by J. D. Robb
Because she needed Mirina to hold off on the float a bit longer, Eve rose to request water from the console. Carrying the glass back, she pushed it into Mirina’s hands.
“Did that relationship cause problems between him and your father? Between your mother and father?”
“It . . . was awkward, but not uncomfortable.” Mirina smiled again. She was sleepy now, so relaxed she could have folded her arms on the window ledge and slipped away. “That sounds contradictory. You’d have to know my father. He would refuse to let it bother him, or at least to let it affect him. He’s still friendly with George.”
She blinked down at the glass in her hand as if she’d just realized it was there, and took a delicate sip. “I don’t know how he might have felt if they had decided to marry, but well, that isn’t an issue now.”
“Are you involved in your father’s business, Ms. Angelini?”
“In the fashion arm. I do all the buying for the shops in Rome and Milan, have the final say as to what’s exported to our shops in Paris and New York and so forth. Travel a bit to attend shows, though I don’t care much for traveling. I hate going off planet, don’t you?”
Eve realized she was losing her. “I haven’t done it.”
“Oh, it’s horrid. Randy likes it. Says it’s an adventure. What was I saying?” She pushed a hand through her lovely golden hair, and Eve rescued the glass before it could tumble to the floor. “About the buying. I like to buy clothes. Other aspects of the business never interested me.”
“Your parents and Mr. Hammett were all stockholders in a company called Mercury.”
“Of course. We use Mercury exclusively for our shipping needs.” Her eyelids drooped. “It’s fast, dependable.”
“There were no problems that you know of, in that or any other of your family holdings?”
“No, none at all.”
It was time to try a different tack. “Was your mother aware of Randall Slade’s gambling debts?”
For the first time Mirina showed a spark of life, and the life was anger, flashing in the pale eyes. She seemed to snap awake. “Randall’s debts were not my mother’s concern, but his, and mine. We’re dealing with them.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“There was no reason to worry her about something that was being handled. Randall has a problem with gambling, but he’s gotten help. He doesn’t wager anymore.”
“The debts are considerable?”
“They’re being paid,” Mirina said hollowly. “Arrangements have been made.”
“Your mother was a wealthy woman in her own right. You’ll inherit a large portion of her estate.”
Either the tranqs or grief dulled Mirina’s wits. She seemed oblivious to the implication. “Yes, but I won’t have my mother, will I? I won’t have Mama. When I marry Randall, she won’t be there. She won’t be there,” she repeated, and began to weep quietly.
David Angelini wasn’t fragile. His emotions showed themselves in stiff impatience with undercurrents of chained rage. For all appearances, this was a man insulted at the very idea that he would be expected to speak to a cop.
When Eve sat across from him in Whitney’s office, he answered her questions briefly in a clipped, cultured voice.
“Obviously it was some maniac she’d prosecuted who did this to her,” he stated. “Her work brought her entirely too close to violence.”
“Did you object to her work?”
“I didn’t understand why she loved it. Why she needed it.” He lifted the glass he’d brought with him and drank. “But she did, and in the end, it killed her.”
“When did you see her last?”
“On March eighteenth. My birthday.”
“Did you have contact with her since then?”
“I spoke with her about a week before she died. Just a family call. We never went more than a week without speaking.”
“How would you describe her mood?”
“Obsessed—with Mirina’s wedding. My mother never did things by halves. She was planning the wedding as meticulously as she did any of her criminal cases. She was hoping it would rub off on me.”
“What would?”
“The wedding fever. My mother was a romantic woman under the prosecutor’s armor. She hoped I would find the right mate and make a family. I told her I’d leave that to Mirina and Randy and stay married to business awhile.”
“You’re actively involved in Angelini Exports. You’d be aware of the financial difficulties.”
His face tightened. “They’re blips, Lieutenant. Bumps. Nothing more.”
“My information indicates there are more serious difficulties than blips and bumps.”
“Angelini is solid. There’s simply a need for some reorganization, some diversification, which is being done.” He flicked a hand, elegant fingers, a sparkle of gold. “A few key people have made unfortunate mistakes that can and will be rectified. And that has nothing to do with my mother’s case.”
“It’s my job to explore all angles, Mr. Angelini. Your mother’s estate is substantial. Your father will come into a number of holdings, as will you.”
David got to his feet. “You’re speaking of my mother. If you suspect that anyone in the family would cause her harm, then Commander Whitney has made a monstrous error in judgment putting you in charge of the investigation.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Do you gamble, Mr. Angelini?”
“What business is that of yours?”
Since he was going to stand, Eve rose to face him. “It’s a simple question.”
“Yes, I gamble on occasion, as do countless others. I find it relaxing.”
“How much do you owe?”
His fingers tightened on the glass. “I believe at this point, my mother would have advised me to consult counsel.”
“That’s certainly your right. I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Angelini. I’m fully aware that you were in Paris on the night of your mother’s death.” Just as she was fully aware that shuttles skimmed across the Atlantic hourly. “It’s my job to get a clear picture, a full and clear picture. You’re under no obligation to answer my question. But I can, with very little trouble, access that information.”
