by J. D. Robb
“Please proceed to the east wing, Lieutenant Dallas. You will be met.”
“Right.”
Eve turned down a corridor, passed a marble run that held a forest of snowy white impatiens.
“Lieutenant.” A woman in a killer red suit and hair as white as the impatiens smiled coolly. “Come with me, please.”
The woman slipped a thin security card into a slot, laid her palm against a sheet of black glass for a handprint. The wall slid open, revealing a private elevator.
Eve stepped inside with her, and was unsurprised when her escort requested the top floor.
Eve had been certain Roarke would be satisfied with nothing but the top.
Her guide was silent on the ride up and exuded a discreet whiff of sensible scent that matched her sensible shoes and neat, sleek coif. Eve secretly admired women who put themselves together, top to toe, with such seeming effortlessness.
Faced with such quiet magnificence, she tugged self-consciously at her worn leather jacket and wondered if it was time she actually spent money on a haircut rather than hacking away at it herself.
Before she could decide on such earth-shattering matters, the doors whooshed open into a silent, white carpeted foyer the size of a small home. There were lush green plants—real plants: ficus, palm, what appeared to be a dogwood flowering off season. There was a sharp spicy scent from a bank of dianthus, blooming in shades of rose and vivid purple.
The garden surrounded a comfortable waiting area of mauve sofas and glossy wood tables, lamps that were surely solid brass with jeweled colored shades.
In the center of this was a circular workstation, equipped as efficiently as a cockpit with monitors and keyboards, gauges and tele-links. Two men and a woman worked at it busily, with a seamless ballet of competence in motion.
She was led past them into a glass-sided breezeway. A peek down, and she could see Manhattan. There was music piped in she didn’t recognize as Mozart. For Eve, music began sometime after her tenth birthday.
The woman in the killer suit paused again, flashed her cool, perfect smile, then spoke into a hidden speaker. “Lieutenant Dallas, sir.”
“Send her in, Caro. Thank you.”
Again Caro pressed her palm to a slick black glass. “Go right in, lieutenant,” she invited as a panel slid open.
“Thanks.” Out of curiosity, Eve watched her walk away, wondering how anyone could stride so gracefully on three-inch heels. She walked into Roarke’s office.
It was, as she expected, as impressive as the rest of his New York headquarters. Despite the soaring, three-sided view of New York, the lofty ceiling with its pinprick lights, the vibrant tones of topaz and emerald in the thickly cushioned furnishings, it was the man behind the ebony slab desk that dominated.
What in hell was it about him? Eve thought again as Roarke rose and slanted a smile at her.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” he said in that faint and fascinating Irish lilt, “a pleasure, as always.”
“You might not think so when I’m finished.”
He lifted a brow. “Why don’t you come the rest of the way in and get started? Then we’ll see. Coffee?”
“Don’t try to distract me, Roarke.” She walked closer. Then, to satisfy her curiosity, she took a brief turn around the room. It was as big as a heliport, with all the amenities of a first-class hotel: automated service bar, a padded relaxation chair complete with VR and mood settings, an oversize wall screen, currently blank. To the left, there was a full bath including whirl tub and drying tube. All the standard office equipment, of the highest high-tech, was built in.
Roarke watched her with a bland expression. He admired the way she moved, the way those cool, quick eyes took in everything.
“Would you like a tour, Eve?”
“No. How do you work with all this . . .” Using both hands, she gestured widely at the treated glass walls. “Open.”
“I don’t like being closed in. Are you going to sit, or prowl?”
“I’m going to stand. I have some questions to ask you, Roarke. You’re entitled to have counsel present.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then we’ll save the lawyers until I am. Ask.”
Though she kept her eyes level on his, she knew where his hands were, tucked casually in the pockets of his slacks. Hands revealed emotions.
“Night before last,” she said, “between the hours of eight and ten P.M. Can you verify your whereabouts?”
