by J. D. Robb
“It’s my badge, my career, my freedom.”
“Yes, it is.” Eve stopped, turned. The wind ruffled her hair as she studied the earnest face, the sober eyes. “You’re a good cop, Peabody. You’re on your way to earning a detective’s shield. I know that’s important to you. I know what mine meant to me.”
She looked away to where two uniformed nannies watched their young charges play on the grass. Nearby a jogger stopped along the path to stretch, to shift the bottle of antimugging spray on his hip when a licensed beggar meandered in his direction. Overhead, a park security copter cruised lazily with monotonous thudding blades.
“This information I have affects me personally, so I’ve made the choice. It doesn’t affect you.”
“With respect, Lieutenant, it does. If you’re questioning my loyalty—”
“It isn’t a matter of loyalty, Peabody. This is the law, this is duty, this . . .” Heaving a breath, she dropped down on a bench. “This is a mess.”
“If you share this information with me, will it help me assist you in apprehending the killer of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want my word that said information remains between us?”
“I have to ask for it, Peabody.” She looked over as Peabody sat beside her. “With regret, I have to ask you to promise me you’ll violate your duty.”
“You have my word, Lieutenant. With no regret.”
Eve squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Some bonds, she realized, were formed quickly and held fast. “It started in Dublin,” she began, “almost twenty years ago. Her name was Marlena.”
She related it all, carefully and concisely, using the cop speak that both of them understood best. When it was done, they continued to sit. Eve’s lunch lay untouched on her lap. Somewhere deeper in the park birds sang, their voices competing with the drone of traffic.
“I never thought of Summerset having a daughter,” Peabody said at length. “Losing her like that. There’s nothing worse, is there?”
“I suppose not. But somehow something worse always comes along. Revenge. Marlena to Summerset to Roarke. It fits like a skin suit. A shamrock on one side, the Church on the other. A game of luck, a mission from God.”
“If he set Summerset up, knew he’d be in the Towers, doctored the discs, he had to know about his date with Audrey Morrell.”
“Yeah. People are never as discreet as they think they are, Peabody. My guess is at least half that painting class knew they were eyeballing each other. So, we check out the art students.” She rubbed her eyes. “I need a list from Roarke—the names of the men he killed. The names of everyone he can think of who helped him track them.”
“Which list do you want me to run?”
It surprised Eve to feel her eyes sting. Overtired, she told herself and willed back the tears. “Thanks. I owe you big for this.”
“Okay. You going to eat those fries?”
With a half laugh, Eve shook her head and passed them over. “Help yourself.”
“Dallas, how are you going to get around the commander?”
“I’m working on that.” Because it made Eve’s stomach uneasy, she rubbed it absently. “Right now, we have to get back to Central and goose McNab on the jams. I have to deal with the media before this explodes. I need the sweeper’s and ME’s reports on the Conroy homicide, and I have to have a fight with Roarke.”
“Busy day.”
“Yeah, all I have to do is fit the commander in, and it’ll be perfect.”
“Why don’t I go harass McNab and you can go bribe Nadine Furst?”
“Good thinking.”
Eve didn’t have to find Nadine. The reporter was in Eve’s office, grinning at Eve’s communication center. The guts of it were spread over the desk.
“A little electronic blip, Dallas?”
“Peabody, go find McNab and kill him.”
“Right away, Lieutenant.”
“Nadine, how many times have I told you to stay out of my office?”
“Oh, dozens, I imagine.” Still grinning, Nadine sat down and crossed her shapely legs. “I don’t know why you bother. So, who was Shawn Conroy and why was he killed in Roarke’s house?”
“It wasn’t Roarke’s house, it was one of Roarke’s properties, of which he has legion.” She angled her head, lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. “That’s a qualification I’m sure you’ll include in your report.”
“My exclusive report.” Nadine smiled her sunny smile. “Which will include a statement from the primary.”
“You’ll get your statement, and your exclusive.” Eve shut the door, locked it.
“Hmm.” Nadine lifted one perfectly arched brow. “That was entirely too easy. What’s it going to cost me?”
“Nothing yet. You’re running a tab. The NYPSD is investigating the murder of Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, unmarried, forty-one years of age, bartender by trade. Following an anonymous tip, the primary in the case—with the assistance of Roarke—discovered the victim in an empty rental unit.”
“How was he killed? I heard it was nasty.”
“The details of the crime are not available to the media at this time.”
“Come on, Dallas.” Nadine leaned forward. “Gimme.”
“Nope. But the police are investigating a possible connection between this crime and the murder, on Friday last, of communication tycoon—and Irish citizen—Thomas X. Brennen.”
“Brennen? Jesus. Friday?” Nadine leaped to her feet. “Brennen’s been killed? Christ Almighty, he owned majority stock in Channel 75. Holy God, how did we miss this? How did it happen? Where?”
“Brennen was killed in his New York residence. Police are pursuing leads.”
“Leads? What leads? God, I knew him.”
Eve’s eyes narrowed. “Did you really?”
