Obsession in Death (8 page)

“I’ll add you on.”

He straightened, stepped to the door, paused. “Dallas? Take care.”

She brooded a moment, looked around her office. She needed to go home, where she could work without interruption – and where she could speak to Roarke. She didn’t want to do that by ’link or text.

Besides, she realized as she glanced at her wrist unit, she would already be late getting home.

She gathered everything she needed, pulled on her coat.

She found Peabody still at her desk in the bullpen.

“Take it home. Tell McNab I want whatever he gets as he gets it. I’ll be working from home.”

“I’ll go up to EDD, see if I can hook up with him. The others on the list check out, travel-wise. None of them were in New York at the time of Bastwick’s murder. One thing? We talked how Bastwick’s murder looked professional. Maybe one of these people, or a coworker, Stern, her family – one of them hired it out. And ordered the message.”

“It’s an angle. We’ll check financials, see if anything looks off. Take it home,” Eve repeated, and walked out to do the same.

But on the way she stopped by the crime scene.

She broke the seal, walked through and into Bastwick’s bedroom.

And spent a long time reading the writing on the wall.

On the drive home she ignored traffic, ignored pedestrians thronging the crosswalks. Ignored the horns, the revving engines, the wall of noise, the lights flashing and sparkling.

She kept herself back in that bedroom. Elegant, stylish, quiet colors, rich fabrics.

Bastwick’s sanctuary? she wondered. Or had she taken work there, too? Reading over case files in bed, planning strategies, studying the style of opposing counsel. Studying information on any witnesses for the prosecution.

A woman who seemed to prefer her own company to the company of others, who was skilled, dedicated, ambitious – and who enjoyed the media spotlight when she could get it.

Yeah, she’d taken work into her sanctuary.

Had the killer known her?

More and more Eve doubted that genuine personal link.

Known of her, yes. Researched and studied her just as Bastwick researched and studied. Watched her.

Had to know, had to be certain the target was alone.

Some way of accessing her calendar?

That could take it back to a coworker again, or support staff at the law firm. And that took it back to personal, didn’t it?

It didn’t feel personal.

Set up the board and book at home, she told herself as she drove through the gates. Start fresh, start over. Back to the beginning.

The house dazzled, the rise and spread of gray stone with its towers and turrets all sparkling with lights, draped with greenery. It reminded her they’d barely finished Christmas, were days away from a new year.

And a planned getaway. To the warm, Eve thought as she parked and stepped out into the bite of the wind. To the quiet, just the two of them, on an island surrounded by blue water, as far away from murder and business as they could get.

A place she could have mai tais of her own, if she wanted.

And now…

She had an UNSUB – no gender, no age, no face, only the probability of race. And the only tangible motive was herself.

Blue water, white beaches, and solitude weren’t looking very likely.

She stepped inside the lofty foyer, sparkling like the exterior with lights of the season. And spotted Summerset, naturally, in his funereal black, with their pudge of a cat sitting at his feet.

Both eyed her coolly.

“Ah, you remembered your home address.”

“I thought if I stalled long enough, you’d crawl back in your coffin. No luck there,” she added as the cat padded over to wind through her legs like a fat ribbon of fur.

“It’s a pity you didn’t have the luck to remember to make contact when you intend to be late, particularly on an evening when plans are in place.”

She had her coat half off, stopped dead. “What plans?”

“If you bothered to consult your calendar – ever – you’d be aware you and Roarke are booked to attend a benefit at Carnegie Hall in…” Deliberately he looked at his wrist unit. “Thirty-six minutes.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” she said a third time as she tossed her coat over the newel post. She started to rush up the stairs, stopped herself.

He irritated the marrow from her bones, but that was beside the point. Or could very well be a dangerous point.

“You get deliveries here all the time, right?”

“We do, yes.”

“Until I say different, you don’t open the door to any delivery person. You don’t open the gates unless you’re expecting said delivery and verify the identification of the delivery company and the individual or individuals making that delivery.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I don’t want to have to actually bury that coffin I suspect you sleep in. No exceptions,” she added, and hurried upstairs with the cat racing behind her.

