by J. D. Robb
The receptionist in his elegant outer office started to smile in greeting. One look at Eve’s face had her blinking. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Tell him I’m here, and that I see him now, or down at Cop Central.”
“He’s—he’s in a meeting.”
“Now.”
“I’ll call through.” She swiveled and punched a button for private communication. She murmured the message and apologies while Eve stood fuming.
“If you would wait in his office for a moment, Lieutenant—” the receptionist began and rose.
“I know the way,” Eve snapped, striding across the plush carpet through the towering double doors and into Roarke’s New York sanctum.
There had been a time when she would have helped herself to a cup of coffee or wandered over to admire his view from a hundred fifty stories up. Today she stood, every nerve quivering with temper. And beneath that was fear.
The panel on the east wall slid open silently, and he walked through. He still wore the dark suit he’d chosen for the memorial service. As the panel closed behind him, he fingered the button in his pocket that belonged on Eve’s gray jacket.
“You were quick,” he said easily. “I thought I would finish my board meeting before you came by.”
“You think you’re clever,” she shot back. “Giving me just enough to start digging with. Damn it, Roarke, you’re right in the middle of this.”
“Am I?” Unconcerned, he walked to a chair, sat, stretched out his legs. “And how is that, Lieutenant?”
“You owned the damn casino where Slade was gambling. You owned the fucking fleabag hotel where the woman died. You had an unlicensed hooker working your hellhole.”
“Unlicensed companions in Sector 38?” He smiled a little. “Why, I’m shocked.”
“Don’t get cute with me. It connects you. Mercury was bad enough, but this is deeper. Your statement’s on record.”
“Naturally.”
“Why are you making it so hard for me to keep your name out of this?”
“I’m not interested in making it hard or easy for you, Lieutenant.”
“Fine, then. Just fine.” If he could be cold, so could she. “Then we’ll just get the questions and answers out of the way and move on. You knew Slade.”
“Actually, I didn’t. Not personally. Actually, I’d forgotten all about it, and him, until I did some research of my own. Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”
“You forgot you were involved in a murder investigation?”
“Yes.” Idly, he steepled his hands. “It wasn’t the first brush I’d had with the police, nor apparently, is it the last. In the grand scheme of things, Lieutenant, it really didn’t concern me.”
“Didn’t concern you,” she repeated. “You had Slade tossed out of your casino.”
“I believe the manager of the casino handled that.”
“You were there.”
“Yes, I was there, somewhere on the premises, in any case. Dissatisfied clients often become rowdy. I didn’t pay much attention at that time.”
She took a deep breath. “If it meant so little, and the entire matter slipped your mind, why did you sell the casino, the hotel, everything you owned in Sector 38 within forty-eight hours of Cicely Towers’s murder?”
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes on hers. “For personal reasons.”
“Roarke, just tell me so I can put this whole connection to bed. I know the sale didn’t have anything to do with Towers’s murder, but it looks dicey. ‘For personal reasons’ isn’t good enough.”
“It was for me. At the time. Tell me, Lieutenant Dallas, are you thinking I decided to blackmail Cicely over her future son-in-law’s youthful indiscretion, had some henchman in my employ lure her to the West End, and when she didn’t cooperate, slit her throat?”
She wanted to hate him for putting her in the position of having to answer. “I told you I didn’t believe you had anything to do with her death, and I meant it. You’ve put me in a position where it’s a scenario we’ll have to work with. One that will take time and manpower away from finding the killer.”
“Damn you, Eve.” He said it quietly; so quietly, so calmly, her throat burned in reaction.
“What do you want from me, Roarke? You said you’d help, that I could use your connections. Now, because you’re pissed about something else, you’re blocking me.”
“I changed my mind.” His tone was dismissive as he rose and walked behind his desk. “About several things,” he added, watching her with eyes that sliced at her heart.
“If you would just tell me why you sold. The coincidence of that can’t be ignored.”
