Glory in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “The cab dropped her off first,” Eve continued. “She told Hammett not to get out, why get wet? She was laughing when she ran for the building, then turned and blew him a kiss.”

  “Your report said they were tight.”

  “He loved her.” More from habit than hunger, she dipped a hand into the bag Feeney held out. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, but he loved her. According to him, they were both happy with their arrangement, but . . .” She lifted her shoulders. “If he wasn’t, and was looking to set up a good alibi, he set a nice romantic, cozy stage. It doesn’t work for me, but it’s early yet. So, she came up,” Eve continued, moving to the door. “Her dress is a little damp, so she goes to the bedroom to hang it up.”

  As she spoke, Eve followed the projected route, walking over the lovely rugs into the spacious bedroom with its quiet colors and lovely antique bed.

  She ordered lights to brighten the area. The police shields on the windows not only frustrated the fly-bys, but blocked most of the sunlight.

  “To the closet,” she said and pressed the button that opened the long, mirrored sliding doors. “She hangs up the suit.” Eve pointed to the red dress and jacket, neatly arranged in a wardrobe ordered in sweeps of color. “Puts away her shoes, puts on a robe.”

  Eve turned to the bed. A long flow of ivory was spread there. Not folded, not neatly arranged as was the rest of the room, but rumpled, as though it had been impatiently tossed.

  “She puts her jewelry in the safe in the side wall of the closet, but she doesn’t go to bed. Maybe she goes out to catch the news, to have a nightcap.”

  With Feeney following, Eve went back to the living area. A briefcase, neatly closed, sat on the table in front of the sofa with a single empty glass beside it.

  “She’s relaxing, maybe thinking over the evening, rehearsing her court strategy for the next day or her planning her daughter’s wedding. Her ’link beeps. Whoever it was, whatever they tell her, gets her moving. She’s settled in for the night, but she goes back to the bedroom, after she’s zapped the record. She dresses again. Another power suit. She’s going to the West End. She doesn’t want to blend, she wants to exude authority, confidence. She doesn’t call a cab. That’s another record. She decides she’ll take the subway. It’s raining.”

  Eve moved to a closet tucked into the wall near the front door and pressed it to open. Inside were jackets, wraps, a man’s overcoat she suspected was Hammett’s, and a fleet of umbrellas in varying colors.

  “She takes out the umbrella she bought to match the suit. It’s automatic, her mind is on her meet. She doesn’t take a lot of money, so it’s not a payoff. She doesn’t call anyone, because she wants to handle it herself. But when she gets to the Five Moons, nobody meets her. She waits nearly an hour, impatient, checking her watch. She leaves a few minutes after one, back into the rain. She’s got her umbrella and starts to walk back to the subway. I figure she’s steamed.”

  “Classy woman, kicking in a dive for an hour for a no show.” Feeney popped another nut. “Yeah, steamed would be my take.”

  “So, she heads out. It’s raining pretty hard. Her umbrella’s up. She only gets a few feet. Someone’s there, probably been close by all along, waiting for her to come out.”

  “Doesn’t want to see her inside,” Feeney put in. “Doesn’t want to be seen.”

  “Right. They have to talk a couple of minutes according to the time frame. Maybe they argue—not much of an argument, there isn’t time. Nobody’s on the street—nobody who’d pay attention, anyway. A couple of minutes later, her throat’s slashed, she’s bleeding on the sidewalk. Did he plan to do her all along?”

  “Lotsa people carry stickers in that area.” Thoughtful, Feeney rubbed his chin. “Couldn’t get premeditated on that by itself. But the timing, the setup. Yeah, that’s how it shakes down to me.”

  “Me, too. One slice. No defensive wounds, so she didn’t have time to feel threatened. The killer doesn’t take her jewelry, the leather bag, her shoes, or her credits. He just takes her umbrella, and he walks away.”

  “Why the umbrella?” Feeney wondered.

