by J. D. Robb
“He killed my mother.” Alex stopped now, turned to the rail, looked out to sea. “All of my life I believed she’d fallen. That it had been a terrible accident. While part of me wondered if she’d given up, and jumped. But neither of those were true.”
Roarke said nothing, simply waited.
“He’d been losing control bit by bit over the last years. Becoming more and more unstable. He’d always been violent, quick to violence, easily enraged. I never knew what to make of him as a child. One minute I’d be treated like a prince, his most treasured son. The next I’d be picking myself up off the floor with a split lip or bloodied nose. So I grew up fearing and worshipping him, and desperate to please him.”
“Many, if not most, who worked for him felt the same.”
“Not you. In any case, over the last dozen years, we’ll say, some of his demands, his decisions were dangerous. Unnecessary and dangerous. We argued. We started arguing about the time I went to university. We’d gotten to a point where I wouldn’t tolerate being knocked down, so he didn’t have that weapon to use. So, when he realized he couldn’t knock me down physically, he used another means.
“He should have done to me what he’d done to the bitch who bore me. That’s how he put it to me.” On the rail, Alex’s knuckles went white. “He should have gotten rid of me the way he had her. Watched me fall, watched my brains splatter on the street.”
Alex took a minute, just breathed in the sea air. “I asked him why he would have done it. He said she’d passed her usefulness, and she annoyed him. I should be careful not to do the same. Later he recanted. He’d only said it because I’d made him angry, because I’d disrespected him. But I knew he’d told me the absolute truth. So, you can believe me when I say I wish him a long, long life as much as you.”
“I’m very sorry. You can believe that as well.”
“I do. One of the reasons he hated you, hates you, is because you have a code. A moral code of your own that he couldn’t shake.”
He turned from the sea now to face Roarke. “You’ve no reason to believe I have one of my own, but I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Amaryllis. I didn’t order her killed. I’d never hurt her, or wish her harm. I loved her once. I cared about her still, very much. Whoever did it is using me as a shield. A diversion. And that infuriates me.”
“Why tell me?”
“Who else?” Alex demanded with some heat. “Your cop? In my place, would you strip out your guts to a cop? A cop who has every reason to suspect you of killing one?”
“I wouldn’t, no. Are you looking at me for putting in a good word for you?”
“Your sense of fair play disgusted my father. I suppose I’m counting on it. I don’t know who killed her, or even why. I’ve tried every resource I can think of to find out, and I’ve got nothing.”
The sea spread at Alex’s back, and the sun poured over him. In its strong light, Roarke saw pain, and the struggle to suppress it.
“I’m going to tell you that I came to New York hoping to convince her to come back to me. Because no one else in my life has ever made a difference. And I could see in a moment it would never happen. She was happy, and she was in love. And we were still who we were in Atlanta, still who we were when we went our separate ways. She could never accept me, what I am, what I do, and be happy. She’d faced that, and walked away. After seeing her again, I faced it.”
“Did you think she would change what she was in Atlanta, or now?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Or that she’d just ignore my business dealings. They had nothing to do with her, or with us. But she couldn’t resolve it. And after a while, couldn’t live with it. Or me.”
“Did it never occur to you to adjust your business dealings?”
“No. It’s what I do. If I have my father in me, it’s that. I hope to God that’s all of him I have. I’ve never killed, or ordered a kill. It’s not . . . practical.”
“The men who hit your antique store in Atlanta died very badly, I’m told.”
“They did. I didn’t order it.”
“Max did?”
“They insulted him—by his way of thinking—by making a fool out of me. Out of his blood. So he dealt with it, his way. And his way put me and my interests under a great deal more scrutiny than necessary. I don’t kill, it’s simply not good business.”
He shrugged that off as a man might when discussing his preference for mutual funds over individual stocks as an investor. “I’d be impractical, and the hell with good business, if I knew who killed Ammy. Because I loved her once, and because I never had the goddamn balls to kill my father for what he did to my mother.”
When Alex went silent, when he turned back to the water, Roarke stepped to the rail beside him. “What are you looking for, from me?”
“I want—I need to know who killed her, and why. You have resources beyond mine. I don’t know how many you might be using in your connection with the police, or what I can offer you to use more for this. For her. But you’ve only to name your price.”
“You don’t know my wife. You know of her, but you don’t know her. You’d do well to put your trust in her to find those answers. Added to that? You don’t have to pay for my resources, Alex, when my wife has only to ask for them.”
Alex studied Roarke’s face, then nodded and looked back out over the water. “All right. I promise you if I learn anything, anything at all that could help, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll take your promise, but I can’t give you the same. That would be up to the lieutenant. But I’ll give you this: When she finds who did this—and she will—should that person meet with a bad end, I’ll keep your part in that to myself.”
Alex let out a half laugh. “That’s something.” He turned, offered Roarke his hand. “Thank you.”
They were close to the same age, Roarke mused, and both started their lives with men who enjoyed spilling blood. Alex as the prince, and himself as the pauper.
