by J. D. Robb
He felt the fist clutch around his heart and gave her hand a hard squeeze. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. I tend to have morbid thoughts in places like this. Well.” Her room scan stopped when she spotted Isis. “There’s my witch.”
Roarke followed her gaze and studied the imposing woman with flame-colored hair and wearing a simple robe of pure white. She stood by the viewing box beside a man a full head shorter than she. He wore a plain, almost conservative suit, also in white. Their fingers were linked.
“The man with her?”
“I don’t know him. Might be a member of her sect or whatever. Let’s check it out.”
They moved across the room and by tacit agreement, flanked the couple. Eve looked down at Alice first, at the young face, composed now. Death had a way of relaxing the features. After the insult had passed.
“She’s not here.” Isis spoke quietly. “Her spirit still searches for peace. I’d hoped…I’d hoped to find her here. I’m sorry I missed you today, Dallas. We were closed in Alice’s memory.”
“You weren’t at home, either.”
“No, we gathered at another place, for our own ceremony. The man across the street told me you’d been looking for me.” A faint smile wisped around her mouth. “He was concerned that I had a cop on my trail. He has a good heart, despite a certain imbalance.”
She stepped back to introduce the man beside her. “This is Chas. My mate.”
Training kept Eve’s eyes bland, but she was surprised. He was as ordinary as Isis was spectacular. His hair was a washed-out blond, thin in texture. His body was almost fragile, narrow in the shoulders, short in the leg. His square, unremarkable face was stopped just short of homely by a pair of surprisingly lovely deep gray eyes. When he smiled, it was with a sweetness that demanded a smile in return.
“I’m sorry to meet you under such sad circumstances. Isis told me you were a very strong and purposeful soul. I see she was right, as always.”
She nearly blinked at his voice. It was a deep, creamy baritone any opera singer would have wept for. She caught herself watching his mouth move and imagining a ventriloquist’s dummy. It wasn’t a voice that should have come out of that body and that face.
“I need to talk to you both as soon as possible.” She glanced around, wished for a discreet way to slip out and conduct an interview. It would have to wait. “This is Roarke.”
“Yes, I know.” Isis offered a hand. “We’ve met before.”
“Have we?” His smile was politely curious. “I can’t imagine forgetting meeting a beautiful woman.”
“Another time, another place.” Her eyes stayed on his. “Another life. You saved mine once.”
“That was wise of me.”
“Yes, it was. And kind. Perhaps someday you’ll revisit the county of Cork and see a small stone dance alone in a fallow field…and you’ll remember.” She slipped the silver cross she wore off her neck, handed it to him. “You gave me a talisman then. Similar to this Celtic cross. I suppose that’s why I wore it tonight. To close a circle.”
The metal was warmer against his hand than it should have been, and it stirred something in cloudy memory he didn’t care to explore. “Thank you.” He slipped it into his pocket.
“One day I may return the favor you did me.” She turned to Eve then. “I’ll speak with you whenever you like. Chas?”
“Of course, whenever it’s convenient for you, Lieutenant Dallas. Will you attend our ceremony? We’d very much like to share it with you. Night after next. We have a small place upstate. It’s quiet and private and, when the weather cooperates, perfect for outdoor rites. I hope you—”
He broke off, his stunning eyes going dark. His thin body shifting to what Eve recognized immediately as a guard stance. “He’s not one of us,” he said.
She glanced around, spotted a man in a dark suit. His face was cell-block white and framed by a black wedge of hair. The suit was expensive, his skin wan, making him appear both sickly and successful.
He started toward the viewing box, saw the group already there. In one jerky move he turned on his heel and hurried out.
“I’ll check it out.”
She was moving quickly when Roarke caught up with her. “We’ll check it out.”
“It would be better if you stayed inside with them.”
“I’m staying with you.”
