Delusion in Death edahr-44

by J. D. Robb

  “You’re probably tired. That’s okay. You can go back to sleep, and I’ll take care of this.”

  “Oh, I think I can manage to stay awake, with the proper motivation.” He rolled her over, pressed center to center. “And there it is.”

  “At times like this, I like that men are so easy.”

  “Handily, I feel the same. It’s easy enough when I have my wife under me, warm and soft.”

  “Maybe.” She hooked his legs with hers, reversed positions again. “But I like having my man under me, hot and hard.”

  “That must’ve been some dream.”

  She laughed, nipped at his jaw. “Not that kind. Besides, I like this better when it’s real.” She levered up, lifted off the nightshirt she’d pulled on, tossed it aside.

  His hands slid up her torso to her breasts. “Again, we agree.”

  She pressed her hands to his, closed her eyes as pleasure, easy as breath, wound through her. His hands, his skin, his body, taut and chiseled, under hers. Oh yes, so much better than dreams.

  He rose to her, wrapped around her as their mouths met. Deep and slow. Their bodies pressed close, a single shadow in the quiet dark as her hands combed through his hair, tangled there.

  He stroked the length of her, his fascinating, complicated Eve, and the muscles he too often found tense and knotted moved warm and loose. He found the pulse in her throat with his lips, relished the life there in that tender curve.

  He let her ease him back, but caught her hands and drew her down to him. He so much wanted her mouth, wanted that most simple, most basic of matings before the heat and the hurry.

  She gave, thrilled to be wanted, and to want. All but felt her skin shimmer under the glide of his hands. While she shimmered she tasted. The strong line of his throat, the sculpted lines of his torso, the spread of his shoulders.

  Not a dream, but dreamy as they moved together, touched, savored. Neither of them heard the solid thump of the cat as he leaped down from the bed, undoubtedly in disgust.

  Soft sighs, the whisper of sheets, a sudden catch of breath, and the world centered in that wide pool of bed even as the sky window over it bloomed with the first pale lights of dawn.

  In its pearly glow she rose over him again. And took him in with a shudder, shudder of gluttonous pleasure. All and more, she thought as the need squeezed her heart. Together they were all and more.

  While she rode him he watched her in that breaking light, her eyes gold and fierce, her long, lean body gleaming. With her hair like a tousled crown, her head fell back as the climax took her. Then even her image blurred as she whipped him to the edge of control. As she snapped it like a single thin thread.

  As he broke, he reached for her, and held her close on the long fall.

  When she got her breath back, they were still tangled together. And the cat had climbed back onto the bed to stare at them, his bicolored eyes unblinking.

  “What’s his problem?” she asked.

  “I expect we disturbed his beauty sleep.”

  “He gets so much sleep he ought to be the Roarke of cats.”

  “The what?”

  “I was thinking, before your telepathy woke you up, how pretty you are. Then, since you woke up, I figured I might as well take advantage of you.”

  “It’s appreciated.”

  “You were probably almost ready to get up anyway, to slink off and start the first stage of your daily world domination.”

  He glanced toward the clock. “Ah well, I’ll have to get a late start on that today.”

  “I’d better get started on my daily hunt for bad guys.”

  “Let’s have coffee in bed first.”

  She liked the sound of it. “Who gets up to get it?”

  “That’s a question. Rock, paper, scissors?”

  “You’ll cheat.”

  “How?”

  “It’s the telepathy.”

  “Ah yes. Then you might as well get it, as you’ll lose anyway.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She shifted enough to hold out a fist. He held out his in turn. Counted to three.

  “Damn it,” she mumbled as his paper covered her rock.

  She rolled out of bed, fed the cat as she programmed the coffee.

  “Tell me about the dream.”

  “It was weird. Mixed up. All this digging into the Urbans. That’s where I was, here in New York.”

  She brought the coffee back, told him.

