Glory in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Mirina, this is useless,” Slade murmured, trying to tuck her under his arm. “Let’s go now.”

  “Don’t hold me.” She bit off each word as if they were stringy meat, then shrugged away from him. “I’ll go. But you’re going to pay for the grief you’ve brought my family, Lieutenant. You’re going to pay for every bit of it.”

  She stalked out, giving Slade time for only a muttered apology before he followed after her.

  Whitney stepped quietly into the silence. “You okay?”

  “I’ve dealt with worse.” Eve jerked a shoulder. Inside she was sick with anger and guilt. Sick enough that she wanted badly to be alone behind closed doors. “If you’ll excuse me, Commander, I want to finish going over this report.”

  “Dallas—Eve.” It was the weariness in his tone that had her gaze lifting warily to his. “Mirina’s upset, understandably so. But she was out of line, way out of line.”

  “She was entitled to a couple of shots at me.” Because she wanted to press her hands to her throbbing head, she tucked them negligently into her pockets. “I’ve just put what’s left of her family in a cage. Who else is she going to be pissed at? I can take it.” Her gaze remained cool, steely. “Feelings aren’t my strong suit.”

  He nodded slowly. “I had that coming. I put you on this case, Dallas, because you’re the best I’ve got. Your mind’s good, your gut’s good. And you care. You care about the victim.” Letting out a long breath, he dragged a hand over his hair. “I was off base this morning, Dallas, in my office. I’ve been off base a number of times with you since this whole mess began. I apologize for it.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I wish it didn’t.” He searched her face, saw the stiff restraint. “But I see it does. I’ll take care of Mirina, arrange the visitations.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to continue my interview with Marco Angelini.”

  “Tomorrow,” Whitney said and set his teeth when she didn’t quite mask the sneer. “You’re tired, Lieutenant, and tired cops make mistakes and miss details. You’ll pick it up tomorrow.” He headed for the door, swore again, and stopped without looking back at her. “Get some sleep, and for Christ’s sake, take a painkiller for that headache. You look like hell.”

  She resisted slamming the door after him. Resisted because it would be petty and unprofessional. But she sat down, stared at the screen, and pretended her head wasn’t shuddering with pain.

  When a shadow fell over her desk moments later, she looked up, eyes fired for battle.

  “Well,” Roarke said mildly and leaned over to kiss her snarling mouth. “That’s quite a welcome.” He patted his chest. “Am I bleeding?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “There’s that sparkling wit I missed.” He sat on the edge of the desk where he could look at her and catch a glimpse of the data on the screen to see if that was what had put the miserable anger in her eyes. “Well, Lieutenant, and how was your day?”

  “Let’s see. I booked my superior’s favorite godson on obstruction and other assorted charges, found what may be the murder weapon in his console drawer in the family town house, took a confession from the prime suspect’s father, who claims he did it, and just took a couple of shots between the eyes from the sister, who thinks I’m a media grabbing bitch.” She tried on a small smile. “Other than that, it’s been pretty quiet. How about you?”

  “Fortunes won, fortunes lost,” he said mildly, worried about her. “Nothing nearly as exciting as police work.”

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming back tonight.”

  “Neither was I. The construction on the resort’s moving ahead well enough. I should be able to handle things from here for a time.”

  She tried not to be so relieved. It irritated her that in a few short months she’d gotten so used to his being there. Even dependent upon it. “That’s good, I guess.”

  “Mmm.” He read her well. “What can you tell me about the case?”

  “It’s all over the media. Pick a channel.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  She brought him up to date in much the way she would file a report: in quick, efficient terms, heavy on facts, light on personal comments. And, she discovered, she felt better for it afterward. Roarke had a way of listening that made her hear herself more clearly.

  “You believe it’s the younger Angelini.”

  “We’ve got means and opportunity, and a good handle on motive. If the knife matches . . . Anyway, I’ll be meeting with Dr. Mira tomorrow to discuss his psych testing.”