She arrowed straight toward the bedroom, struggling to think how she could toggle around from cop to Roarke’s wife in thirty minutes.

When it came to public appearances, she could barely manage it with thirty days’ notice. Which, of course, she’d had. And forgotten.

Carnegie Hall – a benefit for… Oh, what the hell did it matter? She’d screwed up, again.

She dashed into the bedroom to see her husband completing the knot on his elegant black tie.

Christ, he was gorgeous. All that silky black hair framing a face artists and angels wept over. Madly blue eyes, full, sculpted mouth, bones that would keep him deliriously handsome after he hit the century mark.

He looked as if he’d been born wearing a tux. No one could look at him and see the Dublin street rat he’d once been.

“There you are.” Ireland wafted through his voice as he smiled, as those magic eyes met hers in the mirror.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No need.” He turned, moved to her – a living poster for tall, dark, and handsome. He cupped her chin, brushed his thumb over the shallow dent in it before he lowered his head to kiss her. “Being a bit late isn’t a crime – and I’ll be with a cop in any case.”

“Right. Well, I’ll…” What? she wondered. What would she do?

“Your gown, shoes, bag, appropriate coat are all in the front of your closet. Jewelry, unless you want something else, in the boxes on your dresser.”

“Okay, right.” She got as far as the sitting area, then just dropped down on the sofa. Galahad changed directions from his journey to the bed and leaped up beside her.

“I have a feeling I’m overdressed for what we’ll be doing this evening,” Roarke commented.

“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, then just left them there.

“Eve.” Amused resignation shifted to concern as Roarke went over, sat on her other side. “Is someone hurt?”

“Bastwick. Leanore Bastwick. She’s dead.”

“Yes, I heard that on the media bulletin, assumed you’d caught it, and that’s why you were late. But you barely knew her.”

“It’s not her. Of course it’s her,” Eve corrected. “But it’s me. I didn’t let it hit me until just now. It can’t get in the way.”

“What can’t?”

“It doesn’t make any sense. But that’s nothing new, is it? You have to remember a lot of the time it doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re not.” And that concerned him. “Tell me.”

“Better show you.” She pulled out her PPC, then glanced at the wall screen. “Put this up on there, will you? You’ll do it faster.”

“All right.”

He took her handheld, keyed in a few commands. The wall screen went on.

And the image of the message from the crime scene flashed on.

“This was on the wall, over her bed. She’d been garroted. Fully dressed. Slight stun burns, center mass. No other signs of violence. No defensive wounds. She —”

“Hush,” he muttered, eyes cold as he read the message.

So she said nothing more, just sat.

“Has Whitney seen this?”

“Sure. I went straight to him with it.”

“And Mira?”

“And to her. The media liaison’s handling the media liaisoning. You’ll need to alert your people on that. Once this leaks, reporters are going to go batshit.”

Hating that, just hating it, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.

“That’s a simple matter to deal with.”

“There has to be a solid wall of —”

“We’ll deal with it,” he snapped. “Have you had any other communication from this person?”

“No. I don’t know,” she corrected. “Mira’s looking over correspondence, looking for tells. If she finds anything, we’ll follow up. We’re looking at her law partner, other people in the firm, personal acquaintances, lovers, family. Nothing’s shaken loose there yet, but —”

“And is unlikely to. Has anyone sent you gifts, tokens, made any sort of advances?”

“No, Jesus.” Rather than embarrass, as it had coming from Feeney, the question irked coming from Roarke. “Who’s the cop here?”

“You are. You’re my cop. You’re standing for her, that’s your job. But I stand for you, and you’re the target here. The murder was a gift to you. As brutal and bloody as a cat dropping a dead mouse at your feet.”

Scowling, Eve looked down at Galahad.

“Not this cat,” Roarke said. “It’s that feral, Eve. You’re the target,” he repeated, “and sooner or later the feral will turn on you. I’ll change, and you’ll bring me up to date.”

“I’m not going to turn down the help, you’re too good at it. And I could use another set of eyes, another viewpoint. But if you’re going to be pissed about it —”

“Pissed?”

