J.D. Robb - Interlude In Death (part of "Out Of This World" anthology
Interlude In Death
J.D. Robb
Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle
Me
Mystery And Detective

[version 1.1 - March 2, 2002 - Converted to .rtf,
fixed formatting, read in detail and corrected typos.]

INTERLUDE IN DEATH

J. D. Robb

Copyright (c) 2001

-=O=-***-=O=-

Learning is
not child's play; we cannot learn without pain.

--
Aristotle

Happy is
the child whose father goes to the devil.

--
sixteenth-century proverb

-=O=-***-=O=-

CHAPTER ONE

The faces of
murder were varied and complex. Some were as old as time and the furrows
scoring them filled with the blood spilled by Cain. One brother's keeper was another's
executioner.

Of course, it
had been rather elementary to close that particular case. The list of suspects
had been, after all, pretty limited.

But time had
populated the earth until by the early spring of 2059 it so crawled with people
that they spilled out from their native planet to jam man-made worlds and
satellites. The skill and ability to create their own worlds, the sheer nerve
to consider doing so, hadn't stopped them from killing their brothers.

The method was
sometimes more subtle, often more vicious, but people being people could, just
as easily, fall back on ramming a sharpened stick through another's heart over
a nice patch of lettuce.

The centuries,
and man's nature, had developed more than alternative ways to kill and a
variety of victims and motives. They had created the need and the means to
punish the guilty.

The punishing
of the guilty and the demand for justice for the innocent became -- perhaps had
been since that first extreme case of sibling rivalry -- an art and a science.

These days,
murder got you more than a short trip to the Land of Nod. It shut you up in a
steel and concrete cage where you'd have plenty of time to think about where
you went wrong.

But getting
the sinner where justice deemed he belonged was the trick. It required a
system. And the system demanded its rules, techniques, manpower, organizations,
and loopholes.

And the
occasional seminar to educate and inform.

As far as
Lieutenant Eve Dallas was concerned, she'd rather face a horde of torked-out
chemi-heads than conduct a seminar on murder. At least the chemi-heads wouldn't
embarrass you to death.

And as if it
wasn't bad enough that she'd been drafted to attend the Interplanetary Law
Enforcement and Security Conference, as if it wasn't horrifying enough that her
own commander had ordered her to give a seminar, the whole ball of goddamn wax
had to take shape off-planet.

Couldn't hold
the sucker in New York, Eve thought as she lay facedown on the hotel bed. Just
couldn't find one spot on the whole fucking planet that could suit up. Nope,
just had to send a bunch of cops and techs out into space.

God, she hated
space travel.

And of all the
places in the known universe, the site-selection committee had to dump them on
the Olympus Resort. Not only was she a cop out of her element, but she was a
cop out of her element giving a seminar in one of the conference rooms in one
of the ridiculously plush hotels owned by her husband.

It was
mortifying.

Sneaky son of
a bitch, she thought, and wondered if any of the muscles and bones in her body
that had dissolved during landing on Olympus had regenerated. He'd planned it,
he'd worked it. And now she was paying for it.

She had to
socialize, attend meetings. She had to -- dear Christ -- give a speech. And in
less than a week, she would have to get back on that fancy flying death trap of
Roarke's and face the journey home.

Since the idea
of that made her stomach turn over, she considered the benefits of living out
the rest of her life on Olympus.

How bad could
it be?

The place had
hotels and casinos and homes, bars, shops. Which meant it had people. When you
had people, bless their mercenary hearts, you had crime. You had crime, you
needed cops. She could trade in her New York Police and Security badge for an
Interplanetary Law Enforcement shield.

“I could work
for ILE,” she muttered into the bedspread.

“Certainly.”
On the other side of the room, Roarke finished studying a report on one of his
other properties. “After a while, you wouldn't think twice about zipping from
planet to space station to satellite. And you'd look charming in one of those
blue-and-white uniforms and knee-high boots.”

Her little
fantasy fizzed. Interplanetary meant, after all, interplanetary. “Kiss my ass.”

“All right.” He
walked over, bent down and laid his lips on her butt. Then began working his
way up her back.

