Loyalty in Death

by J. D. Robb

  "Yes." The humor cleared out of his eyes, leaving them dark and intense. "And this is one of them. Just as the hotel where people died yesterday is one of them. If someone in my employ turns out to be connected in any way, it's my business as much as yours, Lieutenant. I thought that was understood."

  "You can't blame yourself for yesterday."

  "If I say the same to you, will you listen?"

  She stared at him a moment, wishing she didn't see his side so clearly. "Did you question Lamont?"

  "I know better than that. I rescheduled my morning, arranged for your clearance, and made sure that Lamont was in the lab. I haven't sent for him yet. I assumed you'd want to rail at me a bit first."

  If she was that predictable, Eve decided it was time for some realigning. "I'll take that coffee before you send for Lamont."

  He skimmed his fingers along the tips of her hair before turning to deal with it. Eve dropped down in a chair, scowled at Peabody. "What are you staring at?"

  "Nothing. Sir." Deliberately, Peabody looked away. It was so fascinating to watch them together, she mused. An education in the tug-of-war of relationships. And the way they looked at each other when their minds came together. You could actually see it.

  She couldn't imagine what it was like to be that connected. So meshed that the brush of fingertips over your hair was a simple and absolute declaration of love.

  She must have sighed. Roarke angled his head as he set her coffee in front of her. "Tired?" he murmured, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  Peabody felt she was entitled to the lovely flush of heat and mild lust she experienced nearly every time she looked at that spectacular face of his. But she didn't think Eve would appreciate it if she sighed again. "Rough night," she said and dipping her head, concentrated on her coffee.

  He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze that sent her heart on a gallop, then turned back to Eve. "Lamont will be right up. I'd like to stay while you interview him. And," he continued holding up a hand, "before you tell me why I can't be here during an official interview, I'll remind you that I not only employ the subject, but I know him and have for a number of years. I'll know if he's lying."

  Eve drummed her fingers on the table. She knew that look in his eye—cold, enigmatic, controlled. He would study and he would see, every bit as expertly as a veteran police interrogator.

  "Observe only. You don't question him or comment unless I indicate otherwise."

  "Agreed. Are you cleared for Maine?"

  "We'll catch a shuttle as soon as we leave here."

  "There's a jet at the airport. Take it."

  "We'll take the shuttle," Eve repeated, even when Peabody's head came up and her eyes held all the hope of a puppy sniffing mother's milk.

  "Don't be stubborn," Roarke said mildly. "The jet will get you there in half the time and with none of the frustration. You can pick us up a couple of lobsters for dinner."

  The phrase fat chance trembled on her tongue, but she bit it back when the knock sounded on the door.

  "Showtime," Roarke murmured, and leaned back in his chair. "Come in."

  Lamont had smooth, round cheeks, lively blue eyes, and a chin tattoo of a flaming arrow that was new since his ID photo. He'd let his hair grow some as well, Eve noted, so that it swirled in deep brown waves to his chin and gave him a slightly angelic look rather than the uptight young conservative she'd viewed on-screen the night before.

  He wore a white lab coat over a white shirt that was buttoned snugly to the Adam's apple, stovepipe black pants. She recognized his boots as being hand tooled and pricey, as Roarke had countless pairs in his endless closet.

  He gave her a polite glance, gave Peabody's uniform a slightly longer study, then shifted his full attention to Roarke.

  "You needed to see me?" His voice carried the faintest whisper of France, like a sprinkle of thyme over broth.

  "This is Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD." Roarke didn't rise or gesture to a chair. It was his tacit shift of control to Eve. "She needed to see you."

  "Oh?" The well-mannered smile was vaguely puzzled.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Lamont. I have a few questions. You're entitled to have counsel present if you like."

  He blinked twice, two slow movements. "Do I need a lawyer?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Lamont. Do you?"

  "I don't see why." He sat, shifted until he found comfort on the cushion. "What's this about?"

  "Bombs." Eve gave him a small smile. "On record, Peabody," she added and read Lamont his rights. "What do you know about the bombing of the Plaza Hotel yesterday?"

