Strangers in Death
J. D. Robb
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In 2060 New York, Lieutenant Eve Dallas is about to discover how the ties that bind strangers can kill.
shoved Baxter aside, shoved her face into Suzanne’s. “I know you killed Thomas A. Anders. The man who paid for the equipment your kids are wearing right now. You selfish, heartless bitch.” “That’s crazy. I didn’t even know him. A person doesn’t kill someone she doesn’t even know.” “That’s what she told you? They’ll never suspect. She was wrong again, wasn’t she? Her mistakes, all her mistakes, and I’m going to make you pay for every one of them. I’m going to put you in a cage, Suzanne. Look at
hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “Putting her game face on. Knows we’re watching. Anybody with a brain, and brains she’s got, knows how Interview works.” “Spooked her some.” “Yeah, but pissed her off more. That’s what’s going to hang her. Well, time to go kick her ass.” “Want me to kiss your head?” “Want me to mention your sick day pajamas?” “That’s mean. You make me proud. Go skin your fish.” Eve didn’t want to keep Ava waiting long. Keep the temper up, those little edges of fear. She
helpless? Enjoyment or disgust? Or neither. Is it all just the next step now? Takes time, all this window dressing. Takes time, and effort. Have to get into bed with death now to finish it. Eve hitched up, braced a knee on the bed. Not enough leverage, she decided, and climbed on until she knelt beside her mind picture of Anders, imagined tying the last rope, winding it around his neck. Heavy head. Secure the second end of the rope and the head falls forward. It practically does the work for
asked if I’d stay, in case you needed anything. He’s taken Mrs. Anders to Ms. Plowder’s home.” “No, I’ve got all I need. You should go home.” “Yes, I should go home.” She put on the serviceable coat draped over her arm. “Greta, what did Mr. Anders wear in bed?” “I beg your pardon!” “There were pajamas in his drawer. You supervise the laundry, correct?” “I—Yes, of course. Mr. Anders wore sensible pajamas. A fresh pair daily, pressed. No starch.” “How many pairs did he have?” “At last
Edmond and Linny Luce—friends of vic who would, in turn, testify as to the comfortable and happy marriage. Except they don’t like her—under the surface, they don’t like her a bit. She didn’t count on that. She didn’t count on any real connection being made between her—lady of the manor, lady bountiful—with the less fortunate women in the program she oversees.” Now she pinned her finger to Ned Custer’s photo. “She sure as hell didn’t count on any connection between the murder of a philandering,