by J. D. Robb
He lifted his hands, dragged them up through his hair before he turned to her. “That’s a hell of a way to diffuse an argument.”
“Did I?”
“Since any argument I could attempt would make me sound like a fool, it would seem you have.”
“Good thinking.” She risked a grin at him. “So, if you’re finished being mad at me, can I run a few things by you?”
“I didn’t say I was finished being mad, I said I was finished arguing with you.” He sat on the corner of his desk. “But yes, feel free to run a few things by me.”
Satisfied with that, she handed him a disc. “Put that in. I’ve got a still on it you can project on screen. Enhance it to full.”
He did as she requested, then studied the image. He could see the fingers of a gloved hand wrapped around a wand-shaped device. The hilt was blocked from view but the pattern of notches and buttons on the stem were clear. A light at the tip glowed green.
“It’s a jammer,” he said. “More sophisticated and certainly more compact than anything I’ve seen on the market.” He stepped closer to the screen. “The manufacturer’s ID—if there is one—is likely on the hilt and hidden by his hand, so that’s no help. One of my R and D departments has been working on a smaller, more powerful jammer. I’ll have to check the status.”
That caught her off guard. “You’re manufacturing this kind of thing?”
He caught the tone, smiled a little. “Roarke Industries handles a number of contracts for the government—for a number of governments, as it happens. The Defense and Security Department is always looking for new toys such as this. And they pay well.”
“So a device like this might be in the works in one of your departments? Brennen was in communications. One of his research arms could have been working on one.”
“It’s easy enough to find out. I’ll check which one of my particular arms has something along these lines on the boards, and have one of my moles check Brennen’s organization.”
“You have spies?”
“Data gatherers, darling. They object to being called spies. Have you got the rest of your man on here?”
“Click one back.”
“Computer, display previous image on screen.”
Roarke frowned at the picture and, using the vehicles for points of reference, speculated. “About five-ten, probably about one-sixty by the way that coat hangs on him. He’s very pale from the looks of that swatch of skin you can see. I wouldn’t say he spends a lot of time outdoors, so his profession, if he has one, is likely white collar.”
Roarke tilted his head and continued. “No way to tell age, except he . . . holds himself youthfully. You can see part of his mouth. He’s smiling. Smug bastard. His taste in outerwear is miserably inferior.”
“It’s a beat cop’s topcoat,” Eve said dryly. “But I’m inclined away from thinking he’s got a connection with the department. Cops don’t wear air treads, and no beat cop’s going to have access to the kind of knowledge or equipment this guy has or EDD would have snatched him up. You can pick up one of those coats at a couple dozen outlets in New York alone.” She waited a beat. “But we’ll run it anyway.”
“The van?”
“We’re checking. If he didn’t boost it, and it’s registered in the state of New York, we’ll narrow the field considerably.”
“Considerably’s optimistic, Eve. I probably have twenty of these vans registered in New York to various outlets. Delivery vans, maintenance units, interstaff transpos.”
“It’s more than we started with.”
“Yes. Computer, disengage.” He turned to her. “Peabody and McNab can handle a great deal of the legwork on this for the next day or two?”
“Sure. Then Feeney’s back pretty soon and I’m grabbing him.”
“They’re finished with Jennie’s body. It’s being released this afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“I need you to come with me, Eve, to Ireland. I realize the timing might not be convenient for you, but I’m asking you for two days.”
“Well, I—”
“I can’t go without you.” The impatience surfaced, glowed in his eyes. “I won’t go without you. I can’t take the chance of being three thousand miles away if this bastard tries to get to you again. I need you with me. I’ve already made the arrangements. We can leave in an hour.”
She thought it best to walk to the window so that he couldn’t see she was fighting to hold back a grin. It was dishonest, she supposed, not to tell him she’d intended to ask him to go to Dublin with her that afternoon. But it was too sweet an opportunity to miss.
“It’s important to you?”
“Yes, very.”
She turned back to smile at him with what she believed was admirable restraint. “Then I’ll go pack.”
“I want the data as it comes in.” Eve paced the cabin of Roarke’s private plane and stared at Peabody’s sober face in her palm ’link. “Send everything to the hotel in Dublin, and send it coded.”
“I’m working on the van. There are over two hundred of that make and model with privacy tint registered in New York.”
“Run them down. Every one.” She skimmed a hand through her hair, determined not to let a single detail slip by. “The shoes looked new. The computer should be able to estimate the size. Run the shoes, Peabody.”
“You want me to run the shoes?”
“That’s what I said. Sales of that brand of air tread for the last two—no, make it three months. We could get lucky.”
“It’s comforting to believe in miracles, Lieutenant.”
“Details, Peabody. You’d better believe in the details. Cross-check with sales of the beat cop’s coat, cross-check that with sales of the statue. Is McNab working on the jammer?”
