Calculated in Death (14 page)

So she’d deal with them.

When she stepped out into the bedroom, heard the elevator door whisk closed behind her, she allowed herself a long, heartfelt, moaning sigh.

And that was enough self-indulgence.

She eased out of her coat, blessing it for its stun-proof lining. But at the moment it felt impossibly heavy. She started to pull off her jacket, realized when her shoulder pinged that sometime during the dash, leap, twist, catch, and fall, she’d wrenched it good and proper, and it had barely healed from a much nastier injury during a life-and-death struggle with Isaac McQueen a few weeks before.

She fumbled with her weapon harness, carefully slipped it off.

And Roarke walked into the room.

He studied her carefully, nodded. “Nice catch,” he said.

SHE’D EXPECTED WORRY, CONCERN, STROKING
and soothing, so his matter-of-fact comment threw her off balance.

Probably his devious plan, she decided, to trick her into going to a health center.

“Thanks. It was an unexpected play.”

“At the least. How bad is it?”

“Not very. I took a blocker.”

“So I heard. Well, let’s have a look.”

Now she smiled. “You just want to get me naked.”

“My life’s work,” he said as he walked to her. He could see in her eyes it was more than “not very.” “As it is, I’ll tend to that myself.” He started to draw her sweater up and off, heard her hiss of pain.

“Okay, ouch. Just a second.” She pressed her hand on her shoulder, trying to re-angle, decrease the twinge.

She saw the change in his eyes, that flash of ice blue heat, and knew he thought—as she did—of McQueen.

“The same shoulder?” he said gently.

“It figures, doesn’t it? It’s—okay, it’s ouch, but mostly just sore.”

“I’ll cut the sweater off.”

“The hell you will. This is that cashmere stuff. And I like this sweater.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so. I can like a sweater. It’s soft, and it’s warm, and we’re not hacking it up. We’ll just go easy, okay?”

“All right then.” Keeping his eyes trained on her face, he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “Relax now, loosen up and relax, and let me do it.”

She breathed, shut her eyes, let him carefully lift the wool. Not bad, not bad—shit, shit—okay, better.

“See? No hacking, and—” She followed the direction of his gaze, looked down at herself and found herself mildly stunned by the bruising blooming across her chest above her tank.

“Wow, colorful. I think the kid’s head plowed into me. He came at me like a mortar. Pow! Skull meets tits. Tits lose.”

“Have a seat, let me get your boots off.”

She did, watched him. His cool tone told her he was very, very angry, and much too worried. She could pin his response on her previous injuries. Not enough time between bouts, she decided. The only way she knew to offset his reaction was playing it light, playing it easy.

“I like sexy undressing better than you thinking about tranq’ing me unconscious and hauling me to the health center undressing.”

“I considered just that.”

“Come on. What kind of reward is that for making a really excellent catch?”

He met her eyes, and she saw him relax, just a little. “You’ve been hurt worse.”

“That’s what I said—thought.”

“Pants next.”

She smiled again. She still hurt, but some of the aches and twinges were buried under a layer of cotton from the blocker. “I will if you will.”

“It pains me to refuse such a generous offer.” He just unhooked her trousers, drew them off. “You’ve more bruises here and there.” He stroked his hands over the back of her head, carefully. Then relaxed a bit more when he found no knots or lumps. “But from watching the mini-vid all over the media, I’d say you’ve worse on your ass.”

“It’s kind of numb right now, but yeah. Tits and ass took the brunt.”

“Two of my favorite parts. Up you come.” He held her upright, and gently for a moment, brushing his lips over her temple.

Just banged up, he told himself. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.

“Have you seen the vid?”

“No. Kind of unnecessary as I was there.”

“I think you need to see it.” Gently, he drew her support tank up, bit back a curse at the trail of bruises over her ribs. “Two seconds later, or if you’d misjudged the—I suppose I’ll say arc and velocity—that little boy would have more than some bruises.”

“It was so damn fast. That fucker? The way he moved—speed, agility. He scooped the kid up with one hand, elbow-jabbed the father with the other arm, did a smooth half pivot, hurled. He’s played ball, Roarke. Serious ball at some point. And he’s strong. I figure the kid for a solid twenty-five pounds.”