She only shot him a frustrated look. “Don’t cramp my style.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The retreating man was nearly at a run as he hit the door. Eve only had to touch his arm to have him jolt. “What? What do you want?” He whirled, pressing the door for release, backing out of it into the rainy night. “I haven’t done anything.”
“No? He sure looks guilty for an innocent man, doesn’t he?” She took a firmer grip on his arm to keep him from rabbiting away. “Maybe you should show me some ID.”
“I don’t have to show you anything.”
“It’s not necessary,” Roarke said smoothly. He’d gotten a better look now. “Thomas Wineburg, isn’t it? Of Wineburg Financial. You’ve nabbed yourself a deadly type here, Lieutenant. A banker. Third generation. Or is it fourth?”
“It’s fifth,” Wineburg said, struggling to look down his narrow nose at what his family would consider new and not quite decent money. “And I’ve done nothing to warrant being accosted by a police officer and a financial rogue.”
“I’m the cop,” Eve decided glancing at Roarke. “You must be the financial rogue.”
“He’s just mad because I don’t use his bank.” Roarke flashed a wolfish grin. “Aren’t you, Tommy?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, then, you can talk to me. What’s the rush?”
“I—I have an appointment I’d forgotten. I’m quite late.”
“Then a couple more minutes won’t matter. Are you a friend of the deceased’s family?”
“No.”
“Oh, I get it, you just like to while away a rainy evening at a viewing parlor. I’ve heard that’s the coming thing for singles.”
“I—I’d mistook the address.”
“I don’t think so. What did you come to see? Or who?”
“I—” His eyes widened when Isis and Chas stepped out. “Stay away from me.”
“I’m sorry, Dallas. We were concerned when you didn’t come back.” Isis turned her exotic eyes on Wineburg. “Your aura is dark and muddy. You dabble without belief. Toy with power beyond your scope. If you don’t change your path, you damn yourself.”
“Keep her away from me.” Straining against Eve’s grip, Wineburg cringed back.
“She’s not hurting you. What do you know about Alice’s death, Wineburg?”
“I don’t know anything.” His voice went shrill. “I don’t know anything about anything. I mistook the address. I have an appointment. You can’t hold me.”
No, she couldn’t, but she could scare the hell out of him. “I could take you down to Central, play with you awhile before your representative managed to get there. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I haven’t done anything.” To Eve’s surprise and mild disgust, he began to sob like a baby. “You have to let me go. I’m not part of this.”
“Part of what?”
“It was just for sex. That’s all. Just for sex. I didn’t know anybody would die. Blood everywhere. Everywhere. Dear God. I didn’t know.”
“Where? What have you seen?”
He continued to sob, and when she started to shift her grip, he rammed his bony elbow hard into her gut, sending her flying violently back into Roarke so that they both hit the pavement.
Later, she could curse herself for letting him catch her off guard with his sniveling. But for now, she scrambled up, struggling to suck in air and gave chase.
Son of a bitch. She could only think it. He’d knocked the wind out of her and prevented her from swearing aloud or shouting out an order for him to freeze.
She reached for
her weapon just as he dove into an underground garage and darted into the forest of vehicles.
“Shit.” She had enough air for that, then snarled at Roarke as he rushed in behind her. “Get out. Damn it, he’s probably not armed, but you’re sure as hell not. Call it in if you want to do something.”
“The day I let a pissant banker knock me on my ass and walk away has not come.” He veered off to circle around and left her scowling at him.
The security lights were blinding, but the opportunity for cover was endless. Echoes of running footsteps bounced off the floor and walls and ceiling. Trusting instinct, she moved left.
“Wineburg, you aren’t helping yourself. You’ve got assaulting an officer on you now. You come out without making me dig you out, I might cut you a break.”
Crouched, she swung toward the narrow opening between cars, scanned under, behind, moved on.
“Roarke, hold still a minute, goddamn it, so I can tag location.” The echoes softened a bit, allowing her to strain her ears and venture farther to the left at running speed. He was heading up, she decided, hoping to lose himself on the next level.
