Born in Death by J. D. Robb

price, Peabody gulped audibly. Eve just stared and said, “Holy crap.”
    “I know, it’s awfully dear, but it’s really worth the price. And I can offer you a ten percent discount on anything purchased today if you open a White Stork account.”
    “No, no thanks.” That, Eve thought as she rubbed her hands over her face, might just be tempting fate. “I’ll pay the full shot. The one in the colors Mavis likes.”
    “It’s a fully awesome gift, Dallas,” Peabody told her.
    “It is. It really is.” Tandy’s eyes actually went damp. “She’s so lucky to have a friend like you.”
    “Damn right.”
    It’s only money, Eve reminded herself as she completed the transaction. Only a whole shitload of money. While she reeled from sticker shock, Peabody and Tandy bubbled on about babies, the shower, baby gadgets. When they segued into breast-feeding, Eve drew her line.
    “We gotta go. Crime and stuff.”
    “I’m so glad you stopped in, and not just because of the sale. I just can’t wait until the shower on Saturday. My social life’s a little thin these days,” she added with an easy laugh. “Mavis’s baby shower is the highlight on my calendar. Except for this one’s birthday.” She patted her belly. “The rocker system will be delivered the day before, by noon. Any problems, any at all, just contact me here.”
    “Will do. Thanks, Tandy.”
    “See you soon!”
    It was with gratitude that Eve stepped out of the warm, scented, musical air and into the cold, windy noise of the city. “What time is it, Peabody?”
    “Ah, about thirteen-thirty.”
    “I want to go lie down in a dark room.”
    “Well…”
    “On duty, no rest for the traumatized. Soy fries will have to substitute for the comfort of oblivion.”
    “We eat?” Peabody nearly did a dance. “We should go shopping more often.”
    “Bite your tongue.”

4
    EVE WASN’T SURE WHAT IT SAID ABOUT HER that she was more comfortable in the morgue than in a baby boutique. And she didn’t actually care. The cold white walls, the scent of death under the piney odors of cleansers were the familiar.
    She pushed through the thick door into Autopsy as Morris, the chief medical examiner, transferred Bick Byson’s brain from his skull to a scale.
    “A two-for-one sale, I see.” Morris—his spiffy suit of the day protected with a clear plastic cape—paused to enter data. Then he set the brain in a tray.
    He wasn’t tall, but he was built in a way the chocolate brown suit and dull gold T-shirt exploited. He was oddly sexy with those dark, slightly slanted eyes and the ink black hair scooped back in a tight, intricate braid.
    “That’s how I see it,” Eve agreed. “You concur. Same method, same killer?”
    “Physical force and trauma. In technical terms, he whaled away on them. Binding, ankles, wrists. I’d be very surprised if the CSIs don’t find the tape came from the same roll for both your vics. Death by strangulation on each. Male vic was stunned—full contact just above the sternum. He also has, as you noted in your on-scene, bruises and lacerations on his knuckles. He fought back. I removed a few bits of ceramic from his back and buttocks.”
    “Broken lamp. Looks like he grabbed it from the bedroom, came out into the living area, tried to use it as a weapon on the intruder.”
    “No postmortem trauma on either. When your killer was done, he was done. No sexual assault on either. Your female vic…”
    Morris wiped his sealed hands, then skirted around to where Natalie lay, cleaned, naked, and tagged.
    “That’s not your Y-cut,” Eve observed with a frown as she studied the body.
    “Quite an eye you have there, Dallas.” And his own twinkled with amusement. “No, I supervised a new ME. Our motto around here is Die To Learn. The female was tortured before death. Broken fingers. The angle and position of the breaks indicate a backward thrust.”
    Morris held up his own hand, gripped his pinky with the other, and pulled it back and