“Twenty-seven, according to the parents in an interview.”

“Twenty-seven, and he hurled it like the kid weighed two. Some of that’s adrenaline, but it’s serious, solidly strong.”

He’d slipped off her underwear and stood studying her ass.

“What? How bad?” She craned her neck, tried to see for herself.

“There’s one here that looks a bit like Africa, another that resembles Australia. Then there’s a small chain of islands.”

“Great, I’ve got a world map on my ass.” She managed to turn, get a reasonable look in the mirror. “Jesus. It is a world map.”

“You’ve not much meat back there.”

“Are you complaining?”

He traced his fingers over her, featherlight. “Only about its current state.”

“It’ll be better when I soak it, and the rest of me in a hot jet tub.”

“It’s ice you need.”

“I don’t want ice. Ice is cold.”

“Is it? I need to write that down. On the bed with you.”

“The tub’ll be soothing.”

“So will this. Ass up to start,” he ordered as he moved into the next room.

She really wanted the tub, and figured the sooner she got the ice portion over and done, the sooner she’d get what she wanted. Plus it felt good to stretch out on the bed, at least once she’d adjusted for throbs and twinges.

Roarke came back, knelt on the bed beside her. “Why were you in that area?”

“Something Feeney said, so I wanted to get the feel from some of the suspects’ exes. Exes may say it all ended friendly, no problem, but they’re usually ready to serve the guy up to whoever asks for a slice.”

She started to protest when cold met her aching butt, then the relief eked through. Maybe ice wasn’t so bad.

“And you got the slice?”

“Yeah, on Carter Young-Sachs. He fits Mira’s profile, and my sense of the type who’d arrange a killing on impulse. Then again, he’s not the only one. I was telling Peabody to hit up a couple more of the exes, and I’d go by and take another pass at the WIN Group, and the asshole tries to stun me. In the back. Cowardly fuckhead.”

Roarke’s hands paused. “He fired at you, on the High Line?”

“No, he fired at me below the High Line.” And she realized, belatedly, she’d just told her husband she’d been fired on, without any kind of preparation. “I heard the whine of the stream—not sure why—and felt this thudding between my shoulder blades. So your most excellent still-in-development anti-stun material has now been field tested.”

She held up a thumb, gave it a jerk up.

“That’s desperation,” she continued. “And more impulse and stupidity. Firing a stream at a couple of cops in the middle of the Meat Packing District, with people swarming everywhere. It was a damn good shot, which tells me it’s not the first time he’s fired a stunner, which tells me—since there’s no way he’s a pro and has weapons illegal to civilians at his disposal, he’s been on the job, in the military, or part of a paramilitary deal. Possibly he’s got a collector’s license, but I’m leaning toward military. Former, and currently in the employ of one of my bigwigs as security or personal bodyguard. Something along those lines.”

She heard the hum of a healing wand, felt the mild pressure.

“Stunning you wouldn’t have accomplished anything. He’d need to finish it.”

“Yeah. I caught the movement, mostly just the movement. He’d have hit Peabody next, and she doesn’t have the magic lining. I tackled her. We both probably have some bruises from that now that I think of it. When I rolled over and up, I didn’t get a solid look again. All those people. But again, my sense is he was moving in, figuring I took her down when I fell from the stun. He’d just need to get to us, take us both out at point-blank, and get gone. Sloppy, brash and sloppy. But he thought fast, moved fast. I’m not sure I’d have caught him even without the flying toddler.”

“Security cameras must have captured him. You must have his face.”

“Not so much. Ski cap, sunshades, scarf. And he kept his head down. He’s not a complete idiot. We sent what we’ve got in, and they’ll run facial recognition. If he was in the military or on the job, we could get lucky with that. I’ve got some basics—he’s a big guy, about six four, two bucks-fifty. Strong build. Strong. I really think he played some ball. Arena Ball or football. So it’s another angle to poke at. He could’ve snapped the vic’s neck. He’s got the muscle for it.”

“And as he’d attempt to kill two cops in broad daylight, in a crowded area, the nerve and the lack of, let’s say, moral center. Turn over now, let’s see what I can do about those pretty breasts.”

“They’ve been prettier.”

“Still mine,” he murmured, gently kissing both when she turned.