He considered for a moment his decision to reorganize some of his less-than-legal enterprises and shake loose of what couldn’t be changed. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t believe I will.”
“Why are you putting me in this position?” she demanded. “Is this some sort of punishment?”
He sat, leaned back, steepled his fingers. “If you like.”
“You’re going to be pulled into this, just like the last time. There’s just no need for it.” Driven by frustration, she slapped her hands on his desk. “Can’t you see that?”
He looked at her face, the dark, worried eyes, the ridiculously chopped hair. “I know what I’m doing.” He hoped he did.
“Roarke, don’t you understand, it’s not enough for me to know you had nothing to do with it. Now I have to prove it.”
He wanted to touch her, so much that his fingers ached from it. More than anything at that moment, he wished he could hate her for it. “Do you know, Eve?”
She straightened, dropped her hands to her sides. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and turned and left him.
But it did matter, he thought. At the moment, it was all that really mattered. Shaken, he shifted forward. He could curse her now, now that those big, whiskey-colored eyes were no longer staring into him. He could curse her for bringing him so low he was nearly ready to beg for whatever scraps of her life she was willing to share with him.
And if he begged, if he settled, he would probably grow to hate her almost as much as he would hate himself.
He knew how to outwait a rival, how to outmanuever an opponent. He certainly knew how to fight for what he wanted or intended to have. But he was no longer sure he could outwait, outmanuever, or fight Eve.
Taking the button out of his pocket, he toyed with it, studied it as though it were some intriguing puzzle to be solved.
He was an idiot, Roarke realized. It was humiliating to admit what an incredible fool love could make of a man. He stood, slipped the button back in his pocket. He had a board meeting to complete, business to take care of.
And, he thought, some research to do on whether any details of the Slade arrest had left Sector 38. And if they had, how and why.
Eve couldn’t put off her appointment with Nadine. The necessity of it irritated, as did the fact she had to schedule the time between Nadine’s evening and late live broadcasts.
She plopped down at a table at a small café near Channel 75 called Images. It was, with its quiet corners and leafy trees, several large steps away from the Blue Squirrel. Eve winced at the prices on the menu—broadcasters were paid a great deal more than cops—and settled on a Classic Pepsi.
“You ought to try the muffins,” Nadine told her. “The place is famous for them.”
“I bet it is.” At about five bucks a rehydrated blueberry, Eve thought. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Neither do I.” Nadine’s on-camera makeup was still perfectly in place. Eve could only wonder how anyone could stand having their pores gunked for hours at a time.
“You go first.”
“Fine.” Nadine broke open her muffin and it steamed fragrantly. “Obviously the memorial is the big news of the day. Who came, who said what. Lots of side stories about the family, focus is tight on the grieving daughter and her fiancé.”
“Why?”
“
Human interest, Dallas. Big splashy wedding plans interrupted by violent murder. Word’s leaked that the ceremony will be postponed until the first part of next year.”
Nadine took a bite of muffin. Eve ignored the envious reaction of her stomach juices. “Gossip isn’t what I’m after, Nadine.”
“But it adds color. Look, it was more like a plant than a leak. Somebody wanted the media to know the wedding’s been postponed. So I wonder if this means there’ll be a wedding after all. What I smell is the scent of trouble in paradise. Why would Mirina turn away from Slade at a time like this? Seems to me they’d have a nice quiet private ceremony so he’d be there to comfort her.”
“Maybe that’s the plan exactly, and they’re throwing you off the scent.”
“It’s possible. Anyway, without Towers as buffer, speculation’s running that Angelini and Hammett will dissolve their business associations. They were very cool to each other, never spoke during the service—before or after it, either.”
“How do you know?”
Nadine smiled, feline and pleased. “I have my sources. Angelini needs income, and fast. Roarke’s made him an offer for his shares, which now include Towers’s interest, in Mercury.”
“Has he?”