The muscles in his jaw worked a moment. “Eight hundred thousand, give or take a few dollars.”
“Are you unable to settle the debt?”
“I am neither a welsher nor a pauper, Lieutenant Dallas,” he said stiffly. “It can and will be settled shortly.”
“Was your mother aware of it?”
“Neither am I a child, Lieutenant, who needs to run to his mother for help whenever he skins a knuckle.”
“You and Randall Slade gambled together?”
“We did. My sister disapproves, so Randy has given up the hobby.”
“Not before he incurred debts of his own.”
His eyes, very like his father’s, chilled. “I wouldn’t know about that, nor would I discuss his business with you.”
Oh yes, you would, Eve thought, but let it slide for the moment. “And the trouble in Sector 38 a few years ago? You were there?”
“Sector 38?” He looked convincingly blank.
“A gambling satellite.”
“I often go to Vegas II for a quick weekend, but I don’t recall patronizing a casino in that sector. I don’t know what trouble you’re referring to.”
“Do you play roulette?”
“No, it’s a fool’s game. Randy’s fond of it. I prefer blackjack.”
Randall Slade didn’t look like a fool. He looked to Eve like a man who could knock anything out of his path without breaking stride. Nor was he her image of a fashion designer. He dressed simply, his black suit unadorned by any of the studs or braids currently in fashion. And his wide hands had the look of a laborer rather than an artist.
“I hope you’ll be brief,” he said in the tone of a man used to giving orders. “Mirina is upstairs lying down. I don’t want to leave her for long.”
�
�Then I’ll be brief.” Eve didn’t object when he took out a gold case containing ten slim black cigarettes. Technically, she could have, but she waited until he’d lighted one. “What was your relationship with Prosecutor Towers?”
“We were friendly. She was soon to become my mother-in-law. We shared a deep love for Mirina.”
“She approved of you.”
“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”
“Your career has benefited quite a lot through your association with Angelini Exports.”
“True.” He blew out smoke that smelled lightly of lemon mint. “I like to think Angelini has also benefited quite a lot through their association with me.” He surveyed Eve’s gray suit. “That cut and color are both incredibly unflattering. You might want to take a look at my on-the-rack line here in New York.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”
“I dislike seeing attractive women in unattractive clothes.” He smiled and surprised Eve with a flare of charm. “You should wear bolder colors, sleeker lines. A woman with your build would carry them well.”
“So I’m told,” she muttered, thinking of Roarke. “You’re about to marry a very wealthy woman.”
“I’m about to marry the woman I love.”
“It’s a happy coincidence that she’s wealthy.”
“It is.”
“And money is something you have a need for.”
“Don’t we all?” Smooth, unoffended, again amused.
“You have debts, Mr. Slade. Large, outstanding debts in an area that can cause considerable pain in the collecting process.”
“That’s accurate.” He drew smoke in again. “I’m a gambling addict, Lieutenant. Recovering. With Mirina’s help and support, I’ve undergone treatment. I haven’t made a wager in two months, five days.”
“Roulette, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And the amount you owe, in round figures?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“And the amount of your fiancée’s inheritance?”
“Probably triple that, in round figures. More, considering the stocks and holdings that wouldn’t be converted into credit or cash. Killing my fiancée’s mother would certainly have been one way to solve my financial difficulties.” He stubbed his cigarette out thoughtfully. “Then again, so would the contract I’ve just signed for my fall line. Money isn’t important enough to me to kill for it.”
“But gambling was important enough?”
“Gambling was like a beautiful woman. Desirable, exciting, capricious. I had a choice between her and Mirina. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep Mirina.”
“Nothing?”
He understood, and inclined his head. “Nothing at all.”
“Does she know about the scandal in Sector 38?”
His amused, faintly smug expression froze, and he paled. “That was nearly ten years ago. That has nothing to do with Mirina. Nothing to do with anything.”
“You haven’t told her.”
“I didn’t know her. I was young, foolish, and I paid for my mistake.”
“Why don’t you explain to me, Mr. Slade, how you came to make that mistake?”
“It has nothing to do with this.”
“Indulge me.”
“Damn it, it was one night out of my life. One night. I’d had too much to drink, was stupid enough to mix the liquor with chemicals. The woman killed herself. It was proven the overdose was self-inflicted.”
Interesting, Eve thought. “But you were there,” she hazarded.
“I was zoned. I’d lost more heavily than I could afford at roulette, and between us we made a scene. I told you I was young. I blamed my bad luck on her. Maybe I did threaten her. I just don’t remember. Yes, we argued publicly, she struck me, and I struck her back. I’m not proud of it. Then I just don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember, Mr. Slade?”
“As I testified, the next thing I remember is waking up in some filthy little room. We were in bed, naked. And she was dead. I was still groggy. Security came in. I must have called them. They took pictures. I was assured the pictures were destroyed after the case was closed and I was exonerated. I barely knew the woman,” he continued, heating up. “I’d picked her up in the bar—or thought I had. My attorney discovered she was a professional companion, unlicensed, working the casinos.”