“He said so.” Peabody’s voice chilled. “I haven’t heard from him in over two hours. He’s supposed to be talking to the contact Roarke gave him in Electronic Future’s research and development.”
“Same orders for him, all data, coded, as it’s accessed.”
“Yes, sir. Mavis has called a couple times. Summerset told her that you were resting comfortably and under doctor’s orders couldn’t receive visitors. Dr. Mira also called, and sent flowers.”
“Yeah?” Surprised and disconcerted by the idea, Eve paused. “Maybe you should thank her or something. Damn, how sick am I supposed to be?”
“Pretty sick, Dallas.”
“I hate that. The bastard’s probably celebrating. Let’s make sure he doesn’t party for long. Get me the data, Peabody. I’ll be back inside of forty-eight hours, and I want to nail him.”
“Swinging the hammer as we speak, sir.”
“Don’t bash your thumb,” Eve warned and ended transmission. She slipped the ’link back into her pocket and looked at Roarke. He’d been lost in his own thoughts throughout the flight, saying little. Eve wondered if it was time to tell him she’d already contacted the Dublin police and had an appointment with an Inspector Farrell.
She sat across from him, bounced her fingers on her knee. “So . . . are you going to take me on a tour of the favored locales from your misspent youth?”
He didn’t smile as she’d hoped, but he did shift his gaze from the window to her face. “They wouldn’t be particularly picturesque.”
“They may not be among the tourist hot spots, but it would be helpful to brush up with some of your former friends and companions.”
“Three of my former friends and companions are dead.”
“Roarke—”
“No.” Annoyed with himself, he held up a hand. “Brooding doesn’t help. I’ll take you to the Penny Pig.”
“The Penny Pig?” She straightened quickly. “Brennen’s wife said he used to go there. A bar, right?”
“A pub.” Now he did smile. “The social and cultural center of a race who goes from mother’s milk straight to stout. And you should see Grafton Street. I used to pluck pockets there. Then there are the narrow alleyways of Sou
th Dublin where I ran games of chance until I moved my portable casino into the back room of Jimmy O’Neal’s butcher shop.”
“Link sausage and loaded dice.”
“And more. Then there was the smuggling. An adventurous enterprise and the financial foundation for Roarke Industries.” He leaned forward, hooked her safety strap himself. “And even with all that experience, I had my heart stolen by a cop and had to mend my ways.”
“Some of them.”
He laughed and glancing out the window watched Dublin City rise toward them. “Some of them. There’s the River Liffey, and the bridges shine in the sun. A lovely place is Dublin Town of an evening.”
He was right, Eve decided when less than an hour later they were in the back of a limo and streaming along with traffic. She supposed she’d expected it to be more like New York, crowded and noisy and impatient. It certainly bustled, but there was a cheer beneath the pace.
Colorful doors brightened the buildings, arched bridges added charm. And though it was mid-November, flowers bloomed in abundance.
The hotel was a grand stone structure with arched windows and a castlelike air. She had only a glimpse of the lobby with its towering ceiling, regal furnishings, rich dark walls before they were whisked up to their suite.
Men like Roarke weren’t expected to fuss with such pesky details as check-in. All was ready for their arrival. Huge urns of fresh flowers, massive bowls of fruit, and a generous decanter of fine Irish whiskey awaited them.
And the tall windows gleamed with the last red lights of the setting sun.
“I thought you’d prefer facing the street, so you could watch the city go by.”
“I do.” She was already at the windows, hands tucked in her back pockets. “It’s pretty, like . . . I don’t know an animated painting. Did you see the glide-carts? Every one of them was shiny, the umbrellas stiff and bright. Even the gutters look like someone just swept them clean.”
“They still give tidy village awards in Ireland.”
She laughed at that, amused and touched. “Tidy village?”
“It’s a matter of pride, and a quality of life most are reluctant to give up. In the countryside you’ll still see stone fences and fields green enough to startle the eye. Cottages and cabins with thatched roofs. Peat fires and flowers in the yard. The Irish grip their traditions in a firm hand.”
“Why did you leave here?”
“Because my traditions were less attractive and more easily let go.” He drew a bright yellow daisy from an arrangement and handed it to her. “I want a shower, then I’ll show you.”
She turned back to the window, twirling the daisy absently by its stem. And she wondered how much more she would see of the man she’d married before the night was over.
There were parts of Dublin that weren’t so cheerful, where the alleys carried that universal smell of garbage gone over and thin cats slunk in shadows. Here she saw the underbelly of any city, men walking quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes shifting right and left. She heard harsh laughter with desperate undertones and the wail of a hungry baby.
