by J. D. Robb
He closed his eyes. “Do you think I want Mirina to know that I was, however briefly, accused of murdering an unlicensed whore?”
“No,” Eve said quietly. “I don’t imagine you do. And as you said, Mr. Slade, you’d do anything to keep her. Anything at all.”
Hammett was waiting for her the moment she stepped out of the commander’s office. The hollows in his cheeks seemed deeper, his skin grayer.
“I’d hoped to have a moment, Lieutenant—Eve.”
She gestured behind her, let him slip into the room first, then closed the door on the murmurs of conversation.
“This is a difficult day for you, George.”
“Yes, very difficult. I wanted to ask, needed to know . . . Is there anything more? Anything at all?”
“The investigation’s proceeding. There’s nothing I can tell you that you wouldn’t have heard through the media.”
“There must be more.” His voice rose before he could control it. “Something.”
She could feel pity, even when there was suspicion. “Everything that can be done is being done.”
“You’ve interviewed Marco, her children, even Randy. If there is anything they knew, anything they told you that might help, I have a right to be told.”
Nerves? she wondered. Or grief? “No,” she said quietly, “you don’t. I can’t give you any information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure.”
“We’re talking about the murder of the woman I loved!” He exploded with it, his pale face flushing dark. “We might have been married.”
“Were you planning to be married, George?”
“We’d discussed it.” He passed a hand over his face, a hand that shook slightly. “We’d discussed it,” he repeated, and the flush washed away from his skin. “There was always another case, another summation to prepare. There was supposed to be plenty of time.”
With his hands balled into fists, he turned away from her. “I apologize for shouting at you. I’m not myself.”
“It’s all right, George. I’m very sorry.”
“She’s gone.” He said it quietly, brokenly. “She’s gone.”
There was nothing left for her to do but give him privacy. She closed the door behind her, then rubbed a hand at the back of her neck where tension was lodged.
On her way out, Eve signaled to Feeney. “Need you to do some digging,” she told him as they headed outside. “Old case, about ten years past, on one of the gambling hells in Sector 38.”
“What you got, Dallas?”
“Sex, scandal, and probable suicide. Accidental.”
“Hot damn,” Feeney said mournfully. “And I was hoping to catch a ball game on the screen tonight.”
“This should be just as entertaining.” She spied Roarke helping the blonde into his car, hesitated, then detoured past him. “Thanks for the tip, Roarke.”
“Any time, Lieutenant. Feeney,” he added with a brief nod before he slipped into the car.
“Hey,” Feeney said when the car glided away. “He’s really pissed at you.”
“He seemed fine to me,” Eve muttered and wrenched open her car door.
Feeney snorted. “Some detective you are, pal.”
“Just dig up the case, Feeney. Randall Slade’s the accused.” She slammed her door and sulked.
chapter seven
Feeney knew Eve wasn’t going to like the data he’d unearthed. Anticipating her reaction, and being a wise man, he sent it through computer rather than delivering it in person.
“I’ve got the goods on the Slade incident,” he said when his droopy face blipped onto her monitor. “I’m going to send it through. I’m—ah—going to be stuck here for awhile. I’ve got about twenty percent of Tower’s conviction list eliminated. It’s slow going.”
“Try to speed it up, Feeney. We’ve got to narrow the field.”
“Right. Ready for transmission.” His face blinked off. In its place was the police report from Sector 38.
Eve frowned over it as the data scrolled. There was little more information above what Randal Slade had already told her. Suspicious death, overdose. The victim’s name was Carolle Lee, age 24, birthplace New Chicago Colony, unemployed. The image showed a young, black-haired woman of mixed heritage with exotic eyes and coffee-toned skin. Randall looked pale, his eyes glazed, in his mug shot.
She skimmed through, searching for any detail Randall might have left out. It was bad enough as it was, Eve mused. The murder charges had been dropped, but he’d copped to soliciting an unlicensed companion, possession of illegal chemicals, and contributing to a fatality.
He’d been lucky, she decided, very lucky that the incident had occurred on such an obscure sector, in a hellhole that didn’t garner much attention. But if someone—anyone—had come across the details, had threatened to take them to his pretty, fragile fiancée, it would have been a real mess.
Had Towers known? Eve wondered. That was the big question. And if she had, how would she have handled it? The attorney might have looked at the facts, weighed them, and dismissed the case as resolved.
But the mother? Would the loving mother who chatted about fashion for an hour with her daughter, the devoted parent who carved out time to help plan the perfect wedding, have accepted the scandal as the wild oats of a young, foolish man? Or would she have stood like a barricade between the older, less foolish man and what he wanted most?
Eve narrowed her eyes and continued to scan the documents. Then she stopped cold when Roarke’s name jumped out at her.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, slamming a fist on the desk. “Son of a bitch.”
Within fifteen minutes, she was striding across the glossy tiles of the lobby of Roarke’s building in midtown. Her jaw was set as she accessed the code, then slapped her palm onto the handplate of his private elevator. She hadn’t bothered to call, but let righteous fury zip her up to the top floor.
The receptionist in his elegant outer office started to smile in greeting. One look at Eve’s face had her blinking. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Tell him I’m here, and that I see him now, or down at Cop Central.”
