by J. D. Robb
Then Roarke simply stepped up behind the chair, stopped it. Locked it in place. He walked around to sit on a bench so that he and Summerset were on the same level.
“I know you’re angry with me,” he began.
“You’ve saddled me with that creature. Locked me in with her as my warden.”
Roarke shook his head. “Christ Jesus. You can be as mad as you like about that. Until you’re healed you’ll have the best care available. She’s it. For that I won’t apologize. For the things I said to you last night, for the way I behaved, I will. I’m sorry for it, very sorry.”
“Did you think you couldn’t tell me?” Summerset looked away, stared hard at a violently blue hydrangea. “I know the worst of you, and the best, and everything between.” He looked back now, studied Roarke’s face. “Well, at least I see she tended to you. You look rested.”
Surprise flashed in Roarke’s eyes before he narrowed them. “Eve discussed . . . she spoke to you about what I’ve learned?”
“However we disagree, whatever our difficulties with each other, we have one thing in common. That’s you. You worried us both, needlessly.”
“I did.” He rose, walked a few paces down the path. Back again. “I can’t get a grip on it. Any sort of a grip. It makes me sick inside in a way I haven’t felt . . . in a very long time. And I wondered, I let myself wonder, if you knew.”
“If I knew . . . ah.” As another piece fell into place, Summerset let out a long breath. “I didn’t. I had no knowledge of this girl. As far as I knew, Meg Roarke was your mother.”
Roarke sat again. “I never questioned it.”
“Why should you have?”
“I’ve spent more time, taken more care turning over the background on a low-level employee than I have on my own beginnings. I blocked them out from my mind and from data banks. Wiped most of it clean.”
“You protected yourself.”
“Fuck that.” It was temper as much as guilt that radiated from him. “Who protected her?”
“It could hardly have been you, a babe in arms.”
“And no justice for her, not by my hand. Not by her son’s hand, for the bastard’s been dead for years now. At least with Marlena—”
He cut himself off, drew himself in. “Marlena died to teach me a lesson. You never blamed me for it, not once have you said you blamed me.”
For a long beat, Summerset looked over the garden. Those violently blue hydrangeas, the bloodred of roses, the hot pink of snapdragons. His daughter, his precious child, had been like a flower.
Beautiful, brilliant, and short-lived.
“Because you weren’t to blame. Not for what happened to my girl, not for what happened to your mother.” Summerset’s gaze tracked back to him, held. “Boy,” he said quietly, “you were never to blame.”
“Neither was I ever innocent, not in my own memory anyway.” With a little sigh, Roarke snapped off one of the blossoms, studied it. It occurred to him he hadn’t given Eve flowers in some time. A man shouldn’t forget to do such things, especially when the woman never expected them.
“You could have blamed me.” He set the flower in Summerset’s lap because that, too, was unexpected. A small gesture, a small symbol. “You took me in, when he’d damn near beaten me to death, and I had no one and nowhere to go. You didn’t have to; I was nothing to you then.”
“You were a child, and that was enough. You were a child half-beaten to death, and that was too much.”
“For you.” Emotion all but strangled him. “You took care of me, and you taught me. You gave me something I’d never had, never expected to. You gave me a home, and a family. And when they took part of that family away, when they took Marlena, the best of us, you could have blamed me. Cast me out. But you never did.”
“You were mine by then, weren’t you?”
“God.” He had to take a breath, a careful one. “I suppose I was.”
Needing to move, Roarke got to his feet. With his hands in his pockets he watched a small fountain gurgle to life above a riot of lilies. He watched the cool water until he was calm again.
“When I decided to come here, wanted to make my home here and asked you to come, you did. You left the home you’d made for the one I wanted to make. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that I’m grateful.”
“You have told me. Many times and in many ways.” Summerset laid his hands over the strong blue flower, looked out over the garden. The peace of it, and the beauty of it.
The world within a world the boy he’d watched become a man had created. Now that world had been shaken, and needed to be put steady again.
“You’ll go back to Ireland. You’ll have to go back.”
“I will.” Roarke nodded, unspeakably grateful to be understood without having said the words. “I will, yes.”
“When?”
“Right away. I think it’s best to go straight away.”
“Have you told the lieutenant?”
“I haven’t.” Unsettled again, Roarke looked down at his own hands, ran the gold band of his marriage around his finger. “She’s in the middle of a difficult investigation. This will distract her from it. I’d considered telling her I had business out of town, but I can’t lie to her. It’ll be simpler, I think, to make the arrangements, then tell her I’m going.”
“She should go with you.”
“She’s not only my wife. Not even always my wife first.” He angled his head, smiled a little. “That’s something you and I might never see quite the same way.”
Summerset opened his mouth, then shut it again. Deliberately.
“People’s lives depend on her,” Roarke said with some exasperation. “It’s something she never forgets, and something I’d never ask her to put second. I can handle this on my own, and in fact, I think it’s best I do.”
“You were always one for believing you had to handle everything yourself. In that area, you and she are peas in a pod.”
