by J. D. Robb
«Not possible.»
«Pretty sure. Of course, he's got close to fifty years on Roarke, so that could be the difference. He doesn't gamble, he doesn't cheat, he doesn't screw his neighbor's wife—at least not so it shows. His son will benefit somewhat financially by his death, but it doesn't fit. He's solid in that area, and was at this point basically running the show at the Center. Center staff so far interviewed sings the vic's praises to the point of hallelujahs.»
«Okay. There's a skeleton in his closet, some dirt under his rug.»
She absolutely beamed as she punched Feeney's arm. «Thank you! That's what I say. Nobody's that clean. No fricking body. Not in my world. The kind of money this guy generated, he could've greased the right palms to get something expunged from his data. Plus, he's got too much downtime, the way I see it. Can't figure what he did with it. Nothing shows in his office or his apartment. His appointment book shows at least two days and three evenings a week where he's got nothing going. What does he do, where does he go?»
She checked her wrist unit. «I've got to go fill in the commander. Then I'm taking my toys and going home to play with them. Anything pops for you, I'm ready to hear it.»
She traveled the maze of Central to Commander Whitney's office and was shown right in. He was at his desk, a big man with big shoulders that bore the weight of his authority. Over time, that authority had carved lines into his dark face and threaded some gray through his hair.
He gestured to a chair, and Eve had to control a frown. After more than ten years as her commander, he knew she preferred giving her orals standing.
She sat.
«Before you begin,» he said, «there's a somewhat delicate matter I need to address.»
«Sir?»
«During the course of your investigation you will likely be required to review the patient list for the Icove Center, cross-referencing names with the victim, and with his son.»
Oh-oh. «Yes, sir, that's my intention.»
«During this process, you will find that the younger Dr. Icove…«
Oh shit.
«The younger Dr. Icove, with the victim as consultant, executed some minor cosmetic procedures on Mrs. Whitney.»
Mrs. Whitney. Thank God, Eve thought, and felt her stomach unclench. She'd been terrified her commander had been about to tell her he'd used the Center's services himself.
«Okay. Excuse me. Yes, sir.»
«My wife, as you may suspect, would prefer to keep this matter private. I'm going to ask you, as a personal favor, Lieutenant, that unless you see a connection between Mrs. Whitney's… what she calls her tune-ups,» he said with obvious embarrassment, «and your investigation, you keep this matter, and this conversation, to yourself.»
«Absolutely, Commander. Certainly I see no relation between, um, the aforesaid tune-ups and the murder of Wilfred Icove, Sr. If it would be helpful, please assure Mrs. Whitney of my discretion in this matter.»
«Damn right I will.» He pressed his fingers to his eyes. «She's hounded me via 'link since she heard about it on the media report. Vanity, Dallas, comes at considerable price. So who killed Dr. Perfect?»
Sir.»
«Anna mentioned that some of the nurses called him that— affectionately. He's known for being a perfectionist, and expecting the same from those who work with him.»
«Interesting. And it fits what I've learned about him so far.» Deciding the personal aspect of the report was over, she got to her feet, gave her report.
It was well past end of shift when she headed home. Not that it was unusual, she decided. And with Roarke out of town, she had less motivation to go home. Nobody there but the pain in her ass, in the form of Roarke's majordomo, Summerset.
He'd make some crack when she walked in, she thought. About her being late, not informing him—as if she'd voluntarily speak to him. He'd probably sneer, and congratulate her on making it home without getting blood on her shirt.
She had a comeback for that one ready. Oh yeah. She'd say there was still time, fuckhead. No, no, fuckface. Still time, fuckface. Planting my fist through your needle-dick nose ought to get some blood on my shirt.
Then she'd start up the stairs, stop like she'd just thought of something, and say: Oh wait, you don't run on blood, do you? I'd just end up with viscous green goo all over me.
She entertained herself all the way uptown with varieties of the same theme, and alternate intonations.