“I believe I was here until shortly after eight.” With a steady hand he touched his desk log. “I shut down my monitor at 8:17. I left the building, drove home.”
“Drove,” she interrupted, “or were driven?”
“Drove. I keep a car here. I don’t believe in keeping my employees waiting on my whims.”
“Damned democratic of you.” And, she thought, damned inconvenient. She’d wanted him to have an alibi. “And then?”
“I poured myself a brandy, had a shower, changed. I had a late supper with a friend.”
“How late, and what friend?”
“I believe I arrived at about ten. I like to be prompt. At Madeline Montmart’s townhouse.”
Eve had a quick vision of a curvy blond with a sultry mouth and almond eyes. “Madeline Montmart, the actress?”
“Yes. I believe we had squab, if that’s helpful.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “No one can verify your movements between eight-seventeen and ten P.M. ?”
“One of the staff might have noticed, but then, I pay them well and they’re likely to say what I tell them to say.” His voice took on an edge. “There’s been another murder.”
“Lola Starr, licensed companion. Certain details will be released to the media within the hour.”
“And certain details will not.”
“Do you own a silencer, Roarke?”
His expression didn’t change. “Several. You look exhausted, Eve. Have you been up all night?”
“Goes with the job. Do you own a Swiss handgun, SIG two-ten, circa 1980?”
“I acquired one about six weeks ago. Sit down.”
“Were you acquainted with Lola Starr?” Reaching into her briefcase, she pulled out a photo she’d found in Lola’s apartment. The pretty, elfin girl beamed out, full of sassy fun.
Roarke lowered his gaze to it as it landed on his desk. His eyes flickered. This time his voice was tinged with something Eve thought sounded like pity.
“She isn’t old enough to be licensed.”
“She turned eighteen four months ago. Applied on her birthday.”
“She didn’t have time to change her mind, did she?” His eyes lifted to Eve’s. And yes, it was pity. “I didn’t know her. I don’t use prostitutes—or children.” He picked up the photo, skirted the desk, and offered it back to Eve. “Sit down.”
“Have you ever—”
“Goddamn it, sit down.” In sudden fury, he took her shoulders, pushed her into a chair. Her case tipped, spilling out photos of Lola that had nothing to do with sassy fun.
She might have reached them first—her reflexes were as good as his. Perhaps she wanted him to see them. Perhaps she needed him to.
Crouching, Roarke picked up a photo taken at the scene. He stared at it. “Christ Jesus,” he said softly. “You believe I’m capable of this?”
“My beliefs aren’t the issue. Investigating—” She broke off when his eyes whipped to hers.
“You believe I’m capable of this?” he repeated in an undertone that cut like a blade.
“No, but I have a job to do.”
“Your job sucks.”
She took the photos back, stored them. “From time to time.”
“How do you sleep at night, after looking at something like this?”
She flinched. Though she recovered in a snap, he’d seen it. As intrigued as he was by her instinctive and emotional reaction, he was sorry he’d caused it.
“By knowing I’ll take
down the bastard who did it. Get out of my way.”
He stayed where he was, laid a hand on her rigid arm. “A man in my position has to read people quickly and accurately, Eve. I’m reading you as someone close to the edge.”
“I said, get out of my way.”
He rose, but shifting his grip on her arm, pulled her to her feet. He was still in her way. “He’ll do it again,” Roarke said quietly. “And it’s eating at you wondering when and where and who.”
“Don’t analyze me. We’ve got a whole department of shrinks on the payroll for that.”
“Why haven’t you been to see one? You’ve been slipping through loopholes to avoid Testing.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled, but there was no amusement in it.
“I have connections, lieutenant. You were due in Testing several days ago, standard department procedure after a justifiable termination, one you executed the night Sharon was killed.”
“Keep out of my business,” she said furiously. “And fuck your connections.”