Unlike his
wife, he was energized by space travel.

“If you think
you're getting sex, pal, think again.”

“I'm doing a
lot of thinking.” He indulged himself with the long, lean length of her. When
he reached the nape of her neck, he rubbed his lips just below the ends of her
short, disordered cap of hair. And feeling her quick shiver, grinned as he
flipped her over.

Then he
frowned a little, skimming a finger along the shallow dent in her chin. “You're
a bit pale yet, aren't you?”

Her
deep-golden-brown eyes stared sulkily into his. Her mouth, wide, mobile,
twisted into a sneer. “When I'm on my feet again, I'm going to punch you in
that pretty face of yours.”

“I look
forward to it. Meanwhile.” He reached down, began unbuttoning her shirt.

“Pervert.”

“Thank you,
Lieutenant.” Because she was his, and it continuously delighted him, he brushed
a kiss over her torso, then tugged off her boots, stripped off her trousers. “And
I hope we'll get to the perversion part of our program shortly. But for now.”
He picked her up and carried her out of the bedroom. “I think we'll try a
little post-flight restorative.”

“Why do I have
to be naked?”

“I like you
naked.”

He stepped
into a bathroom. No, not a bathroom, Eve mused. That was too ordinary a word
for this oasis of sensual indulgence.

The tub was a
lake, deep blue and fed by gleaming silver tubes twined together in flower
shapes. Rose trees heavy with saucer-size white blooms flanked the marble
stairs that led into a shower area where a waterfall already streamed gently
down gleaming walls. The tall cylinders of mood and drying tubes were
surrounded by spills of flowers and foliage, and she imagined that anyone using
one of them would look like a statue in a garden.

A wall of
glass offered a view of cloudless sky turned to gold by the tint of the privacy
screen.

He set her
down on the soft cushions of a sleep chair and walked to one of the curved
counters that flowed around the walls. He slid open a panel in the tiles and
set a program on the control pad hidden behind it.

Water began to
spill into the tub, the lights dimmed, and music, softly sobbing strings, slid
into the air.

“I'm taking a
bath?” she asked him.

“Eventually.
Relax. Close your eyes.”

But she didn't
close her eyes. It was too tempting just to watch him as he moved around the
room, adding something frothy to the bath, pouring some pale gold liquid into a
glass.

He was tall
and had an innate sort of grace. Like a cat did, she thought. A big, dangerous
cat that only pretended to be tame when it suited his mood. His hair was black
and thick and longer than her own. It spilled nearly to his shoulders and
provided a perfect frame for a face that made her think of dark angels and
doomed poets and ruthless warriors all at once.

When he looked
at her with those hot and wildly blue eyes, the love inside her could spread so
fast and strong, it hurt her heart to hold it.

He was hers,
she thought. Ireland's former bad boy who had made his life, his fortune, his
place by hook or -- well -- by crook.

“Drink this.”

He liked to
tend her, she mused as she took the glass he offered. She, lost child, hard-ass
cop, could never figure out if it irritated or thrilled her. Mostly, she
supposed, it just baffled her.

“What is it?”

“Good.” He
took it back from her, sipped himself to prove it.

When she
sampled it, she found that he was right, as usual. He walked behind the chair,
the amusement on his face plain when he tipped her back and her gaze narrowed
with suspicion. “Close your eyes,” he repeated and slipped goggles over her
face. “One minute,” he added.

Lights bled in
front of her closed lids. Deep blues, warm reds in slow, melting patterns. She
felt his hands, slicked with something cool and fragrant, knead her shoulders,
the knotted muscles of her neck.

Her system,
jangled from the flight, began to settle. “Well, this doesn't suck,” she
murmured, and let herself drift.

He took the
glass from her hand as her body slipped into the ten-minute restorative program
he'd selected. He'd told her one minute.

He'd lied.

When she was
relaxed, he bent to kiss the top of her head, then draped a silk sheet over
her. Nerves, he knew, had worn her out. Added to them the stress and fatigue of
coming off a difficult case and being shot directly into an off-planet
assignment that she detested, and it was no wonder her system was unsettled.