“Maybe.” Because he wanted their faces on the same level, Roarke crouched. “Once, if you remember, when I was young and things were a bit tight for me, and the hate I felt for him still hot—running like some black river inside me—I told you I was going to take another name. That I wouldn’t keep his. Wanted nothing of his.”
“I remember. I think you were still shy of sixteen.”
“You said: Keep it, the name’s yours as much as his. Keep it, and make something of it, then it’ll be all of yours and none of his. Start now. Didn’t tell me what to make of it, did you?”
With a short laugh, Summerset shook his head. “I didn’t have to. You already knew.”
“I have to go back, myself, and find whatever it is she gave me. I have to know if I’ve made something of it, or have something yet to make. And I have to start now.”
“It’s difficult to argue with my own words.”
“Still, I don’t like leaving you before you’re on your feet again.”
Summerset made a dismissive sound. “I can handle this, and that irritating woman you’ve chained to me, on my own.”
“You’ll watch after my cop while I’m gone, won’t you?”
“In my way.”
“Well then.” He got to his feet. “If you need me for anything . . . you’ll be able to reach me.”
Now Summerset smiled. “I’ve always been able to reach you.”
Eve finished her oral report to Commander Whitney standing. She preferred that kind of formality in his office. She respected him for the kind of cop he was, and had been. Respected the lines of worry and authority that scored his wide, dark face.
Riding a desk hadn’t made him soft, but had only toughened the muscles of command.
“There are some media concerns,” he said when she’d finished. “Let’s get them out of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There have been some complaints that Channel 75, and Nadine Furst in particular, is receiving preferential treatment in this investigation.”
; “Channel 75 and Nadine Furst are receiving preferential treatment in this investigation due to the fact that we believe the killer has sent transmissions directly to Ms. Furst at 75. She, and the station, are cooperating fully with me and my team. As the transmissions were sent to her, I have no authority to stop her, or 75, from broadcasting any and all of the contents. However, they have agreed to filter those transmissions, and any other data received, through me. As quid pro quo, I have agreed to filter back any information on the case I deem appropriate for broadcast to them first.”
Whitney tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Then we’re covered.”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“We’ll set up a media conference to keep the dogs at bay. When dealing with the media, it’s best to CYA twice, whenever possible. I’ll have our liaison go through your reports and cull out what we want to feed them.”
Satisfied, he set the media aside, went back to the meat. “You need to work the connections, find the conduit between the victims.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to put a man, or better, a team on the club. Baxter and Trueheart. Trueheart’s young enough to pass for a student. Baxter’s training him, so I’d want him on board, to keep close. Trueheart hasn’t had much undercover experience. McNab could cover some ground in the colleges, working the geek end of things. He’s already been in the club with a badge, so I can’t use him there.”
“Set it up.”
“Sir; my initial run of the list from Portography—Hastings’s assistants. Some of the names are bogus. Some of these people just make them up, because they think they sound better. But the one who was on during the wedding where Howard was photographed rings false. I’m going to push on that. I’m also going to try some sources, see if I can narrow down the images the killer’s produced to style and equipment. I’ve got a lot of lines to tug, which may keep my people scattered for a while, until I can pull them all in again.”
“Do what’s necessary to close this down. Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.” She started to step back, then stayed where she was. “Commander, there’s one more thing. As I mentioned last month, I’d like to have Officer Peabody’s name put in for the next detective’s test.”
“She’s ready now?”
“She’s had about eighteen months of homicide experience under me. She’s worked, and closed, a cold case on her own. She’s clocked more field time than some of the guys in the bull pen. She’s a good cop, Commander, and deserves her shot at a gold shield.”
“On your recommendation then, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d tell her to start prepping. As I recall the exam isn’t a walk on the beach.”
“No, sir.” This time Eve smiled. “More like a run through a war zone. She’ll be prepped.”
She went down to the conference room, taking the time before her team arrived to sit on the edge of the table and study the board.
The images looked back at her. She focused first on Rachel Howard. Smiling, sunny, cheerfully at work. Typical college-age job—clerking at a 24/7. Wanted to be a teacher. Studied hard, made friends, good solid family life. Middle class.
Subway shot—heading home to that solid family life, or maybe off to school. Confident, pretty. Vital.
Wedding shot. Dolled up for the event. Fussier hair, darker lips, longer eyelashes. Big, celebratory smile that just plain popped out from the rest. You noticed this girl. Couldn’t help it.
Even in death, Eve thought. Sitting so neat, so pretty, with the light on her hair, her eyes staring out.
And Kenby Sulu, exotic, striking. Fairly typical job as well, particularly for the theater type. Ushering. Wanted to be a dancer, worked hard, made friends easily, good solid family life. Upper class.
Standing outside of Juilliard. Ready to go in, just coming out. Big smile for his friends.
Then the formal cast shot. Dark and intense, but still, oh yeah, still, you saw the light in him. Anticipation, health, energy.
The death shot mirrored it, she noted. The way he was posed in a dance, as if still on the move. And the light shimmering like a halo around him.