The gates opened for her, and lights bloomed on to illuminate the curving drive that wound through the grounds toward the house.
Part fortress, part castle, part fantasy, it was home now. Its peaks and towers, its juts and terraces silhouetted against the broody night sky. Windows, countless windows, glowed against the gloom of the evening in a kind of welcome she'd never known before he'd come into her life.
Had never expected to know.
Seeing it, the house, the lights, the strength and beauty of what he'd built, what he'd made, what he'd given to her, she missed him outrageously. She very nearly drove around the loop, headed out again.
She could go see Mavis. Wasn't her friend and music disc star in town? She was pregnant—a lot pregnant now, Eve calculated. If she went to see Mavis, she'd have to run the gauntlet first—touch the scary belly, listen to knocked-up talk, be shown strange little clothes and weird equipment.
After that, it would be fine, it would be good.
But she was too damn tired to go through the hoops first. Besides, she had work to do.
She grabbed the loaded disc and file bag, left her car at the steps— mainly because it annoyed Summerset—and headed inside, somewhat cheered she'd be able to use her stored insults.
She stepped inside, into the warmth of the grand foyer, into light and fragrance. Deliberately she stripped off her jacket, tossed it over the newel post—another little poke at Summerset.
But he didn't ooze like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. He always oozed like evil fog out of the walls or woodwork. She had a moment to be puzzled, then irritated, then mildly concerned he'd dropped dead during the day.
Then her heart picked up a beat, something shivered along her skin. She looked up, and saw Roarke at the top of the stairs.
He couldn't have become more beautiful than he'd been a week before, but it seemed to her, in that shimmering light, that he had.
His face—the strength, power, and yes, the beauty of a fallen angel with no regrets—was framed by the thick black of his hair. His mouth—full, carved, irresistible—smiled as he came toward her. And those eyes—impossibly, brilliantly blue—dazzled her where she stood.
He made her weak in the knees. Foolish, foolish, she thought. He was her husband, and she knew him as she knew no other. Yet her knees were weak, and her heart was tumbling in her chest. She only had to look at him.
«You're not supposed to be here,» she said.
He stopped at the base of the stairs, lifted a brow. «Did we move while I was out of town?»
She shook her head, dropped her bag. And jumped into his arms.
The taste of him—that was home, that was true welcome. The feel of his body—lean muscle, smooth flesh—that was both thrill and comfort.
She sniffed at him like a puppy, scented him, caught the whiff of soap. He'd just showered, she thought, while her mouth met his again. Changed out of business clothes and into jeans and a pullover.
It meant they were going nowhere, expecting no one. It meant it was the two of them.
«I missed you.» She caught his face in her hands. «I really, really missed you.»
«Darling Eve.» Ireland drifted through his voice, as he took her wrist, turned his face so his lips pressed to her palm. «I'm sorry it all took longer than I'd hoped.»
She shook her head. «You're back now, and a hell of a better welcoming committee than the one I was expecting. Where is the walking dead?»
He tapped a finger on the shallow dent in her chin. «If you mean Summerset, I encouraged him to go
out for the evening.»
«Oh, so you didn't kill him.»
«No.»
«Can I kill him when he comes back?»
«It's comforting to see nothing's changed in my absence.» He glanced down to look at the enormous cat that wound between his legs, then Eve's. «Apparently Galahad missed me as well, and he's already hit me up for some salmon.»
«Well, if the cat's fed and the butler from hell's away, let's go upstairs and flip a coin.»
«Actually, I had another activity in mind.» When she bent to pick up the bag, he took it from her, winced at the weight. «Work?»
Once, it had always been work. Only been work. But now… «It can wait a bit.»
«I'm hoping this takes longer than a bit. I've been saving up.» He slid his free arm around her waist so they walked upstairs hip-to-hip. «What's the coin toss for?»
«Heads I jump you, tails you jump me.»
