Stars of Mithra Box Set: Captive StarHidden StarSecret Star

by Nora Roberts

  “Where?” His voice was cool again, controlled. “Is the scene secured?” He swore lightly, barely a whisper under the breath. “Get it secured. I’m on my way.” As he hung up, his eyes skimmed over her, focused. “I’m sorry, Grace, I have to go.”

  She moistened her lips. “Is it bad?”

  “I have to go,” was all he’d say. “I’ll call for a black-and-white to take you back to Cade’s.”

  “Can’t I wait here for you?”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She offered a hand, but wasn’t sure she could reach him. “I’d like to wait. I want to wait for you.”

  No woman ever had. That thought passed quickly through his mind, distracting him. “If you get tired of waiting, call the precinct. I’ll leave word there for a uniform to drive you home if you call in.”

  “All right.” But she wouldn’t call in. She would wait. “Seth.” She moved into him, brushed her lips against his. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Chapter 9

  Alone, Grace switched on the television, settled on the sofa. Five minutes later, she was up and wandering the house.

  He didn’t go in for knickknacks, she mused. Probably thought of them as dustcatchers. No plants, no pets. The living room furniture was simple, masculine, and good quality. The sofa was comfortable, of generous size and a deep hunter green. She would have spruced it up with pillows. Burgundy, navy, copper. The coffee table was a square of heavy oak, highly polished and dust-free.

  She decided he had a weekly housekeeper. She just couldn’t picture Seth wielding a polishing rag. There was a bookcase under the side window and, crouching she scanned the titles. It pleased her that they had read many of the same books. There was even a gardening book she’d studied herself.

  That she could see, she decided. Yes, she could see Seth working out in the yard, turning the earth, planting something that would last.

  There was art in this room, as well. She moved closer, certain the watercolor portraits grouped on the wall were the work of the same artist who had done the cityscape and rural scene in his bedroom. She searched for the signature first, and found Marilyn Buchanan looped in the lower corner.

  Sister, mother, cousin? she wondered. Someone he loved, and who loved him. She shifted her gaze and studied the first painting.

  Seth’s father, Grace realized with a jolt. It had to be. The resemblance was there, in the eyes, clear, intense, tawny. The jaw, squared off, almost chiseled. The artist had seen strength, a touch of sadness, and honor. A whisper of humor around the mouth and an innate pride in the set of the head. All were evident in the three-quarter profile view that had the subject staring off at something only he could see.

  The next portrait was a woman, perhaps in her forties. It was a pretty face, but the artist hadn’t hidden the faint and telltale lines of age, the touches of gray in the dark, curling hair. The hazel eyes looked straight ahead, with humor and with patience. And there was Seth’s mouth, Grace thought, smiling easily.

  His mother, she concluded. How much strength was contained inside those quiet gray eyes? Grace wondered. How much was required to stand and accept when everyone you loved faced danger daily?

  Whatever the amount, this woman possessed it.

  There was another man, young, twenty-something, with a cocky grin and daredevil eyes shades darker than Seth’s. Attractive, sexy, with a dark shock of hair falling carelessly over his brow. His brother, certainly.

  The last was of a young woman with a shoulder-length sweep of dark hair, the tawny eyes alert, the sculpted mouth just curved in the beginnings of a smile. Lovely, with more of Seth’s seriousness about her than the young man. His sister.

  She wondered if she would ever meet them, or if she would know them only through their portraits. Seth would take the woman he loved to them, she thought, and let the little slice of hurt pass through her. He would want to—need to—bring her into his mother’s home, watch how she melded and mixed with his family.

  It was a door he’d have to open on both sides in welcome. Not just because it was traditional, she realized, but because it would matter to him.

  But a lover? No, she decided. It wasn’t necessary to share a lover with family. He’d never take a woman with whom he shared only sex home to meet his mother.

  Grace closed her eyes a moment. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she ordered briskly. You can’t have everything you want or need, so you make the best of what there is.

