Home > Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)

Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)
Author: J. D. Robb


He needed killing.

She’d researched, studied, planned the who, when, how, and why for more than a year, and had chosen Nigel B. McEnroy to be the first.

At forty-three, he had a wife of eleven years, two children—both girls, ages nine and six. He had, over the course of eighteen years, built his own executive headhunting business with two partners. As CEO of Perfect Placement, he oversaw recruitment both on- and off-planet.

Though he maintained his base in London, he traveled extensively. Perfect Placement kept offices in New York, East Washington, Tokyo, Madrid, Sydney, New L.A., Dubai, Hong Kong, Vegas II, and most recently had established a center on the Olympus Resort.

He lived well, entertained lavishly, had earned a reputation for pinpointing the precise needs of a client and making what he thought of as a perfect marriage.

In business, Nigel B. McEnroy was scrupulous, exacting, ethical, and diligent.

None of that stopped him from being, in his private life, a liar, a cheat, an adulterer, and a serial rapist.

The man was unquestionably a pig, and it was time for the slaughter.

She looked forward to it, and felt she’d chosen her first very well.

He liked cheating with redheads, ones with large breasts, ones—most usually—lower on the food chain of power than himself. When he wasn’t fishing in his own company pool, he enjoyed hunting in upscale clubs.

If that wasn’t bad enough, considering his wife and two children, he usually tipped a drug into his chosen prey’s drink, to ensure co-operation. Capitulation.

Worse, perhaps, he had at least once (she suspected more) roofied a potential candidate for a position, one he would pass over—for a male—just to add insult to injury.

Of course, the poor girl hadn’t been able to prove a thing, could barely remember the assault, had been too afraid to accuse the son of a bitch.

But she’d heard enough from other victims, more than enough to begin her research, stalking, trailing, watching the pig in action. And twice had documented his rapist routine.

Finally she had everything in place, and now took a long last look at herself in the full-length mirror in her workshop.

Her hair long, wavy, bold red, her eyes dyed a deep, sharp green and carefully made-up. Her lips plumped and as red as her hair.

She’d worked for some time to give her nose the appearance of a slight uptilt, her chin the slightest point.

The temporary fake boobs looked and felt absolutely real—you got what you paid for. To finish it off, she’d padded her ass just a bit and used a very subtle self-tanner for a slight golden hue.

The dress she’d chosen, green like the eyes, slick as water, fit like skin. The heels, sparkling silver, gave her more height—especially with the narrow lifts.

Pig Nigel hit six-one, and with the shoes, she’d stand at five-eleven. A good fit.

She looked statuesque, bold, sexy.

With the wig, the body and face enhancements, why, her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.

She gave one more turn in the triple, full-length mirror, fluffed the wig. “Engage, Wilford.”

The droid, designed to simulate a white male in his sixties with a trim silver mustache to match the flow of hair, opened quiet blue eyes.

“Yes, madam?”

She’d programmed his voice to a plummy British accent, outfitted him in a black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie.

“Bring the car around,” she ordered. “The town car. You’ll drive me to a club called This Place, then park and wait for further orders.”

“As you wish, madam.”

“Take the elevator. I’ve unblocked it.”

While he followed her instructions, she checked the contents of her bag, then walked to the monitors.

Her grandmother—bless her—slept peacefully with the medical droid on watch. Dear, dear Grand would sleep through the night—helped along by the sleep soother she’d added to the glass of brandy sweet Grand drank every night.

“Be back soon.” She blew a kiss to the monitor, took the elevator to the main level of the glorious old house she adored nearly as much as Grand.

Always careful, she blocked the elevator again, walked with a satisfying click of heels to the opulent foyer, stepped out into the cool of the April night, secured the front doors.

She shivered a little, with cold, with anticipation, but Wilford stood holding the car door open.

She slipped inside, crossed her legs. April 11, 2061, she thought. The day that marked the rise of Lady Justice.


* * *


Nigel was on the prowl, and ready to celebrate a long, successful day of work. With his wife and daughters enjoying tropical breezes during spring break, he had a full week on his own—no need to make excuses about working late when he felt like a bit of strange.

He enjoyed This Place for its discretion (no cams), its VIP booths—screened off from the hoi polloi—its excellent martinis and music. And, oh yes, the variety of attractive women looking for a bit of strange themselves.

He’d reserved a VIP booth, of course, but during this first hour roamed the glittering silver floors, scanned the pumping lights of the dance floor, took the glides up and down the triple levels.

He thought of this part of the evening as the hunt, and enjoyed it immensely.

He’d scored very well the night before, thank you, with a twinset. Two strawberry blondes happy to share their attributes for a few hours in his New York pied-à-terre.

He imagined he could have tagged either—or both—back for a return engagement, but he wanted fresh. In any case, as always, he’d deleted their contacts.

He knew he looked his best, trim in black pants, a studded belt, a pale blue sweater that matched his eyes. He wore a sleek wrist unit that said wealthy to anyone with an eye for such things.

He could have paid for a top-level licensed companion—and had done so when time squeezed his choices. But he much preferred the hunt, and the score.

At the moment, he had his eye on a redhead with sinuous moves on the dance floor. A bit young for his usual pick, he admitted, and the hair—spiked and short—not as sophisticated.

But those moves.

Keeping her in sight, he began to circle the floor. He’d find an opening, and then—

Someone bumped him lightly from behind. He started to glance back, heard a throaty, “Excusez-moi.”

The voice, the faint French accent, that throaty purr had him turning completely.

He forgot the dancer with the sinuous moves.

“Pas de quoi.” He took the vision’s hand, brought it to his lips, and was rewarded with a sultry smile.

He kept the hand—she didn’t object. “Êtes-vous ici seule?”

“Ah, oui,” she said, with what he read as a clear invitation. “Et vous?”

He turned her hand over, brushed his lips lightly over the inside of her wrist. Spoke in English. “I hope not anymore.”

“You’re English. You speak French very well.”

“I hope you’ll allow me to buy you a drink, and we can speak in any language you like.”

She trailed her free hand down that glorious fall of hair, angled her head. “I would enjoy that.”

He thought: Score, as he led her away, through the crowd, around tables, past one of the many bars, and to his booth.

“I hope you don’t mind. I prefer a bit of privacy.”

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