Witness in Death (In Death #10)(83)

"I thought you might be. Would it be possible for you to meet me at my hotel? I'm staying at The Palace."

"Popular spot. I'll be there. Twenty minutes."

"Thank you. I think I can help you clear up a number of matters."

"Jeez." Peabody snagged her own coffee when Eve broke transmission. "We look for her all over hell and back, and here she just drops into our laps."

"Yeah, nice coincidence." Eve shoved away from the desk. "I don't like coincidence."

TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH

Yes, that had a nice ring, a dramatic touch. One never wants to lose one's sense of style, even under pressure. Particularly under pressure. The pills are where they can be easily reached, should they be needed. A last resort, of course, but they'll be quick. They 'll be gentle.

"Do not go gentle into that good night." Well, what the hell did he know? If it comes down to death or prison, death is preferable.

Life is a series of choices. One twists into the next, and the path shifts. It never really rides straight, unless there are no joys, no sorrows. I would always prefer the road that wanders. I made my choices, for better or worse, they were mine to make. I take full responsibility for the results of those choices.

Even Richard Draco. No, especially Richard Draco. His life was not a series of choices, but a compilation of cruel acts, small and large. Everyone he touched was damaged somehow. His death does not weigh on my conscience. What he did, knowingly, deliberately, viciously, deserved extermination.

I only wish there had been pain, great waves of pain, huge sweeps of knowledge, of fear, of grief in that instant before the knife pierced his heart.

But in planning his execution, I had self-preservation in mind as well. I suppose I still do.

Should I be given the opportunity to do it over again, I would change nothing. I will not feign remorse for disposing of a leech.

I have some regret for luring Linus Quim to his death. It was necessary, and God knows he was an ugly, cold-hearted little man. My choice could have been to pay him off, but blackmail is a kind of disease, isn't it? Once the body is infected by it, it spreads and returns at inopportune moments. Why risk it?

Still, it brought me no pleasure to arrange his death. In fact, it was necessary to sedate my nerves and anxiety. I made certain he felt no pain, no fear, but died with the illusion of pleasure.

But that, I suppose, doesn't negate the act of ending yet another life.

I thought I was so clever, staging Richard's murder in front of so many, knowing that all those surrounding him had reason to wish him harm. There was such a whippy thrill at the idea of having the knife Christine Vole would plunge into the black, miserable heart of Leonard Vole be a real one. It was so beautifully apt.

I regret and apologize for causing my friends and associates any distress, putting them, even for the short term, under any suspicion. Foolish of me, foolish to have believed it would never go this far.

No one, I told myself, cared about Richard. His death would be mourned by no one who knew him except with crocodile tears turned to glimmer on pale cheeks for the audience.

But I miscalculated. Lieutenant Dallas cares. Oh, not about Richard perhaps. She has certainly unearthed enough truth about him by this time to stir her disgust. But she cares about the law. I believe it's her religion, this standing for the murdered dead.

I realized that very soon after looking into her eyes. After all, I've spent my life studying people, measuring them, mimicking them.

In the end, I've done what I set out to do, what I believe with all my heart and soul I had to do. I have, ruthlessly perhaps, righted incalculable wrongs.

Isn't that justice?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Anja Carvell was beautiful, with the curvy body style women sweat or pay for. And men fall for. Her mouth was full, sensuous, and painted with the gleam of polished copper. Her skin had the delicate sheen of gold dust so that with the smoked red of her hair, the tawny eyes, she resembled a flame barely banked to simmer.

She sent Eve a long, level look, shifted her gaze briefly to Peabody, then stepped back, widening the door into her modest suite.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. I realized after we spoke that I should have offered to come to you."

"It's no problem."

"Well, you'll forgive me, I trust, for not knowing the proper procedure in such matters as this. My experience with people in your profession is severely limited. I've ordered a pot of chocolate."

She gestured to the living area where a white pot and two matching cups sat on a low table. "Would you care to join me? It's so cold and gloomy out. I'll just get another cup for your assistant."

"Don't bother." Eve heard, and ignored, Peabody's soft, windy sigh at her back. "You go ahead."

"In that case, shall we sit down?"

Anja led the way to the sofa, smoothed her long bronze colored skirts, then lifted the pot. There was quiet music playing, something with a bird trill of piano. A squat vase of cabbage roses stood beside the lamp. Their fragrance, and the woman's, perfumed the room.

It was, Eve thought, a pretty and civilized scene.

"I came to New York only last night," Anja began. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the city. The rush and energy of it. The heat of it, even in this endless winter. You Americans fill all the spaces and still find more."