Healthy, she thought. Had to be healthy, had to be innocent, young, well-adjusted. Clean. There was something else the two victims had in common, she decided. They were clean. No history of illegals, no major illnesses on medical records. Good sharp brains, nice healthy young bodies.
She turned to the computer and started a run on any imaging business with Light in the name. She got four hits, noted them, then ran books on imaging with Light in the title. At some time, she was certain, her killer had been a student.
She hit several, and was about to print them out when one caught her eye.
Images of Light and Dark, by Dr. Leeanne Browning.
“Okay,” Eve said aloud. “Time to go back to school, one more time.”
When the conference door opened, she spoke without looking up. “Peabody, requisition and download a copy of a photographic text book titled Images of Light and Dark, by Leeanne Browning. Use the auxiliary computer. I’m not done here.”
“Yes, sir. How did you know it was me?”
“You’re the only one who walks like you. Find out if there’s an actual book copy available while you’re at it. It may be helpful.”
“Okay, but what does that mean? How do I walk?”
“Quick march in cop shoes. Working here.”
Eve didn’t have to look up this time either to know Peabody was scowling at her shoes. She did a cross-check to locate and highlight any other book, paper, or published images by Browning, ran them through.
Sulu had gone to Juilliard, but lived only a few blocks away from the Browning/Brightstar apartment. Could be another connection, she mused.
“I can get it in both e and print versions, Lieutenant.”
“Get both. While it’s downloading, you might want to check the schedule for upcoming detective exams. You’ve been cleared to take the next one.”
“I need to wait until the requisition clears, then . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I said get both. Screw the requisition. Order them. I’ll cover it until the red tape clears.”
“The detective exam.” Peabody’s voice was a squeak. “I’m going to take the detective exam?”
Eve swiveled in her chair, kicked out her legs. Her aide had gone ice pale, right down to the lips. Good, Eve thought. It wasn’t a step any good cop should take lightly. “You’re cleared for it, but it’s your call. You want to stay in uniform, you stay in uniform.”
“I want to make detective.”
“Okay. Take the exam.”
“Do you think I’m ready?”
“Do you?”
“I want to be ready.”
“Then study up, take the exam.”
Her color was coming back, slowly. “You put my name up, cleared it with the commander.”
“You work under me. You’re assigned to me. It’s up to me to put your name up if I think you do good work. You do good work.”
“Thanks.”
“Now keep doing good work and get me what I told you to get me. I’ve got to go drag Baxter and Trueheart into this.”
Eve walked out. She didn’t have to look back to know Peabody was grinning.
Chapter 14
Eve found Leeanne Browning at her apartment. The professor wore a long red shirt over a black skinsuit, and had her hair bundled back in a braid.
“Lieutenant Dallas. Officer. You just caught me. Angie and I were about to head out.” She gestured them inside as she spoke. “We’re going to spend a few hours working in Central Park. The heat brings out all sorts of interesting characters.”
“Including us,” Angie said, hauling a large toolbox into the room.
Leeanne laughed, low and lusty. “Oh, absolutely including us. What can we do for you?”
“I have some questions.”
“All right. Let’s sit down and try to answer them. Is this ab
out poor Rachel? There’s a memorial service for her tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, I know. I’d like you to look at these. Do you recognize the subject?”
Leeanne took the image of Kenby, standing in front of Juilliard. “No.” While Eve watched her face, Leeanne pursed her lips. “No,” she said again. “I don’t think he’s one of mine. I’d remember this face. Striking face.”
“Good form,” Angie added, leaning over the back of the sofa. “Nice, graceful body type.”
“An excellent study. Very well done. The same, isn’t it?” Leeanne asked. “It’s the same portrait artist. Is this handsome young man dead?”
“How about this one?” Eve offered the picture of the dance troupe.
“Ah, a dancer. Of course. He’s built like one, isn’t he?” She made a small sound, a little breath of distress. “No, he’s not familiar to me. None of them are. But this isn’t the same photographer, is it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Different style, technique. Such drama, and a wonderful use of shadows here. Of course, you’d want drama in this study, but . . . It seems to me that whoever took this dance study is more experienced, more trained, or simply more talented. Both, by my critique. Actually, at a guess, I’d say this was a Hastings.”
Intrigued, Eve sat back. “You can look at a photo and identify the photographer.”
“Certainly, if the artist has a distinct style. Of course, a clever student or fan could copy it very well, digital manipulation and so on. But this first isn’t what I’d call a stylistic homage.”
Setting them side-by-side, she studied them again. “No. It’s very distinct and different. Two artists, interested in the same subject, and seeing it through different perspectives.”
“Do you know Hastings, personally?”
“Yes. Not well, I doubt anyone does. Such a temperamental soul. But I use his work quite often in class, and he’s allowed me, with some considerable persuasion, to conduct some workshops for my students in his studio over the years.”
“She had to pay him out of pocket,” Angie chimed in. She was still leaning over the sofa, with her chin nearly resting on Leeanne’s shoulder. “Hastings likes his money.”