by J. D. Robb
He drew in the scent of her skin and water. "We may yet."
"Do you think we can make it over to the steps?"
"If you're not in a hurry."
They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. "Coffee," Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.
When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.
"Hungry?"
She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. "Starving. But I want a shower."
"Upstairs then."
Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. "Lower the water temp and die," she warned.
"Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing."
"You've already taken care of that." She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.
She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.
She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.
"I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night."
Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. "Am I going to have to apologize every time I'm called away on business that affects our personal plans?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. "No. The thing is I was headed out the door—I hadn't forgotten—and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn't track."
"The NYPSD has pitiful equipment."
"Not that pitiful," she muttered. "This guy's a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it."
"Now, that's insulting."
She had to smirk. "Well, you might get a chance at him. Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn't put it past him to contact me here."
Roarke set his fork aside, picked up his coffee, both gestures casual though his entire body had gone to alert. "Personally?"
"Yeah, he wanted me. Hit me with some religious mission crap first. Basically, he's doing the Lord's work and the Big Guy wants to play with riddles." She ran the transmission through for him, watching his eyes narrow, sharpen. Roarke was quick, she reflected as she saw his mouth go grim.
"You checked the Luxury Towers."
"That's right, penthouse floor. He'd left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom."
She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. "It was as bad as I've ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He'd been pumped up with illegals—enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He'd been disemboweled."
"Christ Jesus." Roarke blew out a breath. "An ancient punishment for political or religious crimes. A slow and hideous death."
"And a goddamn messy one," she put in. "His feet had been severed—one hand gone at the wrist. He was still alive when his right eye was cut out. That was the only piece of him we didn't recover at the scene."
"Lovely." Though he considered his stomach a strong one, Roarke lost his taste for breakfast. Rising, he went to the closet. "An eye for an eye."
"That's a revenge thing, right? From some play."
"The Bible, darling. The lord of all plays." He chose casual pleated trousers from the revolving rack.
"Back to God again. Okay, the game's revenge. Maybe it's religious, maybe it's just personal. We may zero in on motive when we finish running the victim. I've got a media blackout at least until I contact his family."
Roarke hitched up the trousers, reached for a simple white linen shirt. "Children?"
"Yeah, three."
"You have a miserable job, Lieutenant."
"That's why I love it." But she rubbed her hands over her face. "His wife and kids are in Ireland, we think. I need to track them down today."
"In Ireland?"
"Hmm. Yeah, seems the victim was one of your former countrymen. I don't suppose you knew a Thomas X. Brennen, did you?" Her half smile faded when she saw Roarke's eyes go dark and flat. "You did know him. I never figured it."
"Early forties?" Roarke asked without inflection. "About five-ten, sandy hair?"
"Sounds like. He was into communications and entertainment."
"Tommy Brennen." With the shirt still in his hand, Roarke sat on the arm of a chair. "Son of a bitch."
"I'm sorry. It didn't occur to me that he was a friend."
"He wasn't." Roarke shook his head to clear away the memories. "At least not in more than a decade. I knew him in Dublin. He was running computer scams while I was grifting. We crossed paths a few times, did a little business, drank a few pints. About twelve years ago, Tommy hooked up with a young woman of good family. Lace curtain Irish. He fell hard and decided to go straight. All the way straight," Roarke added with a crooked grin. "And he severed ties with the less…desirable elements of his youth. I knew he had a base here in New York, but we stayed out of each other's way. I believe his wife knows nothing of his past endeavors."
Eve sat on the arm opposite him. "It might have been one of the past endeavors, and one of those less desirable elements, that's responsible for what happened to him. Roarke, I'm going to be digging, and when I dig how much of you am I going to uncover?''
It was a worry, he supposed. A mild one to him. But, he knew, it would never be mild to her. "I cover my tracks, Lieutenant. And, as I said, we weren't mates. I haven't had any contact with him at all in years. But I remember him. He had a fine tenor voice," Roarke murmured. "A good laugh, a good mind, and a longing for family. He was fast with his fists, but never went looking for trouble that I recall."
"Looking or not, he found it. Do you know where his family is?"
He shook his head as he rose. "But I can get that information for you quickly enough."
"I'd appreciate it." She rose as he shrugged into the casual elegant shirt. "Roarke, I'm sorry, for whatever he was to you."
"A touchstone perhaps. A song in a smoky pub on a rainy night. I'm sorry, too. I'll be in my office. Give me ten minutes."