  "Just what I saw on-screen. They upped the body count this morning. It's over three hundred now."

  "Have you ever worked with plaston, Mr. Lamont?"

  "Yes."

  "So you're aware of what it is?"

  "Of course." He shifted again. "It's a light, elastic, highly unstable substance most commonly used as a detonation factor in explosives." He'd lost a little color since he'd taken his seat, but he kept his eyes on hers. They weren't quite so lively now.

  "The explosives we manufacture here at Autotron for government contracts and some private concerns often employ minute amounts of plaston."

  "How's your Greek mythology?"

  His fingers linked together on the table, pulled apart, linked again. "Excuse me?"

  "Know anyone named Cassandra?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Are you acquainted with Howard Bassi, more commonly known as Fixer?"

  "No."

  "What do you do with your free time, Mr. Lamont?"

  "My—my free time?"

  She smiled again. The change in rhythm had thrown him off, as she'd intended. "Hobbies, sports, entertainment. Roarke doesn't work you twenty-four/seven, does he?"

  "I—No." His gaze flicked to Roarke, then back. "I…play a little handball."

  "Team or solo?"

  He lifted his hand, rubbed it over his mouth. "Mostly solo."

  "Your father made bombs during the French War," she continued. "Did he work team, or solo?"

  "I—he worked for the SRA—the Social Reform Army. I guess that's a team."

  "I assumed he freelanced, worked for the highest bidder."

  Color rushed back into Lamont's face. "My father was a patriot."

  "Sabotage for causes. Terrorists often call themselves patriots." She kept her voice mild, but saw the shimmer of anger in his eyes for the first time. "Do you believe in sabotage for causes, Lamont? In the slaughter and the sacrifice of the innocent for a just and righteous cause?"

  He opened his mouth, closed it again, then took one long breath. "War is different. During my father's time, our country had been seized by exploitive bureaucrats. The second revolution in France was necessary to give its people back the power and justice that are their right."

  "So…" Eve smiled a little. "I take that as a yes."

  "I don't make bombs for causes. I make them for mining, for the demolition of old buildings. Empty buildings. For military testing. Contracts," he said, smoothly now. "Autotron is a respected and reputable company."

  "You bet. You like making boomers?"

  "We don't make boomers here." The tone was slightly scathing now and subtly more French. "Our devices are highly sophisticated, technologically advanced. We produce the best on the market."

  "Sorry. You like making sophisticated, technologically advanced devices?"

  "Yes. I enjoy my work. Do you enjoy yours?"

  A little cocky now, Eve noted. Interesting. "I enjoy the results of mine. How about you?"

  "I believe in utilizing my skills."

  "Me, too. Thank you, Mr. Lamont. That's all."

  The little smile that had begun to form faded. "I can go?"

  "Yes, thank you. End record, Peabody. Thanks for the use of the room, Roarke."

  "We're always pleased to cooperate with the police at Autotron." He lifted a sleek eyebrow in Lamont's direction. "I believe Lieutenant Dallas is finished with you, Lamo
nt. You're free to return to your work."

  "Yes, sir." He rose, stiffly, and walked from the room.

  Eve sat back. "He was lying."

  "Oh yes," Roarke agreed. "He was."

  "About what?" It came out before Peabody could stop it.

  "He recognized the name Cassandra, and he knew about Fixer." Contemplatively, Eve scratched her chin. "He was a little shaky at first, but he started to warm up. He doesn't care for cops."

  "A common emotion," Roarke pointed out. "Just as it's a common mistake to underestimate certain cops. He thought he was stringing you quite nicely toward the end."

  She snorted, rose. "Amateur. Peabody, order a shadow for our friend Lamont. Roarke, I'll want you to—"

  "Pull his work files, review his equipment and materials lists, any requisitions, and run a fresh inventory." He rose as well. "That's already being done."

  "Show-off."

  He took her hand, and because watching her work put him in the mood, nibbled on her knuckles before she could snatch it away. "I'll be keeping an eye on him."