“Sure, I met him dozens of times. Station functions, charity events. He even sent me flowers after—after that business last spring.”
“The business where you nearly got your throat slit.”
“Yes,” Nadine snapped and sat again. “And I haven’t forgotten who made sure I didn’t. I liked him, Dallas. Damn it, he’s got a wife, kids.” She brooded a moment, pretty fingers tapping her knee. “The station’s going to be in an uproar when this hits. And half the media around the world. How did it happen?”
“At this point, we believe he surprised an intruder.”
“So much for security,” she muttered. “Walked in on a damn burglary.”
Eve said nothing, pleased that Nadine had jumped to that particular conclusion.
“A connection?” Her eyes sharpened. “Shawn Conroy was Irish, too. Do you believe he was involved in the burglary? Did they know each other?”
“We’ll investigate that angle.”
“Roarke’s Irish.”
“So I’ve heard,” Eve said dryly. “Off the record,” she began, and waited for Nadine’s reluctant nod. “Roarke knew Shawn Conroy back in Ireland. It’s possible—just possible—that the house where Conroy was taken out was being cased. It was furnished—well, as I’m sure you can imagine how well. And the new tenants weren’t due to move in for a couple of days. Until we nail things down a bit, I’d like to keep Roarke’s name out of it, or as far in the background as possible.”
“Shouldn’t be hard at this point. Every station, and certainly ours, is going to hit with the Brennen story—then we’ll do a lot of retrospectives, biographies, that sort of thing. I’ve got to get this in.”
She leaped up again. “Appreciate it.”
“Don’t.” Eve unlocked the door, opened it. “You’ll pay for it eventually.”
And now, Eve mused, rubbing her temple, she could only hope she could bluff and bullshit her commander with half as much success.
“Your report seems sparse, Lieutenant,” Whitney commented after Eve had finished backing up her written report with an oral one.
“We don’t have a lot to work with at this stage, Com
mander.” She sat, face composed, voice bland, meeting Whitney’s sharp dark eyes without a blink. “McNab from EDD is working on the jams and trace, but he doesn’t appear to be having much success. Feeney will be back in about a week.”
“McNab has a very good record with the department.”
“That may be, but so far, he’s stumped. His words, Commander. The killer is highly skilled in electronics and communications. It’s possible that’s his link with Brennen.”
“That wouldn’t explain Conroy.”
“No, sir, but the Irish connection does. They knew each other, casually at least, in Dublin some years ago. It’s possible they continued, or renewed, the acquaintance in New York. As you’ve reviewed the tape of the transmissions I received from the killer, you know the motive is revenge. The killer knew them, most likely in Dublin. Conroy continued to live in Dublin until three years ago. Brennen has his main residence there. It would be to our benefit to enlist the aid of the Dublin police to investigate that angle. Something these men did, or some deal they were part of in Ireland in the last few years.”
“Roarke has interests there as well.”
“Yes, sir, but he’s had no recent dealings with either Conroy or Brennen. I checked. He’s had no business or personal contact with them in a more than a decade.”
“Revenge often takes time to chill.” He steepled his fingers and studied Eve over the tips. “Do you intend to bring Summerset back into Interview?”
“I’m weighing that option, Commander. His alibi for the time of Brennen’s murder is weak, but it’s plausible. Audrey Morrell confirmed their date. It’s more than possible they confused the times. The manner of Brennen’s death, and Conroy’s as well, doesn’t fit Summerset. He isn’t physical enough to have managed it.”
“Not alone.”
Eve felt her stomach stutter but nodded. “No, not alone. Commander, I’ll pursue the leads. I’ll investigate Summerset and any and all suspects, but it’s my personal belief, and a strong personal belief, that Summerset would do nothing to harm or implicate Roarke in any way. He is devoted—even overly devoted. And I believe, Commander, that Roarke is a future target. He’s the goal. That’s why I was contacted.”
Whitney said nothing for a moment as he measured Eve. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice had been steady. He imagined she was unaware that she’d linked her fingers together and that her knuckles were white.
“I agree with you. I could ask you if you’d prefer to be taken off the case, but I’d be wasting my breath.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll interview Roarke.” He paused while she remained silent. “And I imagine there will be no official report of said interview. Be careful how far you bend the rules, Dallas. I don’t want to lose one of my best officers.”
“Commander.” She rose. “His mission isn’t complete. He’ll contact me again. I’ve already got a feel for him, an impression of type, but I’d like to consult with Dr. Mira on a profile as soon as possible.”
“Arrange it.”
“And I intend to work as much as possible out of my home. My equipment there is . . . superior to what’s available to me at Cop Central.”
Whitney allowed a smirk to twist his wide face. “I bet it is. I’m going to allow you as much free rein as I can on this, for as long as I can. I can tell you that time will be short. If there’s another body, that time’s going to be even shorter.”
“Then I’ll work fast.”
chapter seven
Halfway up the long, curving drive Eve sat in her car and studied the house that Roarke built. That wasn’t entirely accurate, she supposed. The structure would have been there for more than a century, ready for someone with money and vision to buy it. He’d had both and had polished a stone and glass palace that suited him beautifully.
