by J. D. Robb
“Well enough.” He tilted his head. In a minute, he thought, her teeth would chatter. The nasty little wind was blowing her poorly cut hair around a very interesting face. Intelligent, stubborn, sexy. Three very good reasons in his mind to take a second look at a woman. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to talk someplace warmer?”
“I’ve been unable to reach you,” she began.
“I’ve been traveling. You’ve reached me now. I assume you’re returning to New York. Today?”
“Yes. I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the shuttle. So . . .”
“So we’ll go back together. That should give you time enough to grill me.”
“Question you,” she said between her teeth, annoyed that he turned and walked away from her. She lengthened her stride to catch up. “A few simple answers now, Roarke, and we can arrange a more formal interview in New York.”
“I hate to waste time,” he said easily. “You strike me as someone who feels the same. Did you rent a car?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll arrange to have it returned.” He held out a hand, waiting for the key card.
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It’s simpler. I appreciate complications, lieutenant, and I appreciate simplicity. You and I are going to the same destination at the same approximate time. You want to talk to me, and I’m willing to oblige.” He stopped by a black limo where a uniformed driver waited, holding the rear door open. “My transport’s routed for New York. You can, of course, follow me to the airport, take public transportation, then call my office for an appointment. Or you can drive with me, enjoy the privacy of my jet, and have my full attention during the trip.”
She hesitated only a moment, then took the key card for the rental from her pocket and dropped it into his hand. Smiling, he gestured her into the limo where she settled as he instructed his driver to deal with the rental car.
“Now then.” Roarke slid in beside her, reached for a decanter. “Would you like a brandy to fight off the chill?”
“No.” She felt the warmth of the car sweep up from her feet and was afraid she’d begin to shiver in reaction.
“Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps.”
“Great.”
Gold winked at his wrist as he pressed his choice for two coffees on the AutoChef built into the side panel. “Cream?”
“Black.”
“A woman after my own heart.” Moments later, he opened the protective door and offered her a china cup in a delicate saucer. “We have more of a selection on the plane,” he said, then settled back with his coffee.
“I bet.” The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Eve took a tentative sip—and nearly moaned.
It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.
She sipped again, and could have wept.
“Problem?” He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes—a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man’s hands.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I had real coffee?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Neither do I.” Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. “You’ll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We’ll talk on the plane.”
“As you like.”
He gave himself the pleasure of watching her as the car traveled smoothly over the road.
Odd, he thought, he hadn’t pegged her for a cop. His instincts were usually keen about such matters. At the funeral, he’d been thinking only what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Sharon to be dead.
Then he’d sensed something, something that had coiled his muscles, tightened his gut. He’d felt her gaze, as physical as a blow. When he’d turned, when he’d seen her, another blow. A slow motion one-two punch he hadn’t been able to evade.
It was fascinating.
But the warning blip hadn’t gone off. Not the warning blip that should have relayed cop. He’d seen a tall, willowy brunette with short, tumbled hair, eyes the color of honeycombs and a mouth made for sex.
If she hadn’t sought him out, he’d intended to seek her.
Too damn bad she was a cop.
She didn’t speak again until they were at the airport, stepping into the cabin of his JetStar 6000.
She hated being impressed, again. Coffee was one thing, and a small weakness was permitted, but she didn’t care for her goggle-eyed reaction to the lush cabin with its deep chairs, sofas, the antique carpet, and crystal vases filled with flowers.
There was a viewing screen recessed in the forward wall and a uniformed flight attendant who showed no surprise at seeing Roarke board with a strange woman.
“Brandy, sir?”
“My companion prefers coffee, Diana, black.” He lifted a brow until Eve nodded. “I’ll have brandy.”
“I’ve heard about the JetStar.” Eve shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Roarke’s by the attendant. “It’s a nice form of transportation.”
“Thanks. We spent two years designing it.”
“Roarke Industries?” she said as she took a chair.
“That’s right. I prefer using my own whenever possible. You’ll need to strap in for takeoff,” he told her, then leaned forward to flip on an intercom. “Ready.”
“We’ve been cleared,” they were told. “Thirty seconds.”
Almost before Eve could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the g’s. It beat the hell, she thought, out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time.
They were served drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Eve’s mouth watering. It was time, she decided, to get to work.
“How long did you know Sharon DeBlass?”
“I met her recently, at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”
“You said you were a friend of the family.”
“Of her parents,” Roarke said easily. “I’ve known Beth and Richard for several years. First on a business level, then on a personal one. Sharon was in school, then in Europe, and our paths didn’t cross. I met her for the first time a few days ago, took her to dinner. Then she was dead.”
He took a flat gold case from his inside pocket. Eve’s eyes narrowed as she watched him light a cigarette. “Tobacco’s illegal, Roarke.”
“Not in free air space, international waters, or on private property.” He smiled at her through a haze of smoke. “Don’t you think, lieutenant, that the police have enough to do without trying to legislate our morality and personal lifestyles?”
