Celebrity in Death (36 page)

When she opened, he filled. When he filled, she surrounded.

As they moved together in the dance of firelight, the tenderness brought tears to her eyes, a catch of them in her breath.

“I love you.” Overwhelmed, undone, he pressed his face to her shoulder.
“A ghra. A ghra mo chroi.”

“Love,” she sighed as she rose to peak, light as a feather on a cloud.

“Love,” she repeated when she lay warm against him. She rested her hand on his cheek. He curled his over her wrist.

She slept, in the quiet and warm.

Roarke slept with her.

W
hen she woke to sunlight, it pleased her to see him in the bedroom sitting area, drinking coffee—the cat sprawled over his lap—while he watched the financial reports whiz by on-screen. And fully dressed in one of his god of the business world suits.

Which meant he’d been up an hour, probably more, and tended to some of his realm.

So not as worried about her.

She glanced at the time, grunted, then rolled out of bed to shower. In the drying tube, she closed her eyes as the warm air swirled around her. Time to get your head in the game, she ordered herself.

Who the hell had a head to get in any game before coffee?

She grabbed the robe on the back of the door, shrugged into it as she strode back into the bedroom and straight to the AutoChef.

She drank half the first cup as though her life depended on it, then turned, studied Roarke again.

“Morning.”

“She speaks.”

“And she’s going to have to do a lot more of it.”

She crossed over to the closet, started to reach for clothes at random.

“Not today,” Roarke said from behind her.

“What? I’m not wearing clothes today?”

“Oh, if only. Today, you take a rare moment to think about clothes.”

“I think about them. They keep me from being arrested for indecent exposure. And if I have to tackle some asshole during the course of the day, it prevents him from thinking I’m a sex fiend.”

“Both excellent purposes for wardrobe. Another is presentation. You’re going to be presenting your case—and yourself—to your commander and others.”

“Which is cop work.” She may have been barefoot, but she prepared to dig in her heels. “I’m not fancying up for cop work.”

“There is, Lieutenant, considerable area between indecent exposure/ sex fiend and fancying up. Such as …”

He selected fitted trousers in chocolate brown with a kind of nubby finish, matched them with a three-button jacket in deep, strong blue, then managed to add an Oxford-style shirt with stripes that picked up both tones.

“A clean, confident presentation of someone who’s in charge and prepared to get down to the business at hand.”

“All that?”

“Wear your new boots.” He passed her the clothes. “They’ll work well with that, and with the coat as well.”

“What new boots?” Her eyebrows drew together as he took them off a shelf. “And where did they come from?”

“The boot elves, I assume.”

“The boot elves are going to be pissed when they’re dinged and scuffed inside a week.”

“Oh, I think they’re more tolerant than that.”

“Those elves keep this up I’m going to need a bigger closet.”

But she dressed as advised, then sat to pull on the boots while Roarke programmed breakfast for two.

They slid on like—as Peabody might say—butter. “Okay.” She stood, took some strides. “They’re great. Sturdy—I could definitely kick some teeth in with these.”

“The elves had that as top priority.”

“Huh.” She did a quick squat and rise then paddled her heels. “But they’re not stiff or heavy, so they could handle a serious foot-chase.”

“Second priority. I’ll pass your satisfaction on to the elves.” He set two plates of waffles on the table, gave Galahad a cool, warning stare, then looked Eve up and down. “You look confident, streamlined, and absolutely capable of kicking in those teeth.”

“I like the last part the best.”

“Only one of the myriad reasons I love you.”

She sat, and when he joined her, she laid a hand over his. “I feel confident and streamlined. I woke up that way because you were with me last night, because you loved me. And because you were sitting here this morning, doing what you always do instead of worrying about me.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop worrying about me worrying?”

“It’s moving that way. We probably just need to have a good fight
over something, finish it off. A good fight can work like a good orgasm, and clear things out.”

“Well now, I’m longing for a good fight. We’ll have to schedule one in.”

“Better, I think, when they’re more … organic.”

“Organic orgasm through temper.” He laughed as he passed her the syrup he knew she’d pour on in a flood. “I’m filled with anticipation.”

“Remember that when I piss you off next time.”

She drowned her waffles in syrup.

W
ithin thirty, primed by waffles, Eve checked her ’link. “Everybody’s a go for the briefing. I’m going in early, make sure everything’s set up the way I want it.”

“Good luck. I should have some time this afternoon, either to deal with that fight we need to have or give Feeney some help.”

“Maybe we can work in both.” She gave him a quick kiss before heading for the door.

“Look after my cop,” he called after her. “Just you try licking off that plate, boy-o,” she heard him say to the cat, “and see what happens.”

It made her grin all the way downstairs.

She didn’t have as much luck with traffic as she had the day before, but used the time in snags and snarls to work out her approach.

She wanted a warrant to search Steinburger’s residence, his office, his vehicle—and one to dump all his electronics on Feeney and EDD.

Odds of getting them were slim, she knew. She could—she damn well would—convince everyone in the briefing that Steinburger had been killing people who annoyed him, got in his way, or just posed a serious inconvenience, for forty years.

And yet the pesky issue of probable cause would remain.

Still, she’d push for it, and if—most likely when—she got shut down, she’d push for one to monitor his ’links and comps.

And she wanted that in place before she talked to his ex-wives—the surviving ones—his boat pal, former college roommates, Buster Pearlman’s widow. Before she had another round with the Hollywood set.

A lot of people were going to feel the heel of her new boots on their necks before she was done.

She pulled into her slot in Central’s garage. She rode up in an elevator that stopped to let cops on, let cops off. And wished she’d opted for the glides when an undercover detective she recognized stepped in hauling a midget.