  “I was so pissed, but not … I don’t know. Upset? I don’t know if that’s the word. But I kept looking at her, listening to her. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Blame, blame, blame. And there’s Mira, so calm. Unshakable, the way she can be. Part of my head’s thinking, look how different they are. Like opposite sides. And Mira had some bad shit in her life, but it didn’t turn her into some monster. I didn’t let Stella turn me. So what has she got? She’s got nothing but what I let her have. I know it. I always did. But …”

  “What happened in Dallas was vicious. You had to work through it.”

  “I know it took a piece out of you, too. And I know the time since hasn’t been easy for you. It’s going to be better.”

  “I can see it.”

  “She wasn’t going to walk off with that kid, or hurt her. Then when I saw it was Bella. Jesus. Over my dead body, you worthless cunt.” Eve took a breath. “She wanted me to shoot her. It’s weird, right? Even though it’s my dream, my inner whatever running the show, she wanted me to shoot her, then it’s like I killed her. I guess there was some stupid little seed of guilt in there I had to dig out and crush. Punching her felt so damn good. Mira’d probably have something to say about that.”

  “I believe she’d say, Brava.”

  “It’s going to be like it was with Troy, when I worked through that. She may come back, but she can’t hurt me anymore. That’s done.”

  He lowered his forehead to hers. “I can’t tell you what it means to me.”

  “You don’t have to. There’s probably some crap in here that still needs shoveling, but everybody’s got crap, right? It’s what you do about it. Choices. I’ve got to take a good look at mine, at some point. And now, I’ve got to start looking at choices people made in the Urbans that helped build the maze that led to the choices Callaway’s made.”

  “As I said, some dream.”

  “You got telepathy, I’ve got dreams. And I’m going to use them to kick some ass.”

  She compiled the notes, the data, the images, shuffling them together for the morning briefing. She rose just as Roarke stepped into her office.

  “I’ve got to get in, start setting this up.”

  “Before you do. Gina MacMillon.” He offered her a disc. “You may want to familiarize yourself on the way in. I’ve copied the files to your office comp.”

  “Thanks. Interesting?”

  “Very,” he said as she pocketed the disc. “She was married to a William MacMillon, and while he was listed as the father on the birth record—that record wasn’t recorded until the child was more than six months old.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “Also interesting. William MacMillon had filed for divorce, ultimately citing desertion. He filed eight months before the birth of the child, and the claim on the old documents states she’d abandoned him and the family home six months previously.”

  “Fourteen months? If he was telling the truth, it’s either the longest gestation on record, or the kid wasn’t his. I’m going with the second option.”

  “Better. I dug up a deposition where MacMillon states his wife had become involved with a religious cult, specifically names Menzini as an influence.”

  Eve’s eyes sharpened as she turned to her board. “The wife takes off with Menzini’s group, gets knocked up. Somewhere in there has a change of heart—or re-engages her brain. Goes back to the husband—with a kid. He forgives her, takes responsibility for the kid.”

  She paused a moment. “I’ve got some problems with that unless MacMillon is registered as a sa
int, but the time line reads like that.”

  “It does. Love, if love it was, makes saints or sinners out of men.”

  “I think mostly people are just born that way. So, the bio father maybe comes for the kid, and Karleen MacMillon’s now listed as an abductee.”

  “And both Gina and William listed as dead, killed during the home invasion where the child was taken.”

  “And eventually Gina’s half-sister finds the kid, takes her as her own—changing the name. Protect the kid.”

  “It reads that way.”

  “I’d like some verification instead of speculation, but I can push on it. Maybe there’s family or somebody in the know still alive. I’ll put some work into finding out.”

  “I have one more,” Roarke told her. “I had a quick word with Crystal Kelly.”

  “Who?”

  “CEO of New Harbor, Callaway’s client.”

  “Is it business hours?”

  “Close enough for those of us trying to wrangle world domination. She’d heard about the incident here, of course, and knew Cattery. She was cooperative, and sounded sincerely fond of Cattery. She was, as he stated, at dinner with Vann when Callaway contacted him to tell him Cattery was dead.”