She hated to admit even to herself that the tobacco smelled enticing. “Is that why you collect guns? As part of your personal lifestyle?”
“I find them fascinating. Your grandfather and mine considered owning one a constitutional right. We’ve toyed quite a bit with constitutional rights as we’ve civilized ourselves.”
“And murder and injury by that particular type of weapon is now an aberration rather than the norm.”
“You like rules, lieutenant?”
The question was mild, as was the insult under it. Her shoulders stiffened. “Without rules, chaos.”
“With chaos, life.”
Screw philosophy, she thought, annoyed. “Do you own a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson, Model Ten, circa 1990?”
He took another slow, considering drag. The tobacco burned expensively between his long, elegant fingers. “I believe I own one of that model. Is that what killed her?”
“Would you be willing to show it to me?”
“Of course, at your convenience.”
Too easy, she thought. She suspected anything that came easily. “You had dinner with the deceased the night before her death. In Mexico.”
; “That’s right.” Roarke crushed out his cigarette and settled back with his brandy. “I have a small villa on the west coast. I thought she’d enjoy it. She did.”
“Did you have a physical relationship with Sharon DeBlass?”
His eyes glittered for a moment, but whether with amusement or with anger, she couldn’t be sure. “By that, I take you to mean did I have sex with her. No, lieutenant, though it hardly seems relevant. We had dinner.”
“You took a beautiful woman, a professional companion, to your villa in Mexico, and all you shared with her was dinner.”
He took his time choosing a glossy green grape. “I appreciate beautiful women for a variety of reasons, and enjoy spending time with them. I don’t employ professionals for two reasons. First, I don’t find it necessary to pay for sex.” He sipped his brandy, watching her over the rim. “And second, I don’t choose to share.” He paused, very briefly. “Do you?”
Her stomach fluttered, was ignored. “We’re not talking about me.”
“I was. You’re a beautiful woman, and we’re quite alone, at least for the next fifteen minutes. Yet all we’ve shared has been coffee and brandy.” He smiled at the temper smoldering in her eyes. “Heroic, isn’t it, what restraint I have?”
“I’d say your relationship with Sharon DeBlass had a different flavor.”
“Oh, I certainly agree.” He chose another grape, offered it.
Appetite was a weakness, Eve reminded herself even as she accepted the grape and bit through its thin, tart skin. “Did you see her after your dinner in Mexico?”
“No, I dropped her off about three A.M. and went home. Alone.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts for the forty-eight hours after you went home—alone?”
“I was in bed for the first five of them. I took a conference call over breakfast. About eight-fifteen. You can check the records.”
“I will.”
This time he grinned, a quick flash of undiluted charm that had her pulse skipping. “I have no doubt of it. You fascinate me, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“After the conference call?”
“It ended about nine. I worked out until ten, spent the next several hours in my midtown office with various appointments.” He took out a small, slim card that she recognized as a daybook. “Shall I list them for you?”
“I’d prefer you to arrange to have a hard copy sent to my office.”
“I’ll see to it. I was back home by seven. I had a dinner meeting with several members of my Japanese manufacturing firm—in my home. We dined at eight. Shall I send you the menu?”
“Don’t be snide, Roarke.”
“Merely thorough, lieutenant. It was an early evening. By eleven I was alone, with a book and a brandy, until about seven A.M., when I had my first cup of coffee. Would you like another?”
She’d have killed for another cup of coffee, but she shook her head. “Alone for eight hours, Roarke. Did you speak with anyone, see anyone during that time?”
“No. No one. I had to be in Paris the next day and wanted a quiet evening. Poor timing on my part. Then again, if I were going to murder someone, it would have been ill advised not to protect myself with an alibi.”
“Or arrogant not to bother,” she returned. “Do you just collect antique weapons, Roarke, or do you use them?”
“I’m an excellent shot.” He set his empty snifter aside. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate for you when you come to see my collection. Does tomorrow suit you?”
“Fine.”
“Seven o’clock? I assume you have the address.” When he leaned over, she stiffened and nearly hissed as his hand brushed her arm. He only smiled, his face close, his eyes level. “You need to strap in,” he said quietly. “We’ll be landing in a moment.”
He fastened her harness himself, wondering if he made her nervous as a man, or a murder suspect, or a combination of both. Just then, any choice had its own interest—and its own possibilities.
“Eve,” he murmured. “Such a simple and feminine name. I wonder if it suits you.”
She said nothing while the flight attendant came in to remove the dishes. “Have you ever been in Sharon DeBlass’s apartment?”
A tough shell, he mused, but he was certain there would be something soft and hot beneath. He wondered if—no, when—he’d have the opportunity to uncover it.
“Not while she was a tenant,” Roarke said as he sat back again. “And not at all that I recall, though it’s certainly possible.” He smiled again and fastened his own harness. “I own the Gorham Complex, as I’m sure you already know.”
