“And she looked deep enough that you’d figure he was straight.” Eve nodded. “Good catch, even if you did lead up to it with cookies.”
“Hey, they were really good cookies.”
“It earned you the rest of the day. Go home, get some sleep.”
“Seriously?”
“And report to my home office at seven hundred. Sharp.”
“With bells on.”
She looked down at Peabody’s colorful airsneaks. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I can put in a couple more hours if you want to keep pushing.”
“Neither of us is going to do the investigation much good if we’re asleep on our feet. Let’s hit it fresh in the morning.”
“Take my car,” Roarke offered and Peabody’s eyes all but popped out of her head and onto her shoes.
“Really? What is this, be nice to Peabody day?”
“If it’s not it should be. You’ll save me from having to have it picked up, as I’d like to ride with the lieutenant.”
“Well, any little thing I can do.”
He gave her the code, and watched with amusement as she sauntered off. Then indulged herself with a little boogie dance around the hot red sportster.
“You know she’s not going to drive back to her place, not right away.” Watching Peabody’s happy dance, Eve fisted her hands on her hips. “She’s going to take it out on the freeway or the turnpike, open up that ridiculous engine, and end up somewhere in New Jersey, explaining to some traffic droid that she’s a cop, and on some bogus assignment. Then she’ll carom back to the city, get pulled over again, and give them the same story.”
“Carom?”
“That’s the sound that toy of yours makes. Carom. Then when McNab gets off shift, he’ll talk her into letting him take it out, and they’ll get pulled over again, have to flash their badges. And if any of the traffic droids interface, you’re going to get tagged and have to explain why a vehicle registered to you is being used by a couple of idiotic city detectives.”
“Sounds like fun for everyone. In you go, Lieutenant. I’ll drive.”
She didn’t argue. Lack of sleep had dulled her reflexes, and traffic was starting to heat up.
“You were hard on her,” he commented as he nudged the police unit away from the curb.
“If you’ve got a problem with my technique, file a damn complaint.”
“I don’t. She needed you to be hard on her. And when she gets her feet under her again, she’ll respect that. She’ll also push back.”
Eve stretched out as best she could, and shut her eyes. “That doesn’t worry me.”
“It wouldn’t. I think you’ll like her better when she starts to push.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like her.”
“No, but you think she’s weak and she’s not.” He skimmed a hand, lightly, over Eve’s hair. “You think she’s foolish, and she isn’t. What she is, is shaken, on every level, and grieving for a man she knows, at the core, isn’t worthy of that grief. So she grieves instead for the illusion. And that, I think, might be even more wrenching.”
“If you ended up naked and dead with another woman, I’d do the rumba on your corpse.”
“You can’t do the rumba.”
“I’d take lessons first.”
He laughed, rubbed a hand over her thigh. “You might very well, not that you’ll ever get the chance. But you’d also grieve.”
“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” she mumbled, half asleep. “You cheating fuckwit putz.”
“You’d weep in the dark and call my name.”
“Call your name all right: How are things in hell, you dickless bastard? and I’d laugh and laugh. That’s how I’d call your name.”
“Christ Jesus, Eve, I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” And she smirked in her sleep. “Then I’d put all your precious shoes in the recycler, take your fancy suits and burn them in a celebrational fire, and kick Summerset out of my house on his bony ass. After which I’d have a party where we’d drink all your expensive wine and whiskey. And after that I’d hire two, no three, of the top LCs in the business to come over and pleasure me.”
When she noticed the car was stopped, she blinked her eyes open and saw he was staring at her. “What?”
“It just occurs to me that you’ve given this matter a great deal of thought.”
“No, not really.” She rolled some of the stiffness out of her shoulders and yawned. “It all just came to me in one big lump. Where’d I leave off?”
“Being pleasured by three LCs. I assume you’d need three in order to be pleasured in the style to which you’ve become accustomed in the last couple years.”
“Yeah, you’d think that. Okay, after the orgy, I’d start on your toys. First, I’d . . .” She broke off, narrowed her eyes as she focused out the car window. “Funny, that doesn’t look like Central.”
“You can work from home, and plan my memorial from here as well. After we both get some sleep.”
He got out, came around, and opened her door because she hadn’t budged. “I haven’t updated my report, or checked in with the commander.”
“Which can be done from here, as well.” He simply reached in, gathered her up, and slung her over his shoulder.
“You think this is all macho and sexy, right?”
“I think it’s expedient.”
She decided to play possum when he walked in the house. At least that way she wouldn’t have to speak to Summerset. But when she heard the irritating sound of his voice she wished she could screw up her ears as handily as she could her eyes.
“Is she injured?”
“No.” Roarke shifted his balance as he started up the stairs. “Just tired.”