  “Right on the spot. Handy.”

  “It was, yes. She says Vann was stunned. Both of them were stunned and upset. They considered postponing the presentation, but then agreed to get it done and over. Joe, as she said, had worked hard on it.”

  “And Callaway.”

  “She claimed she didn’t know him as well as Vann, Cattery or Weaver. Hadn’t really connected with him, and considered him a more behind-the-scenes type. She didn’t really have any specific impression of him, which made one on me.”

  “Yeah, he’s invisible to her—and that would grate.”

  “More, Vann specifically—before he knew of the death—credited Cattery with two key points in the campaign, and Weaver for her flexibility. She doesn’t recall him mentioning Callaway except as part of the team.”

  “Still doing what he’s told, and no more—sounds like. And pissed off that someone like Cattery, the family man, the soccer coach, the nice guy is passing him by.”

  “It’s not much more than you had.”

  “Little things, adding up.” To a clearer picture, she thought. “I appreciate it.”

  “I’m a bit crowded today, but I can look into it sometime late this afternoon if there’s still a need.”

  “I’ll keep that in reserve.” She stepped closer. “But don’t screw with your work and time for this. I’m covered, and you’ve already done more than your part.”

  “Over a hundred and twenty people are dead. I’ll make time if I’m needed.”

  “I’ll let you know. Thanks for this.” She patted her pocket. “I’ll bone up on the way to Central.”

  “It’s a dangerous world out there. Take care of my cop.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Wishing he could give her what she asked, he watched her walk out.

  With her mind on steps, angles, she hurried downstairs to find Summerset in the foyer. He held out her long leather coat.

  “It’s been fitted with the body armor lining, as in your jacket,” he told her.

  “Yeah?” Roarke, she thought, never a miss. She took the coat, tested the weight, studied the flexible, protective lining.

  He might tell her to take care of his cop, but he often beat her to it.

  “A cold front moved in,” Summerset said simply. “We’ve had a hard frost, and there’s a bitter wind this morning.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated, knowing very well they were both aware he rarely greeted her in the morning, much less with a weather forecast. “I can’t give you all the details, but we found a link between the suspect and Red Horse. I have to tighten it, but it’s a connection, maybe—probably—an important one.”

  “I could be useful.”

  “Be useful to him.” She glanced upstairs. “He’s let too much slide the last couple months. I’ve got this.”

  “Then I wish you a very productive day.”

  She stepped outside, found Summerset’s description of the wind exactly on target. The bitter blew straight into her bones before she jumped into the vehicle—heater already running—at the base of the steps.

  She plugged in the disc Roarke had given her, started to order it on audio. Then gave herself permission to deal with personal business first.

  A sleepy-eyed, slurry-voiced Mavis came up on her in-dash screen.

  “Hey. Guess I woke you up.”

  “Not so much. We’re all having a snuggle. We put in a late night, and Belle woke up early.”

  “Okay. Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you. You texted you were all in Florida. Still?”

  “Miami. We zipped down a couple days ago. I had a two-night gig, and Leonardo’s meeting with some totally-too-tanned clients while we’re here. We’re good.”

  “Why don’t you stay down there until I get back to you?”

  There was a rustle, baby-voiced babbling, and a low rumble that must have been Leonardo. “That’s affirmative.” Mavis shook back her hair, a cotton-candy pink froth sparkling with some sort of silvery overlay. “Weather’s mag, and we got a place with our own pool. Bellarina’s our little mermaid. We got the skinny off screen. What the you-know-what, Dallas.”

  “I can’t give you the details, but we’re working it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  “There’s lots of buzz about terrorism.”

  “It’s not, but it’s messy. Just stay sunny.”

  “Totally, but—okay, sweet potato. Bella hears your voice. Hang a mo.”

  “Das!” Belle’s pretty face popped on screen. Eve had a flash of that pretty face, with tears streaming.