  She opened her eyes again, once more scanned the portraits. Good faces, she thought. A good family.

  But where, Grace wondered, was Seth’s portrait? There had to be one. What had the artist seen? Had she painted him with that cool cop’s stare, that surprisingly beautiful smile, the all-too-rare flash of that grin?

  Determined to find out, she left the television blaring and went on the hunt. In the next twenty minutes, she discovered that Seth lived tidily, kept a phone and notepad in every room, used the second bedroom as a combination guest room and office, had turned the tiny third bedroom into a minigym and liked deep colors and comfortable chairs.

  She found more watercolors, but no portrait of the man.

  She circled the guest room, curious that here, and only here, he’d indulged in some whimsy. Recessed shelves held a collection of figures, some carved in wood, others in stone. Dragons, griffins, sorcerers, unicorns, centaurs. And a single winged horse of alabaster caught soaring in midflight.

  Here the paintings reflected the magical—a misty landscape where a turreted castle rose silver into a pale rose-colored sky, a shadow-dappled lake where a single white deer drank.

  There were books on Arthur, on Irish legends, the gods of Olympus, and those who had ruled Rome. And there, on the small cherrywood desk, was a globe of blue crystal and a book on Mithra, the god of light.

  It made her tremble, clutch her arms. Had he picked up the book because of the case? Or had it already been here? She touched a hand to the slim volume and was certain it was the latter.

  One more link between them, she realized, forged before they’d even met. It was so easy for her to accept that, even to be grateful. But she wondered if he felt the same.

  She went downstairs, oddly at home after her self-guided tour. It made her smile to see their coffee cups from that morning still in the sink, a little touch of intimacy. She found a bottle of wine in the refrigerator, poured herself a glass and took it with her into the living room.

  She went back to the bookcase, thinking of curling up on the couch with the TV for company and a book to pass the time. Then a chill washed over her, so quick, so intense, the wine shook in her hand. She found herself staring out the window, her breath coming short, her other hand clutched on the edge of the bookcase.

  Someone watching. It pounded in her brain, a frightened, whispering voice that might have been her own.

  Someone watching.

  But she saw nothing but the dark, the shimmer of moonlight, the quiet house across the street.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. There’s no one there. There’s nothing there. But she straightened and quickly twitched the curtains closed. Her hands were shaking.

  She sipped wine, tried to laugh at herself. The late-breaking bulletin on the television had her turning slowly. A family of four in nearby Bethesda. Murdered.

  She knew where Seth had gone now. And could only imagine what he was dealing with.

  She was alone. DeVane sat in his treasure room, stroking an ivory statue of the goddess Venus. He’d come to think of it as Grace. As his obsession festered and grew, he imagined Grace and himself together, immortal through time. She would be his most prized possession. His goddess. And the Three Stars would complete his collection of the priceless.

  Of course, she would have to be punished first. He knew what had to be done, what would matter most to her. And the other two women were not blameless—they had complicated his plans, caused him to fail. They would have
to die, of course.

  After he had the Stars, after he had Grace, they would die. And their deaths would be her punishment.

  Now she was alone. It would be so easy to take her now. To bring her here. She’d be afraid, at first. He wanted her to be afraid. It was part of her punishment. Eventually he would woo her, win her. Own her. They would have, after all, several lifetimes to be together.

  In one of them he would take her back to Terresa. He would make her a queen. A god could settle for no less than a queen.

  Take her tonight. The voice that spoke louder and louder in his head every day taunted him. He couldn’t trust it. DeVane steadied his breathing, shut his eyes. He would not be rushed. Every detail had to be in place.

  Grace would come to him when he was prepared. And she would bring him the Stars.

  Seth downed one last cup of sludgy coffee and rubbed at the ache at the back of his neck. His stomach was still raw from what he’d seen in that neat suburban home. He knew civilians and rookie cops believed the vets became immune to the results of violent death—the sights, the smells, the meaningless waste.