“You look tired yourself.”
“I am. Hold any transmissions that aren’t emergencies for the next few hours, will you? And anything that’s not priority for an hour beyond that.”
“I will.”
“I’ll need to speak with you about several matters after that. Put up full security, and stay in the house until I do.”
“Very well.”
Because she’d opened one eye, she saw Summerset’s concerned frown before Roarke turned at the top of the stairs.
“He in on this Code Red?”
“He knows a great deal about a great deal. Anyone looking at me would look at him.” He booted the door closed behind him, then walked over to dump her on the bed.
“I guess you do look tired.” She angled her head as she studied his face. “You hardly ever do.”
“Been a long day, all around. Boots off.”
“I can get my own boots off.” She brushed his hands away. “Deal with your own.”
“Ah yes, a pair of my precious shoes, soon doomed to the recycler.”
She had to admit, he had a great smirk. “If you don’t watch your step, pal.”
She stripped off the boots, the jacket, her weapon harness, then crawled into bed.
“You’d sleep better without the clothes.”
“You get ideas when I’m naked.”
“Darling Eve, I get ideas when you’re wearing riot armor. All I’m after is a bit of sleep, I promise you.”
She wiggled out of the jeans, the shirt, then gave him a mock scowl when he slid in beside her, drew her against him. “Don’t even think about engaging thrusters.”
“Quiet.” He kissed the top of her head, snuggled her in. “Go to sleep.”
Because she was warm, comfortable, and her head was perfectly pillowed on his shoulder, she did. A moment after he felt her float off, he followed.
How could things have gone so wrong? How could it have fallen apart when it was all so perfect, so meticulously planned? And executed, he reminded himself as he huddled in the dark.
He’d done everything right. Absolutely everything. And now he was hiding behind locked doors and shaded windows, in fear for his life.
His life.
There’d been a mistake.
That had to be it. Something had gone wrong, somewhere. But it made no sense.
He calmed himself with slow sips of whiskey.
He hadn’t made a mistake. He’d gone into the brownstone at exactly the right time. His skin sealed, his clothes protected by the thin, clear lab suit, and his hair covered with a zero-contamination skullcap. There would be no trace of him inside the house.
He’d checked the house droid to verify it had been shut down for the night. Then he’d gone upstairs. God, how his heart had pounded. He’d been afraid, almost afraid, he amended, that they’d be able to hear the wild beat of it over the music, over their own moans as they’d fucked.
He’d had the stunner in his hand, the knife in the sheath on his belt. He’d liked the way the sheath had bumped against his thigh. Anticipation.
He’d moved quickly, just as planned. Just as he’d practiced. One shot between the shoulder blades, and the first half of the target was done. Maybe, just maybe he’d hesitated a fraction of a second then. Maybe, just maybe he’d watched Felicity’s eyes, and had caught the shock in them an instant before he’d rammed the stunner between those beautiful breasts.
But he hadn’t hesitated after that. He hadn’t.
The knife now, drawing steel out of leather with a sexy little swish.
Then the killing. His first kills.
He had to admit he’d liked it. More, much more than he’d expected. The feel of the knife driving into flesh, and the warm wash of blood.
So primal. So basic.
And so, well, easy, he mused as the whiskey soothed his nerves. So easy once you got started.
He’d set the stage then, and he’d been very, very careful. So careful, so precise, he’d been barely finished when Reva had arrived, when his alarm had beeped quietly to signal she’d begun to disengage the security.
But he’d stayed calm, he’d stayed cool. Silent as a shadow, he thought with some pride, as he’d waited for her to come into the room.
Had he grinned when she’d marched to the bed, spewing temper? Maybe he had, but it hadn’t affected his performance.
One quick spray of the anesthetic, and she’d been out.
He’d added a few touches there. Genius, really. Dragging her into the bath to get her fingerprint on the sink, smearing a bit of blood on her shirt. And he thought the knife stabbed into the mattress spoke for itself.
It was so Reva, after all.
He’d left the front door ajar, just as planned, when he left. She should’ve been out long enough for security to find her on the routine check. All right, all right, maybe that had been a small miscalculation. He hadn’t sprayed enough, or he’d wasted a little time with the extra touches.
But even that shouldn’t matter. She was charged. Blair Bissel and Felicity Kade were dead, and she was the only suspect.
He should’ve been away by now. His accounts bursting with fresh money. Instead, he was a marked man.
He had to get away. He had to protect himself.
He wasn’t even safe here. Not completely safe. But he could fix that. He could fix that, he realized, and sat up as the clouds of fear and self-pity began to clear. And solve some of the financial squeeze at the same time.
Then he’d deal with the rest.
