Secrets in Death by J.D. Robb Read Online (FREE)
Originally published: September 5, 2017
Author: Nora Roberts
Preceded by: Delusion in Death
Followed by: Dark in Death
Genres: Fiction, Romance novel, Mystery, Thriller, Suspense, Police procedural
Nominations: Goodreads Choice Awards Best Mystery & Thriller
Read Secrets in Death by J.D. Robb full novel online free here.
Three may keep a secret,
if two of them are dead.
Gossip needn’t be false to be evil—there’s
a lot of truth that shouldn’t be passed around.
—Frank A. Clark
It wouldn’t kill her.
Probably wouldn’t kill her.
Eyebrows knit together beneath a snowflake cap, Lieutenant Eve Dallas strode through the flood of people on the crowded sidewalk with thoughts nearly as bitter as the February wind.
She’d rather be back in her vehicle and driving home through the jam of other vehicles. Down to it, she’d rather engage in mortal combat in some downtown alleyway with a Zeused-up chemi-head than head for some fussy fern bar.
But a deal was a deal, and she’d run out of excuses—reasons, she self-corrected. She’d had solid reasons to put this deal off.
A murder cop dealt with murder and all it entailed. Not fancy drinks and small talk.
Resigned, she stuffed her hands—she’d forgotten her damn gloves again—in the pockets of her long leather coat that snapped and billowed around her long legs. Her gaze scanned as she hiked the two blocks, brown and canny cop’s eyes on alert. Maybe she’d spot a street thief; Christ knew plenty of tourists clipped by with their wallets all but hanging out saying: Take me.
Not her fault if she had to make an arrest and put this little meet off, again.
But apparently the snatchers and pickers had taken the evening off.
She reminded herself drinks with Dr. Garnet DeWinter, fashion plate, forensic anthropologist, and mild irritant, couldn’t annoy or bore her to actual death.
And if death by boredom equaled a potential risk, surely they had come up with a cure by 2061.
Thirty minutes, she vowed. Forty max, and she’d be done. Deal complete.
She stopped in front of the bar, a tall, rangy woman in flat, sturdy ankle boots, a long black coat, and the incongruous ski cap with a snowflake shimmering over her choppy brown hair and knitted eyebrows.
Stupid name for a bar, she thought, her wide mouth twisting in derision. Snooty French name for a bar.
She wondered if Roarke owned it, because her husband owned damn near everything else. She’d rather be having a drink with him. At home.
But she wasn’t.
She reached for the door, remembered the snowflake cap. She yanked it off, stuffed it in her pocket to maintain a little dignity.
She stepped out of the noise and rush of downtown New York, into the fern- and flower-decked noise of the trendy, overpriced drinking hole.
The bar itself, a dull and elegant silver, swept itself into an S curve along the facing wall. Mirrored shelves filled with shiny bottles backed it. On the top shelf exotic red flowers spilled out of black-and-white checked pots.