  It was a lie.

  No one could become used to seeing what he’d seen. If they could, they shouldn’t wear a badge. The law needed to retain its sense of disgust, of horror, for murder.

  What drove a man to take the lives of his own children, of the woman he’d made them with, and then his own? There’d been no one left in that neat suburban home to answer that question. He knew it would haunt him.

  Seth scrubbed his hands over his face, felt the knots of tension and fatigue. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, then squared them before cutting through the bull pen, toward the locker room.

  Mick Marshall was there, rubbing his sore feet. His wiry red hair stood up like a bush that needed trimming from a face lined with weariness. His eyes were shadowed, his mouth was grim.

  “Lieutenant.” He pulled his socks back on.

  “You didn’t have to come in on this, Detective.”

  “Hell, I heard the gunshots from my own living room.” He picked up one of his shoes, but just rested his elbows on his knees. “Two blocks over. Jesus, my kids played with those kids. How the hell am I going to explain this?”

  “How well did you know the father?”

  “Didn’t, really. It’s just like they always say, Lieutenant. He was a quiet guy, polite, kept to himself.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “They always do.”

  “Mulrooney’s taking the case. You can assist if you want. Now go home, get some sleep. Go in and kiss your kids.”

  “Yeah.” Mick scraped his fingers through his hair. “Listen, Lieutenant, I got some data on that DeVane guy.”

  Seth’s spine tingled. “Anything interesting?”

  “Depends on what floats your boat. He’s fifty-two, never married, inherited a big fat pile from his old man, including this big vineyard on that island, that Terresa. Grows olives, too, runs some cattle.”

  “The gentleman farmer?”

  “Oh, he’s got more going than that. Lots of interests, spread out all over hell and back. Shipping, communications, import-export. Lots of fingers in lots of pies generating lots of dough. He was made ambassador to the U.S. three years ago. Seems to like it here. He bought some nifty place on Foxhall Road, big mansion, likes to entertain. People don’t like to talk about him, though. They get real nervous.”

  “Money and power make some people nervous.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t gotten a lot of information yet. But there was a woman about five years ago. Opera singer. Pretty big deal, if you’re into that sort of thing. Italian lady. Seems like they were pretty tight. Then she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared.” Seth’s waning interest snapped back. “How?”

  “That’s the thing. She just went poof. Italian police can’t figure it. She had a place in Milan, left all her things—clothes, jewelry, the works. She was singing at that opera house there, in the middle of a run, you know? Didn’t show for the evening performance. She went shopping on that afternoon, had a bunch of things sent back to her place. But she never went back.”

  “They figure kidnapping?”

  “They did. But then there was no ransom call, no body, no sign of her in nearly five years. She was…” Mick screwed up his face in thought. “Thirty, supposed to be at the top of her form, and a hell of a looker. She left a big pile of lire in her accounts. It’s still there.”

  “DeVane was questioned.”

  “Yeah. Seems he was on his yacht in the Ionian Sea, soaking up rays and drinking ouzo, when it all went down. A half-dozen guests on board with him. The Italian cop I talked to—big opera fan, by the way—he didn’t think DeVane seemed shocked enough, or upset enough. He smelled something, but couldn’t make anything stick. Still, the guy offered a reward, five million lire, for her safe return. No one ever collected.”

  “I’d say that was fairly interesting. Keep digging.” And, Seth thought, he’d start doing some digging himself.

  “One more thing.” Mick cracked his neck from side to side. “And I thought this was interesting too—the guy’s a collector. He has a little of everything—coins, stamps, jewelry, art, antiques, statuary. He does it all. But he’s also reputed to have a unique and extensive gem collection—rivals the Smithsonian’s.”

  “DeVane likes rocks.”