  “Hey, kid.”

  “Das, Das, Das,” she repeated, and bouncing launched into a long, incomprehensible babble, ending with, “Kay? Kay, Das?”

  “Ah, sounds good. You do that.”

  “Say bye, Belle. Bye-bye.”

  “Bye, bye, Das! Bye slooch!”

  Lips pursed, Belle pecked kisses at the screen. Sliding her gaze right and left—in case any other driver might catch a glimpse—Eve gave a single peck back. “See ya.”

  “Ya!”

  “She wants you to watch her swim,” Mavis said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m multilingual-like. I speak Belle.”

  “If you say so. Gotta go.”

  “Stay chilly, stay safe.”

  “That’s the plan. Talk later.”

  Satisfied, oddly relieved, Eve ordered the disc to audio. She listened to data on the MacMillons the rest of the way to Central.

  She tagged Peabody the minute she’d parked in the garage. “Where are you?”

  “Walking into Central.”

  “Grab me a coffee—real coffee from my office, then meet me in the conference room. I need to fill you in.”

  “On that.”

  Time to fill her in, Eve decided as she muscled onto the packed elevator. On a lot of levels.

  15

  Eve worked the board, running through data, connections, time lines as she added them.

  Callaway to Hubbard to MacMillon to Menzini. How many turns, decisions, mistakes made in that chain? she wondered. All of them leading to this.

  And how long had Callaway simmered, stewed, planned? How long had some suit whose purpose was to sell products—half of which people didn’t need in the first place—dreamed of murder?

  And how long had he known murder was his legacy?

  She thought of her recent dreams. Murder and misery could have been her legacy, if she’d reached for it, if she’d opened that door instead of another.

  So now she stood here, studying murder—the victims, the killer, the whys, the hows. Another path, another choice, she might have been up on a board like this, with someone else doing the studying, the wondering.

  Mira was right, she deter
mined, in reality and dreams. It always came down to choices.

  She heard Peabody’s clumping footsteps, then caught the scent of coffee.

  “Long night,” Peabody said. “I worked with McNab, and we’ve got everything there is to know on Macie Snyder and Jeni Curve, plus we have deep data on five of the abductees who settled in New York.”

  She paused, scanned the new data on the board. “Wow. Long night for you, too.”

  “Did you read the data I sent you on Guiseppi Menzini?”

  “Twice. Bad guy, chemist, religious crazy—and the primary suspect in two attacks, using the agent we’ve identified was used in our attacks. Captured and erased.”

  “Callaway’s linked to Menzini through his mother, an abductee.”

  “Callaway.” Peabody’s eyes narrowed on the board. “I took him for a lightweight. I don’t remember any Audrey Hubbard on the list.”

  “Because there wasn’t. She was born Karleen MacMillon to Gina MacMillon—Tessa Hubbard’s half-sister—and an unknown father. The MacMillons were reported killed during the home invasion. Hubbard recovered the kid, changed her name, got a fresh birth certificate, and moved with her husband to New York.”

  Eve grabbed the coffee. “There’s more. I want the images programmed as I’ve outlined while I fill you in.”

  She ran it through while Peabody set up the programming.

  “I’ve got two men on him. Roarke dug into the mother—Gina MacMillon. There’s more there, but we’ll pass that to Feeney.”

  “With all the angles, all the data to sort through, I never thought we’d zero in this fast.” As Eve had, Peabody turned to the victim board. “I went to bed last night thinking we’d have to go into another scene like the bar and the café. I didn’t get a lot of sleep thinking it.”

  “We won’t give him a chance to add to this board.”

  “I’ll sleep a hell of a lot better tonight then. Are we picking Callaway up this morning?”

  “I want to see what he does this morning, where he goes. But yeah, we’ll be talking to him. I want to interview the Hubbards, and I’m damned if I’m going to Arkansas. I figure Teasdale has the pull to bring them here. Maybe enough pull to get a warrant to search their place while they’re out of it.”