Glory in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Right.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders as the car began to glide. “Eve, it’s your home now.”

  “I’m going to be busy, anyway.” She felt the slight shift as the car veered to horizontal mode. “Aren’t we going all the way down?”

  “Not just yet.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders when the doors opened.

  It was a room she hadn’t seen. Then again, she mused, there were probably dozens of rooms she’d yet to tour in the labyrinth of the building. But it took only one quick glimpse for her to realize it was hers.

  The few things she considered of any value from her apartment were here, with new pieces added to fill it out into a pleasant, workable space. Stepping away from Roarke, she wandered in.

  The floors were wood and smooth, and there was a carpet woven in slate blue and mossy green, probably from one of his factories in the East. Her desk, battered as it was, stood on the priceless wool and held her equipment.

  A frosted-glass wall separated a small kitchen area, fully equipped, that led to a terrace.

  There was more, of course. With Roarke there was always more. A communications board would allow her to call up any room in the house. The entertainment center offered music, video, a hologram screen with dozens of visualization options. A small indoor garden bloomed riotously below an arching window where dawn was breaking.

  “You can replace what you don’t like,” he said as she ran her hand over the soft back of a sleep chair. “Everything’s been programmed for your voice and your palm print.”

  “Very efficient,” she said and cleared her throat. “Very nice.”

  Surprised to find himself riddled with nerves, he tucked his hands in his pockets. “Your work requires your own space. I understand that. You require your own space and privacy. My office is through there, the west panel. But it locks on either side.”

  “I see.”

  Now he felt temper snapping at the nerves. “If you can’t be comfortable in the house while I’m not here, you can barricade yourself in this apartment. You can damn well barricade yourself in it while I am here. It’s up to you.”

  “Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath and turned to him. “You did this for me.”

  Annoyed, he inclined his head. “There doesn’t seem to be much I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I think that’s starting to sink in.” No one had ever given her anything quite so perfect. No one, she realized, understood her quite so well. “That makes me a lucky woman, doesn’t it?”

  He opened his mouth, bit back something particularly nasty. “The hell with it,” he decided. “I have to go.”

  “Roarke, one thing.” She walked to him, well aware he was all but snarling with temper. “I haven’t kissed you good-bye,” she murmured and did so with a thoroughness that rocked him back on his heels. “Thank you.” Before he could speak, she kissed him again. “For always knowing what matters to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Possessively, he ran a hand over her tousled hair. “Miss me.”

  “I already am.”

  “Don’t take any unnecessary chances.” His hands gripped in her hair hard, briefly. “There’s no use asking you not to take the necessary ones.”

  “Then don’t.” Her heart stuttered when he kissed her hand. “Safe trip,” she told him when he stepped into the elevator. She was new at it, so waited until the doors were almost shut. “I love you.”

  The last thing she saw was the flash of his grin.

  “What have you got, Feeney?”

  “Maybe something, maybe nothing.”

  It was early, just eight o’clock on the morning after Roarke left for FreeStar One, but Feeney already looked haggard. Eve punched two coffees, double strength, from her AutoChef.

  “You’re in here at this hour, looking like you’ve been up all night, and in that suit, I have to deduce it’s something. And I’m a gold-star detective.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been noodling the computer, going down another level on the families and personal relations of the victims like you wanted.”

  “And?”

  Stalling, he drank his coffee, dug out his bag of candied nuts, scratched his ear. “Saw you on the news last night. The wife did, actually. Said you looked flash. That’s one of the kid’s expressions. We try to keep up.”

  “In that case, you’re rocking me, Feeney. That’s one of the kid’s expressions, too. Translation, you’re not coming clear.”

  “I know what it means. Shit. This one cuts close to home, Dallas. Too close.”

  “Which is why you’re here instead of trasmitting what you’ve got over a channel. So let’s have it.”

  “Okay.” He puffed out a breath. “I was dicking around with David Angelini’s records. Financial stuff mostly. We knew he was into some spine twisters for gambling debts. He’s been holding them off, giving them a little trickle here and there. Could be he’s dipped into the company till, but I can’t get a lock on that. He’s covered his ass.”

  “So, we’ll uncover it. I can get the name of the spine twisters,” she mused, thinking of Roarke. “Let’s see if he made them any promises—like he’d be coming into an inheritance.” Her brows knit. “If it wasn’t for Metcalf, I’d think hard about somebody he owed hurrying up on the IOUs by taking out Towers.”

  “Might be that simple, even with Metcalf. She had a nice nest egg set aside. I haven’t found anybody among the beneficiaries who needed quick money, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  “Okay, you keep working that angle. But that isn’t why you’re here playing with your nuts.”

  He nearly managed a laugh. “Cute. Okay, here it is. I turned up the commander’s wife.”

  “Run that by slow, Feeney. Real slow.”

  He couldn’t sit, so he sprang up to pace the small space. “David Angelini made some healthy deposits into his personal credit account. Four deposits of fifty K over the last four months. The final one was keyed in two weeks before his mother got terminated.”

  “All right, he got his hands on two hundred K in four months, and banked it like a good boy. Where’d he get it? Fuck.” She already knew.

