Missing in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

either with the device in her possession or with the hopes to make that so. It still doesn’t explain why she was murdered in the way she was, or why her body was taken off the ferry. Stealing or obtaining the device, even killing Buckley to get it, that’s business. Basically exsanguinating her and taking what’s left? That’s personal.”
    “I wouldn’t argue, but business and personal often overlap.”
    “Okay.” She lifted her hands and swiped them in the air as if clearing a board. “Why remove the body? Maybe to prove the hit, if it’s hired. Maybe because you’re a sick fuck. Or maybe to buy time. I like that one because it’s weirdly logical. It stalls the identification process. We have to depend on a DNA search and match. And then, we get what appears to be an innocuous vic, corn-f ed Iowa-born female consultant. Maybe, given some time, we’d dig under that, have some questions. But the bigger puzzler would remain, at least initially, how rather than who, since we had the who.”
    “But, because I wanted to spend a bit more time with my wife, I happened to be there when she was identified.”
    “Yeah. You recognized her, and that’s a variable the killer couldn’t have factored in.”
    “Logical enough,” Roarke agreed. “But buy time for what?”
    “To get away, to deliver the device and/or the body. To destroy the body, certainly to get the hell away from the scene. This spy stuff doesn’t work like the job. It’s convoluted, covered with gray areas and underlying motivations. But when you wipe away all of that, you’ve still got a killer, a victim, a motive. We cross off random, because no possible way. It wasn’t impulse.”
    “Because?” He knew the answer, or thought he did, but he loved watching her work.
    “The sign on the door, the getaway. It was vicious—all that spatter. A pro wouldn’t have wasted time with that. Cut the throat, skewer the heart, hit the big artery in the thigh. Pick one and move on. But blood doesn’t lie, and the spatter clearly says this was slice, hack, rip.”
    The light softened as they spoke, and he wondered how many couples might sit in the evening light over a meal and talk of blood spatter and exsanguination.
    Precious few, he supposed.
    “Are you sure none of the blood was the killer’s?”
    She nodded. It was a good question, she thought, and only one of the reasons she liked bouncing a case around with him. “Reports just in, taking samples of every area of spatter, and several from the pool, confirm it all belonged to Buckley.”
    “Then she was caught seriously off guard.”
    “I’ll say. So, specific target, specific location and time, personal and professional connections. Add one more element, and I think it matters. Whoever killed Buckley didn’t kill Carolee Grogan when it would’ve been easier, more expedient and even to his or her advantage to do so.”
    “Leaving her body behind. More confusion,” Roarke agreed. “A longer identification time on the blood pool. A killer with a heart?”
    She tossed back the rest of her wine. “It’s more that a lot of people with a heart kill.”
    “My cynical darling.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Let’s see what we’ve got so far.” She jerked a thumb toward the console.
    Roarke walked back behind the command center, sat. Then, smiling at Eve, patted his knee.
    “Please.”
    “And thank you,” he said, grabbing her and tugging her down. “There now, this is cozy.”
    “It’s murder.”
    “Yes, yes, on a daily basis. Now, see here, we’re through several levels on HSO, but then, I’ve been through that door before.” He brushed his lips over her cheek. “And making some progress on the others. They’ll have done some code shifting and housekeeping since my last visits, but see there, we’re rerouting with them.”
    “I see a bunch of gibberish, numbers and symbols flashing by.”
    “Exactly. Let’s see if we can nudge it along.” He reached around her, began tapping