“You didn’t know. Interesting.” Sly as a cat, Nadine licked crumbs from her fingertips. “I thought it was interesting, too, that you didn’t attend the service with Roarke.”
“I was there in an official capacity,” Eve said shortly. “Let’s stick to the point.”
“More trouble in paradise,” Nadine murmured, then her eyes sobered. “Look, Dallas, I like you. I don’t know why, but I do. If you and Roarke are having problems, I’m sorry for it.”
Buddy-to-buddy confidences were something Eve was never comfortable with. She shifted, surprised that she was tempted, even for an instant, to share. Then she set it down to Nadine’s skill as a reporter. “The point,” she repeated.
“Okay.” Nadine moved a shoulder and took another bite of muffin. “Nobody knows dick,” she said briefly. “We’ve got speculation. Angelini’s financial difficulties, the son’s gambling habits, the Fluentes case.”
“You can forget the Fluentes case,” Eve interrupted. “He’s going down. Both he and his lawyer know it. The evidence is clean. Taking Towers out won’t change a thing.”
“He might have been pissed.”
“Maybe. But he’s small time. He doesn’t have the contacts or the money to buy a hit the size of Towers. It doesn’t check out. We’re running everybody she ever put away. So far we’ve got zip.”
“You’ve cooled off on the revenge theory, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I think it was closer to home.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No.” Eve shook her head when Nadine studied her. “No,” she repeated. “I don’t have anything solid yet. Here’s what I want you to look into, and I need you to hold it off the air until I clear it.”
“That was the deal.”
Briefly, Eve told her of the incident in Sector 38.
“Holy shit, that’s hot. And it’s public record, Dallas.”
“That may be, but you wouldn’t know where to look unless I’d tipped you. Stick with the deal, Nadine. You hold it off air, and you poke around. See if you can find out if anyone know, or cares. If there’s a connection to the murder, I’ll hand it to you. If not, I guess it’ll be up to your conscience whether you want to broadcast something that could ruin the reputation of a man and his relationship with his fiancée.”
“Low blow, Dallas.”
“Depends on where you’re standing. Keep the cover on it, Nadine.”
“Um-hmm.” Her mind was humming. “Slade was in San Francisco the night of the murder.” She waited a beat. “Wasn’t he?”
“So the record shows.”
“And there are dozens of coast-to-coast shuttles, public and private, running every hour, back and forth.”
“That’s right. You keep in touch, Nadine,” Eve said as she rose. “And you keep the cover on.”
Eve made it an early night. When her ’link beeped at one, she was screaming her way out of a nightmare. Sweating, shaking, she tore off the covers that wrapped around her, fought off the hands that were groping over her body.
She choked back another scream, pressed her fingers against her eyes, and ordered herself not to be sick. She answered the call without turning the lights on, and blocked video.
“Dallas.”
“Dispatch. Voice print verified. Probable homicide, female. Report Five thirty-two Central Park South, rear of building. Code yellow.”
“Acknowledged.” Eve ended the transmission and, still trembling from the aftershocks of the dream, crawled out of bed.
It took her twenty minutes. She’d needed the comfort of a hot shower, even if it had only been for thirty seconds.
It was a trendy neighborhood, peopled by residents who patronized fashionable shops and private clubs, and who aspired to move just another notch up the social and ecomonic ladder.
The streets were quiet here, though it wasn’t quite out of the realm of public taxis and into private transpo-cars. Upper middle class all the way, she mused as she made her way around to the back of a sleek steel building with its pleasant view of the park.
Then again, murder happened everywhere.
It had certainly happened here.
The rear of the building couldn’t boast a view of the park, but the developers had made up for it with a nice plot of green. Beyond the trim trees was a security wall that separated one building from the next.
On the narrow stone path through a border of gold petunias, the body sprawled, facedown.
Female, Eve noted, flashing her badge at the waiting uniforms. Dark hair, dark skin, well dressed. She studied the stylish red-and-white-striped heel that lay point up on the path.