She darted up the first ramp, then whirled and braced, weapon aimed, when footsteps pounded behind her. “I should have known,” was all she said as Roarke passed her. She dug in and continued pursuit. “He’s heading up,” she snapped out. “He keeps going, he’ll corner himself. All the idiot has to do is stop, lay low. It would take a fucking platoon to find him in here.”
“He’s scared. When you’re scared, you run away.” He glanced at Eve, and felt ridiculously exhilarated as they hit the next ramp. “Or some do.”
Then the footsteps silenced. Eve threw out an arm to hold Roarke in place, held her breath as she strained to hear. “What is that?” she whispered. “What the hell is that sound?”
“Chanting.”
Her heart jumped. “Jesus Christ.” She broke into a fresh run just as one long, terrified scream ripped the air. It seemed to go on, endlessly, high and inhuman and horrible. Then it snapped off into silence. She dragged out her communicator without breaking stride. “Officer needs assistance. Officer needs assistance, parking garage, Forty-ninth and Second. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve in pursuit of…Goddamn it.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, please say again.”
She didn’t bother to stare at the body spread in a growing pool of blood on the concrete floor. One glance at the terrified, wide eyes and the carved hilt of a knife plunged into the heart had been enough to determine death.
Wineburg had run the wrong way.
“I need backup, immediately. I’ve got a homicide. Perpetrator or perpetrators possibly still on premises. Dispatch all available units to this address for blockade and search. I need a field kit and my aide.”
“Received. Units en route. Dispatch out.”
“I’ve got to look,” she said to Roarke.
“Understood.”
“I don’t have my clutch piece or I’d give it to you. I need you to stay here, with the body.”
Roarke looked down at Wineburg and felt a stir of pity. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“I need you to stay here,” she repeated. “In case they come back this way. Don’t be a hero.”
He nodded. “You, either.”
She took one last glance at the body. “Fuck,” she said wearily. “I should have had a better grip on him.”
She moved off slowly, scanning cars and corners, but without much hope.
He’d watched her work before, studied and admired the efficient, concentrated field she created around the dead. Roarke wondered if she fully understood why she did it, or how she could, while examining a lifeless, violently dispatched body with such clear-cut objectivity, see through the pity that haunted her eyes.
He’d never asked her. He doubted he ever would.
He watched her order Peabody to record the scene from a different angle, saw her jerk her thumb at a uniform—obviously a rookie who wasn’t holding up well. Sending him off on an errand, Roarke imagined, so he could be sick in private.
Some of them never got used to the blood or the smell of bladder and bowels releasing with death.
The lights were viciously bright, merciless, really. The heart wound had bled profusely. She’d worn heels and a little black suit to the viewing. Of course, she would ruin both now. She was kneeling beside the body, tearing her stockings on the concrete and removing the murder weapon now that the scene had been duly recorded.
She sealed it, bagged it for evidence, but he’d gotten a good look at it. The handle was a deep brown, possibly horn of some sort. Yet there had been no mistaking its similarity to the one left at the last murder. An athame. The knife of ritual.
“Bad business.”
Roarke made a sound of assent as Feeney walked up to him. The man looked uncharacteristically fragile, Roarke observed. Eve was right to be concerned about him.
“You know anything about it? I’m not getting much buzz except that Dallas was talking to him outside, he ran, and ended up dead.”
“That’s about it. He seemed nervous about something. Apparently he had reason to be.” It wasn’t a place they could go together, Roarke decided and shifted away from it. “I hope you’ll take Eve up on the offer of the house in Mexico.”
“I’ll talk it over with my wife. I appreciate it.” Then he moved his shoulders. “I guess she doesn’t need me here. I should get home.” But he studied the scene another minute. Behind the fatigue in his eyes lurked the cop. “Screwy business. Some guy getting stuck in here. Fancy knife took out that stiff left at your place last night, too, right?”