He laughed, leaned down to nip her ear. «Screw the coin. Let's jump each other.»
He dumped her bag at the top of the steps, spun her back to the wall. Even as his lips crushed down on hers, she was boosting herself up to clamp her legs around his waist.
Her hands fisted in his hair, and everything inside her went hot and needy.
«Bed's too far, too many clothes.» She dragged her mouth from his to bite his neck. «You smell so good.»
He found and hit the release for her harness, just a flick of fast hands. «I'm about to disarm you, Lieutenant.»
«I'm about to let you.»
He turned, nearly stumbled over the cat. When he cursed, Eve laughed so hard her ribs ached.
«Wouldn't be so bloody funny if I'd dropped you on your ass.»
Laughter still dancing in her eyes, she linked her arms around his neck as he navigated toward the bedroom. «I love you, a week's worth more since the last time I touched you.»
«Now you've done it. How can I drop you on your ass after that?»
Instead he carried her up the steps of the platform where the wide bed stood, then laid her on sheets soft as rose petals.
«You already turned down the bed?»
He brushed her lips with his. «I favored my chances.»
She yanked his shirt over his head. «So do I.»
She pulled him down to her, steeped herself in the heat of it, the sizzle of blood, the fever of lips. So good to touch him, to feel the shape of him, to have his weight pressing on her. Lust and love were a glorious tangle in her system, and all of it was coated with simple happiness.
He was with her again.
He nipped his way down her throat, filling himself on the flavor of her skin. Of all of his appetites, his for her was the only one never quite sated. He could have her and still want her. And those days and nights without her, jammed with work and obligations, had still been empty.
Drawing her up, he dragged off her harness, shoving it aside, opening her shirt while her teeth, her lips, her hands wrought havoc on him, in him. He cupped her breasts through the thin tank she wore, watched her face as his thumbs teased her nipples.
He loved her eyes, the shape of them, the rich brandy color, and the way they stayed on his even when she began to tremble.
She lifted her arms, and he tugged the tank up, off. Then took her— warm, soft, firm—into his mouth. She gathered him closer, purring in her throat, arching her back to offer more. He took, she took, peeling and pulling away clothes so flesh could find flesh. As he worked his way down her, exploring, it was his name that purred in her throat.
Need gathered in her, a fist of excited pleasure that seemed to punch through her so that she moaned and shuddered on the release. Only to gather again, harder and tighter, until her fingers dug into him urging him up, drawing him back to her. Into her.
Her hips lifted and fell, a silky rhythm that bound them together, that quickened even as hearts quickened.
Deeper, he sank deeper into her, losing himself as he only could with her. And the sweetness of it followed him over.
When his lips pressed to her shoulder, she stroked his hair. It was good to drift on this quiet, this contentment. She often thought of these as stolen moments, a kind of perfection that helped her—maybe helped them both—survive the ugliness the world shoved at them day after day.
«Did you get everything done?» she asked him.
Lifting his head, he grinned down at her. «You tell me.»
«I meant with work.» Amused, she gave him a little poke.
«Enough to keep us in fish and chips for a bit. Speaking of which, I'm starving. And by the heft of that data bag you hauled in, I'd say the chances of our eating in bed and having another round for dessert are slim.»
«Sorry.»
«No need.» He bent his head to kiss her, light and easy. «Why don't we have a meal in your office, and you can tell me about what's in that bag.»
She could count on him for that, Eve thought as she pulled on loose pants and an ancient NYPSD sweatshirt. Not just to tolerate her work, the horrible hours, the mental distraction of it, but to get it. And to help whenever she asked.
Well, whenever she didn't ask, too.
There'd been a time—most of the first year of their marriage, actually—when she'd struggled to keep him out of it a great deal of the time. Unsuccessfully. But it wasn't simply the lack of success that had eased her toward using him on cases.
The man thought like a cop. Must be the flip side of the criminal mind, she decided. The fact was, she often thought like the criminal. How else did you get into their heads and stop them?