  “And Marco,” Roarke continued. “What do you think of his confession?”

  “It’s a handy way to confuse things, tie up the investigation. He’s a clever man, and he’ll find a way to leak it to the media.” She scowled over Roarke’s shoulder. “It’ll jerk everything around for a while, cost us some time and trouble. But we’ll smooth it out.”

  “You think he confessed to the murders to complicate the investigation?”

  “That’s right.” She shifted her gaze to his, lifted a brow. “You’ve got another theory.”

  “The drowning child,” Roarke murmured. “The father believes his son is about to go under for the third time, jumps into the torrent. His life for his child’s. Love, Eve.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Love stops at nothing. Marco believes his son is guilty, and would rather sacrifice himself than see his child pay the price.”

  “If he knows, or even believes, that David killed those women, it would be insane to protect him.”

  “No, it would be love. There’s probably none stronger than a parent’s for a child. You and I don’t have any experience with that, but it exists.”

  She shook her head. “Even when the child’s defective?”

  “Perhaps especially then. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a woman whose daughter had lost an arm in an accident. There was no money for a replacement. She had five children, and loved them all. But four were whole, and one was damaged. She built a shield around that girl, to protect her from the stares and the whispers and the pity. It was the damaged child she pushed to excel, who they all devoted themselves to. The others didn’t need her as much, you see, as the one who was flawed.”

  “There’s a difference between a physical defect and a mental one,” Eve insisted.

  “I wonder if there is, to a parent.”

  “Whatever Marco Angelini’s motive, we’ll cut through to the truth in the end.”

  “No doubt you will. When’s your shift over?”

  “What?”

  “Your shift,” he repeated. “When is it over?”

  She glanced at the screen, noted the time in the bottom corner. “About an hour ago.”

  “Good.” He rose and held out a hand. “Come with me.”

  “Roarke, there are some things I should tie up here. I want to review the interview with Marco Angelini. I may find a hole.”

  He was patient because he had no doubt he’d have his own way. “Eve, you’re so tired you wouldn’t see a hundred-meter hole until you’d fallen into it.” Determined, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”

  “All right, maybe I could use a break.” Grumbling a bit, she ordered her computer off and locked. “I’m going to have to goose the techs at the lab. They’re taking forever on the knife.” Her hand felt good in his. She didn’t even worry about the ribbing she’d take from the other cops who might see them in the hall or elevator. “Where are we going?”

  He brought their linked hands to his lips and smiled at her over them. “I haven’t decided.”

  He opted for Mexico. It was a quick, easy flight, and his villa there on the turbulent west coast was always prepared. Unlike his home in New York, he kept it fully automated, calling in domestics only for lengthy stays.

  In Roarke’s mind, droids and computers were convenient but impersonal. For the purposes of this visit, however, he was content to rely on them. He wanted Eve alone, he wanted her relaxed,
and he wanted her happy.

  “Jesus, Roarke.”

  She took one look at the towering, multilayered building on the brink of a cliff and goggled. It looked like a extension of the rock, as if the sheer glass walls had been polished from it. Gardens tumbled over terraces in vivid colors, shapes, and fragrances.

  Above, the deepening sky was devoid of any traffic. Just blue, the swirl of white clouds, the flashing wings of birds. It looked like another world.

  She’d slept like a stone on the plane, barely surfacing when the pilot had executed a snazzy drop landing that had placed them neatly at the foot of zigzagging stone steps that climbed the towering cliff. She was groggy enough to reach up to be certain he hadn’t slipped VR goggles on her while she’d slept.

  “Where are we?”

  “Mexico,” he said simply.

  “Mexico?” Stunned, she tried to rub the sleep and the shock from her eyes. Roarke thought, with affection, that she looked like a cranky child awakened from a nap. “But I can’t be in Mexico. I have to—”

  “Ride or walk?” he asked, pulling her along like a stubborn puppy.

