Imitation in Death
J. D. Robb
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The summer of 2059 is drawing to a sweaty close when a killer makes his debut with the slashing and mutilation of a prostitute. He leaves behind a note addressed to Lieutenant Eve Dallas, commending her work and inviting her to participate in his game...and signs it "Jack." Now Eve is on the trail of a serial killer who knows as much about the history of murder as she does, and he's paying homage to some of history's most vicious, and infamous, killers, beginning with Jack the Ripper. But who will he choose to emulate next? And will Eve be able to stop him before he decides to finish the game by coming after her?
knowing Lois, if they talked kids, she talked about hers, about us. She probably said how we got together Sunday afternoons, and how she looked forward to it. About how she knew what it was like to raise kids alone.” “Did she tell you what he looked like?” “She just said he was a good-looking boy. That doesn’t mean anything. Damn it! She’d call any guy under forty a boy, so that’s no help.” Yes, it was, Eve thought. It eliminated Elliot Hawthorne, as her own instincts already had. “She was a
jealousies interfere with or influence my work, I wouldn’t deserve my badge. I deserve my badge.” “I bet you do,” Pepper replied. “Just as I bet you deserve Roarke, too. He’s the most fascinating man I’ve ever known, just like his house, full of color and style and surprises. But he didn’t love me, and never pretended he did.” “And Leo does. Love you?” “Leo? Leo needs me. And that’s enough.” “I have to say, it sounds to me like you’re selling yourself short.” “That’s nice of you. But I’m no
yet.” “Last gasp of summer in New York. What else can you expect?” “Teach me to stay in London.” She offered her hand. “I’d still love for you and Roarke to come to the play. Just contact me anytime and I’ll arrange for seats.” “Soon as things cool off for me a bit, we’ll take you up on it.” She watched the driver get out, open the rear door of the small town limo. And waited until a breathless and sweaty Peabody rushed up the steps. “Sir. Sorry. Overslept, then the subway . . . breakdown.
crimes on the books, draw attention until he was ready to make his splash.” “I’ve done some research of my own.” Roarke swiveled the workstation aside. “For fifteen months between March of 2012 and May of 2013, a man named Peter Brent murdered seven police officers in the city of Chicago. Brent, unable to pass the psych screen to become a member of the CPSD, joined a fringe paramilitary group where he learned how to handle what would be his weapon of choice, a long-range blaster, already banned
compiling the evidence so that she can make an arrest, and ensure conviction.” “Are you?” “I will neither confirm nor deny.” “You’re bluffing.” “No comment.” “Big bluff, Dallas. I go out with this, and you don’t make that arrest quickly, you’re going to look like an asshole.” “The story’s your business. Now that I’ve finished my doughnut, I’ve got to get back to my business.” “I break this, and it goes down this way, I’m going to deserve an exclusive one-on-one.” “I’ll see about that, as