  “Hell, it’s raining. I don’t know, an impulse, a souvenir. As far as I can see, it’s the only mistake he made. I’ve got grunts out checking a ten-block area to see if he ditched it.”

  “If he ditched it in that area, some chemi-head’s walking around with a purple parasol.”

  “Yeah.” A visual of that almost made her smile. “How could he be sure she’d zap the recording, Feeney? He had to be sure.”

  “Threat?”

  “A PA lives with threats. One like Towers would shake them off like lint.”

  “If they were aimed at her,” he agreed. “She’s got kids.” He nodded toward the framed holograms. “She wasn’t just a lawyer. She was a mother.”

  With a frown, Eve walked over to the holograms. Curious, she picked up one of the boy and girl together as young teenagers. A flick of her finger over the back had the audio bubbling out.

  Hey, big shot. Happy Mother’s Day. This will last longer than the flowers. We love you.

  Oddly disturbed, Eve set the frame down again. “They’re adults now. They’re not kids anymore.”

  “Dallas, once a parent, always a parent. You never finish the job.”

  Hers had, she thought. A long time finished.

  “Then I guess my next stop is Marco Angelini.”

  Angelini had offices in Roarke’s building on Fifth. Eve stepped into the now familiar lobby with its huge tiles and pricey boutiques. The cooing voices of computer guides offered assistance to various locations. She scanned one of the moving maps and ignoring the glides, hiked her way to the elevators along the south end.

  The glass tube shot her to the fifty-eighth floor, then opened onto solemn gray carpet and blinding white walls.

  Angelini Exports claimed a suite of five offices in this location. After one quick scan, Eve noted that the company was small potatoes in relation to Roarke Industries.

  Then again, she thought with a tight smile, what isn’t?

  The receptionist in the greeting area showed great respect and not a little nerves at the sight of Eve’s badge. She fumbled and swallowed so much Eve wondered if the woman had a cache of illegal substances in her desk drawer.

  But the fear of cop had her all but shoving Eve into Angelini’s office after less than ninety seconds of lag time.

  “Mr. Angelini, I appreciate your time. My sympathies for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas, please sit.”

  He wasn’t elegant, as Hammett was, but he was powerful. A small man, solidly built with jet hair combed slickly back from a prominent widow’s peak. His skin was a pale, dusky gold, his eyes bright, hard marbles of azure under thick brows. He had a long nose, thin lips, and the glitter of a diamond on his hand.

  If he was grieving, the former husband of the victim hid it better than her lover had.

  He sat behind a console-style desk that was smooth as satin. It was absolutely clear but for his still and folded hands. Behind him was a tinted window that blocked the UV rays while letting in the view of New York.

  “You’ve come about Cicely.”

  “Yes, I was hoping you could spare some time now to answer some questions.”

  “You have my full cooperation, Lieutenant. Cicely and I were divorced, but we remained partners, in business and in parenthood. I admired and respected her.”

  There was a hint of his native country in his voice. Just a whisper of it. It reminded her that, according to his dossier, Marco Angelini spent a large part of his time in Italy.

  “Mr. Angelini, can you tell me the last time you saw or spoke with Prosecutor Towers?”

  “I saw her on March eighteenth, at my home on Long Island.”

  “She came to your home.”

  “Yes, for my son’s twenty-fifth birthday. We gave him a party together, using my estate there, as it was most convenient. David, our son, often stays ther
e when he is on the East Coast.”

  “You hadn’t seen her since that date.”

  “No, we were both busy, but we had planned to meet in the next week or two to discuss plans for Mirina’s wedding. Our daughter.” He cleared his throat gently. “I was in Europe for most of April.”

  “You called Prosecutor Towers on the night of her death.”

  “Yes, I left a message to see if we could meet for lunch or drinks at her convenience.”

  “About the wedding,” Eve prompted.

  “Yes, about Mirina’s wedding.”

  “Had you spoken with Prosecutor Towers since the day of March eighteenth and the night of her death?”

