by J. D. Robb
She rubbed a hand over her mouth. She could remember that, too, the dark, the stench, the fear overriding even pain. “Then I walked more, and kept walking until I couldn’t walk anymore. I found another alley. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but that’s where they found me. By then, I didn’t remember anything—what had happened, where I was. Who I was. I still don’t remember my name. He never called me by my name.”
“Your name’s Eve Dallas.” He cupped her face in his hands. “And that part of your life is over. You survived it, you overcame it. Now you’ve remembered it, and it’s done.”
“Roarke.” Looking at him, she knew she had never loved anyone more. Never would. “It’s not. I have to face what I’ve done. The reality of it, and the consequences. I can’t marry you now. Tomorrow I have to turn in my badge.”
“What insanity is this?”
“I killed my father, do you understand? There has to be an investigation. Even if I’m cleared, it doesn’t negate the fact that my application for the academy, my records, are fraudulent. As long as the investigation is ongoing, I can’t be a cop, and I can’t marry you.” Steadier, she rose. “I have to pack.”
“Try it.”
His voice was low, dangerous, and it stopped her. “Roarke, I have to follow procedure.”
“No, you have to be human.” He strode to the door and slammed it shut. “Do you think you’re walking out on me, on your life, because you defended yourself against a monster?”
“I killed my father.”
“You killed a fucking monster. You were a child. Are you going to stand there, look me in the face, and tell me that child was to blame?”
She opened her mouth, closed it. “It’s not a matter of how I see it, Roarke. The law—”
“The law should have protected you!” With visions dancing evilly in his head, he snapped. He could all but hear the tight wire of control break. “Goddamn the law. What good did it do either one of us when we needed it most? You want to chuck your badge because the law’s too fucking weak to care for its innocents, for its children, be my guest. Throw your career away. But you’re not getting rid of me.”
He started to grab her by the shoulders, then dropped his hands. “I can’t touch you.” Shaken by the violence that spewed up in him, he stepped back. “I’m afraid to put my hands on you. I couldn’t stand it if being with me reminded you of what he did.”
“No.” Appalled, it was she who reached out. “No. It doesn’t. It couldn’t. There’s nothing but you and me when you touch me. It’s just that I have to handle this.”
“Alone?” It was, he realized, the most bitter of words. “The way you had to handle the nightmares alone? I can’t go back and kill him for you, Eve. I’d give everything I have and more if I could do that one thing. But I can’t. I won’t let you deal with this without me. That’s not an option for either of us. Sit down.”
“Roarke.”
“Please, sit down.” He took one cleansing breath. She wouldn’t listen to anger, he decided. Nor, from him, to reason. “Do you trust Dr. Mira?”
“Yes, I mean—”
“As far as you trust anyone,” he finished. “That’ll do.” He walked over to her desk.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to call her.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know what time it is.” He engaged the ’link. “I’m willing to abide by her advice on this. I’m asking you to do the same.”
She started to argue but found no solid ground. Weary, she dropped her head into her hands. “All right.”
She stayed there, barely listening to Roarke’s quiet voice, the murmured responses. When he came back to her, he reached out a hand. She stared at it.
“She’s on her way. Will you come downstairs?”
“I’m not doing this to hurt you or make you angry.”
“You’ve accomplished both, but that’s not the main issue here.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “I won’t let you go, Eve. If you didn’t love me or want me or need me, I would have to. But you do love me and want me. And though you still have difficulty with the concept, you need me.”
I won’t use you, she thought, but she said nothing as they went downstairs.
It didn’t take Mira long. In her usual manner, she arrived promptly and perfectly groomed. She greeted Roarke serenely, took one look at Eve, and sat.
“I’d love a brandy, if you wouldn’t mind. I believe the lieutenant should join me.” As Roarke saw to the drinks, she looked around the room. “What a perfectly lovely home. It feels happy.” She smiled, cocked her head. “Why, Eve, you’ve changed your hair. It’s very flattering.”
Baffled, Roarke stopped, stared. “What have you done to it?”
Eve lifted a shoulder. “Nothing, really, just . . .”
“Men.” Mira took her brandy, swirled. “Why do we bother? When my husband fails to notice a change, he always says it’s because he adores me for me, not for my hair. I usually let him get away with it. Now then.” She sat back. “Can you tell me?”
“Yes.” Eve repeated everything she’d told Roarke. But it was the cop’s voice now, cool, composed, detached.
“It’s been a difficult night for you.” Mira skimmed her gaze over Roarke. “For both of you. It might be hard to believe that it will begin to be better now. Can you accept that your mind was ready to deal with this?”
“I suppose. The memories started coming more clearly, more often after that—” She closed her eyes. “A few months ago I answered a domestic disturbance call. I was too late. The father was on Zeus. He’d hacked the little girl to death before I got in. I terminated him.”
“Yes, I remember. The child, she might have been you. Instead, you survived.”
“My father didn’t.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Glad. And uneasy, knowing I have that much hate in me.”
“He beat you. He raped you. He was your father and you should have been safe with him. You weren’t. How do you believe you should feel about that?”
