In Death 28 - Promises in Death

Central, delivered by special messenger. Scanned and cleared.” She took out a knife, cut through the seal.
    Inside were two police-issues, Coltraine’s badge, and her ID. A single disc snugged into a protective case. Eve shoved down impatience. “Let’s get the contents checked for prints, and this disc cleared.”
    “I’ve got a minikit in my desk.” Peabody rushed out.
    “It’s a slap in the face,” Baxter said, his fury barely held under the surface. “We already know that. Here, I took this off a cop, killed her. See what you can do about it.”
    “Yeah. But if you’re cocky enough to take the slap, you’re cocky enough to start making mistakes.” She took the print kit Peabody brought in, used it herself. “Wiped down. Contents, interior of the box, all clean. No hair, no fiber, no nothing.”
    She ran the disc through a hand analyzer. “Text disc. No video, no audio. No viruses detected. Let’s see what the bastard has to say.”
    She plugged it into her machine, ordered it to display.
    The text was bold font, all caps.
     
    I TOOK THESE OFF THE CUNT COP, AND KILLED HER WITH HER OWN WEAPON. SHE WAS EASY. YOU CAN HAVE THEM BACK. MAYBE SOMEDAY SOON, I’LL BE SENDING YOURS TO SOMEBODY ELSE.
     
    “Let’s log them in,” Eve said coolly. “And have a little chat with the messenger. Baxter, you and Trueheart take the mail drop.”
    “I’ll grab the boy and go.”
    “Peabody, with me.”

5
    AS EVE DROVE HOME, SHE WONDERED IF COLtraine’s killer understood the full import of having the weapons and the badge back in official hands. Despite the insult of the message, and its implicit threat, their return meant a great deal.
    A cop’s weapon wouldn’t be used to do harm.
    An in-your-face gesture, sure, Eve reflected, and with a smirk. I took it, I used it, here you go.
    The messenger wasn’t connected. The kid had just been doing his job. She’d leaned on him pretty hard, Eve admitted, pushed, prodded, maybe scared a few weeks off his life. But now she was sure he wasn’t in on it.
    The mail drop led nowhere. Bogus name and address on the receipt, prepaid, comp-generated form the killer could have picked up at any of hundreds of locations at any time, or, in fact, downloaded on his own unit or at any cyber-café.
    All she had there was the location of the drop, and the time the package was retrieved and logged in.
    Same-day drop, expedited delivery ordered and paid for.
    He’d been prepared, she thought now. Prepared to move on it as soon as the media ran with the story and reported the murder—and the name of the primary investigating officer. Fill in her name, dump the package, go.
    That told her it had always been part of the plan. Not just the in-your-face shipment to Cop Central, but the use of Coltraine’s weapon against her. The entire setup was all planned in steps and stages.
    And that was something to chew on.
    She thought of Morris, what he was doing, how he was coping, when she turned through the gates toward home. The spring she’d nearly forgotten about during the long day, exploded here. White and pink blossoms shimmered on the trees, glowing like chains of pastel jewels against the twilight.
    Cheerful heads of daffodils danced with the more elegant cups of tulips in cheerfully elaborate sweeps. It seemed to her as if some happy artist had dabbed and stroked and twirled all his joy across this one secluded slice of the city, spilling it out here so the grand house could rise through it.
    The towers and turrets speared up into the deepening sky, the terraces and strong lines jutted out. The lights in the many windows welcomed her, and sent the rich stone to a sparkle as evening shifted toward night.
    She left her humble vehicle at the foot of grandeur, walked between the pansies Roarke had planted for her—that blooming welcome home—and into the house.
    Summerset wasn’t lurking in the foyer like a black cloud over a sunny spring day. It threw her off-stride for an instant not to immediately confront Roarke’s majordomo and her personal nemesis. But she heard the voices from the main parlor and realized he was probably serving somebody something.
    And instantly thought: Crap. Who’s here?
    She considered skulking up the stairs, closing herself in her office. But security would have already registered her coming through the gates. Stuck, she crossed the foyer to the parlor.
    She saw Roarke first—it occurred to her she almost always did. He sat in one of the