In Death 01 - Naked in Death

him coming. She always heard him. Even if she was sound asleep, the creeping shuffle of his bare feet on the floor woke her as quickly as a thunder clap.
    Oh, please, oh, please, oh please. She would pray, but she wouldn't cry. If she cried she was beaten, and he did the secret things anyway. The painful and secret thing that she knew, even at five, was somehow bad.
    He told her she was good. The whole time he did the secret thing he would tell her she was good. But she knew she was bad, and she would be punished.
    Sometimes he tied her up. When she heard her door open, she whimpered softly, praying he wouldn't tie her this time. She wouldn't fight, she wouldn't, if he just didn't tie her up. If he just didn't hold his hand over her mouth, she wouldn't scream or call out.
    "Where's my little girl? Where's my good little girl?"
    Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as his hands slipped under the sheets, poking, probing, pinching. She could smell his breath on her face, sweet, like candy.
    His fingers rammed inside her, his other hand coming down hard over her mouth as she drew in breath to scream. She couldn't help it.
    "Be quiet." His breath was coming in short gasps, in a sickening arousal she didn't understand. His fingers dug into her cheeks where bruises would form by morning. "Be a good girl. There's a good girl."
    She couldn't hear his grunts for the screaming inside her head. She screamed it over and over and over.
    No, Daddy. No, Daddy.
    "No!" The scream ripped out of Eve's throat as she reared up in bed. Gooseflesh prickled on her clammy skin, and she shivered and shivered as she tugged the blankets up.
    Didn't remember. Wouldn't remember, she comforted herself and drew up her knees, pressed her forehead against them. Just a dream, and it was already fading. She could will it away -- had done so before -- until there was nothing left but the faint nausea.
    Still shaky, she got up, wrapped herself in her robe to combat the chill. In the bath she ran water over her face until she was breathing evenly again. Steadier, she got herself a tube of Pepsi, huddled back into bed, and switched on one of the twenty-four-hour news stations.
    And settled down to wait.
    It was the lead story at six A. M., the headline read by a cat-eyed Nadine. Eve was already dressed when the call came through summoning her to Cop Central.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Whatever personal satisfaction Eve felt on finding herself part of the team who questioned Simpson, she hid it well. In deference to his position, they used the office of Security Administration rather than an interrogation area.
    The clear wrap of windows and the glossy acrylic table didn't negate the fact that Simpson was in deep trouble. The beading of sweat above his top lip indicated he knew just how deep.
    "The media is trying to injure the department," Simpson began, using the statement meticulously prepared by his senior aide. "With the very visible failure of the investigation into the brutal deaths of three women, the media is attempting to incite a witch-hunt. As chief of police, I'm an obvious target."
    "Chief Simpson." Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Commander Whitney expose his inner glee. His voice was grave, his eyes somber. His heart was celebrating. "Regardless of the motive, it will be necessary for you to explain the discrepancy in your books."
    Simpson sat frozen while one of his attorneys leaned over and murmured in his ear.
    "I have not admitted to any discrepancy. If one exists, I'm unaware of it."
    "Unaware, Chief Simpson, of more than two million dollars?"
    "I've already contacted my accounting firm. Obviously, if there is a mistake of some nature, it was made by them."
    "Will you confirm or deny that the account numbered four seventy-eight nine one one two seven, four ninety-nine is yours?"
    After another brief consultation, Simpson nodded. "I will confirm that." To lie would only tighten the noose.
    Whitney glanced at Eve. They'd agreed the account was an IRS matter. All they'd wanted was for Simpson to confirm.
    "Will you explain, Chief Simpson, the withdrawal of one hundred thousand dollars, in twenty-five thousand dollar increments, every three months during the past year?"
    Simpson tugged at the knot of his tie. "I see no reason to explain how I spend my money, Lieutenant Dallas."
    "Then perhaps you can explain how it is those same amounts were listed by Sharon DeBlass and accredited to you."
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    "We