In Death 14 - Reunion in Death

simplicity. With men, it all came down to sex. However they dressed it up-romanticized, justified, dignified it-a man's primary goal was to stuff his cock inside you.
    And they were too stupid to know that once they did, they gave you all the power.
    She had no sympathy for women who claimed they'd been abused or raped or molested. If a woman was too stupid, too weak, to know how to seize a man's power and use it against him, she deserved whatever she got.
    Julianna had never been stupid. And she'd learned quickly. Her mother had been nothing but a fool who'd been tossed away by one man and gone scrambling for another. And always at their beck and call, always biddable and malleable.
    She'd never learned. Not even when Julianna had seduced her idiot second husband, had lured him to bed, and let him do all the disgusting things men lived to do to her fresh and supple fifteen-year-old body.
    It had been so easy to make him want her, to draw him in so that he would sneak out of his wife's bed and into his wife's daughter. Panting for her like an eager puppy.
    It had been so easy to use it against him. All she'd had to do was dangle sex, and he'd given her whatever she'd wanted. All she'd had to do was threaten exposure, and he'd given her more.
    She'd walked away from that house at eighteen, with a great deal of money and without a backward glance. She'd never forget her mother's face when she'd told her just what had gone on under her nose for three long years.
    It had been so viciously satisfying to see the shock, the horror, the grief. To see the weight of it all crash down and crush.
    Naturally, she'd said she'd been raped, forced, threatened. It always paid to protect yourself.
    Maybe her mother had believed it, and maybe she hadn't. It didn't matter. What mattered was that in that moment Julianna had realized she had the power to destroy.
    And it had made her.
    Now, years later, she stood in the bedroom of the townhouse off Madison Avenue she'd purchased more than two years before. Under yet another name. Studying herself in the mirror, she decided she liked herself as a brunette. It was a sultry look, particularly with the gold dust tone she'd chosen for her skin.
    She lit an herbal cigarette, turned sideways in the mirror. Ran a hand over her flat belly. She'd taken advantage of the health facilities in prison, had kept herself in shape.
    In fact, she believed she was in better shape than she'd been before she'd gone in. Firmer, fitter, stronger. Perhaps she'd join a health club here, an exclusive one. It was an excellent way to meet men.
    When she heard her name, she glanced toward the entertainment screen and the latest bulletin. Delighted, she watched her face, both as herself and as Julie Dockport flash on. Admittedly, she hadn't expected the police to identify her quite so quickly. Not that it worried her; not in the least.
    No, they didn't worry her. They-or one of them- challenged her.
    Detective Eve Dallas, now Lieutenant.
    She'd come back for Dallas. To wage war.
    There had been something about Eve Dallas, she thought now, something cold, something dark that had spoken to her.
    Kindred spirits, she mused, and as the idea intrigued her she'd found herself spending endless hours of her time in prison, studying that particular opponent.
    She had time still. The police would be chasing their tails searching for a connection between her and Walter Pettibone. They'd find none because there was none to find.
    That was the tone of her work now, other women's husbands. She didn't have to have sex with them. She just got to kill them.
    Strolling out of the room, she walked toward her office to spend the next hour or two studying her research notes on her next victim.
    She might have taken a forced sabbatical, but Julianna was back. And raring to go.

CHAPTER 6
    Because stalling made her feel weak and stupid, Eve only managed to put off the trip to Commander Whitney's office until the middle of the day.
    The only satisfaction in heading up was being able to ignore Channel 75's ace on-air reporter, Nadine Furst, as she requested an interview regarding the Pettibone-Dunne story.
    That was something else she'd have to shuffle in, she thought as she caught a glide out of Homicide. Nadine's investigative skills were as sharp and savvy as her wardrobe. She'd be a handy tool.
    As she was shown directly into Whitney's office without even a momentary wait, Eve had to figure he'd been expecting her.
    He sat at his desk, a