hand uselessly at his sides. “DeBlass?”

“Rockman,” Feeney corrected, counting every beat of his own heart. “He’s got her. Stay out of the way, Roarke.”

“The f**k I will.”

Feeney flicked his eyes over, measured. No way he was going to spare a couple of cops to restrain a civilian, and he had a hunch this civilian would go to the wall, as he would, for Eve.

“Then do what I tell you.”

They heard the gunshot as the elevator doors opened.

Roarke was two steps ahead of Feeney when he rammed Eve’s apartment door. He swore, reared back. They hit it together.

The pain was like being stabbed with ice. Then it was gone, numbed with fury. Eve clamped her hand over the wrist of his gun hand, dug her short nails into his flesh. Rockman’s face was close to hers, his body pinning her in an obscene parody of love. His wrist was slippery with his own blood where she clawed at it.