Lieutenant Eve Dallas scours New York City for the sadistic killer who murdered her captain's teenage daughter in this futuristic thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author J. D. Robb. When the newly promoted captain of the NYPSD and his wife return a day early from their vacation, they are looking forward to spending time with their bright and vivacious sixteen-year-old daughter, who stayed behind. Not even their worst nightmares could prepare them for the crime scene that awaits them instead. Deena has been brutally murdered in her bedroom, and her body shows signs of trauma that horrifies even the toughest of cops, including Lieutenant Eve Dallas, who is specifically requested by the captain to investigate. When the evidence starts to pile up, Dallas and her team think they are about to arrest their perpetrator; little do they know that someone has gone to great lengths to tease and taunt them by using a variety of identities. Overconfidence can lead to careless mistakes. But for Dallas, one mistake might be all she needs to serve justice. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780425233672 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group Publication Date: 03-30-2010 Pages: 400 Product Dimensions: 4.00(w) x 6.60(h) x 0.70(d) Age Range: 18 Years Series: In Death (Eve Dallas) SeriesAbout the Author J. D. Robb is the pseudonym for a #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels, including the bestselling In Death series. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page   Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22   EPILOGUE TITLES BY J. D. ROBB G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Publishers Since 1838 Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England   Copyright © 2009 by Nora Roberts All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada   Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Robb, J. D., date. Kindred in death / J. D. Robb. p. cm. ISBN: 9781101151044 1. Dallas, Eve (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Policewomen—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3568.O243K 813’.54—dc22         This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Welcome, kindred glooms! Congenial horrors, hail! —JAMES THOMSON         A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. —TENNYSON 1 SHE’D DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN. OR BETTER, BECAUSE who knew if there was really good sex and lazy holiday mornings in heaven. She was alive and kicking. Well, alive anyway. A little sleepy, a whole lot satisfied, and happy the end of the Urban Wars nearly forty years before had resulted in the international Peace Day holiday. Maybe the Sunday in June had been selected arbitrarily, and certainly symbolically—and maybe remnants of that ugly period still littered the global landscape even in 2060—but she supposed people were entitled to their parades, cookouts, windy speeches, and long, drunk weekends. Personally, she was happy to have two days off in a row for any reason. Especially when a Sunday kicked off like this one. Eve Dallas, murder cop and ass-kicker, sprawled naked across her husband, who’d just given her a nice glimpse of heaven. She figured she’d given him a good look at it, too, as he lay under her, one hand lazily stroking her butt and his heart pounding like a turbo hammer. She felt the thump on the bed that was their pudgy cat, Galahad, joining them now that the show was over. She thought: Our happy little family on a do-nothing Sunday morning. And wasn’t that an amazing thing? She had a happy little family—a home, an absurdly gorgeous and fascinating man who loved her, and—it couldn’t be overstated—really good sex. Not to mention the day off. She purred, nearly as enthusiastically as the cat, and nuzzled into the curve of Roarke’s neck. “Good,” she said. “At the very least.” His arms came around her, such good arms, in an easy embrace. “And what would you like to do next?” She smiled, loving the moment, the lilt of Ireland in his voice, the brush of the cat’s fur against her arm as he butted it with his head in a bid for attention. Or most likely breakfast. “Pretty much nothing.” “Nothing can be arranged.” She felt Roarke shift, and heard the cat’s purring increase as the hands that had recently pleasured her gave him a scratch. She propped herself up to look at his face. His eyes opened. God, they just killed her, that bold, brilliant blue, those thick, dark lashes, the smile in them that was hers. Just hers. Leaning down, she took his magic mouth with hers in a deep, dreamy kiss. “Well now, that’s far from nothing.” “I love you.” She kissed his cheeks, a little rough from the night’s growth of beard. “Maybe because you’re so pretty.” He was, she thought as the cat interrupted by wiggling his bulk under her arm and bellying between them. The carved lips, the sorcerer’s eyes, and sharp, defined bones all framed in the black silk of his hair. When you added the firm, lanky body, it made a damn perfect package. He managed to get around the cat to draw her down for another kiss, then hissed. “Why the hell doesn’t he go down and pester Summerset for breakfast?” Roarke nudged away the cat, who kneaded paws and claws, painfully, over his chest. “I’ll get it. I want coffee anyway.” Eve rolled out of bed, walked—long, lean, naked—to the bedroom AutoChef. “You cost me another shag,” Roarke muttered. Galahad’s bicolored eyes glittered, perhaps in amusement, before he scrambled off the bed. Eve programmed the kibble, and since it was a holiday, a side of tuna. When the cat pounced on it like the starving, she programmed two mugs of coffee, strong and black. “I thought about going down for a workout, but sort of took care of that already.” She took the first life-giving sip as she crossed back to the platform and the lake-sized bed. “I’m going to grab a shower.” “I’ll do the same, then I can grab you.” He smiled as she handed him his coffee. “A second workout, we’ll say. Very healthy. Maybe a full Irish to follow.” “You’re a full Irish.” “I was thinking breakfast, but you can have both.” Didn’t she look happy, he thought, and rested—and altogether delicious. That shaggy cap of deer-hide hair mussed about her face, those big dark eyes full of fun. The little dent in her chin he adored deepened just a bit when she smiled. There was something about the moment, he thought, moments like this when they were so much in tune, that struck him as miraculous. The cop and the criminal—former—he qualified, as bloody normal as Peace Day potato salad. He studied her over the rim of his cup, through the whiff of fragrant steam. “I’m thinking you should wear that outfit more often. It’s a favorite of mine.” She angled her head, drank more coffee. “I’m thinking I want a really long shower.” “Isn’t that handy? I think I want the same.” She took a last sip. “Then we’d better get started.” Later, too lazy to dress, she tossed on a robe while Roarke programmed more coffee and full Irish breakfasts for two. It was all so . . . homey, she thought. The morning sun streamed in the windows of the bedroom bigger than the apartment she’d lived in two years before. Two years married next month, she thought. He’d walked into her life, and everything had changed. He’d found her; she’d found him—and all those dark places inside both of them had gotten a little smaller, a little brighter. “What do you want to do next?” she asked him. He glanced over as he loaded plates and coffee onto a tray to carry it to the sitting area. “I thought the agenda was nothing.” “It can be nothing, or it can be something. I picked yesterday, and that was lots of nothing. There’s probably something in the marriage rules about you getting to pick today.” “Ah yes, the rules.” He set the tray down. “Always a cop.” Galahad padded over to eye the plates as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Roarke pointed a warning finger at him, so the cat turned his head in disgust and began to wash. “My pick then, is it?” He cut into his eggs, considering. “Well, let’s