by J. D. Robb
“Yes, sir. It’s going to take me a few minutes to set it up.”
“Then get started.” She stormed out, veered off, and swung into Feeney’s office. He was sitting at his desk, machine-gunning on his keyboard while he hummed a tune.
Every so often he’d mutter, “Almost got you, you little bastard.”
“Your detectives have trouble understanding direct orders, or the chain of command?” she demanded.
He cursed, glanced up. He saw what Peabody had seen on her face. Easing back, he jerked his chin at the door. “Wanna shut that?”
She slammed it. “When I’m primary, the men assigned to the team, whether they’re EDD or Homicide, report to me.”
“You got a complaint about one of my boys?” They were all his boys to Feeney, regardless of their chromosomes.
It caught her just before she spewed. What was she doing? Playing tattletale over nothing just because she was pissed. “I’ve got a sensitive case,” she began.
“Yeah, I know about it. My boys report to me, and I logged in the electronics as you requested. So?”
“Big money sensitive. You figure Roarke would climb over my two vics, use that big money sensitive data to edge out a competitor? You figure he’d use my investigation or any information I might share with him therein for personal gain?”
“What the fuck you talking about? McNab make some idiot comment?”
“No. Whitney made a direct statement.”
Feeney pursed his lips, then blew out a breath. Then dragged his fingers through his wiry tangle of ginger and gray hair. “I got some of that coffee left you gave me for Christmas. Want a hit?”
“No. No,” she repeated and walked to his window. “Goddamn it, Feeney. He wants to slap at me for something I did or didn’t do on the job, something one of my squad did or didn’t, that’s okay. But to imply Roarke would use me, that I’d permit it, that’s over the line.”
“Have some almonds.”
She only shook her head.
Feeney dipped his fingers into the bowl of candied nuts on his desk. “Want my take?”
“I guess I do. I come pushing in here when you’re busy, I must need your take.”
“Then I’ll give it to you. I expect some of those honchos—and the lawyers who love them—have been stomping their feet, flapping their jaws. Complaining to the mayor, the chief. Mayor and chief give Whitney the word. He’s got to take the departmental line, give you the warning. Want my take on his personal line?”
“I guess I do.”
“I’ve known him a long time. If he had any genuine concerns in this area, he’d take you off the case. Period. By doing that, he’d cover his ass. Instead, he gave you the word, and he’s leaving his ass hanging out there.”
“Maybe.”
“Dallas?” He waited until she’d turned around. “You got any worries about Roarke on this?”
“No. Goddamn no.”
“You think I do, or that any member of the team currently working the case has any worries?”
The tightness in her chest eased a little. “No. But I’ve got to go to Roarke with this—even if I don’t share a single byte of data with him, I have to go to him with this. If you think I was pissed when I came in here, let me tell you, that was a sunny day at the beach.”
He shoved the bowl of nuts in her direction, and for a moment there was a touch of amusement on his hangdog face. “Marriage is a freaking minefield.”
“Fucking A.” But she relaxed a little, enough to sit on the corner of his desk and pluck up a few nuts. “Sorry.”
“Forget it. We go back a ways, too.”
“I don’t know how much you’ve got on your plate, but if you’ve got room for more I could sure use you on this.”
“I can probably clear a space. Me, I like a full plate.”
“Thanks. All around.”
With her temper defused, Eve headed back down to the conference room, where she found Peabody and Baxter deep into search mode and a mountainous pile of sandwiches. When she entered, Baxter kept his eyes on his screen, but Peabody risked a glance up. Obviously encouraged by what she saw on her partner’s face, she nodded toward the pile of food.
“Figured some hoagies would keep us going through this.”
“Fine.” Though her pissed level was down, so was her appetite. Eve culled out a pile of discs and took a comp unit. Moments later a mug of coffee appeared beside her elbow.
“Ah, also figured you’d want your own brew while we’re at this.”
“Thanks. I imagine you figured I’d share that brew and loaded the AC on that assumption.”
“Would that be an incorrect assumption?” Peabody smiled winningly.
“My assumption would be you’re already slurping it down.”
“Baxter slurps. I, however, sip delicately.”
Eve took a breath. “Listen. The commander wanted more than an update. He had some concerns—or some jerk has concerns—about Roarke being privy to some of this data, through me. Then using same to outswing competitors.”
“No wonder you were ready to kick the first available ass,” Peabody commented.
“Well.” Baxter paused long enough to scratch his cheek. “I’d guess Whitney said what he had to say, even knowing it was flammable bullshit. Must suck being brass.”
The last of Eve’s temper simply dwindled away. “Must. Let’s dig down into this fucking morass and find some goddamn gold.”
They dug for hours. Natalie Copperfield’s data files were organized and efficient, and gave them nothing.
“McNab said there were deletions.” Eve pushed back. “I’ve got what could be interpreted as lost time, or deletions in files. Little holes, if you look at them that way. You got a serious worker bee here.”
“Makes me feel like a slacker,” Peabody agreed, then pokered up. “Which, of course, I’m not. Being a detective, and a dedicated member of the NYPSD trained by the best in the department.”