He closed his eyes. “Do you think I want Mirina to know that I was, however briefly, accused of murdering an unlicensed whore?”
“No,” Eve said quietly. “I don’t imagine you do. And as you said, Mr. Slade, you’d do anything to keep her. Anything at all.”
Hammett was waiting for her the moment she stepped out of the commander’s office. The hollows in his cheeks seemed deeper, his skin grayer.
“I’d hoped to have a moment, Lieutenant—Eve.”
She gestured behind her, let him slip into the room first, then closed the door on the murmurs of conversation.
“This is a difficult day for you, George.”
“Yes, very difficult. I wanted to ask, needed to know . . . Is there anything more? Anything at all?”
“The investigation’s proceeding. There’s nothing I can tell you that you wouldn’t have heard through the media.”
“There must be more.” His voice rose before he could control it. “Something.”
She could feel pity, even when there was suspicion. “Everything that can be done is being done.”
“You’ve interviewed Marco, her children, even Randy. If there is anything they knew, anything they told you that might help, I have a right to be told.”
Nerves? she wondered. Or grief? “No,” she said quietly, “you don’t. I can’t give you any information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure.”
“We’re talking about the murder of the woman I loved!” He exploded with it, his pale face flushing dark. “We might have been married.”
“Were you planning to be married, George?”
“We’d discussed it.” He passed a hand over his face, a hand that shook slightly. “We’d discussed it,” he repeated, and the flush washed away from his skin. “There was always another case, another summation to prepare. There was supposed to be plenty of time.”
With his hands balled into fists, he turned away from her. “I apologize for shouting at you. I’m not myself.”
“It’s all right, George. I’m very sorry.”
“She’s gone.” He said it quietly, brokenly. “She’s gone.”
There was nothing left for her to do but give him privacy. She closed the door behind her, then rubbed a hand at the back of her neck where tension was lodged.
On her way out, Eve signaled to Feeney. “Need you to do some digging,” she told him as they headed outside. “Old case, about ten years past, on one of the gambling hells in Sector 38.”
“What you got, Dallas?”
“Sex, scandal, and probable suicide. Accidental.”
“Hot damn,” Feeney said mournfully. “And I was hoping to catch a ball game on the screen tonight.”
“This should be just as entertaining.” She spied Roarke helping the blonde into his car, hesitated, then detoured past him. “Thanks for the tip, Roarke.”
“Any time, Lieutenant. Feeney,” he added with a brief nod before he slipped into the car.
“Hey,” Feeney said when the car glided away. “He’s really pissed at you.”
“He seemed fine to me,” Eve muttered and wrenched open her car door.
Feeney snorted. “Some detective you are, pal.”
“Just dig up the case, Feeney. Randall Slade’s the accused.” She slammed her door and sulked.
chapter seven
Feeney knew Eve wasn’t going to like the data he’d unearthed. Anticipating her reaction, and being a wise man, he sent it through computer rather than delivering it in person.
“I’ve got the goods on the Slade incident,” he said when his droopy face
blipped onto her monitor. “I’m going to send it through. I’m—ah—going to be stuck here for awhile. I’ve got about twenty percent of Tower’s conviction list eliminated. It’s slow going.”
“Try to speed it up, Feeney. We’ve got to narrow the field.”
“Right. Ready for transmission.” His face blinked off. In its place was the police report from Sector 38.
Eve frowned over it as the data scrolled. There was little more information above what Randal Slade had already told her. Suspicious death, overdose. The victim’s name was Carolle Lee, age 24, birthplace New Chicago Colony, unemployed. The image showed a young, black-haired woman of mixed heritage with exotic eyes and coffee-toned skin. Randall looked pale, his eyes glazed, in his mug shot.
She skimmed through, searching for any detail Randall might have left out. It was bad enough as it was, Eve mused. The murder charges had been dropped, but he’d copped to soliciting an unlicensed companion, possession of illegal chemicals, and contributing to a fatality.
He’d been lucky, she decided, very lucky that the incident had occurred on such an obscure sector, in a hellhole that didn’t garner much attention. But if someone—anyone—had come across the details, had threatened to take them to his pretty, fragile fiancée, it would have been a real mess.
Had Towers known? Eve wondered. That was the big question. And if she had, how would she have handled it? The attorney might have looked at the facts, weighed them, and dismissed the case as resolved.
But the mother? Would the loving mother who chatted about fashion for an hour with her daughter, the devoted parent who carved out time to help plan the perfect wedding, have accepted the scandal as the wild oats of a young, foolish man? Or would she have stood like a barricade between the older, less foolish man and what he wanted most?
Eve narrowed her eyes and continued to scan the documents. Then she stopped cold when Roarke’s name jumped out at her.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, slamming a fist on the desk. “Son of a bitch.”
Within fifteen minutes, she was striding across the glossy tiles of the lobby of Roarke’s building in midtown. Her jaw was set as she accessed the code, then slapped her palm onto the handplate of his private elevator. She hadn’t bothered to call, but let righteous fury zip her up to the top floor.