“No, but it will destroy your case against him—posthumously on both parts. You see, when I left him less than two hours ago, Senator DeBlass was in his office in East Washington. I stood by him as he chose a four fifty-seven Magnum, a very powerful gun. And I watched as he put the barrel into his mouth, and died like a patriot.”
“Christ.” It jolted her, the image of it. “Suicide.”
“The warrior falling on his sword.” Admiration shone in Rockman’s voice. “I told him it was the only way, and he agreed. He would never have been able to tolerate the humiliation. When his body is found, when yours is found, the senator’s reputation will be intact once again. It will be proven that he was dead hours before you. He couldn’t have killed you, and as the method will be exactly as the other murders, and as there will be two more, as promised, the evidence against him will cease to matter. He’ll be mourned. I’ll lead the charge of fury and insult—and step into his bloody shoes.”
“This isn’t about politics. Goddamn you.” She rose then, braced for the blow. She was grateful he didn’t use the gun, but the back of his hand to knock her back. She turned with it, fell heavily onto the night table. The glass she’d left there shattered to the floor.
“Get up.”
She moaned a little. Indeed, the flash of pain had her cheek singing and her vision blurred. She pushed herself up, turned, careful to keep her body in front of the ’link she’d switched on manually.
“What good is it going to do to kill me, Rockman?”
“It will do me a great deal of good. You were the spearhead of the investigation. You’re sexually involved with a man who was an early suspect. Your reputation, and your motives will come under close scrutiny after your death. It’s always a mistake to give a woman authority.”
She wiped the blood from her mouth. “Don’t like women, Rockman?”
“They have their uses, but under it all, they’re whores. Perhaps you didn’t sell your body to Roarke, but he bought you. Your murder won’t really break the pattern I’ve established.”
“You’ve established?”
“Did you really believe DeBlass was capable of planning out and executing such a meticulous series of murders?” He waited until he saw that she understood. “Yes, he killed Sharon. An impulse. I wasn’t even aware he was considering it. He panicked afterward.”
“You were there. You were with him the night he killed Sharon.”
“I was waiting for him in the car. I always accompanied him on his trysts with her. Driving him so that only I, who he trusted, would be involved.”
“His own granddaughter.” Eve didn’t dare turn to be certain she was transmitting. “Didn’t it disgust you?”
“She disgusted me, lieutenant. She used his weakness. Every man’s entitled to one, but she used it, exploited it, then threatened him. After she was dead, I realized it was for the best. She would have waited until he was president, then twisted the knife.”
“So you helped him cover it up.”
“Of course.” Rockman lifted his shoulders. “I’m glad we have this opportunity. It was frustrating for me not to be able to take credit. I’m delighted to share it with you.”
Ego, she remembered. Not just intelligence, but ego and vanity. “You had to think fast,” she commented. “And you did. Fast and brilliantly.”
“Yes.” His smile spread. “He called me on the car ’link, told me to come up quickly. He was half mad with fear. If I hadn’t calmed him, she might have succeeded in ruining him.”
“You can blame her?”
“She was a whore. A dead whore.” He shrugged it off, but held the gun steady. “I gave the senator a sedative, and I cleaned up the mess. As I explained to him, it was necessary to make Sharon only part of the whole. To use her failings, her pathetic choice of profession. It was a simple matter to doctor the security discs. The senator’s penchant for recording his sexual activities gave me the idea to use that as part of the pattern.”
“Yes,” she said through numbed lips. “That was clever.”
“I wiped the place down, wiped the gun. Since he’d been sensible enough not to use one that was registered, I left it behind. Again, establishing pattern.”
“So you used it,” Eve said quietly. “Used him, used Sharon.”
“Only fools waste opportunities. He was more himself once we were away,” Rockman mused. “I was able to outline the rest of my plan. Using Simpson to apply pressure, leak information. It was unfortunate that the senator didn’t remember until later to tell me about Sharon’s diaries. I had to risk going back. But, as we know now, she was clever enough to hide them well.”