She was at home there now, or more at home than she’d ever imagined she could be. There with the towers and turrets, the graceful lawns and glamorous shrubberies. She lived among the staggering antiques, the thick carpets from other lands, the wealth and the privilege.
Roarke had earned it—in his way. She had done nothing more than tumble into it.
They had both come from the streets and misery, and had chosen different paths to make their own. She had needed the law, the order, the discipline, the rules. Her childhood had been without any of them, and the early years that she had so successfully blanked out for so long had begun to hurtle back at her, viciously, violently, over the past months.
Now she remembered too much, and still not all.
Roarke, she imagined, remembered all, in fluid and perfect detail. He wouldn’t allow himself to forget what he’d been or where he’d come from. He used it.
His father had been a drunk. And so had hers. His father had abused him. And so had hers. Their childhoods had been smashed beyond repair, and so they had built themselves into adults at an early age, one standing for the law, and one dancing around it.
Now they were a unit, or trying to be.
But how much of what she had made herself, and he had made himself, could blend?
That was about to be tested, and their marriage, still so new and bright, so terrifying and vital to her, would either hold or fail.
She drove the rest of the way, parking at the base of the old stone steps. She left her car there, where it consistently annoyed Summerset, and carried a small box of file discs into the house.
Summerset was in the foyer. He would have known the moment she’d driven through the iron gates, she imagined. And he would have wondered why she’d stopped for so long.
“Is there a problem with your vehicle, Lieutenant?”
“No more than usual.” She stripped off her jacket, and out of habit, tossed it over the newel post.
“You left it in front of the house.”
“I know where it is.”
“There is a garage for the purpose of storing vehicles.”
“Move it yourself. Where’s Roarke?”
“Roarke is in his Fifth Avenue office. He’s expected home within the hour.”
“Fine, tell him to come up to my office when he gets here.”
“I’ll inform him of your request.”
“It wasn’t a request.” She smirked as she watched Summerset pick up her jacket by the collar with two reluctant fingers. “Any more than it’s a request when I tell you to make no plans to leave the city until further notice.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched visibly. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s a bucketful of laughs for me. A couple of dead guys, one of them slaughtered on my husband’s property, both of them old pals of his. I’ve been breaking up over it all day.” When he stepped forward, her eyes went to dangerous slits. “Don’t get in my face, old man. Don’t even think about it.”
The core of his anger simmered out in one terse sentence. “You interrogated Ms. Morrell.”
“I tried to verify your piss-poor alibi.”
“You led her to believe I was involved in a police investigation.”
“News flash: You are involved in a police investigation.”
He drew air audibly through his nose. “My personal life—”
“You’ve got no personal life until these cases are closed.” She could read his embarrassment clearly enough, and told herself she didn’t have time for it. “You want to do yourself a favor, you do exactly what I tell you. You don’t go anywhere alone. You make certain you can account for every minute of your time, day and night. Because somebody else is going to die before much more time passes if I can’t stop it. He wants the finger to point at you, so you make sure it doesn’t.”
“It’s your job to protect the innocent.”
She’d started up the stairs and now she stopped, turned back until their eyes met. “I know what my job is, and I’m damned good at it.”
When he snorted she came down two steps. She came down slowly, her movements deliberate, because her
own temper was much too close to the boil. “Good enough to have figured out why you’ve hated the sight of me since I first walked in that door. Since you understood Roarke had feelings for me. Part A was easy—a first-year rookie could have snagged onto it. I’m a cop, and that’s enough for you to hold me in contempt.”
He offered a thin smile. “I’ve had little reason to admire those in your profession.”
“Part B was tougher.” She came down another step so that their eyes were level. “I thought I had that figured, too, but I didn’t realize that Part B had a couple of stages. Stage one: I’m not one of the glamorous, well-bred stunners that Roarke socialized with. I haven’t got the looks or the pedigree or the style to suit you.”
He felt a quick tug of shame, but inclined his head. “No, you don’t. He could have had anyone, his pick of the cream of society.”
“But you didn’t want just anyone for him, Summerset. That’s stage two, and I just figured that out this morning. You resent me because I’m not Marlena. That’s who you wanted for him,” she said quietly as the color slipped out of his cheeks. “You hoped he’d find someone who reminded you of her, instead you got stuck with an inferior model. Tough luck all around.”
She turned and walked away, and didn’t see his legs buckle, or the way his hand shot out to grip the newel post as the truth of what she’d tossed in his face struck him like a fist in the heart.
When he was sure he was alone, he sat on the steps and buried his face in his hands as the grief he thought he’d conquered long ago flowed through him, fresh and hot and bitter.
When Roarke arrived home twenty minutes later, Summerset was composed. His hands no longer trembled, his heart no longer shuddered. His duties, as he saw them—as he needed to see them—were always to be performed smoothly and unobtrusively.
He took Roarke’s coat, approving of the fine and fluid weight of the silk, and draped it over his arm. “The lieutenant is upstairs in her office. She would like to speak with you.”