She'd married a man with a dark past, a clever mind, and more resources than the International Security Council. Why waste what was under your nose?
So they set up in her home office, one Roarke had outfitted for her to resemble the apartment where she'd once lived. It was just that sort of thinking—of knowing what would make her most comfortable—that had made her a goner almost from the moment they'd met.
«What'll it be, Lieutenant? Does the case you're working on call for red meat?»
«I'm thinking fish and chips.» She shrugged when he laughed. «You put it in my head.»
«Fish and chips it is, then.» He moved into her kitchen while she organized the data discs and files out of her bag. «Who's dead?»
«Wilfred B. Icove—doctor and saint.»
«I heard that on the way home. I wondered if he'd be yours.» He came back with a couple of plates, steam rising from the fried cod and chipped potatoes, fresh from the AutoChef. «I knew him a bit.»
«I thought you might. He lived in one of your buildings.»
«Can't say I knew that.» He'd walked back into the kitchen as they spoke. «I'd met him, and his son—son's wife—at charity functions. Media report said he'd been killed in his office, at his landmark center here in New York.»
«They got that right.»
He brought back vinegar for the chips, salt—his woman used bloody blizzards of salt on damn near everything—and a couple of cold bottles of Harp.
«Stabbed, was he?»
«Once. Through the heart. No lucky jab.» She sat with him, ate with him, and filled him in, using nearly the same straight, efficient reporting style she had with her commander.
«Can't see the son for it,» Roarke said, forking up some fish—and memories of his own youth in Dublin with it. «If you want an outside opinion.»
«I'll take it. Why?»
«Both devoted to their field of medicine—a lot of pride in that, and each other. Money wouldn't be a factor. And power?» He gestured with his fork, then stabbed more fish. «From what I know the father's been ceding that to the son, more as time went on. The woman looks professional to you?»
«The hit looked pro. Clean, quick, simple, well planned. But…«
He smiled a little, picked up his beer—as comfortable, Eve knew, with the brew and fried fish as he would have been with a two-thousand-dollar bottle of wine and rare filet.
«But,» Roarke cont
inued for her, «the symbolism—the heart wound, death in his office in the center he founded, the sheer cojones, to borrow the Spanish she purported to be—of the murder in a place so well secured. A point proven.»
Yeah, Eve thought, she'd be wasting a valuable resource if she shut Roarke out of her work. «Maybe she's a pro, maybe not. We've got no hits on her, not through IRCCA, not through Feeney's imaging. But if she was hired, the motive was personal. Personal in a way, I think, that relates to his work. He could've been taken out quick and easy elsewhere.»
«You've run his immediate staff by now.»
«Whistle clean, every one. And nobody has a bad word to say about him. His apartment looks like a holo-room.»
«I'm sorry?»
«You know, one of those programs used to fabricate a home for realtors. Perfect urban living. It was clean and coordinated to fricking death. You'd hate it.»
Intrigued, he angled his head. «Would I?»
«You got the high life, same as he did. Got it different ways, but you're both drowning in money.»
«Oh,» he said easily, «I can tread water quite well, and for quite a while.»
«While you're doing the backstroke, he's got a two-level apartment, where everything's squared off, the bathroom towels match the bathroom walls, sort of thing. No creativity, I guess I'm saying. You've got this place, which may be big enough to hold a small city itself, but it's got—well, it's got style and life. It reflects you.»
«I think that's a compliment.» He raised his beer to her.
«It's an observation. You're both perfectionists in your ways, but his ran toward obsession—everything just so. You like to mix it up. So maybe his need for perfection caused him to bruise somebody, or fire them, or refuse to take them as a patient. I can't make this just so, so forget about it.»
«I'd say it was a big bruise to warrant murder.»
«People kill for a chipped fingernail, but you're right there. This was big enough to do something showy. Because under the efficiency, the tidiness, this was showing off.»