Despite some of the basic similarities, and for all of Alex’s polish and his background of privilege, Roarke sensed the naive.
“Something your father wouldn’t have told you,” he began. “Taking blood, it leaves a mark on you. No matter how it’s done, or how it’s justified, it leaves a mark that goes in deep. Be sure you’re willing to wear that mark before you take the blood.”
Back in the car, Roarke deactivated the recorder built into his cuff link. He considered removing the microstunner inside his boot, then left it where it was. You just never knew.
Both were prototypes currently in development, made of materials undetectable by even the most sensitive scanners currently available. He knew, as his company was also developing the scanner that would detect them.
Always cover both ends of the game, he thought.
Part of him regretted he couldn’t tell Alex that he wasn’t Eve’s prime suspect. Or even a suspect in her mind at this point. But that, too, was up to the lieutenant. But he could regret. He’d had a mother, too. A mother who’d loved him, and who his father had killed. Outlived her usefulness, hadn’t she? Become an annoyance. Yes, he could feel for Alex there.
He could feel even as he wondered at the man’s lack of awareness. A man who’d let love walk away rather than give ground, or try at least to find the middle of it. And now, Roarke mused, couldn’t see what was staring him square in the face.
His ’link signaled. His lips curved when he read Darling Eve on the display. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
“Hey. I’ve got a favor. Can—where are you?”
“I’m in transit at the moment. I had a meeting.”
“Is that . . . you had a meeting on Coney Island?”
“I did. A pity it was so early in the day and I couldn’t treat myself to the roller coaster. We’ll have to come back, you and I, and make up for it.”
“Sure, when I’ve lost my mind and want to rush screaming through the air in a little car. Never mind. Favor. I need to—”
“Answer a question first, and I promi
se to grant whatever the favor might be.”
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. He loved that look.
“What kind of question?”
“A yes or no for now. Question, Lieutenant. Is Max Ricker behind Detective Coltraine’s murder?”
“What, do you have me wired? Have Whitney’s office bugged?”
Roarke glanced at his cuff link. “Not at the moment. I take that as a yes.”
“It’s not yes or no. I suspect, strongly, that Max Ricker is behind it.”
“That’s good enough for me. What’s the favor?”
“I need your fastest off-planet transpo. New York to Omega Colony.”
“We’re going to Omega?”
“No, Callendar and another e-detective will be. I think Ricker’s pulling some strings up there, believe his communication and visitation records have been wiped or doctored. I want to know who he’s been talking to. It can take twenty-six hours or more to get to Omega by regular means.”
“I can cut that by more than a third. I’ll arrange it, and get back to you with the details.”
“Okay. I owe you.”
“A roller-coaster ride, at least.”
“No, I don’t owe you that much.”
He laughed when she clicked off. After arranging the flight, passing the information back, Roarke settled down and thought of Max Ricker.
Time had to stop, Eve thought, as she changed into dress blues. The dead deserved their moment, she supposed that was true enough. But in her mind, memorials were for the living left behind. So time had to stop, for Morris. She might do Coltraine a hell of a lot more good in the field, or working her way to getting Alex Ricker in the box. But there were other duties.
She pulled on the hard black shoes, stood and squared her uniform cap on her head.
She walked out of the locker room to take the glides down to the bereavement center.
She thought of Callendar and some bulky e-geek named Sisto, preparing to be flung like a couple of stones from a slingshot toward the cold rock of Omega. Callendar, Eve recalled, had appeared seriously juiced at the prospect of her first off-planet assignment.
It took all kinds.
This time tomorrow they’d be there, be digging in. They’d mine those logs and find what she needed. They’d damn well better find what she needed. Because every inch of her gut said Max Ricker had ordered the hit. She’d get to the why; she’d get to the how. But the e-team had to get her Ricker and his contact.
Max Ricker wouldn’t pay for killing a cop. What more could be done to a man who would live the rest of his miserable life in a cage? But others could and would pay, and that would have to be enough.
She hoped it would be enough.
The doors of the room Morris had chosen stood open so the music flowed through them. The bluesy sort he and the woman he’d loved had enjoyed. She caught the scent of flowers—the roses—before she stepped into the room crowded with cops.
Red roses, Eve noted, and photographs of the dead. Casual, candid shots of Coltraine smiling mixed with formal ones. Coltraine in uniform looking polished and serious, in a summer dress on some beach laughing. Small white candles burned a soft, soothing light.
With some relief she saw no casket—either closed or open—no clear-sided box currently in vogue that displayed the body. The photographs were enough to bring her into the room.
She saw Morris through the crowd standing with a man in his late twenties. Coltraine’s brother, Eve realized. The resemblance was too strong for anything else.
Peabody broke away from a group and moved to Eve’s side. “It’s a big turnout. That’s a good thing, if there can be a good thing. It feels weird being in blues again, but you were right about that.” She tugged her stiff jacket more perfectly into place. “It’s more respectful.”
“Not all her squad thought so.” Eve’s gaze tracked over. Coltraine’s lieutenant and Detective O’Brian wore the blue, but the others in her squad elected to remain in soft clothes.