“He’s—he’s in a meeting.”
“Now.”
“I’ll call through.” She swiveled and punched a button for private communication. She murmured the message and apologies while Eve stood fuming.
“If you would wait in his office for a moment, Lieutenant—” the receptionist began and rose.
“I know the way,” Eve snapped, striding across the plush carpet through the towering double doors and into Roarke’s New York sanctum.
There had been a time when she would have helped herself to a cup of coffee or wandered over to admire his view from a hundred fifty stories up. Today she stood, every nerve quivering with temper. And beneath that was fear.
The panel on the east wall slid open silently, and he walked through. He still wore the dark suit he’d chosen for the memorial service. As the panel closed behind him, he fingered the button in his pocket that belonged on Eve’s gray jacket.
“You were quick,” he said easily. “I thought I would finish my board meeting before you came by.”
“You think you’re clever,” she shot back. “Giving me just enough to start digging with. Damn it, Roarke, you’re right in the middle of this.”
“Am I?” Unconcerned, he walked to a chair, sat, stretched out his legs. “And how is that, Lieutenant?”
“You owned the damn casino where Slade was gambling. You owned the fucking fleabag hotel where the woman died. You had an unlicensed hooker working your hellhole.”
“Unlicensed companions in Sector 38?” He smiled a little. “Why, I’m shocked.”
“Don’t get cute with me. It connects you. Mercury was bad enough, but this is deeper. Your statement’s on record.”
“Naturally.”
“Why are you making it so hard for me to keep your name out of this?”
“I’m not interested in m
aking it hard or easy for you, Lieutenant.”
“Fine, then. Just fine.” If he could be cold, so could she. “Then we’ll just get the questions and answers out of the way and move on. You knew Slade.”
“Actually, I didn’t. Not personally. Actually, I’d forgotten all about it, and him, until I did some research of my own. Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”
“You forgot you were involved in a murder investigation?”
“Yes.” Idly, he steepled his hands. “It wasn’t the first brush I’d had with the police, nor apparently, is it the last. In the grand scheme of things, Lieutenant, it really didn’t concern me.”
“Didn’t concern you,” she repeated. “You had Slade tossed out of your casino.”
“I believe the manager of the casino handled that.”
“You were there.”
“Yes, I was there, somewhere on the premises, in any case. Dissatisfied clients often become rowdy. I didn’t pay much attention at that time.”
She took a deep breath. “If it meant so little, and the entire matter slipped your mind, why did you sell the casino, the hotel, everything you owned in Sector 38 within forty-eight hours of Cicely Towers’s murder?”
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes on hers. “For personal reasons.”
“Roarke, just tell me so I can put this whole connection to bed. I know the sale didn’t have anything to do with Towers’s murder, but it looks dicey. ‘For personal reasons’ isn’t good enough.”
“It was for me. At the time. Tell me, Lieutenant Dallas, are you thinking I decided to blackmail Cicely over her future son-in-law’s youthful indiscretion, had some henchman in my employ lure her to the West End, and when she didn’t cooperate, slit her throat?”
She wanted to hate him for putting her in the position of having to answer. “I told you I didn’t believe you had anything to do with her death, and I meant it. You’ve put me in a position where it’s a scenario we’ll have to work with. One that will take time and manpower away from finding the killer.”
“Damn you, Eve.” He said it quietly; so quietly, so calmly, her throat burned in reaction.
“What do you want from me, Roarke? You said you’d help, that I could use your connections. Now, because you’re pissed about something else, you’re blocking me.”
“I changed my mind.” His tone was dismissive as he rose and walked behind his desk. “About several things,” he added, watching her with eyes that sliced at her heart.
“If you would just tell me why you sold. The coincidence of that can’t be ignored.”
He considered for a moment his decision to reorganize some of his less-than-legal enterprises and shake loose of what couldn’t be changed. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t believe I will.”
“Why are you putting me in this position?” she demanded. “Is this some sort of punishment?”
He sat, leaned back, steepled his fingers. “If you like.”
“You’re going to be pulled into this, just like the last time. There’s just no need for it.” Driven by frustration, she slapped her hands on his desk. “Can’t you see that?”
He looked at her face, the dark, worried eyes, the ridiculously chopped hair. “I know what I’m doing.” He hoped he did.
“Roarke, don’t you understand, it’s not enough for me to know you had nothing to do with it. Now I have to prove it.”
He wanted to touch her, so much that his fingers ached from it. More than anything at that moment, he wished he could hate her for it. “Do you know, Eve?”
She straightened, dropped her hands to her sides. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and turned and left him.
But it did matter, he thought. At the moment, it was all that really mattered. Shaken, he shifted forward. He could curse her now, now that those big, whiskey-colored eyes were no longer staring into him. He could curse her for bringing him so low he was nearly ready to beg for whatever scraps of her life she was willing to share with him.
And if he begged, if he settled, he would probably grow to hate her almost as much as he would hate himself.
He knew how to outwait a rival, how to outmanuever an opponent. He certainly knew how to fight for what he wanted or intended to have. But he was no longer sure he could outwait, outmanuever, or fight Eve.