  "Keep your distance," she ordered. "I want him to think he pulled off the interview. Peabody…" She turned, then cleared her throat when she caught her aide dreaming into space. "Peabody, snap to."

  "Sir!" She blinked, leaped to her feet, and nearly upended her chair. Seeing Roarke's clever mouth linger over Eve's fingers had made her wonder just what McNab would have in store for her later.

  "Stay on planet, will you? I'll be in touch," she added to Roarke.

  "Do that." He moved to the door with them, then caught Peabody's arm to hold her back a step. "He's a lucky man," he murmured.

  "Huh? Who?"

  "Whoever you were just dreaming about."

  She grinned like an idiot. "Not yet, but he's going to be."

  "Peabody!"

  Peabody rolled her eyes and double-timed it to catch up with Eve.

  "Take the jet, Lieutenant," Roarke called after her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, saw him, tall, gorgeous, in the center of the wide doorway. She wished she'd had the time and the privacy to stride back and give those marvelous lips one quick little bite. "Maybe." She shrugged and made the turn for the elevator.

  • • •

  She took the jet—as much to keep Peabody from pouting as to save time. She'd been right. It was brutally cold in Maine. Naturally, she'd forgotten her gloves, so she stuffed her hands in her pockets as she stepped off the plane and into the bitter wind.

  An airport official in cold-weather coveralls hustled over, handed her a vehicle coder.

  "What's this?"

  "Your transportation, Lieutenant Dallas. Your vehicle is in the green parking area, level two, slot five."

  "Roarke," she muttered and jammed the code into her pocket along with her frozen fingers.

  "I'll show you the way."

  "Yeah, do that."

  They moved across the tarmac and into the warmth of the terminal. The private transportation sector was quiet, almost reverently so, as opposed to the constant noise, bumping bodies and food and gift hawkers that crowded the public areas.

  They rode the elevator down to green, where Eve was shown a sleek, black air-and-road number that made the all-terrains the illegals detectives drove look like kiddie cars.

  "If you'd prefer another make or model, you're authorized for any available unit," she was told.

  "No. Fine. Thanks." She waited until he'd walked away before she seethed. "He's got to stop doing this."

  Peabody ran a loving hand over the glistening fender. "Why?"

  "Because," was the best Eve could come up with, and she uncoded the door. "Map out directions to Monica Rowan's address."

  Peabody settled in, rubbed her hands together as she scanned the cockpit. "Air or road?"

  Eve spared her a steely look. "Road, Peabody."

  "Air or road, I bet this baby moves." She leaned forward to study the on-board computer system. "Oh wow, she is loaded."

  "When you finish being sixteen, Officer, map out the damn route."

  "You never stop being sixteen," Peabody murmured, but followed orders.

  The in-dash monitor responded immediately with a detailed map of the best route.

  Would you like audio prompts during this trip? They were asked in the computer's warm, silky baritone.

  "I think we can handle it, ace." Eve cruised toward the exit.

  As you wish, Lieutenant Dallas. This trip comprises ten point three miles. Your estimated time to complete at this time of day on this day of the week, at the posted speed limits, is twelve minutes, eight seconds.

  "Oh, we can beat that." Peabody shot Eve a quick grin. "Right, Lieutenant?"

  "We're not here to beat anything." She drove decorously through the parking garage, into and around airport traffic, and through the gates.

  Then there was a stretch of highway, long, wide, open.

  Hell, she was human. She punched it.

  "Oh man! I want one of these." Peabody grinned as the scenery blurred and flew by. "How much do you think this honey goes for?"

  This model retails for one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars, excluding tax, fees, and licenses.

  "Holy shit."

  "Still feeling sixteen, Peabody?" With a quick laugh, Eve swung onto their exit.

  "Yeah, and I want a raise in my allowance."

  They hit the commuter high-rises, strip malls, and hotel complexes that edged the suburbs. Traffic thickened on the road and overhead, but remained well-mannered and well-spaced.

  That made Eve immediately miss New York with its nasty streets, rude vendors, and snarling pedestrians.