"Sure."
• • •
Eve took her time dressing. She had a feeling Roarke would need more than ten minutes. Not to access the data she'd asked for. With his equipment and his skill he'd have it in half that time. But she thought he needed a few moments alone to deal with the loss of that song in a smoky pub.
She'd never lost anyone even remotely close to her. Maybe, Eve realized, because she'd been careful to let only a select few become close enough to matter. Then there had been Roarke, and she'd had no choice. He'd invaded, she'd supposed, subtly, elegantly, inarguably. And now…she ran a thumb over the carved gold wedding ring she wore. Now he was vital.
She took the stairs this time, winding her way through the wide halls in the big, beautiful house. She didn't have to knock on his office door, but did so, waiting until the door slid open in invitation.
The window shields were up to let in the sun. The sky behind the treated glass was murky, hinting that the rain wasn't quite finished. Roarke manned the antique desk of gleaming wood rather than the slick console. The floors were covered with gorgeous old rugs he'd acquired on his journeys.
Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. She was almost accustomed to the grandeur she now lived in, but she didn't know what to do with Roarke's grief, with the self
contained quiet sorrow.
"Listen, Roarke—"
"I got you a hard copy." He nudged a sheet of paper across the desk. "I thought it would be easier. His wife and children are in Dublin at the moment. The children are minors, two boys and a girl. Ages nine, eight, and six."
Too restless to sit, he rose and turned to stare out at his view of New York—quiet now, the light still dull, the skies almost still. He'd brought up visuals of Brennen's family—the pretty, bright-eyed woman, the rosy-cheeked children. It had disturbed him more than he'd anticipated.
"Financially they'll be quite comfortable," he said almost to himself. "Tommy saw to that. Apparently he'd become a very good husband and father."
She crossed the room, lifted a hand to touch, then dropped it. Damn it, she was no good at this, she thought. No good at knowing if comfort would be welcomed or rejected. "I don't know what to do for you," she said at length.
When he turned, his eyes were brilliantly blue, and fury rode in them along with the grief. "Find who did this to him. I can trust you for that."
"Yeah, you can."
A smile touched his lips, curved them. "Lieutenant Dallas, standing for the dead, as always." He skimmed a hand through her hair, lifting a brow when she caught it.
"You'll leave this to me, Roarke."
"Have I said otherwise?"
"It's what you haven't said that's just beginning to get through." She knew him, knew him well enough to understand he would have his own ways, his own means, and very likely his own agenda. "If you've got any ideas about going out on your own, put them to bed now. It's my case, and I'll handle it."
He ran his hands up her arms in a way that made her eyes narrow. "Naturally. But you will keep me apprised? And you know that I'm available for any assistance you might require."
"I think I can stumble through on my own. And I think it would be best if you took a step back from this one. A long step back."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "No," he said pleasantly.
"Roarke—"
"Would you prefer I lied to you, Eve?" He picked up the hard copy while she fumed, handed it to her. "Go to work. I'll make a few calls. I'd think by the end of the day I should have a complete list of Tommy's associates, professional and personal, his enemies, his friends, his lovers, his financial status, and so forth." He was leading her across the room as he spoke. "It'll be easier for me to accumulate the data, and it'll give you a clear picture."
She managed to hold her ground before he pushed her out the door. "I can't stop you from accumulating data. But don't step out of line, pal. Not one inch."
"You know how it excites me when you're strict."
She struggled back a laugh and nearly managed a glare. "Shut up," she muttered, and shoved her hands in her pockets and she strode away.
He watched her, waited until she'd disappeared at the stairs. Cautious, he turned to the security monitor and ordered view. The laughter was gone from his eyes as he watched her jog down the steps, snag the jacket Summerset had laid back over the newel post for her.
"You're forgetting an umbrella," he murmured, and sighed when she walked into the thin drizzle unprotected.
He hadn't told her everything. How could he? How could he be certain it was relevant, in any case? He needed more before he risked tangling the woman he loved in the ugliness of his own past, his own sins.
He left his office, heading for the communications room that was both expansive and illegal. Laying his palm on the security screen, he identified himself then entered. Here, the equipment was unregistered and any activity would be undetected by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard. He needed specifics in order to plan his next step, and sitting in the deep U of a sleek black control center, he began.
Invading the system of NYPSD was child's play for him. He sent a silent apology to his wife as he accessed her files, dipped into the medical examiner's office.