“Ass kisser,” Baxter said with a grin.
“I have three gold stars for ass kissing.”
“That’s all really fascinating,” Eve said dryly. “But my point is, Copperfield kept superior records of her work, of her time. And I’m seeing gaps. A pattern of gaps going back about five, six months.”
“I’ve got some of that,” Peabody agreed. “Could be just wedding planning. A little personal business leaked into the workplace. Happens to the best of us.”
“Maybe. And maybe it’s an account that was passed to her at that point. Those gaps start widening ten days before her death. About the time we believe she found something questionable.”
“If her killer deleted those client files altogether,” Baxter began, “he or she had access to her work unit, her data files. Doesn’t strike me that a client would be able to access.”
“Could hack in by remote, or pay someone with the necessary skills to do so,” Eve replied. “Or it could be someone on the inside. Could be both. What we’re not finding in her files is evidence there was something her killer didn’t want found there.”
“Her supervisor would know all her accounts,” Peabody put in.
“Yeah. I’m going to go by, have another talk with her before I take this home. Peabody, I need all this data secured. Baxter, if you want to do a little leg work, you can check with the vic’s sister. See if Copperfield mentioned getting a new account within the last six months. It should be a big one.”
“Got that.”
“Check on Trueheart and your actives. If you need to put in extra time, run it through me. I’ll clear it.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Peabody, if McNab has anything, I want a tag. Whenever, wherever. I’m in the field.”
The ferocity of the traffic reminded Eve of the time. The accounting firm would be closed for the day. She called up Cara Greene’s home address from her memo book, then tried her on the ’link. At the transfer to voice mail, she left a message to be contacted ASAP. On the off chance Gre
ene was putting in some overtime, Eve tried the office ’link, and left the same message.
No point in going by to bang on the door of an empty apartment, she decided. She’d wait for the callback, or hunt Greene down in the morning.
Now she had to figure out the best approach with Roarke.
Keeping her mouth shut just wasn’t an option. Even if she wanted to play that game, he’d sense something. The guy had senses like a frigging hawk. And evading would lead, unquestionably, to lying. Lying would put her in the wrong.
Goddamn if she wanted to take the heat for this.
Straight out was probably the best way, she decided. Let him blow, let him spew, and seethe over the insult. He was entitled.
The problem was he was going to blow, spew, and seethe all over her. So she’d take the high road, she’d be the good wife and take the lumps. Then he’d have to apologize, maybe even grovel a little.
How bad could that be?
She was feeling fairly steady about the entire matter when she drove through the gates of home.
Considering various openings, she jogged through the bitter cold and into the warmth. The gilded light, the lightly spiced scent of the air were spoiled momentarily by the looming figure in black that was Summerset.
“I didn’t realize you were taking a few days off,” he began as the cat left its squat at his side to prance toward Eve.
“What are you talking about?”
“As you’ve returned home unbloodied, without any of your clothing torn, I assume you’ve spent the day in some leisurely pursuit.”
“Day’s not over yet.” She tossed her coat over the newel post. “I could end it pursuing your bony ass, but you’d be the one bloodied and torn.”
She picked up the pudgy cat and hauled him with her up the stairs. He purred like a jet copter as she idly scratched his ears, then dumping him on the sofa in the bedroom, she checked Roarke’s whereabouts on the house scanner.
“Where is Roarke?”
Roarke has not yet returned to the house this evening.
Bought some time, she decided, and stripped off her clothes to change into workout gear. The best way to clear her mind and tune up, she thought, was a good sweaty session in the gym.
To avoid Summerset, she took the elevator down, then programmed a hill climb on the cardio machine. She did a hard twenty minutes until her quads felt the burn, then switched to a flat-out sprint.
She was well into a series of upper-body reps on the weight machine when Roarke strolled in.
“Long day?” she managed, puffing out air.
“A bit.” He bent over, touched his lips to hers. “Getting started or finishing up?”
“Finishing. I’ve got enough in me for a spar if you’re looking for a workout.”
“I had mine this morning. I’m looking for a very large glass of wine and a meal.”
She studied his face. “Was a long day, then. Problems?”
“Irritations, mostly, and mostly eliminated. But now that I’m thinking of it, I wouldn’t mind a swim before that wine. If I had some company.”
“Sure.” She picked up a towel, scrubbed it over her face. Get it over or put it off until he mellowed out? Tough to know, she thought, but it seemed wrong to let him mellow then hit him with a sucker punch.
“Ah, there’s this thing.” To give herself another moment, she walked over, got a bottle of water from the minifriggie. “The double murder I’m investigating. The accounting firm element.”
“You got your warrant?”
“Yeah. That’s part of the thing.”
“The thing being?”
She braced inside, as she might before diving into a very cold pool. “There’s a concern at some levels regarding the sensitivity of the data on the files now in the possession of the NYPSD, and the primary—being me, who’s married to you.”
“There’s a question, on some levels, about your ability to handle sensitive data?” His voice was perfectly pleasant, even amiable. And had her antennae quivering.