She saw a group of boys, the oldest of them no more than ten. They walked casually, but Eve caught the cool, calculating gleam in their eyes. If she’d had her weapon, her hand would have been on it.
The street was their turf, and they knew it.
One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. “Beg pardon,” he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“Mind the hands, boyo. I don’t care for any but my own in my pockets.”
“Turn me loose.” He swung, comically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm’s length. “Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing.”
“Only because you’ve thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six.” He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. “A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well.” He looked down into the boy’s furious face and shook his head. “You’d do better as the pass-off man than the pincher.”
“That’s great, Roarke, why don’t you give him a few lessons on thievery while you’re at it.”
At Eve’s words the boy’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. “They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves.”
“You’ve got the nerves, but you don’t have the fingers.”
“They work well enough on most.” Relaxed now, the boy flashed Roarke a quick and charming grin. “And if they don’t I can outrun any cop on two legs.”
Roarke leaned down, lowered his voice. “This is my wife, you bonehead, and she’s a cop.”
“Jay-sus.”
“Exactly.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. “I’d keep these for myself if I were you. Your associates scattered like rats. They didn’t stand with you and don’t deserve a share.”
“I won’t be after dividing it.” The coins disappeared into his pocket. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He slid his gaze to Eve, nodded with surprisingly dignity. “Missus,” he murmured, then ran like a rabbit into the dark.
“How much did you give him?” Eve asked.
“Enough to tickle his humor and not disturb his pride.” He slid his arm around her waist and began to walk again.
“Remind you of someone?”
“No indeed,” Roarke said with a cheer he hadn’t expected to feel. “I’d never have been caught so handily.”
“I don’t see that it’s anything to brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn’t be so light these days.”
“I’m sure you’re right. A man loses his touch with age.” Smiling, he held out the badge he’d lifted out of her pocket. “I think this is yours. Lieutenant.”
She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. “Show-off.”
“I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are.” He stopped again, studying the pub. “The Penny Pig. Hasn’t changed much. A bit cleaner maybe.”
“It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award.”
It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.
The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.
It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.
High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.
Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.
Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who’d once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.
While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve’s shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.
“Guinness, a pint and a glass please.”
“On the way.”
“What am I going to be drinking?” Eve demanded.
“The heart of the realm,” Roarke murmured, and watched his old friend build the drinks with an admirable expertise. “It’s an acquired taste. If you don’t care for it, we’ll get you a Harp.”
Eve narrowed her eyes against the smoke. “Don’t they know tobacco’s been banned in public places?”
“Not in I
reland it hasn’t, not in the pubs.”
The bartender came back with the drinks. Eve lifted hers to sip while Roarke dug more coins from his pocket. Her brows drew together at the first sip, then she shook her head with the second. “Tastes like something I should chew.”
Roarke chuckled and the bartender beamed. “You’re a Yank then. Your first Guinness?”
“Yeah.” Eve frowned at the glass, turning it slowly while examining the dark brown liquid with its foamy white head.
“And your last as well?”
She sipped again, holding the beer in her mouth for a moment, then swallowing. “No. I think I like it.”
“That’s fine then.” The bartender grinned widely, and neatly nudged Roarke’s coins back. “You’ll have the first on me.”
“That’s kind of you, Brian.” Roarke watched Brian turn from admiring Eve to study him.
“Do I know you? There’s a familiar look about you that I’m not quite placing.”
“It’s been fifteen years, more or less, so your memory might be dim even after all the times we had. I recognized you right enough, Brian Kelly, though you’ve added a stone or two. Perhaps three.” Roarke flashed a grin, and it was the grin that did it.
“Well, bloody hell, lock up your women. It’s Roarke himself.” Brian’s lips stretched in a mile-wide grin as he rammed a fist into Roarke’s face.
“Christ Jesus” was the best Roarke could do as his head snapped back. He kept his balance, shook his head to clear it.
“Sucker punch,” Eve commented, and took another sip of stout. “Nice pals you’ve got, Roarke.”
“I owed you that.” Brian shook a finger. “You never did come back with the hundred pounds that was my fair share of the cargo money.”
Philosophically Roarke swiped the back of his hand over his cut lip to blot the blood. After the briefest of pauses, both the music and the hum of conversation continued. “It would have cost me more than a hundred pounds to come back at that point with the guarda on the prowl.” Roarke picked up his pint, sipped to soothe his mouth. “I thought I sent it to you.”
“Hell you did. But what’s a hundred pounds between friends.” With a roaring laugh, Brian grabbed Roarke’s shoulders, yanked him over the bar, and kissed him dead on his bleeding mouth. “Welcome home, you bloody bastard. You there!” He shouted to the musicians. “Play ‘The Wild Rover’ for me old friend here, for that’s what he ever was. And I’ve heard he’s got gold in great store all right, enough to buy a round for the house.”