“It was years ago.”
“It was yesterday,” Mira corrected. “It was an hour ago.”
“Yes.” Eve looked down at her brandy and squeezed the tears back.
“Was it wrong to defend yourself?”
“No. Not to defend. But I killed him. Even when he was dead, I kept killing him. This—blinding hate, uncontrollable rage. I was like an animal.”
“He had treated you like an animal. Made you an animal. Yes,” she said at Eve’s shudder. “More than stealing your childhood, your innocence, he stripped you of your humanity. There are technical terms for a personality capable of doing what he did to you, but in simple English,” she said in her cool tones, “he was a monster.”
Mira watched Eve’s eyes dart to Roarke, linger, drop away.
“He took your freedom,” she continued, “and your choices, marked you, branded you, defiled you. You weren’t human to him, and if the situation hadn’t changed, you might never have been more than an animal if you had survived at all. And yet, after you escaped, you made yourself. What are you now, Eve?”
“A cop.”
Mira smiled. She’d expected exactly that answer. “And then?”
“A person.”
“A responsible person?”
“Yeah.”
“Capable of friendship, loyalty, compassion, humor. Love?”
Eve looked at Roarke. “Yes, but—”
“Was the child capable?”
“No, she—I was too afraid to feel. All right, I’ve changed.” Eve pressed a hand to her temple, surprised and relieved to find the headache drumming there was easing. “I’ve made myself into something decent, but that doesn’t override the fact that I killed. There has to be an investigation.”
Mira arched a brow. “Naturally, you can instigate one if finding your father’s identity is important to you. Is it?”
“N
o, I don’t give a damn about that. It’s procedure—”
“Excuse me.” Mira held up a hand. “You want to instigate an investigation into the death of this man by your hand when you were eight years old?”
“It’s procedure,” Eve said stubbornly. “And requires my automatic suspension until the investigative team is satisfied. It’s also best if my personal plans are put on hold until the matter is resolved.”
Sensing Roarke’s fury, Mira flicked him a warning glance and watched him win the bitter battle for control. “Resolved in what manner?” she asked reasonably. “I don’t want to presume to tell you your job, Lieutenant, but we’re talking about a matter that took place some twenty-two years ago.”
“It was yesterday.” Eve found some hollow pleasure in tossing Mira’s words back at her. “It was an hour ago.”
“Emotionally, yes,” Mira agreed, unruffled. “But in practical terms, and legal ones, more than two decades. There will be no body or physical evidence to examine. There are, of course, the records of your condition when you were found, the abuse, the malnutrition and neglect, the trauma. Now, there is your memory. Do you feel your story will change during interview?”
“No, of course not, but . . . It’s procedure.”
“You’re a very good cop, Eve,” Mira said gently. “If this matter came across your desk, exactly as it is, what would be your professional and objective direction? Before you answer, be careful, and be honest. There’s no point in punishing yourself, or that innocent, misused child. What would you do?”
“I’d . . .” Beaten, she set down the snifter and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I’d close it.”
“Then close it.”
“It’s not up to me.”
“I’ll be happy to take this up with your commander, in private, give him the facts and my personal recommendation. I think you know what his decision would be. We need people like you to serve and protect, Eve. There’s a man here who needs you to trust him.”
“I do trust him.” She braced herself to look over at Roarke. “I’m afraid of using him. It doesn’t matter what other people think about the money, about the power. I don’t want to ever give him reason to think I ever could or ever would use him.”
“Does he think it?”
She closed a hand around the diamond hanging between her breasts. “He’s too much in love with me to think it now.”
“Well, I’d say that’s lovely. And before much longer, you might figure out the difference between depending on someone you love and trust and exploiting their strengths.” Mira rose. “I’d tell you to take a sedative and tomorrow off, but you’ll do neither.”
“No, I won’t. I’m sorry to have dragged you away from home in the middle of the night.”
“Cops and doctors, we’re used to it. You’ll talk with me again?”
She wanted to refuse, to deny—as she had spent years refusing and denying. But that time, Eve realized, was over. “Yes, all right.”
On impulse, Mira laid a hand on Eve’s cheek and kissed her. “You’ll do, Eve.” Then she turned to Roarke and extended her hand. “I’m glad you called me. I have a personal interest in the lieutenant.”
“So do I. Thank you.”
“I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding. I’ll see myself out.”
Roarke walked over, sat beside Eve. “Would it be better for you if I gave away my money, my properties, tossed aside my companies, and started from scratch?”
Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. She gaped at him. “Would you?”
He leaned forward, kissed her lightly. “No.”
The laugh that bubbled out surprised her. “I feel like an idiot.”
“You should.” He linked his fingers with hers. “Let me help take the pain away.”
“You’ve been doing that since you walked in the door.” With a sigh, she rested her brow on his. “Tolerate me, Roarke. I’m a good cop. I know what I’m doing when the badge is on. It’s when I take it off I’m not so sure of my moves.”