Idly, he glanced out the window as earth hurtled toward them. “Do you have transportation at the airport, lieutenant, or can I give you a lift?”
chapter four
Eve was more than tired by the time she filed her report for Whitney and returned home. She was pissed. She’d wanted, badly, to zing Roarke with the fact that she knew he owned the Gorham. His telling her in the same carelessly polite tone he used to offer her coffee had ended their first interview with him one point up.
She didn’t like the score.
It was time to even things up. Alone in her living room, and technically off the clock, she sat down in front of her computer.
“Engage, Dallas, Code Five access. ID 53478Q. Open file DeBlass.
Voice print and ID recognized, Dallas. Proceed.
“Open subfile Roarke. Suspect Roarke—known to victim. According to Source C, Sebastian, victim desired suspect. Suspect met her requirements for sexual partner. Possibility of emotional involvement high.
“Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect owns victim’s apartment building, equaling easy access and probably knowledge of security of murder scene. Suspect has no alibi for eight-hour period on the night of the murder, which includes the time span erased from security discs. Suspect owns large collection of antique weapons, including the type used on victim. Suspect admits to being expert marksman.
“Factor in personality of suspect. Aloof, confident, self-indulgent, highly intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive and charming.
“Motive.”
And there, she ran into trouble. Calculating, she rose, did a pass through the room while the computer waited for more data. Why would a man like Roarke kill? For gain, in passion? She didn’t think so. Wealth and status he would, and could gain by other means. Women—for sex and otherwise—certainly he could win without breaking a sweat. She suspected he was capable of violence, and that he would execute it coldly.
Sharon DeBlass’s murder had been charged with sex. There had been a crudeness overlaying it. Eve couldn’t quite reconcile that with the elegant man she’d shared coffee with.
Perhaps that was the point.
“Suspect considers morality a personal rather than legislative area,” she continued, pacing still. "Sex, weapon restriction, drug, tobacco, and alcohol restrictions, and murder deal with morality that has been outlawed or regulated. The murder of a licensed companion, the only daughter of friends, the only granddaughter of one of the country’s most outspoken and conservative legislators, by a banned weapon. Was this an illustration of the flaws the suspect considers are inherent in the legal system?
“Motive,” she concluded, settling again. “Self-indulgence.” She took a deep, satisfied breath. “Compute probability.”
Her system whined, reminded her it was one more piece of hardware that needed replacement, then settled into a jerky hum.
Probability Roarke perpetrator given current data and supposition, eighty-two point six per cent.
Oh, it was possible, Eve thought, leaning back in her chair. There was a time, in the not so distant past, when a child could be gunned down by another child for the shoes on his feet.
What was that if not obscene self-indulgence?
He had the opportunity. He had the means. And if his own arrogance could be taken into account, he had the motive.
So why, Eve thought as she watched her own words blink
on the monitor, as she studied her computer’s impersonal analysis, couldn’t she make it play in her own head?
She just couldn’t see it, she admitted. She just couldn’t visualize Roarke standing behind the camera, aiming the gun at the defenseless, naked, smiling woman, and pumping steel into her perhaps only moments after he’d pumped his seed into her.
Still, certain facts couldn’t be overlooked. If she could gather enough of them, she could issue a warrant for a psychiatric evaluation.
Wouldn’t that be interesting? she thought with a half smile. Traveling into Roarke’s head would be a fascinating journey.
She’d take the next step at seven the following evening.
The buzz at her door brought a frown of annoyance to her eyes. “Save and lock on voice print, Dallas. Code Five. Disengage.”
The monitor blipped off as she rose to see who was interrupting her. A glance at her security screen wiped the frown away.
“Hey, Mavis.”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Mavis Freestone whirled in, a jangle of bracelets, a puff of scent. Her hair was a glittery silver tonight, a shade that would change with her next mood. She flipped it back where it sparkled like stars down to her impossibly tiny waist.
“No, I didn’t.” Eve shut the door, reengaged the locks. “Forgot what?”
“Dinner, dancing, debauchery.” With a heavy sigh, Mavis dropped her slinkily attired nighty-eight pounds onto the sofa where she could eye Eve’s simple gray suit with disdain. “You can’t be going out in that.”
Feeling drab, as she often did within twenty feet of Mavis’s outrageous color, Eve looked down at her suit. “No, I guess not.”
“So.” Mavis gestured with one emerald-tipped finger. “You forgot.”
She had, but she was remembering now. They had made plans to check out the new club Mavis had discovered at the space docks in Jersey. According to Mavis, the space jocks were perennially horny. Something to do with extended weightlessness.
“Sorry. You look great.”
It was true, inevitably. Eight years before, when Eve had busted Mavis for petty theft, she’d looked great. A silk swirling street urchin with quick fingers and a brilliant smile.