  “I have to—”

  “Ride,” he decided. “You’re still groggy.”

  She could enjoy the climb later, he thought, and its many views of sea and cliffs. Instead, he nudged her into a sleek little air cart, taking the controls himself and shooting them up to vertical with a speed that knocked the rest of sleep out of her system.

  “Christ, not so fast.” Her instinct for survival had her clutching the side, wincing as rocks, flowers, and water whizzed by. He was roaring with laughter when he slipped the little cart into place at the front patio.

  “Awake now, darling?”

  She had her breath back, barely. “I’m going to kill you as soon as I make sure all my internal organs are in place. What the hell are we doing in Mexico?”

  “Taking a break. I need one.” He stepped out of the cart and came around to her side. “There’s no doubt you do.” Since she was still holding onto the side, knuckles white, he reached in, plucked her up, and carried her over the irregularly shaped stones toward the door.

  “Cut it out. I can walk.”

  “Stop complaining.” He turned his head, expertly finding her mouth, deepening the kiss until her hand stopped pushing at his shoulder and began to knead it.

  “Damn it,” she murmured. “How come you can always do that to me?”

  “Just lucky, I guess. Roarke, disengage,” he said, and the decorative bars across the entrance slid apart. Behind them, doors ornate with carving and etched glass clicked open and swung back in welcome. He stepped inside. “Secure,” he ordered, and the doors efficiently closed while Eve stared.

  One wall of the entrance level was glass, and through it she could see the ocean. She’d never seen the Pacific, and she wondered now how it had earned its serene name when it looked so alive, so ready to boil.

  They were in time for sunset, and as she watched, speechless, the sky exploded and shimmered with bolts and streams of wild color. And the fat red globe of the sun sank slowly, inevitably, toward the blue line of water.

  “You’ll like it here,” he murmured.

  She was staggered by the beauty of an ending day. It seemed that nature had waited for her, held the show. “It’s wonderful. I can’t stay.”

  “A few hours.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Just overnight for now. We’ll come back and spend a few days when we have more time.”

  Still carrying her, he walked closer to the glass wall until it seemed to Eve that the entire world was made of frantic color and shifting shapes.

  “I love you, Eve.”

  She looked away from the sun, the ocean, and into his eyes. And it was wonderful, and for the moment, it was simple. “I missed you.” She pressed her cheek to his and held him tightly. “I really missed you. I wore one of your shirts.” She could laugh at herself now because he was here. She could smell him, touch him. “I actually went into your closet and stole one of your shirts—one of the black silk ones you have dozens of. I put it on, then snuck out of the house like a thief so Summerset wouldn’t catch me.”

  Absurdly touched, he nuzzled her neck. “At night, I’d play your transmissions over, just so I could look at you, hear your voice.”

  “Really?” She giggled, a rare sound from her. “God, Roarke, we’ve gotten so sappy.”

  “We’ll keep it our little secret.”

  “Deal.” She leaned back to look at his face. “I have to ask you something. It’s so lame, but I have to.”

  “What?”

  “Was it ever . . .” She winced, wished she could muffle the need to ask. “Before, with anyone else—”

  “No.” He touched his lips to her brow, her nose, the dip in her chin. “It was never, with no one else.”

  “Not for me, either.” She simply breathed him in. “Put your hands on me. I want your hands on me.”

  “I can do that.”

  He did, tumbling with her to a spread of floor cushions while the sun died brilliantly in the ocean.

  chapter sixteen

  Taking a break with Roarke wasn’t quite like stopping off at the deli for a quick veggie hash salad and soy coffee. She wasn’t sure how he managed it all, but then, great quantities of money talk, and talk big.

  They dined on succulent grilled lobster, drenched in real, creamy, rich butter. They sipped champagne so cold it frosted Eve’s throat. A symphony of fruit was there for the sampling, exotic hybrids that sprinkled harmonized flavors on the tongue.

