Naked in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

DeBlass.
    Voice print and ID recognized, Dallas. Proceed.
    “Open subfile Roarke. Suspect Roarke — known to victim. According to Source C, Sebastian, victim desired suspect. Suspect met her requirements for sexual partner. Possibility of emotional involvement high.
    “Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect owns victim’s apartment building, equaling easy access and probably knowledge of security of murder scene. Suspect has no alibi for eight-hour period on the night of the murder, which includes the time span erased from security discs. Suspect owns large collection of antique weapons, including the type used on victim. Suspect admits to being expert marksman.
    “Factor in personality of suspect. Aloof, confident, self-indulgent, highly intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive and charming.
    “Motive.”
    And there, she ran into trouble. Calculating, she rose, did a pass through the room while the computer waited for more data. Why would a man like Roarke kill? For gain, in passion? She didn’t think so. Wealth and status he would, and could gain by other means. Women — for sex and otherwise — certainly he could win without breaking a sweat. She suspected he was capable of violence, and that he would execute it coldly.
    Sharon DeBlass’s murder had been charged with sex. There had been a crudeness overlaying it. Eve couldn’t quite reconcile that with the elegant man she’d shared coffee with.
    Perhaps that was the point.
    “Suspect considers morality a personal rather than legislative area,” she continued, pacing still. “Sex, weapon restriction, drug, tobacco, and alcohol restrictions, and murder deal with morality that has been outlawed or regulated. The murder of a licensed companion, the only daughter of friends, the only granddaughter of one of the country’s most outspoken and conservative legislators, by a banned weapon. Was this an illustration of the flaws the suspect considers are inherent in the legal system?
    “Motive,” she concluded, settling again. “Self-indulgence.” She took a deep, satisfied breath. “Compute probability.”
    Her system whined, reminded her it was one more piece of hardware that needed replacement, then settled into a jerky hum.
    Probability Roarke perpetrator given current data and supposition, eighty-two point six per cent.
    Oh, it was possible, Eve thought, leaning back in her chair. There was a time, in the not so distant past, when a child could be gunned down by another child for the shoes on his feet.
    What was that if not obscene self-indulgence?
    He had the opportunity. He had the means. And if his own arrogance could be taken into account, he had the motive.
    So why, Eve thought as she watched her own words blink on the monitor, as she studied her computer’s impersonal analysis, couldn’t she make it play in her own head?
    She just couldn’t see it, she admitted. She just couldn’t visualize Roarke standing behind the camera, aiming the gun at the defenseless, naked, smiling woman, and pumping steel into her perhaps only moments after he’d pumped his seed into her.
    Still, certain facts couldn’t be overlooked. If she could gather enough of them, she could issue a warrant for a psychiatric evaluation.
    Wouldn’t that be interesting? she thought with a half smile. Traveling into Roarke’s head would be a fascinating journey.
    She’d take the next step at seven the following evening.
    The buzz at her door brought a frown of annoyance to her eyes. “Save and lock on voice print, Dallas. Code Five. Disengage.”
    The monitor blipped off as she rose to see who was interrupting her. A glance at her security screen wiped the frown away.
    “Hey, Mavis.”
    “You forgot, didn’t you?” Mavis Freestone whirled in, a jangle of bracelets, a puff of scent. Her hair was a glittery silver tonight, a shade that would change with her next mood. She flipped it back where it sparkled like stars down to her impossibly tiny waist.
    “No, I