“What are you afraid of? What are you afraid they’ll find if they get a look inside of that head of yours? That heart of yours?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.” She jerked her arm free, but he merely laid his hand on her cheek. A gesture so unexpected, so gentle, her stomach quivered.
“Let me help you.”
“I—” Something nearly spilled out, as the photos had. But this time her reflexes kept it tucked away. “I’m handling it.” She turned away. “You can pick up your property anytime after nine A.M. tomorrow.”
“Eve.”
She kept her eyes focused on the doorway, kept walking. “What?”
“I want to see you tonight.”
“No.”
He was tempted—very tempted—to lunge after her. Instead, he stayed where he was. “I can help you with the case.”
Cautious, she stopped, turned back. If he hadn’t been experiencing an uncomfortable twist of sexual frustration, he might have laughed aloud at the combination of suspicion and derision in her eyes.
“How?”
“I know people Sharon knew.” As he spoke, he saw the derision alter to interest. But the suspicion remained. “It doesn’t take a long mental leap to realize you’ll be looking for a connection between Sharon and the girl whose photos you’re carrying. I’ll see if I can find one.”
“Information from a suspect doesn’t carry much weight in an investigation. But,” she added before he could speak, “you can let me know.”
He smiled after all. “Is it any wonder I want you naked, and in bed? I’ll let you know, lieutenant.” And walked back behind his desk. “In the meantime, get some sleep.”
When the door closed behind her, the smile went out of his eyes. For a long moment he sat in silence. Fingering the button he carried in his pocket, he engaged his private, secure line.
He didn’t want this call on his log.
chapter seven
Eve stepped up to the peep screen at Charles Monroe’s door and started to announce herself when it slid open. He was in black tie, a cashmere cape swung negligently over his shoulders, offset by the cream of a silk scarf. His smile was every bit as well turned out as his wardrobe.
“Lieutenant Dallas. How lovely to see you again.” His eyes, full of compliments she knew she didn’t deserve, skimmed over her. “And how unfortunate I’m just on my way out.”
“I won’t keep you long.” She stepped forward, he stepped back. “A couple of questions, Mr. Monroe, here, informally, or formally, at the station with your representative or counsel.”
His well shaped brows shot up. “I see. I thought we’d progressed beyond that. Very well, lieutenant, ask away.” He let the door slide shut again. “We’ll keep it informal.”
“Your whereabouts night before last, between the hours of eight and eleven?”
“Night before last?” He slipped a diary out of his pocket, keyed it in. “Ah, yes. I picked up a client at seven-thirty for an eight o’clock curtain at the Grande Theater. They’re doing a reprise of Ibsen—depressing stuff. We sat third row, center. It ended just before eleven, and we had a late supper, catered. Here. I was engaged with her until three A.M.”
His smile flashed as he tucked the diary away again. “Does that clear me?”
“If your client will corroborate.”
The smile faded into a look of pain. “Lieutenant, you’re killing me.”
“Someone’s killing people in your profession,” she snapped back. “Name and number, Mr. Monroe.” She waited until he’d mournfully given the data. “Are you acquainted with a Lola Starr?”
“Lola, Lola Starr . . . doesn’t sound familiar.” He took out the diary again, scanning through his address section. “Apparently not. Why?”
“You’ll hear about it on the news by morning,” was all Eve told him as she opened the door again. “So far, it’s only been women, Mr. Monroe, but if I were you, I’d be very careful about taking on new clients.”
With a headache drumming at her, she strode to the elevator. Unable to resist, she glanced toward the door of Sharon DeBlass’s apartment, where the red police security light blinked.
She needed to sleep, she told herself. She needed to go home and empty her mind for an hour. But she was keying in her ID to disengage the seal, and walking into the home of a dead woman.
It was silent. And it was empty. She’d expected nothing else. Somehow she hoped there would be some flash of intuition, but there was only the steady pounding in her temples. Ignoring it, she went into the bedroom.