  “Oh, yeah. And get this. Two years ago, more or less, he paid three mil for an emerald. Big rock, sure, but its price spiked because it was supposed to be a magic rock.” The very idea made Mick’s lips curl. “Merlin was supposed to have, you know, conjured it up for Arthur. Seems to me a guy who’d buy into that would be pretty interested in three big blue rocks and all that god and immortality stuff that goes with them.”

  “I just bet he would.” And wasn’t it odd, Seth mused, that DeVane’s name hadn’t been on Bailey’s list? A collector whose U.S. residence was only miles from Salvini, yet he’d never done business with them?

  No, the lack was too odd to believe.

  “Get me what you’ve got when you go on shift, Mick. I’d like to talk to that Italian cop personally. I appreciate the extra time you put into this.”

  Mick blinked. Seth never failed to thank his men for good work, but it was generally mechanical. There had been genuine warmth this time, on a personal level. “Sure, no sweat. But you know, Lieutenant, even if you can tie this guy to the case, he’ll bounce. Diplomatic immunity. We can’t touch him.”

  “Let’s tie him first, then we’ll see.” Seth glanced over, distracted, when a locker slammed open nearby as a cop was coming on shift. “Get some sleep,” he began, then broke off. There, taped to the back of the locker, was Grace, young, laughing and naked.

  Her head was tossed back, and that teasing smile, that feminine confidence, that silky power, sparkled in her eyes. Her skin was like polished marble, her curves were generous, with only that rainfall of hair, artfully draped to drive a man insane, covering her.

  Mick turned his head, saw the centerfold and winced. Cade had filled him in on the lieutenant’s relationship with Grace, and all Mick could think was that someone—very likely the cop currently standing at his locker whistling moronically—was about to die.

  “Ah, Lieutenant…” Mick began, with some brave thought of saving his associate’s life.

  Seth merely held up a hand, cut Mick off and walked to the locker. The cop changing his shirt glanced over. “Lieutenant.”

  “Bradley,” Seth said, and continued to study the glossy photo.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she? One of the guys on day shift said she’d been in and looked just as good in person.”

  “Did he?”

  “You bet. I dug this out of a pile of magazines in my garage. None the worse for wear.”

  “Bradley.” Mick whispered the name and buried his head in his hands. The guy was dead meat.

  Seth took a long breath, resisted the urge to rip the photo down. “Female officers share this locker ro
om, Bradley. This is inappropriate.” Where was the tattoo? Seth thought hazily. What had she been when she posed for this? Nineteen, twenty? “Find somewhere else to hang your art.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Seth turned away, then shot one last look over his shoulder. “And she’s better in person. Much better.”

  “Bradley,” Mick said as Seth strode out, “you just dodged one major bullet.”

  Dawn was breaking when Seth let himself into the house. He’d gone by the book on the case in Bethesda. It would close when the forensic and autopsy reports confirmed what he already knew. A man of thirty-six who made a comfortable living as a computer programmer had gotten up from his sofa, where he was watching television, loaded his revolver and ended four lives in the approximate space of ten minutes.

  For this crime, Seth could offer no justice.

  He could have headed home two hours earlier. But he’d made use of the time difference in Europe to make calls, ask questions, gather data. He was slowly putting together a picture of Gregor DeVane.

  A man of wealth he had never sweated for. One who enjoyed prestige and power, who traveled in exalted circles, and had no family.

  There was no crime in any of that, Seth thought as he closed his front door behind him.

  There was no crime in sending white roses to a beautiful woman.

  Or in once being involved with one who’d disappeared. But wasn’t it interesting that DeVane had been involved with another woman? A French-woman, a prima ballerina of great beauty who’d been considered the finest dancer of the decade. And who had been found dead of a drug overdose in her Paris home.

  The verdict had been suicide, though those closest to her insisted she had never used drugs. She had been fiercely disciplined about her body. DeVane had been questioned in that matter, as well, but only as a matter of form. He had been dining at the White House at the very hour the young dancer slipped into a coma, and then into death.