  “Several times.” He pulled his fingers apart, linked them again. “As I said, we considered ourselves partners. We had the children, and there were a few business interests.”

  “Including Mercury.”

  “Yes.” His lips curved ever so slightly. “You are an . . . acquaintance of Roarke’s.”

  “That’s right. Did you and your former wife disagree on any of your partnerships, personally or professionally?”

  “Naturally we did, on both. But we’d learned, as we had been unable to learn during our marriage, the value of compromise.”

  “Mr. Angelini, who inherits Prosecutor Towers’s interest in Mercury after her death?”

  His brow lifted. “I do, Lieutenant, according to the terms of our business contract. There are also a few holdings in some real estate that will revert to me. This was an arrangement of our divorce settlement. I would guide the interests, advise her on investments. Upon the death of one of us, the interests and profits or losses would revert to the other. We both agreed, you see, and trusted that in the end, all either of us had of value would go to our children.”

  “And the rest of her estate. Her apartment, her jewelry, whatever possessions that weren’t part of your agreement?”

  “Would, I assume, be left to our children. I imagine there would be a few bequests to personal friends or charities.”

  Eve was going to dig quickly to learn just how much Towers had tucked away. “Mr. Angelini, you were aware that your ex-wife was intimately involved with George Hammett.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And this was . . . not a problem?”

  “A problem? Do you mean, Lieutenant, did I, after nearly twelve years of divorce, harbor homicidal jealousy for my ex-wife? And did I slice the throat of the mother of my children and leave her dead on the street?”

  “In words to that effect, Mr. Angelini.”

  He said something in Italian under his breath. Something, Eve suspected, uncomplimentary. “No, I did not kill Cicely.”

  “Can you tell me your whereabouts on the night of her death?”

  She could see his jaw tense and noticed the control it took for him to relax it again, but his eyes never flickered. She imagined he could stare a hole through steel.

  “I was at home in my townhouse from eight o’clock on.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see or speak with anyone who can verify that?”

  “No. I have two domestics, and both were out on their night off, which was why I was home. I wanted quiet and privacy for an evening.”

  “You made no calls, received none during the evening?”

  “I received a call at about three A.M. from Commander Whitney informing me of my wife’s death. I was in bed, alone, when the call came in.”

  “Mr. Angelini, your ex-wife was in a West End dive at one o’clock in the morning. Why?”

  “I haven’t any idea. No idea at all.”

  Later, when Eve stepped into the glass tube to descend, she beeped Feeney. “I want to know if Marco Angelini was in any kind of financial squeeze, and how much that squeeze would have loosened at his ex-wife’s sudden death.”

  “You smell something, Dallas?”

  “Something,” she muttered. “I just don’t know what.”

  chapter five

  Eve stumbled into her apartment at nearly one A.M. Her head was ringing. Mavis’s idea of dinner on her night off had been to take in a rival club. Already aware she would pay for the evening’s entertainment in the morning, Eve stripped on the way to the bedroom.

  At least the evening out with Mavis had pushed the Towers case out of her mind. Eve might have worried she had no mind left, but she was too exhausted to think about it.

  She fell naked and facedown on the bed and was asleep in seconds.

  Eve woke, violently aroused.

  It was Roarke’s hands on her. She knew their texture, their rhythm. Her heart tripped against her ribs, then bounded into her throat as his mouth covered hers. His was greedy, hot, giving her no choice, really no choice at all but to respond in kind. Even as she fumbled for him, those long, clever fingers pierced her, diving into her so that she bowed up into the frenzy of orgasm.

  His mouth on her breast, sucking, teeth scraping. His elegant hands relentless so that her cries came out in whimpers of shock and gratitude. Another staggering climax to layer thick over the first.

  Her hands sought purchase in the tangled sheets, but nothing could anchor her. As she flew up again, she gripped him, nails scraping down his back, up to grab handfuls of his hair.