“A lot of the cops stopped in from the field, or came in before they had to head out again. There’s not always time to change.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s hard seeing Morris like this. Seeing him hurt.”
“Watch the cops instead,” Eve suggested. “Watch her squad. Make sure you speak to every one of them. I want impressions. I’ll be doing the same.”
But for now, Eve thought, she had to take the hard, and speak to Morris.
13
EVE BRUSHED BY O’BRIAN FIRST, DELIBERATELY, then stopped. “Detective.”
“Lieutenant.” He met her eyes, then looked away to the roses and candles. “Morris did right here. It’s the right way. For her, for us. It’s the right way.”
“The cop way?”
He smiled, just a little. “Some of that. But the rest? It shows who she was. You can see her here.”
“It’s hard for you, losing one of your squad.”
“I see her desk every day. Somebody else’ll be sitting there before much longer, and you’ll get used to it. But it’s hard not seeing her there. Harder knowing why. My wife just came in. Excuse me.”
He moved off, working his way toward a woman who stood just inside the doors. She held out a hand, and O’Brian took it.
Eve turned away. She waited until a group of people speaking to Morris stepped off. Then went to him.
“Dallas.” Now it was Morris who held out a hand, and she who took it.
“You did right here,” she said, echoing O’Brian.
Morris’s fingers tightened on hers briefly. “It’s all I could do. Lieutenant Dallas, this is July Coltraine, Ammy’s brother.”
Concentration narrowed in July’s gaze. “You’re the one in charge of . . .”
“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss, for your family’s loss.”
“Li says there’s no one better. Can you tell me . . . Is there anything you can tell me?”
“All I can tell you now is your sister has all my attention, and that of every officer assigned.”
Shock and grief dulled eyes the same deep blue as his sister’s. Eve saw his chest move as he struggled to breathe his way to composure. “Thank you. I’m taking her home tonight. We felt, my family and I, we felt someone should be here for this memorial, and to bring her home. So many people here. So many came. It matters. It means a great deal.”
“She was a good cop.”
“She wanted to help people.”
“She did. She helped a lot of people.”
“It’s not the time to ask, not the place, but I’m taking her home tonight. When my parents—I need to tell them. I need that. You’re going to find who took her away?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Excuse me.”
Morris took Eve’s hand again as July hurried off. “Thank you. For the dress blues, for what you said to him.”
“I told him the truth as I know it. She was a good cop, everything I find confirms that. And I will find who killed her.”
“I know you will. It helps me get from moment to moment.”
He wore a simple and elegant black suit, with a black cord winding through his long, meticulous braid. And she thought his face looked thinner than it had even the day before. As if some of the flesh had been carved away.
It worried her.
“Her brother was right,” she told him. “It matters that so many people are here.” She glanced over, spotted Bollimer, and the owner of the Chinese restaurant where Coltraine had ordered her last meal. “She mattered to a lot of people.”
“I know. They’ll cremate her tomorrow, and hold a memorial in a few days. I’ll go to Atlanta for that, where there will be more people she mattered to. I know, in the odd way of these things, I’ll find some comfort. But knowing you’ll find who killed her gets me from moment to moment. Will you speak to me later, tell me what you know?”
“Yes.”
Morris squeezed her hand again, then his gaze shifted over her shoulder. Eve
turned to see Mira and her husband.
Mira moved naturally, simply put her arms around Morris and held him. When he dropped his head on Mira’s shoulder, Eve looked away.
Dennis Mira rubbed Eve’s arm, and made her throat burn. “When death strikes home,” he said in his quiet way, “it’s harder, I think, for those who face it every day.”
“I guess maybe it is.”
Something about him, Eve thought—his gangly frame in his oddly formal black suit—was as comforting as she imagined Mira’s hug would be. “It’s the knowing how it works, and what it leaves behind.”
He studied one of the photographs. “She was very lovely, very young.” And looked at Eve. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in uniform before. Have I?” His eyes took on that vague, distracted look that appealed to her. “In any case, you look formidable.”
“I guess I am.”
He smiled at her, then stepped up to Morris. Eve slipped away.
She took Clifton next, winding her way toward the detective where he stood with a group of cops. She caught a snippet of conversation, centering around baseball.
Meant nothing, Eve admitted. People talked about all matter of things at memorials.
“Detective.”
It took him a half a beat, Eve noted. The uniform threw him, she thought. “Lieutenant.” He shifted away from the others. “Any word?”
“We’ve got a couple of leads. We’re on them. Any thoughts of your own?”
“I told you what I know, and from what I hear you should be watching your back.”
“Should I?”
“Heard the killer sent you her badge and weapon, then tried to take you out. Smells like a cop killer who targets female officers.”
“Well. You’d be safe then.”
She watched temper kindle in his eyes. “I didn’t pick up a badge to be safe.”
“No? Did you pick it up so you could tune up suspects?”
“I get the job done.”
“You’ve got some interesting rips in your jacket, Detective.”
“What’s it to you?”