Taking the button out of his pocket, he toyed with it, studied it as though it were some intriguing puzzle to be solved.
He was an idiot, Roarke realized. It was humiliating to admit what an incredible fool love could make of a man. He stood, slipped the button back in his pocket. He had a board meeting to complete, business to take care of.
And, he thought, some research to do on whether any details of the Slade arrest had left Sector 38. And if they had, how and why.
Eve couldn’t put off her appointment with Nadine. The necessity of it irritated, as did the fact she had to schedule the time between Nadine’s evening and late live broadcasts.
She plopped down at a table at a small café near Channel 75 called Images. It was, with its quiet corners and leafy trees, several large steps away from the Blue Squirrel. Eve winced at the prices on the menu—broadcasters were paid a great deal more than cops—and settled on a Classic Pepsi.
“You ought to try the muffins,” Nadine told her. “The place is famous for them.”
“I bet it is.” At about five bucks a rehydrated blueberry, Eve thought. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Neither do I.” Nadine’s on-camera makeup was still perfectly in place. Eve could only wonder how anyone could stand having their pores gunked for hours at a time.
“You go first.”
“Fine.” Nadine broke open her muffin and it steamed fragrantly. “Obviously the memorial is the big news of the day. Who came, who said what. Lots of side stories about the family, focus is tight on the grieving daughter and her fiancé.”
“Why?”
“Human interest, Dallas. Big splashy wedding plans interrupted by violent murder. Word’s leaked that the ceremony will be postponed until the first part of next year.”
Nadine took a bite of muffin. Eve ignored the envious reaction of her stomach juices. “Gossip isn’t what I’m after, Nadine.”
“But it adds color. Look, it was more like a plant than a leak. Somebody wanted the media to know the wedding’s been postponed. So I wonder if this means there’ll be a wedding after all. What I smell is the scent of trouble in paradise. Why would Mirina turn away from Slade at a time like this? Seems to me they’d have a nice quiet private ceremony so he’d be there to comfort her.”
“Maybe that’s the plan exactly, and they’re throwing you off the scent.”
“It’s possible. Anyway, without Towers as buffer, speculation’s running that Angelini and Hammett will dissolve their business associations. They were very cool to each other, never spoke during the service—before or after it, either.”
“How do you know?”
Nadine smiled, feline and pleased. “I have my sources. Angelini needs income, and fast. Roarke’s made him an offer for his shares, which now include Towers’s interest, in Mercury.”
“Has he?”
“You didn’t know. Interesting.” Sly as a cat, Nadine licked crumbs from her fingertips. “I thought it was interesting, too, that you didn’t attend the service with Roarke.”
“I was there in an official capacity,” Eve said shortly. “Let’s stick to the point.”
“More trouble in paradise,” Nadine murmured, then her eyes sobered. “Look, Dallas, I like you. I don’t know why, but I do. If you and Roarke are having problems, I’m sorry for it.”
Buddy-to-buddy confidences were something Eve was never comfortable with. She shifted, surprised that she was tempted, even for an instant, to share. Then she set it down to Nadine’s skill as a reporter. “The point,” she repeated.
“Okay.” Nadine moved a shoulder and took another bite of muffin. “Nobody knows dick,” she said briefly. “We’ve got speculation. Angel
ini’s financial difficulties, the son’s gambling habits, the Fluentes case.”
“You can forget the Fluentes case,” Eve interrupted. “He’s going down. Both he and his lawyer know it. The evidence is clean. Taking Towers out won’t change a thing.”
“He might have been pissed.”
“Maybe. But he’s small time. He doesn’t have the contacts or the money to buy a hit the size of Towers. It doesn’t check out. We’re running everybody she ever put away. So far we’ve got zip.”
“You’ve cooled off on the revenge theory, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I think it was closer to home.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“No.” Eve shook her head when Nadine studied her. “No,” she repeated. “I don’t have anything solid yet. Here’s what I want you to look into, and I need you to hold it off the air until I clear it.”
“That was the deal.”
Briefly, Eve told her of the incident in Sector 38.
“Holy shit, that’s hot. And it’s public record, Dallas.”
“That may be, but you wouldn’t know where to look unless I’d tipped you. Stick with the deal, Nadine. You hold it off air, and you poke around. See if you can find out if anyone know, or cares. If there’s a connection to the murder, I’ll hand it to you. If not, I guess it’ll be up to your conscience whether you want to broadcast something that could ruin the reputation of a man and his relationship with his fiancée.”
“Low blow, Dallas.”
“Depends on where you’re standing. Keep the cover on it, Nadine.”
“Um-hmm.” Her mind was humming. “Slade was in San Francisco the night of the murder.” She waited a beat. “Wasn’t he?”
“So the record shows.”
“And there are dozens of coast-to-coast shuttles, public and private, running every hour, back and forth.”
“That’s right. You keep in touch, Nadine,” Eve said as she rose. “And you keep the cover on.”
Eve made it an early night. When her ’link beeped at one, she was screaming her way out of a nightmare. Sweating, shaking, she tore off the covers that wrapped around her, fought off the hands that were groping over her body.