Haunted in Death by J. D. Robb

them.“
    Roarke studied her over his own glass, his gaze thoughtful, seeking. “Then there’s nothing after? As close as you’ve been to me dead, you don’t see something after?“
    “I don’t know what I see.“ This sort of conversation always made her uncomfortable, somehow sticky along the skin. “Because you don’t see it – if it’s there to see – until you’re dead. But I don’t believe the dead go all whoooo, or start singing. The original Hopkins paid an investigation off, this killer wants to weird one off. It’s not going to work.“
    “Consider the possibility,“ he suggested. “Bobbie Bray’s spirit wants her revenge as much as you want justice. It’s a powerful desire, on both parts.“
    “That’s not a possible possibility.“
    “Closed-minded.“
    “Rational,“ she corrected, with some heat now. “Jesus, Roarke, she’s bones. Why now then? Why here and now? How’d she manage to get someone – flesh and blood – to do the descendent of her killer? If Hop Hopkins was her killer – which hasn’t yet been proven.“
    “Maybe she was waiting for you to prove it.“
    “Oh yeah, that’s rational. She’s been hanging around, waiting for the right murder cop to come along. Listen, I’ve got the reality of a dead body, an antique and banned weapon used in a previous crime. I’ve got no discernible motive and a media circus waiting to happen. I can’t take the time to wonder and worry about the disposition of a woman who’s been dead eighty-five years. You want to waste your time playing with ghosts, be my guest. But I’ve got serious work on my plate.“
    “Fine then, since it pisses you off, I’ll just leave you to your serious work while I go waste my time.“
    She scowled at him when he got up and carried his glass of wine with him to his office. And she cursed under her breath when he closed the door behind him.
    “Great, fine, fabulous. Now I’ve got a ghost causing marital discord. Just makes it all perfect.“
    She shoved away from her desk to set up the case board she used at home. Logic was what was needed here, she told herself. Logic, cop sense, facts and evidence.
    Must be that Irish in Roarke’s blood that tugged him into the fanciful. Who knew he’d head that way?
    But her way was straight, narrow and rational.
    Two murders, one weapon. Connection. Two murders, one location, second connection. Second vic, blood descendent of suspected killer in first murder. Connect those dots, too, she thought as she worked.
    So, okay, she couldn’t set the first murder aside. She’d use it.
    Logic and evidence dictated that both victims knew their killer. The first appeared to be a crime of passion, likely enhanced by illegal substances. Maybe Bray cheated on Hop. Or wanted to break things off professionally and/or personally. She could have had something on him, threatened exposure.
    Had to be an act of passion, heat of the moment. Hop had the money, die means. If he’d planned to kill Bray, why would he have done it in his own apartment?
    But the second murder was a deliberate act. The killer lured the victim to the scene, had the weapon. Had, in all likelihood discovered the previous body. The killing had been an act of rage as well as deliberation.
    “Always meant to kill him, didn’t you?“ she murmured as she studied the crime scene photos on her board. “Wanted whatever you wanted first – but whether or not you got it, he was a dead man. What did she mean to you?“
    She studied the photos of Bobbie Bray.
    Obsessed fan? Not out of the realm, she thought, but low on her list.
    “Computer, run probability with evidence currently on active file. What is probability that the killers of Bray, Bobbie and Hopkins, Radcliff C. are linked?“
    Working…
    Absently, Eve picked up her wine, sipping as she worked various scenarios through her head.
    Task complete. Probability is eighty-two-point-three…
    Reasonably strong, Eve mused, and decided to take it one step