“There’s a question, on some levels, about the ethics, I guess, of you having some close proximity to private financial information belonging to current or future business competitors. I want you to know that I—”
“So the assumption,” he interrupted smoothly, “is that I would use my wife, and her investigations into a double torture murder, to not only learn the financial situation of competitors—current or future—but would then use that information to my own gain? Do I have that right?”
“Nutshelling. Listen, Roarke—”
“I haven’t finished.” He whipped the words out, one quick lash. “Did it occur to any of these levels that I don’t need to use my wife or her investigation to beat bloody hell out of a competitor, in a business sense, should I choose to do so. And that I somehow managed to compete and succeed on my own before I met the primary on this case?”
She hated when he used my wife in that tone. Like she was one of his fancy wrist units. Temper bubbled into her throat and was a very hard swallow down. “I can’t speak to what occurs or occurred there, but—”
“Goddamn it, Eve. Do you think I’d use you for fucking money?”
“Not for a single second. Look at me. Not for one single second.”
“Crawl over the bloody bodies, risk your reputation and my own, come to that, for an edge in some shagging deal?”
“I just said I didn’t—”
“I heard what you said,” he snapped back and his eyes were lethal. “But I see for some it’s ‘once a thief.’ I’ve worked side-by-side with the NYPSD, given it considerable time, taken considerable physical risks, and now they question my integrity over this? Over this? Well, fuck them. If they can’t and won’t trust you after all you’ve given them, or me, fuck them to hell and back. I want you to pass the case.”
“You want—whoa, wait.”
“I want you to pass it,” he repeated. “I’ll not have one byte of that bloody sensitive data in my home, or in my wife’s head, or anywhere I can be suspected of using it. Damned, goddamned if I’ll be accused somewhere down the line of using something like this over some deal I close over someone else. I bloody well won’t have it.”
“Okay, let’s just calm down a minute.” She had to take a breath, then another, before her head stopped whirling. “You can’t ask me to hand over the investigation.”
“That’s precisely what I’m asking. And if memory serves, I’ve asked for very little when it comes to your work. You aren’t the only qualified investigator. Pass it,” he demanded. “And do it now. I won’t be insulted this way. And bugger me if I’m going to tolerate having my wife be the one who has to bring the insult to me because your superiors don’t have the balls to do it themselves.”
She stood stunned and speechless as he turned on his heel and strode out.
8
HIS ANGER HAD TEETH AND WAS GNAWING AT his own throat as he stormed up to his office, closed the doors. And he knew if he hadn’t walked away that anger would have taken more than a bite of Eve.
Her goddamn job, he thought. Bloody, buggering cops. Why in hell had he ever deluded himself into believing they could accept who and what he was?
He was no innocent and never claimed to be one.
Had he stolen? Frequently. Had he cheated? Most certainly. Had he used wit, wiles, and whatever came to hand to fight and claw his way out of the alley to where he was now? Goddamn bloody well right he had, and would do it all again, without remorse or regret.
He didn’t ask to be considered pure and saintly. He’d been a Dublin street rat with certain skills and specific ambitions, and had used one to achieve the other. And why not?
He’d come from a man who’d murdered in cold blood, and yes, he’d done some of the same.
But he’d made himself into more, into better. Into other, in any case. And when he’d fallen in love with a cop, with a woman he’d respected on every possible level, he’d given up a great deal. Every one of his busines
ses was legitimate now. He could be considered a shark in the business world, but he was a bloody law-abiding one.
More, he’d actually worked with the cops, the very element that had once been the enemy. He’d offered his resources to the department countless times. The fact that doing so amused, intrigued, and satisfied him didn’t change the principle of the thing.
Infuriating, insulting, unacceptable.
With his hands jammed in his pockets, he stood at the window, glowering out at the sparkling lights of the city he’d made his home.
He’d made himself, he thought again. He’d carved out this life, and he loved this woman above everything else. To have anyone, anyone suspect he would use her—that she would allow herself to be used—was enraging.
Well, they could have someone else work themselves to the bone, labor into exhaustion to find their bloody murderer. And if they thought somewhere down the road they could tap him again to play expert consultant, civilian, they could shag a monkey.
He heard the door open between his office and Eve’s, but didn’t turn.
“I said all I have to say on this,” he told her. “It’s done.”
“Fine, you can just listen then. I don’t blame you for being upset.”
“Upset?”
“I don’t blame you for being murderously pissed off. I felt the same way.”
“Fine. We’re in tune.”
“I don’t guess we are. Roarke—”
“If you think this is a tantrum or something I can be sweetened out of, you’re wrong. It’s a line. We’ve reached my line in this, Eve. I expect you to respect my stand on this matter.” He turned now. “I expect you to put me first, and that’s all.”
“You get both of those. But you’ve got to hear me out. Line or no line, you can’t just go around flinging orders at me.”
“It was a statement.”
“Screw this, Roarke. Just screw this.” Her own anger was rising, but there was a layer of sick fear over it. “I’m pissed, you’re pissed, and if this keeps up, we’re going to be seriously pissed at each other, maybe enough to cross some other line we can’t come back over easily, when we’re the ones getting slapped by outside parties.”