"Crime scene video on screen one," Roarke ordered, easing back. "Autopsy report, screen two, primary investigating officer's report, screen three."
The horror of what had been done to Brennen swam on screen, made Roarke's eyes go cold and flat. There was little left of the young man he'd known a lifetime before in Dublin. He read Eve's clipped and formal report without emotion, studied the complex terms of the preliminary report from the ME.
"Copy to file Brennen, code Roarke, password my voiceprint only. Off screen."
Turning, he reached for his in-house tele-link. "Summerset, come up please."
"On my way."
Roarke rose, moved to the window. The past could come back to haunt, he knew. Most often it remained in some ghostly corner waiting to strike. Had it slipped out to strike Tommy Brennen? he wondered. Or was it just bad luck, bad timing?
The door slid open and Summerset, bony in black, stepped through. "Is there a problem?"
"Thomas Brennen."
Summerset's thin lips frowned, then his eyes cleared into what was nearly a smile. "Ah yes, an eager young hacker with a love of rebel songs and Guinness."
"He's been murdered."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Here in New York," Roarke continued. "Eve is primary." Roarke watched Summerset's mouth set and flatten. "He was tortured, kept alive for the pain. Disemboweled."
It took a moment, but Summerset's already pale face whitened a shade more. "Coincidence."
"Maybe, hopefully." Roarke indulged himself by taking a slim cigarette from a japanned case, lighting it. "Whoever did it called my wife personally, wanted her involved."
"She's a cop," Summerset said with a lifetime of disdain in his voice.
"She's my wife," Roarke returned, the edge in his voice scalpel sharp. "If it turns out it isn't coincidence, I'll tell her everything."
"You can't risk that. There's no statute of limitations on murder—even justifiable murder."
"That'll be up to her, won't it?" Roarke took a long drag, sat on the edge of the console. "I won't have her working blind, Summerset. I won't put her in that position. Not for myself, not for you." The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. "Not for memories. You need to be prepared."
"It's not me who'll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done."
"And so will Eve," Roarke said mildly. "Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?"
"I've forgotten nothing."
Roarke studied Summerset's stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. "That's what I was counting on. Let's get to work then."
• • •
The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn't matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.
He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.
His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.
He bent, kissed the white marble feet.
For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.
But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.
He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait, to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.
He had fasted, made the sacrifice, cleansed his heart and mind of all worldly evils. Now he dipped his fingers int
o a small bowl of holy water, touched his fingers to his brow, his heart, left shoulder, then right. He knelt, closing a hand over the cloth scapular he wore. It had been blessed by the Pope himself, and its promise of protection from evil comforted him.
He tucked it tidily under the silk of his shirt where it could rest against warm flesh.
Secure, confident, he lifted his gaze to the crucifix that hung above the sturdy table that held the weapons of his mission. The image of the suffering Christ gleamed silver against a cross of gold. A rich man's visual aide. The irony of owning an image carved from precious metals of a man who had preached humility never touched him.
He lighted the candles, folded his hands, and bending his head prayed with the passion of the faithful, and the mad.
He prayed for grace, and prepared for murder.
*** CHAPTER THREE ***
The Homicide bullpen at Cop Central smelled like day-old coffee and fresh urine. Eve wound her way through the jammed-in desks, barely registering the buzz of chatter from detectives working their 'links. A maintenance droid was busily mopping up the ancient linoleum.
Peabody's cube was a dimly lighted two-foot square in the far corner. Despite its size and location, it was as ruthlessly organized and tidy as Peabody herself.
"Somebody forget where the toilets are?" Eve asked casually, and Peabody turned from her dented, police issue metal desk.
"Bailey had a sidewalk sleeper in for questioning on a knifing. The sleeper didn't like being held as a witness and expressed his displeasure by emptying his bladder on Bailey's shoes. From all reports, said bladder was unusually full."
"Just another day in paradise. Is the sweeper report in on Brennen yet?"
"I just gave them a nudge. It should be coming through shortly."
"Then let's start with the security discs from the Luxury Towers and Brennen's apartment."
"There's a problem there, Lieutenant."
Eve cocked her head. "You didn't get them?"
"I got what there was to get." Peabody picked up a sealed bag containing a single disc. "The Towers's security, penthouse level, for the twelve-hour period before the discovery of Brennen's body and the SCAN-EYE in Brennen's place were disengaged, and empty."