A little more time to think, and he’d deal with it all.
Steadier, he rose to pour more whiskey, and to plan his next steps.
6 EVE WAS ALONE when she woke, and a quick check showed her she’d slept a half hour longer than she’d intended.
Too groggy to curse, she crawled out of bed, stumbled to the AutoChef, and got coffee. She carried it with her to the shower, called for water on full at a hundred and one, then glugged down caffeine while the hot water pounded on her.
She was halfway through with the oversized mug when she realized she was still wearing her underwear.
Now she did curse. After downing the rest of the coffee, she peeled off the tank and panties and tossed them into a sopping heap in the corner of the shower.
Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both connected to the art world. Possible connection to techno-terrorists. Super computer worm. Security compromised in several areas. Preplanned frame on security expert in charge of developing extermination program and shield.
What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the plate. No one was indispensable.
She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn’t like any of the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy once you chipped off the shine?
Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her life in a cage, what did it accomplish?
She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when Roarke walked into the bedroom.
“Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people and frame an employee?” she asked.
“There are all kinds of people in the world.”
“Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with the world. There are people in it. But there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don’t think you’re it.”
“Darling, I’m shattered. I was so sure I was it for you.”
“But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more specifically Securecomp. We’ll have to play with that some. But first I want a closer look at the victims.”
“I started the runs for you. I was up,” he said when she frowned at him. “Now that we both are, I’m thinking seriously about food.”
“You’ll have to have it in my office.”
“Naturally.”
“You’re pretty agreeable.”
“No, actually, just hungry.”
Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. “You can have a look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer, data on screen one.”
“Any sealeds?”
“No. At least none that show.”
“What do you mean, none that show?”
“Just that it’s all very, very tidy. See for yourself.”
She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.
Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB . . . March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass, divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.
Occupation: sculptor.
Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York.
“Serenity Lane.” Eve shook her head as she chewed. “What twink comes up with that stuff?”
“I imagine you’d prefer Kick-Ass Drive.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Because he’d gone deep, she was treated to educational history from Bissel’s formal play group at age three right through his two years abroad at an art school in Paris.
She read through his medical—the broken tibia at age twelve, the standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and so on. He’d had some face and body work—ass, chin, nose.
He’d been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one million, eight hundred thousand and some change.
There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile.
He’d paid his taxes in a timely fashion, lived well, but within his means.
Reva was his only marriage.
His parents were still living. His father remained in Cleveland with wife number two, and his mother in Boca Raton with husband number three. His brother—no marriage on record, no children registered—had entrepreneur listed as profession, a sure tip-off to the less polite: no gainful employment. His work history was varied as he’d moved from job to job and place to place. He was currently listed as residing in Jamaica, as part owner of a tiki bar.
His criminal record was equally varied. Petty ante stuff, Eve noted. A little graft, a bit of grift, a touch of larceny. He’d served eighteen
months in an Ohio state pen for his part in selling seniors nonexistent time-shares.
His gross worth was just over twelve thousand, which included his part in the tiki bar.
“I wonder if the younger brother has some issues with the fact big brother got the bucks and the glory. No violent crimes on record, but it’s different with family. People get worked up when it’s family. Add money and it gets messy.”
“So little brother comes up from Jamaica, kills big brother and frames sister-in-law.”
“Reaching,” she admitted with a purse of her lips, “but not that far if you speculate Carter Bissel knew about the project. Maybe he was approached, offered money for any information he could get. Maybe he gets some, maybe he doesn’t. But he’s slick enough to figure out his brother’s diddling on the side. Maybe a spot of blackmail, family fight. Threats.” She shrugged.
“Yes, I see the picture.” While he ate, Roarke turned it over in his mind. “He may have been a conduit. A liaison. Sibling rivalry turns deadly, and he and whoever recruited him decided to eliminate the loose ends.”
“Makes the most sense so far. We’ll want to chat with little bro Carter.”
“That’s handy as we don’t spend nearly enough time in tiki bars.”
Since it was there, she picked up the glass of cabernet and sipped while she studied her husband’s face. “You’re thinking something else.”
“No, just thinking. Have a look at Felicity Kade. Kade data, on screen two.”
She got the picture quickly enough of the only child of well-to-do parents. Extensive education, extensive travel. Homes in New York City, the Hamptons, and Tuscany. A socialite who earned some pin money as an art broker. Not that she needed extra to buy her pins, Eve thought, with a net worth—mostly inherited and through trust funds—of five million plus.
Never married, though there was one brief cohabitation on record in her twenties. At thirty, she lived alone, lived well—or had.
She’d had considerable body work, but had apparently been happy enough with her face. There was no unusual or unexpected medical data, and no criminal. No sealeds.