  “God!” It was the single coherent word she managed as he plunged into her, so hard, so deep she was amazed she didn’t die from the pleasure of it. Her body bucked helplessly, frantically, continued to shudder even after he’d collapsed on her.

  He let out a long, satisfied sigh and lazily nuzzled her ear. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “Roarke? Oh, was that you?”

  He bit her.

  She smiled quietly in the dark. “I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.”

  “I got lucky. Then I followed your trail into the bedroom.”

  “I was out with Mavis. We went to a place called Armageddon. My hearing’s starting to come back.” She stroked his back, yawned hugely. “It’s not morning, is it?”

  “No.” Recognizing the weariness in her voice, he shifted, gathered her close against him, and kissed her temple. “Go to sleep, Eve.”

  “Okay.” She obliged him in less than ten seconds.

  He woke at first light and left her curled in the middle of the bed. In the kitchen, he programmed the AutoChef for coffee and a toasted bagel. The bagel was stale, but that was to be expected. Making himself at home, he sat by the kitchen monitor and skimmed through the paper to the financial section.

  He couldn’t concentrate.

  He was trying not to resent the fact that she’d chosen her bed over their bed. Or what he wanted her to think of as their bed. He didn’t begrudge her the need for personal space; he understood well the need for privacy. But his house was large enough that she could have appropriated an entire wing for herself if she wanted it.

  Pushing away from the monitor, he paced to the window. He wasn’t used to this struggle, this war to balance his needs with someone else’s. He’d grown up thinking of himself first and last. He’d had to, in order to survive and then to succeed. One was every bit as important to him as the other.

  The habit was difficult to break—or had been, until Eve.

  It was humiliating to admit, even to himself, that every time he went away to see to business, a seed of fear rooted in his heart that she would have shaken herself loose of him by the time he returned.

  The simple fact was, he needed the one thing she had refused him. A commitment.

  Turning from the window, he went back to the monitor and forced himself to read.

  “Good morning,” Eve said from the doorway. Her smile was quick and bright, as much from the pleasure of seeing him as from the fact that her trip to Armageddon didn’t have the consequences she’d feared. She felt terrific.

  “Your bagels are stale.”

  “Mmm.” She tested by trying a bite of the one on the table. “You’re right.” Coffee was always a better bet. “Anything in
the news I should worry about?”

  “Are you concerned with the Treegro takeover?”

  Eve knuckled one eye as she sipped her first cup of coffee. “What’s Treegro and who’s taking it over?”

  “Treegro’s a reforestry company, hence the overly adorable name. I’m taking it over.”

  She grunted. “Figures. I was thinking more of the Towers case.”

  “Cicely’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow. She was important enough, and Catholic enough, to warrant St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  “Will you go?”

  “If I can reschedule a few appointments. Will you?”

  “Yeah.” Thinking, Eve leaned back on the counter. “Maybe her killer will be there.”

  She studied him as he scanned the monitor. He should have looked out of place in her kitchen, she mused, in his expensive, meticulously tailored linen shirt and with the luxurious mane of hair swept back from that remarkable face.

  She kept waiting for him to look out of place there, with her.

  “Problem?” he murmured, well aware that she was staring at him.

  “No. Things on my mind. How well do you know Angelini?”

  “Marco?” Roarke frowned over something he saw on the monitor, took out his notebook, entered a memo. “Our paths cross often enough. Normally a careful businessman, always a devoted father. Prefers spending his time in Italy, but his power base is here in New York. Contributes generously to the Catholic Church.”

  “He stands to gain financially from Towers’s death. Maybe it’s just a drop in the bucket, but Feeney’s checking it out.”

  “You could have asked me,” Roarke murmured. “I would have told you Marco’s in trouble. Not desperate trouble,” he amended when Eve’s eyes sharpened. “He’s made some ill-advised acquisitions over the past year or so.”

  “You said he was careful.”

  “I said he was normally careful. He bought several religious artifacts without having them thoroughly authenticated. His zeal got in the way of his business sense. They were forgeries, and he’s taken a hard loss.”