  “Yeah. I accessed the E-transactions. Backtracked. She transferred it to his New York bank, and he flipped it over into his personal account in Milan. Then he withdraws it, in cash, hard bills, at an AutoTell on Vegas II.”

  “Jesus Christ, why didn’t she tell me?” Eve pressed her balled fists to her temples. “Why the hell did she make us look for it?”

  “It wasn’t like she tried to hide it,” Feeney said quickly. “When I clicked over to her records, it was all out front. She has an account of her own, just like the commander.” He cleared his throat at Eve’s level stare. “I had to look, Dallas. He hasn’t made any unusual transactions out of his, or out of their joint. But she’s cut her principal in half doling out to Angelini. Christ, he was bleeding her.”

  “Blackmail,” Eve speculated, struggling to think coolly. “Maybe they had an affair. Maybe she was stuck on the bastard.”

  “Oh man, oh Jesus.” Feeney’s stomach did a long sickening roll. “The commander.”

  “I know. We have to go to him with this.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.” Mournfully, Feeney took a disc out of his pocket. “I got it all. How do you want to play it?”

  “What I want to do is go out to White Plains and knock Mrs. Whitney on her perfect ass. Barring that, we go to the commander’s office and lay it out for him.”

  “They’ve still got some of that old body armor down in storage,” Feeney suggested as Eve rose.

  “Good thinking.”

  They could have used it. Whitney didn’t climb over his desk and body slam them, nor did he pull out his stunner. He did all the damage necessary with the lethal glare of his eyes.

  “You accessed my wife’s personal accounts, Feeney.”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “And took this information to Lieutenant Dallas.”


  “As per procedure.”

  “As per procedure,” Whitney repeated. “Now you’re bringing it to me.”

  “To the commanding officer,” Feeney began, then drooped. “Oh hell, Jack, was I supposed to bury it?”

  “You could have come to me first. But then . . .” Whitney trailed off, shifted his hard eyes to Eve’s. “Your stand on this, Lieutenant?”

  “Mrs. Whitney paid David Angelini a sum of two hundred thousand dollars over a four-month period. This fact was not volunteered during either primary or follow-up interviews. It’s necessary to the investigation that—” She broke off. “We have to know why, Commander.” The apology was in her eyes, lurking just behind the cop. “We have to know why the money was paid, why there have been no more payments since the death of Cicely Towers. And I have to ask, Commander, as primary, if you were aware of the transactions and the reason behind them.”

  There was a clutching in his stomach, a burning that warned of untreated stress. “I’ll answer that after I’ve spoken with my wife.”

  “Sir.” Eve’s voice was a quiet plea. “You know we can’t allow you to consult with Mrs. Whitney before we question her. This meeting has already risked contaminating the investigation. I’m sorry, Commander.”

  “You’re not bringing my wife in to interview.”

  “Jack—”

  “Fuck this, Feeney, she’s not going to be dragged down here like a criminal.” He clutched his hands into fists under the desk and struggled to remain in control. “Question her at home, with our attorney present. That doesn’t violate procedure, does it, Lieutenant Dallas?”

  “No, sir. With respect, Commander, will you come with us?”

  “With respect, Lieutenant,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t stop me.”

  chapter eleven

  Anna Whitney met them at the door. Her hands fluttered, then gripped together at her waist. “Jack, what’s happening? Linda’s here. She said you called her and told her I needed counsel.” Her gaze darted from Eve to Feeney, then back to her husband. “Why would I need counsel?”

  “It’s all right.” He put a tense but protective hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go inside, Anna.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.” She managed one nervous laugh. “I haven’t even gotten a traffic ticket lately.”

  “Just sit down, honey. Linda, thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “No problem.”

  The Whitneys’ attorney was young, sharp-eyed, and polished to a gleam. It took Eve several moments to remember she was also their daughter.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, isn’t it?” Linda scanned and summed up quickly. “I recognize you.” She gestured to a chair before either of her parents thought of it. “Please sit.”

  “Captain Feeney, EDD.”

  “Yes, my father’s mentioned you many times, Captain Feeney. Now.” She laid a hand over her mother’s. “What’s this all about?”

  “Information has just come to light that needs clarification.” Eve took out her recorder, offered it to Linda for examination. She tried not to think that Linda favored her father, the caramel-colored skin, the cool eyes. Genes and family traits both fascinated and frightened her.

  “I take it this is going to be a formal interview.” With careful calm, Linda set the recorder on the table and took out her own.

  “That’s right.” Eve recited the date and time. “Interviewing officer Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also present, Whitney, Commander Jack, and Feeney, Captain Ryan. Interviewee Whitney, Anna, represented by counsel.”

  “Whitney, Linda. My client is aware of all rights and agrees to this time and place of interview. Counsel reserves the right to terminate at her discretion. Proceed, Lieutenant.”

  “Mrs. Whitney,” Eve began. “You were acquainted with Cicely Towers, deceased.”

  “Yes, of course. Is this about Cicely? Jack—”

  He only shook his head and kept his hand on her shoulder.

  “You are also acquainted with the deceased’s family. Her former husband Marco Angelini, her son, David Angelini, and her daughter, Mirina.”

