05. Ceremony in Death by J. D. Robb

Author:J. D. Robb
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780425157626
Publisher: Lisa's E-Book Collection
Published: 2003-08-05T04:00:00+00:00

"Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, please say again."

She didn't bother to stare at the body spread in a growing pool of blood on the concrete floor. One glance at the terrified, wide eyes and the carved hilt of a knife plunged into the heart had been enough to determine death.

Wineburg had run the wrong way.

"I need backup, immediately. I've got a homicide. Perpetrator or perpetrators possibly still on premises. Dispatch all available units to this address for blockade and search. I need a field kit and my aide."

"Received. Units en route. Dispatch out."

"I've got to look," she said to Roarke.

"Understood."

"I don't have my clutch piece or I'd give it to you. I need you to stay here, with the body."

Roarke looked down at Wineburg and felt a stir of pity. "He's not going anywhere."

"I need you to stay here," she repeated. "In case they come back this way. Don't be a hero."

He nodded. "You, either."

She took one last glance at the body. "Fuck," she said wearily. "I should have had a better grip on him."

She moved off slowly, scanning cars and corners, but without much hope.

He'd watched her work before, studied and admired the efficient, concentrated field she created around the dead. Roarke wondered if she fully understood why she did it, or how she could, while examining a lifeless, violently dispatched body with such clear-cut objectivity, see through the pity that haunted her eyes.

He'd never asked her. He doubted he ever would.

He watched her order Peabody to record the scene from a different angle, saw her jerk her thumb at a uniform -- obviously a rookie who wasn't holding up well. Sending him off on an errand, Roarke imagined, so he could be sick in private.

Some of them never got used to the blood or the smell of bladder and bowels releasing with death.

The lights were viciously bright, merciless, really. The heart wound had bled profusely. She'd worn heels and a little black suit to the viewing. Of course, she would ruin both now. She was kneeling beside the body, tearing her stockings on the concrete and removing the murder weapon now that the scene had been duly recorded.

She sealed it, bagged it for evidence, but he'd gotten a good look at it. The handle was a deep brown, possibly horn of some sort. Yet there had been no mistaking its similarity to the one left at the last murder. An athame. The knife of ritual.

"Bad business."

Roarke made a sound of assent as Feeney walked up to him. The man looked uncharacteristically fragile, Roarke observed. Eve was right to be concerned about him.

"You know anything about it? I'm not getting much buzz except that Dallas was talking to him outside, he ran, and ended up dead."

"That's about it. He seemed nervous about something. Apparently he had reason to be." It wasn't a place they could go together, Roarke decided and shifted away from it. "I hope you'll take Eve up on the offer of the house in Mexico."

"I'll talk it over with my wife.

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