Death had knocked her out of her shoes.
“Pictures?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. ME on the way.”
“Who reported it?”
“Neighbor. Came out to let his dog use the facilities. We’ve got him inside.”
“Do we have a name on her?”
“Yvonne Metcalf, Lieutenant. She lives in eleven twenty-six.”
“Actress,” Eve murmured as the name struck a cord. “Up and coming.”
“Yes, sir.” One of the uniforms looked down at the body. “She won an Emmy last year. Been doing the talk show rounds. She’s pretty famous.”
“Now she’s pretty dead. Keep the camera running. I need to turn her over.”
Even before she used the protective spray to seal her hands, before she crouched down to turn the body, Eve knew. Blood was everywhere. Someone hissed sharply as the body rolled faceup, but it wasn’t Eve. She’d been braced for it.
The throat was cut, and the cut was deep. Yvonne’s lovely green eyes stared up at Eve: two blank questions.
“What the hell did you have to do with Cicely Towers?” she murmured. “Same MO: one wound to the throat, severed jugular. No robbery, no signs of sexual assault or struggle.” Gently, Eve lifted one of Yvonne’s limp hands, shone her light at the nails, under them. They were painted a sparkling scarlet with tiny white stripes. And they were perfect. No chips, no snags, no scrapes of flesh or stains of blood under them.
“All dressed up and no place to go,” Eve commented, studying the victim’s flashy red-and-white-striped bodysuit. “Let’s find out where she’d been or where she was going,” Eve began. Her head came around as she heard the sound of approaching feet.
But it wasn’t the medical examiner and his team, nor was it the sweepers. It was, she saw with disgust, C. J. Morse and a crew from Channel 75.
“Get that camera out of here.” Temper vibrating, she sprang to her feet, instinctively shielding the body. “This is a crime scene.”
“You haven’t posted it,” Morse said, smiling sweetly. “Until you do, it’s public access. Sherry, get a shot of that shoe.”
> “Post the goddamn scene,” Eve ordered a uniform. “Confiscate that camera, the recorders.”
“You can’t confiscate media equipment until the scene’s posted,” C. J. reminded her, as he tried to rubberneck around her to get a good look. “Sherry, get me a nice pan, then focus on the lieutenant’s pretty face.”
“I’m going to kick your ass, Morse.”
“Oh, I wish you’d try, Dallas.” Some of his bubbling resentment simmered into his eyes. “I’d love to bring you up on charges, and broadcast it, after that stunt you pulled on me.”
“If you’re still on this scene when it’s posted, you’ll be the one facing charges.”
He only smiled again, backing off. He calculated he had another fifteen seconds of video time before he ran into trouble. “Channel 75 has a fine team of lawyers.”
“Detain him and his crew.” Eve flashed a snarl at a uniform. “Off scene, until I’m through.”
“Interfering with media—”
“Kiss ass, Morse.”
“I bet yours is tasty.” He continued to grin as he was escorted away.
When Eve came around the building, he was doing a sober stand-up report on the recent homicide. Without missing a beat, he angled himself toward her. “Lieutenant Dallas, will you confirm that Yvonne Metcalf, the star of Tune In has been murdered?”
“The department has no comment to make at this time.”
“Isn’t it true that Ms. Metcalf was a resident of this building, and that her body was discovered this morning on the rear patio? Hadn’t her throat been cut?”
“No comment.”
“Our viewing audience is waiting, Lieutenant. Two prominent women have been violently murdered by the same method, and in all likelihood by the same person, barely a week apart. And you have no comment?”
“Unlike certain irresponsible reporters, the police are more careful, and more concerned with facts than speculation.”
“Or is it that the police are simply unable to solve these crimes?” Quick on his feet, he sidestepped, came up in her face again. “Aren’t you concerned about your reputation, Lieutenant, and the connection between the two victims and your close friend Roarke?”