He left her
sleeping and went out to see to a few minor details for the evening event. He'd
just stepped back in when the timer of the program beeped softly and she
stirred.

“Wow.” She
blinked, scooped at her hair when he set the goggles aside.

“Feel better?”

“Feel great.”

“A little
travel distress is easy enough to fix. The bath should finish it off.”

She glanced
over, saw that the tub was full, heaped with bubbles that swayed gently in the
current of the jets. “I just bet it will.” Smiling, she got up, crossed the
room to step down into the sunken pool. And lowering herself neck-deep, she let
out a long sigh.

“Can I have
that wine or whatever the hell it is?”

“Sure.”
Obliging, he carried it over, set it on the wide lip behind her head.

“Thanks. I've
gotta say, this is some ...” She trailed off, pressed her fingers to her
temple.

“Eve?
Headache?” He reached out, concerned, and found himself flipping into the water
with her.

When he
surfaced, she was grinning, and her hand was cupped possessively between his
legs. “Sucker,” she said.

“Pervert.”

“Oh, yeah. Let
me show you how I finish off this little restorative program, ace.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Restored, and
smug, she took a. quick spin in the drying tube. If she was going to live only
a few more days before crashing into a stray meteor and being burned to a
cinder by exploding rocket fuel on the flight back home, she might as well make
the best of it.

She snagged a
robe, wrapped herself in it, and strolled back into the bedroom.

Roarke,
already wearing trousers, was scanning what looked like encoded symbols as they
scrolled across the screen of the bedroom tele-link. Her dress, at least she
assumed it was a dress, was laid out on the bed.

She frowned at
the sheer flow of bronze, walked over to finger the material. “Did I pack
this?”

“No.” He
didn't bother to glance back, he could see her suspicious scowl clearly enough
in his mind. “You packed several days' worth of shirts and trousers. Summerset
made some adjustments in your conference wardrobe.”

“Summerset.”
The name hissed like a snake between her lips. Roarke's majordomo was a major
pain in her ass. “You let him paw through my clothes? Now I have to burn them.”

Though he'd
made considerable adjustments to her wardrobe in the past year, there were, in
his opinion, several items left that deserved burning. “He rarely paws. We're
running a little behind,” he added. “The cocktail reception started ten minutes
ago.”

“Just an
excuse for a bunch of cops to get shit-faced. Don't see why I have to get
dressed up for it.”

“Image,
darling Eve. You're a featured speaker and one of the event's VIPs.”

“I hate that
part. It's bad enough when I have to go to your deals.”

“You shouldn't
be nervous about your seminar.”

“Who said I'm
nervous?” She snatched up the dress. “Can you see through this thing?”

His lips
quirked. “Not quite.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

“Not quite”
was accurate, she decided. The getup felt thin as a cloud, and that was good
for comfort. The flimsy layers of it barely shielded the essentials. Still, as
her fashion sense could be etched on a microchip with room to spare, she had to
figure Roarke knew what he was doing.

At the sound
of the mixed voices rolling out of the ballroom as they approached, Eve shook
her head. “I bet half of them are already in the bag. You're serving prime
stuff in there, aren't you?”

“Only the best
for our hardworking civil servants.” Knowing his woman, Roarke took her hand
and pulled her through the open doorway.

The ballroom
was huge, and packed. They'd come from all over the planet, and its satellites.
Police officials, technicians, expert consultants. The brains and the brawn of
law enforcement.

“Doesn't it
make you nervous to be in the same room with, what, about four thousand cops?”
she asked him.

“On the
contrary, Lieutenant,” he said laughingly. “I feel very safe.”

“Some of these
guys probably tried to put you away once upon a time.”

“So did you.”
Now he took her hand and, before she could stop him, kissed it. “Look where it
got you.”

“Dallas!”
Officer Delia Peabody, decked out in a short red dress instead of her standard
starched uniform, rushed up. Her dark bowl of hair had been fluffed and curled.
And, Eve noted, the tall glass in her hand was already half empty.

“Peabody.
Looks like you got here.”