Rising, he pulled off the tie, the jacket. She felt another quick pang when she watched him carefully remove the little lapel pin she’d had made for him for Christmas.

Her wedding flowers – white petunias in mother-of-pearl.

“Why would I be pissed just because some murderous bastard’s got a crush on my wife?”

“Could be a murderous bitch,” Eve said evenly. “And your wife’s a murder cop.”

“Doesn’t make her less mine, does it? The bastard – or bitch, if you prefer – claims to have given you justice. Now tell me how you spent your day.”

“How I —” She got to her feet. “How the hell do you think I spent my day? Doing interviews, following leads, consulting, writing reports. Doing my damn job.”

“Exactly.” He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, his socks – as outwardly cool as she was hot. “But to the killer’s mind, he did the job for you. Justice was served. You’re demeaning the gift, Lieutenant, and no one enjoys having their gift go unappreciated.”

“So, what, I should’ve said thanks?”

“You could have passed the investigation on – of course you didn’t, and couldn’t, being you.” He walked into his enormous closet as he spoke. “I imagine the killer’s quite torn. On one hand, you’re doing exactly what he purports to admire about you, and on the other, he wants your gratitude for the gift.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s torn. I’m doing my job.”

“And by doing it, you’ll eventually twist the crush into rage or despair. I’d think either could be deadly.” Roarke stepped back out wearing jeans and a black sweater. “On some level you know that, and you’re already wondering how you can turn it quicker. Because until you do, and the rage or despair turns on you alone, someone else stands to be the next gift.”

“How the hell do you know what he thinks, feels, wants?” she demanded.

“He’s infatuated with you. And so am I.”

The anger dripped away into a kind of grief. “He’s killing for me, Roarke. It makes me sick inside.”

“He – or she – is killing for himself.” Roarke came back to her, framed her face with his hands. “You’re an excuse. And you’ll do better work when you fully accept that, and put all the blame – every bloody bit of it, Eve – where it belongs.”

He kissed her again. “Now, we’ll go into your office, and you can tell me all of it.”

5

Roarke programmed spaghetti and meatballs, a particular favorite of hers, so it would be a comfort. He poured them both a generous glass of Chianti.

“You’ll work better for it,” he told her when she simply stood in the middle of her home office, staring at the murder board she’d barely begun to set up. “Eat, and tell me from the beginning. A fresh eye,” he reminded her. “And viewpoint.”

“Okay.” She let out a breath. “Okay.” She joined him at the little table by the window. “I want to say, first off, I forgot about this deal tonight. I just forgot it. I don’t know that I’d have remembered if this had been… well, a more usual case. I don’t know if I would’ve remembered.”

“I was a bit busy myself today.” Watching her, he drank some wine. “I hadn’t given this evening a thought until Caro reminded me late this afternoon. Maybe what you need, Lieutenant, is an admin of your own.”

“The last thing I want is somebody telling me about stuff when I’m trying to do other stuff. And the department can’t afford sticking me with a keeper if I wanted one.”

She poked at a meatball. “Don’t say Caro or a Caro-like substitute could send me reminders. I’d want to rip their lungs out and play a tune with them within two days.”

“It takes years of practice and dedication to play a proper tune on the lungs.”

“Maybe, but I’d be up for it. It’s a charity thing, right, this thing tonight? They were probably counting on you and your big buckets of dough.”

“The ticket price covers at least a bucket or two, and we’ll make a donation.”

“I should do it.” Guilty, annoyed by the guilt, she poked at another meatball, decided maybe pasta first. “You could tell me how much and where it goes, and I should do it.”

“Easy enough. I was thinking in the neighborhood of five million.”

She swallowed – hard – the spaghetti she’d wound around her fork. “I don’t have that big a bucket, or spend much time in that neighborhood. You make it.”

“Done.” He reached over, squeezed her hand. “Let that go, Eve. It’s just a night out in fancy dress.”

“You like those.”

“Well enough. I find I like this more. Having dinner with you, here in the quiet. And while murder might not be a particularly appealing dinner conversation for some – those some aren’t you and me. Now tell me, from the start of it.”