“You killed Lola Starr and Georgie Castle. You killed them to cover up the first murder.”
“Yes. But unlike the senator, I enjoyed it. From beginning to end. It was a simple matter to select them, choose names, locations.”
It was a little difficult at the moment to enjoy the fact that she’d been right, and her computer wrong. Two killers after all. “You didn’t know them? You didn’t even know them?”
“Did you think I should?” He laughed at that. “Who they were hardly mattered. Only what. Whores offend me. Women who spread their legs to weaken a man offend me. You offend me, lieutenant.”
“Why the discs?” Where the hell was Feeney? Why wasn’t a roving unit breaking down her door right now? “Why did you send me the discs?”
“I liked watching you scramble around like a mouse after cheese—a woman who believed she could think like a man. I pointed you at Roarke, but you let him talk you onto your back. All too typical. You disappointed me. You were emotional, lieutenant: over the deaths, over that little girl you didn’t save. But you got lucky. Which is why you’re about to become very unlucky.”
He sidestepped over to the dresser where he had a camera waiting. He switched it on. “Take off your clothes.”
“You can kill me,” she said as her stomach began to churn. “But you’re not going to rape me.”
“You’ll do exactly what I want you to do. They always do.” He lowered the gun until it pointed at her midsection. “With the others, it was a shot to the head first. Instant death, probably painless. Do you have any idea what sort of pain you’ll experience with a forty-five slug in your gut? You’ll be begging me to kill you.”
His eyes lit brilliantly. “Strip.”
Eve’s hands fell to her sides. She’d face the pain, but not the nightmare. Neither of them saw the cat slink into the room.
“Your choice, lieutenant,” Rockman said, then jerked when the cat brushed between his legs.
Eve sprang forward, head low, and used the force of her body to drive him against the wall.
chapter twenty
Feeney stopped on his way back from the eatery, a half a soy burger in his hand. He loitered by the coffee dispenser, gossiping with a couple of cops on robbery detail. They swapped stories, and Feeney decided he could use one more cup of coffee before calling it a night.
He nearly bypassed his office altogether, with visions of an evening in front of the TV screen and a nice cold beer swimming in his head. His wife might even be up for a little cuddle if he was lucky.
But he was a creature of habit. He breezed in to make certain his precious computer was secured for the night. And heard Eve’s voice.
“Hey, Dallas, what brings you—” He stopped, scanning his empty office. “Working too hard,” he muttered, then heard her again.
“You were with him. You were with him the night he killed Sharon.”
“Oh my Jesus.”
He could see little on the screen: Eve’s back, the side of the bed. Rockman was blocked from view, but the audio was clear. Feeney was already praying when he called Dispatch.
Eve heard the cat’s annoyed screech when her foot stomped his tail, heard too, the clatter as the gun hit the floor. Rockman had her in height, he had her in weight. And he’d recovered from her full body slam too quickly. He proved graphically that he was military
trained.
She fought viciously, unable to restrain herself to the cool, efficient moves of hand to hand. She used nails and teeth.
The shortened blow to the ribs stole her breath. She knew she was going down, and she made sure she took him with her. They hit the floor hard, and though she rolled, he came down on top of her.
Lights starred behind her eyes when her head rapped hard against the floor.
His hand was around her throat, bruising her windpipe. She went for the eyes, missed, and raked furrows down his cheek that had him howling like an animal. If he’d used his other hand for a blow to the face, he might have stunned her, but he was too focused on reaching the gun. Her stiff-handed chop to his elbow had his hand shaking from her throat. Painfully gasping in air, she scrambled with him for the gun.
His hand closed over it first.
Roarke tucked a package under his arm as he walked into the lobby of Eve’s building. He enjoyed the fact that she’d come to him. It was a habit he didn’t intend to see her break. He thought now that she’d closed her case, he could talk her into taking a couple of days off. He had an island in the West Indies he thought she’d enjoy.