“Attached to me.”

“I take a dim view of someone who’d bruise my wife’s pretty breasts.”

“You’re saying it like that to get a rise out of me.”

“You do happen to be my wife,” he reminded her, and used a gentle hand with the cold pack. “And they are very pretty breasts.”

“Chuckie had a head like a brick.” But she smiled. “It feels better. Why don’t you lose all those clothes so I’m not naked all by myself?”

He gave her bad shoulder a little poke, made her hiss.

“That was mean.”

“And why I’m not naked.”

He put another cold pack on the shoulder. It hurt, she realized, but she supposed in a good way. Who knew?

“It’s Alexander/Pope/Parzarri/Ingersol or Young/Biden/Arnold/Ingersol. Or any of those with Newton. I don’t think Whitestone because he’s just too smart to—oops—discover a body on his own doorsteps with the client of his wet dreams. But any three of the WINS could access each other’s accounts. They’re just that intertwined.”

“Which one are you leaning toward?”

“That’s the thing. Alexander, Young-Sachs, and Biden are all such assholes. And Pope’s such a measly little no-balls, he’s annoying. That colors it. They all fit neatly enough. Ingersol? He says too much, talks too fast, pushes too hard. A lot of impulse there, I think. On the other hand, Newton’s contained, genial, smooth—and that equals clever and smart to me. Somebody in this mess has to be smart. I need to push on the auditors, and that’s tomorrow. If one of them rings for me, that’ll fit the lock. But it’s just gut and circumstances without solid evidence. So I need to break one of them down, once I figure out which one.”

“Sterling Alexander’s considered a bit of a tool in some circles,” Roarke began as he ran the wand over her shoulder. “Those who respect him do so—according to those I spoke with—primarily for what he’s inherited, not what he’s done with it. The sense is he spends far too much on personal travel, income, perks while holding the line at a contrasting low end for employees.”

“None of that surprises me, but it’s good information.”

“Pope’s hardly considered at all,” Roarke continued, “but those who bother see him as the one dealing with the internal glitches, problems, numbers. Both Alexander Senior—Sterling’s father—and Pope Senior—the mother they share—hold controlling interests, though both have essentially retired. I’m told if it was discovered anything underhanded was going on inside the company, the mother would come down like the wrath of God.”

“What about Alexander Senior?”

“Apparently he’s enjoying his golf—” Roarke rose, moved into the bath. She heard the water spewing into the tub. “And his current wife. That would be wife four who’s a full half century younger.”

“Gee, could it be love?”

“Cynics say no, and I can guess which camp you’d fall in.” He went to a panel in the wall, tapped it, and took out a bottle of red wine. “He made his fortune, and to his and Mum Pope’s credit, built good facilities, donated generously, funded a number of excellent causes. Now he’s firmly entrenched in enjoying his later years with his five iron and his—some say—dim-witted young wife.

“Into the tub now.”

“It’s a big tub. Why are you still wearing clothes?”

Roarke shook his head as he poured wine. “Does getting bruised from head to foot make you think about sex?”

“I think it’s more having you tend to the wounded. You’re a pretty sexy nurse.”

He laughed. “Into the tub, Lieutenant. We’ll see how you do with a soak and some wine.”

“You said I should relax and loosen up.” She held out a hand for him to help her up, then slid her body against his.

“So I did.” He answered her kiss, but gently. And when she started to lift her arms, wrap around him, she gasped.

“Okay, the shoulder’s still a problem,” she admitted. “That just means you have to do all the work.”

After setting the wine down, he took off his tie, his jacket, his shirt—watching her smile spread, and the gleam light in her eyes.

He picked her up, taking care, gave her a soft, warm kiss as he carried her into the bath. And slowly, gently, lowered her into the warm, frothing water.

“Oh God, yes.” She moaned in glorious relief. “That’s what I mean.”

“Relax,” he said again.

“Hey!” She scowled after him when he walked out.

She wanted some sex, so what? Some nice, loosen-up-the-aches-in-the-bubbling-tub sex. Bubbling tub he’d put something in she realized with a sniff. Something that smelled good and probably had some medicinal purpose.

She gave him a steady stare when he came back with her wine, with a second glass, and with some sort of cream in a bottle.