“I’m a tolerant man. I can accept your dark spaces, Eve, just as you accept mine. Come on, let’s go to bed. You’ll sleep.” He brought her to her feet again. “And if you have nightmares, you won’t hide them from me.”
“No, not anymore. What is it?”
Eyes narrowed, he combed his fingers through her hair. “You did change it. Subtly, but charmingly. And there’s something else . . .” He rubbed a thumb over her jawline.
Eve wiggled her eyebrows, hoping he’d noticed their new improved shape, but he only continued to stare at her. “What?”
“You’re beautiful. Really quite beautiful.”
“You’re tired.”
“No, I’m not.” He leaned in, closed his mouth over hers softly in a long, lingering kiss. “At all.”
Peabody was staring, and Eve decided not to notice. She had coffee, and anticipating Feeney’s arrival had even come up with a basket of muffins. The shades were open to her own spectacular view of New York with its spearing skyline behind the lush green of the park.
She supposed she couldn’t blame Peabody for gaping.
“I really appreciate you coming here instead of to Cop Central,” Eve began. She knew she wasn’t running at full capability yet, just as she knew Mavis couldn’t afford for her to take any down time. “I want to get some of this business squared away before I clock in. As soon as I do, I imagine Whitney will call me up. I need ammunition.”
“No problem.” Peabody knew there really were people who lived like this. She’d heard of it, read of it, seen it on screen. And there was nothing particularly fabulous about the lieutenant’s rooms. They were nice, certainly—plenty of space, good furnishings, excellent equipment.
But the house. Jesus, the house. It went beyond the category of mansion into that of fortress, or maybe even castle. The green lawns, flowering trees, and fountains. There were all the towers, the sparkle of stone. That was before you were brought inside by a butler and blown away by marble and crystal and wood. And space. So much space.
“Peabody?”
“What? Sorry.”
“It’s all right. The place is pretty intimidating.”
“It’s incredible.” She swung her gaze back to Eve. “You look different here,” she decided, then narrowed her eyes. “You do look different. Hey, you got your hair cut. And the eyebrows.” Intrigued, she leaned closer. “A skin job.”
“It was just a facial.” Eve caught herself just before she squirmed. “Can we get down to it now, or do you want the name of my consultant?”
“Couldn’t afford it,” Peabody said cheerfully. “But you look good. You want to start pumping up since you’re getting married in a couple weeks.”
“It’s not a couple weeks, it’s next month.”
“Guess you haven’t noticed that it’s next month now. You’re nervous.” Amusement flitted around Peabody’s mouth. “You never get nervous.”
“Shut up, Peabody. We’ve got homicide here.”
“Yes, sir.” Slightly ashamed, Peabody swallowed the smirk. “I thought we were killing time until Captain Feeney arrived.”
“I’ve got a ten o’clock interview with Redford. I don’t have time to kill. Give me the rundown of your progress at the club.”
“I have my report.” Back in the saddle, Peabody took a disc out of her bag. “I arrived at seventeen thirty-five, approached the subject known as Crack, and identified myself as your aide.”
“What did you think of him?”
“An individual,” Peabody said dryly. “He suggested I would make a good table dancer, as I appeared to have strong legs. I told him it wasn’t an option at this time.”
“Good one.”
“He was cooperative. In my judgment, he was angry when I informed him of Hetta’s death, and the means. She hadn’t worked there long, but he said she was good-natured, efficient, and successful.”
“In those words.”
“In the vernacular,
Dallas. His vernacular, which is quoted in my report. He did not observe who she spoke with after the incident with Boomer as the club was crowded and he was busy.”
“Cracking heads.”
“Exactly. He did, however, point out several other employees and regulars who might have seen her with someone. I have their names and their statements. None noticed anything peculiar or out of the ordinary. One client believed he observed her going into one of the private booths with another man, but he didn’t recall the time, and his description is vague. ‘A tall dude.’ ”
“Terrific.”
“She clocked out at oh two fifteen, which was more than an hour earlier than her habit. She told one of the other companions that she’d made over her quota and was calling it a night. Flashed a fistful of credits and cash. Bragged about a new customer who believed in paying for quality. That was the last time she was seen at the club.”
“Her body was found three days later.” Frustrated, Eve pushed away from the table. “If I’d gotten the case sooner, or if Carmichael had bothered to dig . . . Well, that’s done.”
“She was well liked.”
“Did she have a partner?”
“No one serious or long term. Those kind of clubs discourage dating the customers on the outside, and apparently Hetta was a real pro. She did move around from club to club, but so far, I haven’t hit on anything. If she worked anywhere the night she died, there’s no record of it.”
“Did she use?”
“Socially, casually. Nothing heavy, according to the people I spoke with. I checked her sheet, and other than a couple of old possession charges, she was clean.”
“How old?”
“Five years.”
“Okay, keep on it. Hetta’s yours.” She glanced over as Feeney strolled in. “Glad you could join us.”
“Hey, traffic’s murder out there. Muffins!” He pounced. “How’s it going, Peabody?”
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Some digs, huh? New shirt, Dallas?”