  “I’m more than acquainted. Her children are like family. Why, Linda even dated—”

  “Mom.” With a bolstering smile, Linda interrupted. “Just answer the question. Don’t elaborate.”

  “But this is ridiculous.” Some of Anna’s puzzlement edged over into irritation. It was her home, after all, her family. “Lieutenant Dallas already knows the answers.”

  “I’m sorry to go over the same ground, Mrs. Whitney. Would you describe your relationship with David Angelini?”

  “David? Why I’m his godmother. I watched him grow up.”

  “You’re aware that David Angelini was in financial distress prior to the death of his mother.”

  “Yes, he was . . .” Her eyes went huge. “You don’t seriously believe that David . . . That’s hideous.” She snapped it out before her mouth compressed into a thin red line. “I’m not going to dignify this with an answer.”

  “I understand you feel protective toward your godson, Mrs. Whitney. I understand you would go to some lengths to protect him—and to some expense. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Anna’s face whitened under her careful cosmetics. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Mrs. Whitney, do you deny paying to David Angelini the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, in installments of fifty thousand dollars over a four-month period, beginning in February of this year and ending in May?”

  “I . . .” She clutched at her daughter’s hand, avoided her husband’s. “Do I have to answer that, Linda?”

  “A moment please, to confer with my client.” Briskly, Linda scooped an arm around her mother and led her into the next room.

  “You’re very good, Lieutenant,” Whitney said tightly. “It’s been some time since I observed one of your interviews.”

  “Jack.” Feeney sighed, hurting for everyone. “She’s doing her job.”

  “Yes, she is. It’s what she’s best at.” He looked over as his wife came back into the room.

  She was pale, trembling a little. The burning in his gut flared.

  “We’ll continue,” Linda said. There was a warrior glint in her eye when she focused on Eve. “My client wishes to make a statement. Go ahead, Mom, it’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tears starred on her lashes. “Jack, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. He was in trouble. I know what you said, but I couldn’t help it.”

  “It’s all right.” Resigned, he took the hand that reached out for his and stood beside her. “Tell the lieutenant the truth, and we’ll deal with it.”

  “I gave him the money.”

  “Did he threaten you, Mrs. Whitney?”

  “What?” Shock seemed to dry up the tears swimming in her eyes. “Oh my goodness. Of course he didn’t threaten me. He was in trouble,” she repeated, as if that should be enough for anyone. “He owed a very great deal of money to the wrong kind of people. His business—that portion of his father’s business that he oversaw—was in some temporary upheaval. And he had a new project he was trying to get off the ground. He explained it,” she added with a wave of her free hand. “I don’t remember precisely. I don’t bother overmuch with business.”

  “Mrs. Whitney, you gave him four payments of fifty thousand. You didn’t relay this information to me in our other interviews.”

  “What business of yours was it?” Her spine was back, snapped hard and cold so that she sat like a statue. “It was my money, and a personal loan to my godchild.”

  “A godchild,” Eve said with straining patience, “who was being questioned in a murder investigation.”

  “His mother’s murder. You might as well accuse me of killing her as David.”

  “You didn’t inherit a sizable portion of her estate.”

  “Now, you listen to me.” Anger suited her. Anna’s face glowed as she leaned forward. “That boy adored his mother, and she him. He was devastated by her dea
th. I know. I sat with him, I comforted him.”

  “You gave him two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “It was my money to do with as I chose.” She bit her lip. “No one would help him. His parents refused. They’d agreed to refuse this time. I spoke with Cicely about it months ago. She was a wonderful mother, and she loved her children, but she was a very strong believer in discipline. She was determined that he had to handle his problem on his own, without her help. Without mine. But when he came to me, desperate, what was I to do? What was I to do?” she demanded, turning to her husband. “Jack, I know you told me to stay out of it, but he was terrified, afraid they would cripple him, even kill him. What if it had been Linda, or Steven? Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to help?”

  “Anna, feeding his problem isn’t help.”

  “He was going to pay me back,” she insisted. “He wasn’t going to gamble with it. He promised. He only needed to buy some time. I couldn’t turn him away.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas,” Linda began. “My client lent her own money to a family member in good faith. There is no crime in that.”

  “Your client hasn’t been charged with a crime, counselor.”

  “Did you, in any of your previous interviews, ask my client directly about disposition of funds? Did you ask my client if she had any financial dealings with David Angelini?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then she is not required to volunteer such information, which would appear to be personal and unconnected to your investigation. To the best of her knowledge.”

  “She’s a cop’s wife,” Eve said wearily. “Her knowledge ought to be better than most. Mrs. Whitney, did Cicely Towers argue with her son over money, over his gambling, over his debts and the settlement thereof?”

  “She was upset. Naturally they argued. Families argue. They don’t hurt each other.”

  Maybe not in your cozy little world, Eve thought. “Your last contact with Angelini?”

  “A week ago. He called to make sure I was all right, that Jack was all right. We discussed plans for setting up a memorial scholarship fund in his mother’s name. His idea, Lieutenant,” she said with swimming eyes. “He wanted her to be remembered.”