The midget boasted a shaved head covered with tats and showed gaps in his teeth in a feral snarl. That bald head might have only reached McGreedy’s waist, but its owner looked mean as a rattler.

Both of them smelled, strongly and distinctly, of shit.

“Jesus, McGreedy.” One of the cops stepped as far to the side as the car would allow. “You sleep in the sewer?”

“Chased this fucker into one. Caught you, too, didn’t I, you fucking little fucker. Fucker bit my ankle. I got midget teeth marks in my ankle.”

Even as he said it, his prisoner issued a sharp kick to the wounded ankle, another to the shin, and let out a kind of war cry as he leaped, fast and nimble as a spider, on the back of the uniformed cop ahead of him in the car.

Amid the chaos, and the unbelievable stench, Eve considered. Two cops were currently trying to haul the crazy little bastard off while he yanked hair, kicked feet, sank teeth.

She decided on a different approach. She drew her weapon, and keeping a careful distance, leaned forward, pressed it to the crazy little bastard’s head.

“Want a taste of this?”

He swung around, bared his gapped teeth, and she calculated he intended to use the uniform as a springboard into her face.

“I’ll drop you like a stone,” she warned. “No, like a pebble. An ugly, smelly pebble. Then I’ll personally drop-kick your ass into a cage.”

“I got him, Lieutenant.” Panting, snarling, sweating, McGreedy ripped his prisoner off the uniform, shoved him facedown on the floor of the car. “Fucker.”

“Officer?”

“Shit. Shit. Bingly, Lieutenant.”

“Officer Bingly, as you’re already due for a shower and a change of uniform, why don’t you assist Detective McGreedy in securing his little fucker and hauling same into detox?”

“Yes, sir. Shit.”

“It ain’t roses,” McGreedy agreed.

“Hold him back, would you?” Eve requested, and hopped off the elevator.

Never a dull moment, she thought as she took a cautious sniff of herself just in case.

She bypassed her office for the conference room where she re-created her case boards, loaded data into a computer.

By the time she was finished, she expected Peabody to clock in. Deciding she wanted another hit of decent coffee before things got rolling, she secured the conference room and started to her office.

She spotted Marlo—despite the long, sun-streaked brunette wig and oversized sunshades—coming off the glides.

“Dallas.”

“Not working today?”

“I’m not due in hair and makeup until nine, so I thought I’d take a chance you’d be in, and have a few minutes.”

“I’m in, and a few minutes is all I’ve got.” Eve nodded as Peabody
and McNab came up the next glide. “Hang on a minute,” she told Marlo.

“Is that Marlo?” Peabody asked.

“Yeah, I’m going to talk to her. The two of you can head right into the conference room. I’ve got boards set up. Study, ponder, prepare to discuss. What’s in the box?”

“Doughnuts.” McNab grinned at her. “We figured, hey, cops, breakfast time, briefing. It’s the necessary ingredient.”

“It couldn’t hurt. I won’t be long.”

Eve considered the fact her murder board stood in her office, and deciding it might be an advantage, led Marlo in.

“Thanks for …” Marlo trailed off, her gaze on the board. “God, that’s stark. And really, really disconcerting to see my own face up there, those of people I know and care about. Can I sit down?”

“Sure.” As she did, Eve rested a hip on the corner of her desk. Her mind went, unfortunately, to the idea of how many asses had sat on her candy in the last couple of days.

“You know, I thought I’d gotten so tough, prepping for this part. I’ve always kept in shape, but Christ, I trained for this. Physically, I mean. And, I thought, mentally. But I learned, fast, I’m not half as tough as I thought. I can work. I can put myself there, but as soon as I step out of you and into me? I’m just Marlo Durn, and I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“There’s no way around the fact one of us …” Her gaze went to the board again. “One of us killed K.T. There’s no way around it. And I know you believe whoever did that killed the man she hired to spy on Matthew and me. So I’m scared because I’m working with someone who could do that.”

“Did Asner approach you, Marlo, or Matthew about compensation in exchange for the recording?”

“No.” She stared at his photo on the board. “I’ve never seen him before. He was in the loft, in our bedroom. And now he’s dead.”

“Has anyone approached you?”

“No. I’d tell you. It’s way beyond the invasion of privacy, the embarrassment. Even the anger over it. I wanted to come here, see you, ask you if you’re any closer to finding out who. And I know you probably can’t tell me, but I hate being this way. Hate being scared, hate wondering about these people I care about. Hate locking my trailer door, even when I’m inside.”

“Are you afraid of anyone in particular?”

Marlo shook her head. “Matthew’s handling it better, and so’s Andi. Julian’s worse than I am. He’s a wreck. Connie was supposed to fly to Paris to shoot some ads. Their daughter was going to meet her so they’d have a few days over there together. She rescheduled because she doesn’t want to leave Roundtree. I know that’s not really important in the bigger sense, but—”

“It’s hard to reorder your life, even in the short-term. It’s hard to wonder if someone you know isn’t someone you know at all.”

“Yes.” Marlo closed her eyes. “God, yes. Can you tell me anything? Anything at all.”

“We’re having a major briefing on the investigation and some new angles this morning.”

“That’s good then.” Marlo let out a breath. “That’s good.”

And that would get around, Eve thought. She wondered what Stein-burger would think when he heard.

“There’s a minor detail I meant to check out,” Eve continued. “You’d probably know, save me some steps.”

“Anything.”

“Does anyone besides Harris smoke? Herbals, or otherwise?”

“Oh.” Marlo slumped a little. “I do. A little. Occasionally. Not herbals.
Tobacco, and I know, I know, I know. Bad for me, painfully expensive. And you have to hide like a thief. I’ve cut them out almost completely because of that, and more—might as well be honest—because Matthew dislikes it so much. He insists I can get the same effect with yoga breathing, which only proves he’s never smoked anything.”