The windows had been sealed as well with concealing spray to prevent the media or the morbidly curious from doing fly-bys and checking out the scene. She ordered lights, and the shadows bounced back to reveal the bed.
The sheets had been stripped off and taken into forensics. Body fluids, hair, and skin had already been analyzed and logged. There was a stain on the floating mattress where blood had seeped through those satin sheets.
The pillowed headboard was splattered with it. She wondered if anyone would care enough to have it cleaned.
She glanced toward the table. Feeney had taken the small desktop PC so that he could search through the hard drive as well as the discs. The room had been searched and swept. There was nothing left to do.
Yet Eve went to the dresser, going methodically through the drawers again. Who would claim all these clothes? she wondered. The silks and lace, the cashmeres and satins of a woman who had preferred the textures of the rich against her skin.
The mother, she imagined. Why hadn’t she sent in a request for the return of her daughter’s things?
Something to think about.
She went through the closet, again going through skirts, dresses, trousers, the trendy capes and caftans, jackets and blouses, checking pockets, linings. She moved onto shoes, all kept neatly in acrylic boxes.
The woman had only had two feet, she thought with some annoyance. No one needed sixty pairs of shoes. With a little snort, she reached into toes, deep inside the tunnel of boots, into the springy softness of inflatable platforms.
Lola hadn’t had so much, she thought now. Two pairs of ridiculously high heels, a pair of girlish vinyl straps, and a simple pair of air pump sneakers, all jumbled in her narrow closet.
But Sharon had been an organized as well as a vain soul. Her shoes were carefully stacked in rows of—
Wrong. Skin prickling, Eve stepped back. It was wrong. The closet was as big as a room, and every inch of space had been ruthlessly utilized. Now, there was a full foot empty on the shelves. Because the shoes were stacked six high in a row of eight.
It wasn’t the way Eve had found them or the way she’d left them. They’d been organized according to color and style. In stacks, she remembered perfectly, of four, a row of twelve.
Such a little mistake, she thought with a small smile. But a man who made one was bound to make another.
“Would you repeat that, lieutena
nt?”
“He restacked the shoe boxes wrong, commander.” Negotiating traffic, shivering as her car heater offered a tepid puff of air around her toes, Eve checked in. A tourist blimp crept by at low altitude, the guide’s voice booming out tips on sky walk shopping as they crossed toward Fifth. Some idiotic road crew with a special daylight license power drilled a tunnel access on the corner of Sixth and Seventy-eighth. Eve pitched her voice above the din.
“You can review the discs of the scene. I know how the closet was arranged. It made an impression on me that any one person should have so many clothes, and keep them so organized. He went back.”
“Returned to the scene of the crime?” Whitney’s voice was dry as dust.
“Clichés have a basis in fact.” Hoping for relative quiet, she jogged west down a cross street and ended up fuming behind a clicking microbus. Didn’t anyone stay home in New York? “Or they wouldn’t be clichés,” she finished and switched to automatic drive so that she could warm her hands in her pockets. “There were other things. She kept her costume jewelry in a partitioned drawer. Rings in one section, bracelets in another, and so on. Some of the chains were tangled when I looked again.”
“The sweepers—”
“Sir, I went through the place again after the sweepers. I know he’s been there.” Eve bit back on frustration and reminded herself that Whitney was a cautious man. Administrators had to be. “He got through the security, and he went in. He was looking for something—something he forgot. Something she had. Something we missed.”
“You want the place swept again?”
“I do. And I want Feeney to go back over Sharon’s files. Something’s there, somewhere. And it concerns him enough to risk going back for it.”
“I’ll signature the authorization. The chief isn’t going to like it.” The commander was silent for a moment. Then, as if he’d just remembered it was a fully secured line, he snorted. “Fuck the chief. Good eye, Dallas.”
“Thank you—” But he’d cut her off before she could finish being grateful.
Two of six, she thought, and in the privacy of her car, she shuddered from more than the cold. There were four more people out there whose lives were in her hands.