He pressed her intercom, and was smiling over the image of swimming naked with her in clear blue water, making love under a hot, white sun when all hell broke loose behind him.
“Get the hell out of the way.” Feeney came in like a steamroller, a dozen uniforms in his wake. “Police business.”
“Eve!” Roarke’s blood drained even as he muscled his way onto the elevator.
Feeney ignored him and barked into his communicator. “Secure all exits. Get those fucking sharpshooters in position.”
Roarke fisted his hand uselessly at his sides. “DeBlass?”
“Rockman,” Feeney corrected, counting every beat of his own heart. “He’s got her. Stay out of the way, Roarke.”
“The fuck I will.”
Feeney flicked his eyes over, measured. No way he was going to spare a couple of cops to restrain a civilian, and he had a hunch this civilian would go to the wall, as he would, for Eve.
“Then do what I tell you.”
They heard the gunshot as the elevator doors opened.
Roarke was two steps ahead of Feeney when he rammed Eve’s apartment door. He swore, reared back. They hit it together.
The pain was like being stabbed with ice. Then it was gone, numbed with fury. Eve clamped her hand over the wrist of his gun hand, dug her short nails into his flesh. Rockman’s face was close to hers, his body pinning her in an obscene parody of love. His wrist was slippery with his own blood where she clawed at it.
She swore as she lost her grip, as he began to smile.
“You fight like a woman.” He shook his hair back from his eyes, and the blood from his torn cheek welled red. “I’m going to rape you. The last thing you’ll know before I kill you is that you’re no better than a whore.”
She sagged, and aroused with victory, he ripped at her blouse.
His smile shattered when she pumped her fist into his mouth. Blood splattered over her like warm rain. She hit him again, heard the crunch of cartilage as his nose fountained more blood. Quick as a snake, she scissored up.
And again, she jabbed at him, an elbow to the jaw, torn knuckles to the face, screaming and cursing as if her words would pummel him as well as her fists.
She didn’t hear the battering of the door, the crash of it falling in. With rage behind her, she shoved Rockman to his back, straddled him, and continued to plunge her fists into his face.
“Eve. Sweet God.”
It took Roarke and Feeney together to haul her off. She fought, snarling, until Roarke pressed her face into his shoulder.
“Stop. It’s done. It’s over.”
“He was going to kill me. He killed Lola and Georgie. He was going to kill me, but he was going to rape me first.” She pulled back, wiped at the blood and sweat on her face. “That’s where he made a mistake.”
“Sit down.” His hands were trembling and slicked with blood when he eased her onto the bed. “You’re hurt.”
“Not yet. It’ll start in a minute.” She gathered in a breath, let it out. She was a cop, damn it, she reminded herself. She was a cop, and she’d act like one. “You got the transmission,” she said to Feeney.
“Yeah.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe his clammy face.
“Then what the hell took you so long?” She managed a ghost of a smile. “You look a little upset, Feeney.”
“Shit. All in a day’s work.” He flipped on his communicator. “Situation under control. We need an ambulance.”
“I’m not going to any health center.”
“Not for you, champ. For him.” He glanced down at Rockman, who managed a weak groan.
“Once you clean him up, book him for the murders of Lola Starr and Georgie Castle.”
“You sure about that?”
Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she rose and picked up her jacket. “Got it all.” She held out the recorder. “DeBlass did Sharon, but our boy here is accessory after the fact. And I want him charged with the attempted rape and murder of a police officer. Toss in B and E for the hell of it.”
“You got it.” Feeney tucked the recorder into his pocket. “Christ, Dallas, you’re a mess.”
“I guess I am. Get him out of here, will you, Feeney?”
“Sure thing.”
“Let me help you.” Roarke bent down, lifted Rockman by the lapels. He jerked the man up, steadied him. “Look at me, Rockman. Vision clear?”
Rockman blinked blood out of his eyes. “I can see you.”
“Good.” Roarke’s arm shot up, quick as a bullet, and his fist connected with Rockman’s already battered face.