  "How do people live in places like this?" she asked Peabody. "It's like somebody cut it all out of a travel disc, took a few thousand copies, and pasted it down outside of every goddamn city in the country. They're all the same."

  "Some people like all the same. It's comforting. We took a trip to Maine when I was a kid. Mount Desert Island, the national park?"

  Eve shuddered. "National parks are full of trees and hikers and weird little bugs."

  "Yeah, no bugs in New York."

  "I'll take a good honest cockroach any day."

  "Come over to my place. Sometimes we have parties."

  "Complain to your super."

  "Oh yeah, that'll work."

  Eve took a right, slowed as the street narrowed. The duplexes and triplexes here were old and shoved unhappily together. Lawns were quietly miserable, showing grass the bitter yellow of winter where snow had melted. She pulled up at a curb by a cracked sidewalk, shut off the engine.

  Trip complete. Time elapsed nine minutes, forty-eight seconds. Please remember to code your door.

  "You'd have cut another two minutes off easy if you'd gone air over that traffic," Peabody told her when they climbed out.

  "Stop grinning and put on your cop face. Monica's peeking out the window." Eve headed up the bumpy, unshoveled walk and rapped on the middle door of the triplex.

  It was a long wait, though she judged Monica had about three steps to take to get from the window to the door. She didn't expect a warm welcome. And didn't get one.

  The door opened a crack and one hard gray eye peered out. "What do you want?"

  "Lieutenant Dallas, New York Police and Security, and aide. We have a few questions we'd like to ask you, Ms. Rowan. Can we come in?"

  "This isn't New York. You've got no authority here, no business here."

  "We have some questions," Eve repeated. "And we've been cleared to request an interview. It would be easier for you, Ms. Rowan, if we conducted it here rather than arranging for you to be transported to New York."

  "You can't make me go to New York."

  Eve didn't bother to sigh, and pocketed the badge she flipped out for Monica's study. "Yes, we can. But we'd rather not inconvenience you. We won't take up much of your time."

  "I don't like the police in my house." But she opened the door. "I don't want you touching any
thing."

  Eve stepped into what she supposed the architect had amused himself by calling a foyer. It was no more than four square feet of faded linoleum, ruthlessly scrubbed.

  "You wipe your feet. You wipe your dirty cop feet before you come in my house."

  Dutifully, Eve stepped back, wiped her boots on a mat. It gave her another moment to study Monica Rowan.

  The image on file had been a true one. The woman was hard-faced, grim-eyed, and gray. Eyes, skin, hair were all nearly the same dull color. She was wearing flannel from top to toe, and the heat pumping through the house was already making Eve uncomfortably warm in her jacket and jeans.

  "Close the door! You're costing me money letting the heat out. You know what it costs to heat this place? Utility company is run by government drones."

  Peabody wiped her feet, stepped in, closed the door, and was rammed up tight against Eve. Monica stood glowering, her arms folded across her chest. "You ask what you got to ask, then get out."

  So much, Eve mused, for Yankee hospitality. "It's a little crowded here, Ms. Rowan. Maybe we can go in the living room and sit down."

  "You make it fast. I've got things to do." She turned and led the way into a doll-sized living area.

  It was painfully clean, the single chair and small sofa slicked with clear plastic. Two matching lamps still wore their plastic shields on the shades. Eve decided she didn't want to sit down after all.

  The window drapes were drawn together, leaving a thin chink. The inch-wide slit brought in the only light.

  There were dust catchers, but no dust. Eve imagined if a mote wandered in, it soon ran screaming in horror. A dozen little happy-faced figurines, gleaming clean, danced over tabletops. A cheap model cat droid rose creakily from the rug, gave one rusty meow, and settled again.

  "Ask your questions and go. I've got housework to finish."

  Eve recited the revised Miranda when Peabody went on record. "Do you understand your rights and obligations, Mrs. Rowan?"

  "I understand you've come in my house unwanted, and you're interrupting my work. I don't need any bleeding-heart liberal lawyer. They're all government puppets preying on honest people. Get on with it."

  "You were married to James Rowan."

  "Until the government killed him and my children."