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Betrayal in Death

Cover of Betrayal in Death

Betrayal in Death

In Death Series, Book 12
In this novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling series, Detective Eve Dallas' investigation of a homicide at her husband's hotel leads to a murderer with a passion for the finer things in life—and in death...

At the luxurious Roarke Palace Hotel, a maid walks into suite 4602 for the nightly turndown—and steps into her worst nightmare. A killer leaves her dead, strangled by a thin silver wire. He's Sly Yost, a virtuoso of music and murder. A hit man for the elite. Lieutenant Eve Dallas knows him well. But in this twisted case, knowing the killer doesn't help solve the crime. Because there's someone else involved. Someone with a more personal motive. And Eve must face a terrifying possibility—that the real target may, in fact, be her husband Roarke...


From the Paperback edition.
In this novel in the #1 New York Times bestselling series, Detective Eve Dallas' investigation of a homicide at her husband's hotel leads to a murderer with a passion for the finer things in life—and in death...

At the luxurious Roarke Palace Hotel, a maid walks into suite 4602 for the nightly turndown—and steps into her worst nightmare. A killer leaves her dead, strangled by a thin silver wire. He's Sly Yost, a virtuoso of music and murder. A hit man for the elite. Lieutenant Eve Dallas knows him well. But in this twisted case, knowing the killer doesn't help solve the crime. Because there's someone else involved. Someone with a more personal motive. And Eve must face a terrifying possibility—that the real target may, in fact, be her husband Roarke...


From the Paperback edition.
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  • From the book Chapter One

    In death there were many layers. Violent death added more. It was her job to sift through those layers and find cause. In cause, to meet justice.

    However the act of murder was committed, in cold blood or hot, she was sworn to pursue it to its root. And serve the dead.

    For tonight, Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the New York City Police and Security Department wore no badge. It, along with her service weapon and communicator, was currently tucked in an elegant, palm-sized silk purse she considered embarrassingly frivolous.

    She wasn't dressed like a cop, but wore a shimmering apricot-hued gown that skimmed down her long, slim body and was sliced in a dramatic V in the back. A slender chain of diamonds hung glittering around her neck. More sparkled at ears she recently, and in a weak moment, had been persuaded to have pierced.

    Still more were scattered like raindrops through her short chop of brown hair and made her feel faintly ridiculous.

    However glamorous the silk and diamonds made her appear, her eyes were all cop. Tawny brown and cool, they scanned the sumptuous ballroom, skimmed over faces, bodies, and considered security.

    Cameras worked into the fancy plasterwork overhead were unobtrusive, powerful, and would provide full scope. Scanners would flag any guests or staff who happened to be carrying concealeds. And among the staff, weaving their way through the chatter to offer drinks, were a half-dozen trained security personnel.

    The affair was invitation only, and those invitations carried a holographic seal that was scanned at the door.

    The reason for these precautions, and others, was an estimated five hundred and seventy-eight million dollars worth of jewelry, art, and memorabilia currently on dazzling display throughout the ballroom.

    Each display was craftily arranged for impact and guarded by individual sensor fields that measured motion, heat, light, and weight. If any of the guests or staff had sticky fingers and attempted to remove so much as an earring from its proper place, all exits would close and lock, alarms would sound, and a second team of guards hand-selected from an elite NYPSD task force would be ordered to the scene to join the private security.

    To her cynical frame of mind, the entire deal was a foolishly elaborate temptation for too many, in too large an area, in too public a venue. But it was tough to argue with the slick setup.

    Then again, slick was just what she expected from Roarke.

    "Well, Lieutenant?" The question, delivered with a whiff of amusement in a voice that carried the misty air of Ireland, drew her attention to the man.

    Then again, everything about Roarke drew a woman's attention.

    His eyes, sinfully blue, set off a face that had been sculpted on one of God's best days. As he watched her, his poet's mouth, one that often made her want to lean in for just one quick bite, curved, one dark brow lifted, and his long fingers skimmed possessively down her bare arm.

    They'd been married nearly a year, and that sort of casually intimate stroke could still trip her pulse.

    "Some party," she said and turned his smile into a fast, devastating grin.

    "Yes, isn't it?" With his hand still lightly on her arm, he scanned the room.

    His hair was black as midnight and fell nearly to his shoulders into what she thought of as his wild Irish warrior look. Add to that the tall, tautly muscled build in elegant black-tie, and you had a hell of a package. Obviously a number of other women in the room agreed. If Eve had been the jealous type, she'd have been forced to kick some major ass just for the hot and avaricious looks aimed...
Reviews-
  • Publisher's Weekly

    February 19, 2001

    This 12th installment in Robb's (aka Nora Roberts) popular and critically praised futuristic cop series, set in the year 2059, finds Lt. Eve Dallas butting heads with the FBI in a race to take down a hired killer who appears to be targeting the employees of her wealthy hotelier husband, Roarke. Adding to Eve's suspicions is the sudden and unexpected visit by one of Roarke's boyhood chums from Dublin—a shady character named Mick Connelly who used to run with Roarke when they were petty thieves and con men—shortly after the first murder. Eve knows Mick is not the killer; in fact, she's tussled with the prime suspect, Sly Yost, before, and his signature modus operandi, what he would call "murder with class," is unmistakable. Sly's an anal sort with a taste for fine art, classical music, rape and strangulation by silver wire. But, master of disguise that he is, finding him is virtually impossible. Since the murders all take place at Roarke's hotel, Eve allows him to assist in the investigation, a stroke of creative genius on Robb's part that plays on the strengths that brought them together way back in book one (Naked in Death
    ), and that serves to bring out Eve's softer side. So certain is Robb at maintaining an atmospheric setting for this well-paced and expertly rendered series, followers will feel as if they have gone home to the future.

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Betrayal in Death
Betrayal in Death
In Death Series, Book 12
J. D. Robb
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