“Oops,” Feeney said mildly, when Rockman crumbled to the floor again. “Guess he’s not too steady on his feet.” He bent over himself, slipped on the cuffs. “Maybe a couple of you boys ought to carry him out. Hold the ambulance for me. I’ll ride with him.”
He took out an evidence bag, slipped the gun into it. “Nice piece—ivory handle. Bet it packs a wallop.”
“Tell me about it.” Her hand went automatically to her arm.
Feeney stopped admiring the gun and gaped at her. “Shit, Dallas, you shot?”
“I don’t know.” She said it almost dreamily, surprised when Roarke ripped off the sleeve of her already tattered shirt. “Hey.”
“Grazed her.” His voice was hollow. He ripped the sleeve again, used it to stanch the wound. “She needs to be looked at.”
“I figure I can leave that to you,” Feeney remarked. “You might want to stay somewhere else tonight, Dallas. Let a team come in and clean this up for you.”
“Yeah.” She smiled as the cat leaped onto the bed. “Maybe.” He whistled through his teeth. “Busy day.”
“It comes and goes,” she murmured, stroking the cat. Galahad, she thought, her white knight.
“See you around, kid.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Feeney.”
Determined to get through, Roarke crouched in front of her. He waited until Feeney’s whistling faded away. “Eve, you’re in shock.”
“Sort of. I’m starting to hurt though.”
“You need a doctor.”
She moved her shoulders. “I could use a pain pill, and I need to clean up.”
She looked down at herself, took inventory calmly. Her blouse was torn, spotted with blood. Her hands were a mess, ripped and swollen knuckles—she couldn’t quite make a fist. A hundred bruises were making themselves known and the wound on her arm where the bullet had nicked it was turning to fire.
“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” she decided, “but I’d better check.”
When she started to rise, he picked her up. “I kind of like when you carry me. Makes me all wobbly inside. Then I feel stupid about it after. There’s stuff in the bathroom.”
Since he wanted to see the damage for himself, he carried her in, set her on the toilet. He fo
und strong, police issue pain pills in a nearly empty medicine cabinet. He offered one, and water, before dampening a cloth.
She pushed at her hair with her good arm. “I forgot to tell Feeney. DeBlass is dead. Suicide. What they used to call eating your gun. Hell of a phrase.”
“Don’t worry about it now.” Roarke worked on the bullet wound first. It was a nasty gash, but the bleeding had already slowed. Any competent MT could close it in a matter of minutes. It didn’t make his hands any steadier.
“There were two killers.” She frowned at the far wall. “That was the problem. I clicked onto it, but then I let it go. Data indicated low probability percentage. Stupid.”
Roarke rinsed out the cloth and started on her face. He was deliriously relieved that most of the blood on it wasn’t hers. Her mouth was cut, her left eye already beginning to swell. There was raw color along her cheekbone.
He managed to take a full, almost easy breath. “You’re going to have a hell of a bruise.”
“I’ve had them before.” The medication was seeping in, turning pain into a mist. She only smiled when he stripped her to the waist and began checking for other injuries. “You’ve got great hands. I love when you touch me. Nobody ever touched me like that. Did I tell you?”
“No.” And he doubted she’d remember she was telling him now. He’d make sure to remind her.
“And you’re so pretty. So pretty,” she repeated, lifting a bleeding hand to his face. “I keep wondering what you’re doing here.”
He took her hand, wrapped a cloth gently around it. “I’ve asked myself the same question.”
She grinned foolishly, let herself float. Need to file my report, she thought hazily. Soon. “You don’t really think we’re going to make anything out of this, do you? Roarke and the cop?”
“I guess we’ll have to find out.” There were plenty of bruises, but the bluing along her ribs worried him most.
“Okay. Maybe I could lie down now? Can we go to your place, ’cause Feeney’s going to send a team in to record the scene and all that. If I could just take a little nap before I go in to make my report.”