In Death 17 - Imitation in Death

accent. He's relocating here, from Rome, though he'll still have some business interests in Europe. He's in oil. Olive oil. He needs a personal accountant to work with his corporate people. Oh my. Has something happened to him? Is that why you're here?'
     
     
"No." She was measuring Katie as she'd measured the loft. As she'd concluded from the data and ID picture, Katie Mitchell was the same general build and coloring, as Peabody. That might come in handy.
     
     
"Ms. Mitchell, this man's name isn't Marsonini. It's Renquist, and he's suspected of murdering at least five women."
     
     
"Oh, you must be mistaken. Mr. Marsonini was perfectly charming. I spent nearly two hours with him today."
     
     
"There's no mistake. Posing as. a potential; client, Renquist gained entrance to this loft for the purposes of cloning your security, having personal contact with you, and assuring himself that you did, still, live alone. Which I assume you do."
     
     
"Well, yes, but-"
     
     
"He has stalked you for some time, as is his pattern with his victims, gathering information: on your routines and habits. He intends to enter this residence within the next fortyeight hours, most likely when you're sleeping. He would then restrain you, rape and torture you before using your own kitchen utensils to mutilate and kill you. in the most painful way he could devise."
     
     
Eve listened to the little choked sound that creaked in Katie's throat, than watched the brunette's eyes roll back in her head.
     
     
"All yours," she said as Roarke swore and stepped in to catch Katie before she toppled over.
     
     
"You could have done that in a more sensitive and delicate way."
     
     
"Sure. But-this was quicker. When she comes to, she can pack what she needs. Then you get her out."
     
     
He hefted Katie, headed with her to a sofa. "You're not staying here alone and waiting for him to come hunting." "That's my job," she began. "But I'm calling for backup."
     
     
"Call for it now, and I'll have her out of your way inside twenty minutes."
     
     
She pulled out her, communicator and prepared to set up the next stage of her operation.
     
     
She spent the hours until dawn sitting in the dark, waiting. A surveillance vehicle sat outside, and two armed uniforms were stationed` in the living area of the Mitchell apartment. But the watch team had its orders.
     
     
Renquist, when he came, was hers.
     
     
And he sat in his quiet room in a small apartment on the edge of the Village. He'd decorated it carefully, selecting each piece so that it would have a European feel, and a rich one, rich and colorful and sexy.
     
     
So unlike the cool, stagnant home he shared with his wife when he was Niles.
     
     
When he was in this warm, deeply toned room, he was Victor Clarence. A small, amusing joke and a play on His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, who some credited with the Ripper murders of Whitechapel.
     
     
Renquist liked to believe it, enjoyed the notion of a killer prince. He considered himself no less.
     
     
A prince among men. A king among killers.
     
     
And like that famed stylist of death, he would never be caught. But he was more than his prototypes. Because he would never stop.
     
     
He drank a brandy and smoked a thin cigar laced with just a whiff of loner. He loved these times alone, the quiet, reflective times when all the preparation was done.
     
     
He was pleased he'd decided to feign a business trip, to get away on his own for a few days. Pamela was irritating him more than usual with her long, speculative stares, her pointed questions.
     
     
Who was she to question him, to look at him?
     
     
If she only knew how many times he'd imagined killing her. The many and creative ways he'd devised. She'd run screaming. The image of his cold and rigid wife running for her life made him chuckle.
     
     
Of course, he would never do it. It would bring it all too close to home, and he was no fool. Pamela was safe simply because he was stuck with her. Besides, if he killed her, who would handle all the annoying details of his social life?
     
     
No, it was enough just to have these periodic rests from her, and the female she'd saddled him with. Irritating, sneaky little brat. Children were, as he'd learned from his dear old nanny, meant to be neither seen nor heard.
     
     
If they rebelled or failed to obey smartly, they were to be put somewhere, in the dark. Where they were no longer seen, where they