  Long before she could admit that she loved him, Eve had accepted the fact that she was addicted to the food he could summon up with the flick of a wrist.

  She soaked naked in a small whirling lagoon cupped under palm trees and moonlight, her muscles slack from the heated water and thorough sex. She listened to the song of night birds—no simulation, but the real thing—that hung on the fragrant air like tears.

  For now, for one night, the pressures of the job were light-years away.

  He could do that to her, and for her, she realized. He could open little pockets of peace.

  Roarke watched her, pleased at the way the tension had melted from her face with a bit of pampering. He loved seeing her this way, unwound, limp with pleasuring her senses, too lax to remember to be guilty for indulging herself. Just as he loved seeing her revved, her mind racing, her body braced for action.

  No, it had never been like this for him before, with anyone. Of all the women he’d known, she was the only one he was compelled to be with, driven to touch. Beyond the physical, the basic and apparently unsatiable lust she inspired in him, was a constant fascination. Her mind, her heart, her secrets, her scars.

  He had told her once they were two lost souls. He thought now he’d spoken no more than the truth. But with each other, they’d found something that rooted them.

  For a man who had been wary of cops all of his life, it was staggering to know his happiness now depended on one.

  Amused at himself, he slipped into the water with her. Eve managed to drum up enough energy to open her eyes to slits.

  “I don’t think I can move.”

  “Then don’t.” He handed her another flute of champagne, wrapping her fingers around the stem.

  “I’m too relaxed to be drunk.” But she managed to find her mouth with the glass. “It’s such a weird life. Yours,” she elaborated. “I mean you can have anything you want, go anywhere, do anything. You want to take a night off, you zip over to Mexico and nibble on lobster and—what was that stuff again, the stuff you spread on crackers?”

  “Goose liver.”

  She winced and shuddered. “That’s not what you called it when you shoved it in my mouth. It sounded nicer.”

  “Foie gras. Same thing.”

  “That’s better.” She shifted her legs, tangled them with his. “Anyway, most people program a video or take a quick trip with their VR goggles, maybe plug a few credits into a simulati
on booth down at Times Square. But you do the real thing.”

  “I prefer the real thing.”

  “I know. That’s another odd piece of you. You like old stuff. You’d rather read a book than scan a disc, rather go to the trouble to come out here when you could have programmed a simulation in your holoroom.” Her lips curved a little, dreamily. “I like that about you.”

  “That’s handy.”

  “When you were a kid, and things were bad for you, is this what you dreamed about?”

  “I dreamed about surviving, getting out. Having control. Didn’t you?”

  “I guess I did.” Too many of her dreams were jumbled and dark. “After I was in the system, anyway. Then what I wanted most was to be a cop. A good cop. A smart cop. What did you want?”

  “To be rich. Not to be hungry.”

  “We both got what we wanted, more or less.”

  “You had nightmares while I was gone.”

  She didn’t have to open her eyes to see the concern in his. She could hear it in his voice. “They aren’t too bad. They’re just more regular.”

  “Eve, if you’d work with Doctor Mira—”

  “I’m not ready to remember it. Not all of it. Do you ever feel the scars, from what your father did to you?”

  Restless with the memories, he shifted and sank deeper in the hot, frothy water. “A few beatings, careless cruelty. Why should it matter now?”

  “You shrug it off.” Now she opened her eyes, looked at him, saw he was brooding. “But it made you, didn’t it? What happened then made you.”

  “I suppose it did, roughly.”

  She nodded, tried to speak casually. “Roarke, do you think if some people lack something, and that lack lets them brutalize their kids—the way we were—do you think it passes on? Do you think—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He cupped a hand over her calf and squeezed. “We make ourselves, in the long run. You and I did. If that wasn’t true, I’d be drunk in some Dublin slum, looking for something weaker to pummel. And you, Eve, would be cold and brittle and without pity.”