“The other had a black handle. Some sort of metal, I think.”
“Yeah, well…” He rocked back on his heels a moment. “I’d better head home.”
He crossed to Eve, careful to avoid getting too close in his untreated shoes. She looked up, distracted, wiping the blood off her sealed hands with a rag.
And she watched him walk away until he was out of sight.
She rose, raked her not quite clean hands through her hair. “Bag him,” she ordered, and walked to Roarke. “I’m going to go in, do the report while it’s fresh in my mind.”
“All right.” He took her arm.
“No, you should go home. I’ll catch a ride with one of the team.”
“I’ll take you.”
“Peabody—”
“Peabody can catch a ride with one of the team.” She needed a few minutes, he knew, to decompress. He touched a button on his wrist unit to signal his driver.
“I feel stupid going into Central in a limo,” she muttered.
“Really? I don’t.” He walked her out of the garage, then around to the front of the funeral parlor. The limo streamed up to the curb. “You can catch your breath,” he suggested as he slid in behind her. “And I can have a brandy.” He poured one from a crystal decanter, and knowing Eve, programmed her coffee.
“Well, since we’re going it this way, you can tell me what you know about Wineburg.”
“One of the irritating rich and pampered.”
She took the hot, rich coffee served in a thin, classy cup of bone china, and gave Roarke—his plush limo, his pricey brandy—a long, cool look. “You’re rich.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “But pampered? Certainly not.” He swirled his brandy, kept smiling. “That’s what stops me from being irritating.”
“You think so?” The coffee helped, got her circuits running. “So he was a banker. He ran Wineburg Financial.”
“Hardly. His father’s still hale and hearty. This little fish would have been more of a minion. The type given busywork and a useless title and a big office. He’d gobble up his expense account, shuffle forms, and have his cosmetician in for weekly sessions.”
“Okay, you didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t know him, actually.” He gave the brandy a lazy swirl and sip. “Just the type. I don’t have any business dealings with Wineburg. In the dawn of
my…career, I needed some backing for a couple of projects. Legal projects,” he added at Eve’s speculative look. “They wouldn’t let me in the door. I wasn’t up to their level of client. So I went elsewhere, got the backing, and made a killing. Figuratively speaking. The Wineburg organization took it poorly.”
“So they’re a conservative, established, family-run institution.”
“Exactly.”
“It would be embarrassing to have the scion…Would he be like the scion?”
“If there’s such a thing as a minor scion, I suppose.”
“Okay if he was into Satanism, it probably wouldn’t go down well at the company picnic.”
“It would turn the board of directors white with shock—and, family or not, this little Wineburg would have been out on his ass.”
“He didn’t look like the type to risk it, but you never know. Sex, he said. Just for the sex. He could have been one of the ones who had at Alice. Then he’s guilty or curious and comes by the viewing. The one thing he was, was scared. He saw something, Roarke. He saw someone murdered. I know it. If I’d gotten him in, I’d have pulled it out of him. I could have broken him in ten minutes.”
“Apparently, someone else thought so, too.”
“Someone who was right there. On the spot. Watching him. Watching the viewing.”
“Or watching you,” Roarke finished. “Which is more likely.”
“I hope they keep watching, because before long, I’m going to turn around and bite them on the throat.” She glanced up as the limo pulled up to the front of Cop Central. Vaguely embarrassed, she peered out, hoping no cops were loitering nearby. She’d be ragged on for days. “I’ll see you at home. Couple hours.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go home.”
He simply leaned back, ordered the screen to engage and list the latest stock information. “I’ll wait,” he repeated and poured another brandy.
“Hardhead,” she muttered as she got out, then winced when someone called her name.
“Woowee, Dallas, going to slum with us working poor for awhile?”
“Bite me, Carter,” she muttered, and rushed inside before the delighted laughter forced her to break someone’s face.