“The transport
was on time, no problem. Roarke, this place is seriously iced. I can't believe
I'm here. I really appreciate you getting me in. Dallas.”

She hadn't
arranged it as a favor, exactly. If she was going to suffer through a seminar,
Eve had figured her aide should suffer, too. But from the look of things
Peabody seemed to be bearing up.

“I came in
with Feeney and his wife,” Peabody went on. “And Dr. Mira and her husband.
Morris and Dickhead and Silas from Security, Leward from Anti-Crime -- they're
all around somewhere. Some of the other guys from Central and the precincts.
NYPSD is really well represented.”

“Great.” She
could expect to get ragged on about her speech for weeks.

“We're going
to have a little reunion later in the Moonscape Lounge.”

“Reunion? We
just saw each other yesterday.”

“On-planet.”
Peabody's lips, slicked deep red, threatened to pout. “This is different.”

Eve scowled at
her aide's fancy party dress. “You're telling me.”

“Why don't I
get you ladies a drink? Wine, Eve? And Peabody?”

“I'm having an
Awesome Orgasm. The drink, I mean, not, you know, personally.”

Amused, Roarke
brushed a hand over her shoulder. “I'll take care of it.”

“Boy, could he
ever,” Peabody muttered as he walked away.

“Button it.”
Eve scanned the room, separating cops from spouses, from techs, from
consultants. She focused in on a large group gathered in the southeast corner
of the ballroom. “What's the deal there?”

“That's the
big wheel. Former Commander Douglas R. Skinner.” Peabody gestured with her
glass, then took a long drink. “You ever meet him?”

“No. Heard
about him plenty, though.”

“He's a
legend. I haven't gotten a look yet because there's been about a hundred people
around him since I got here. I've read most of his books. The way he came
through the Urban Wars, kept his own turf secure. He was wounded during the
Atlanta Siege, but held the line. He's a real hero.”

“Cops aren't
heroes, Peabody. We just do the job.”

CHAPTER TWO

Eve wasn't
interested in legends or heroes or retired cops who raked in enormous fees
playing the lecture circuit or consulting. She was interested in finishing her
one drink, putting in an appearance at the reception -- and only because her
own commander had ordered her to do so -- then making herself scarce.

Tomorrow, she
thought, was soon enough to get down to work. From the noise level of the
crowd, everyone else thought so, too.

But it
appeared the legend was interested in her.

She barely had
the wineglass in her hand, was just calculating the least annoying route around
the room, when someone tapped on her shoulder.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.” A thin man with dark hair cut so short it looked like sandpaper glued
to his scalp, nodded at her. “Bryson Hayes, Commander Skinner's personal
adjutant. The commander would very much like to meet you. If you'd come with
me.”

“The
commander,” she returned even as Hayes started to turn away, “looks pretty
occupied at the moment. I'll be around all week.”

After one slow
blink, Hayes simply stared at her. “The commander would like to meet you now,
Lieutenant. His schedule through the conference is very demanding.”

“Go on.”
Peabody whispered it as she nudged Eve with her elbow. “Go on, Dallas.”

“We'd be
delighted to meet with Commander Skinner.” Roarke solved the problem by setting
his own drink aside, then taking both Eve's and Peabody's arms. It earned him
an adoring-puppy look from Peabody and a narrow scowl from his wife.

Before Hayes
could object or adjust, Roarke led both women across the ballroom.

“You're just
doing this to piss me off,” Eve commented.

“Not entirely,
but I did enjoy pissing Hayes off. Just a bit of politics, Lieutenant.” He gave
her arm a friendly squeeze. “It never hurts to play them.”

He slipped
through the crowd smoothly, and only smiled when Hayes, a muscle working in his
jaw, caught up in time to break a path through the last knot of people.

Skinner was
short. His reputation was so large, it surprised Eve to note that he barely
reached her shoulders. She knew him to be seventy, but he'd kept himself in
shape. His face was lined, but it didn't sag. Nor did his body. He'd allowed
his hair to gray, but not to thin, and he wore it militarily trim. His eyes,
under straight silver brows, were a hard marble blue.

He held a
short glass, the amber liquid inside neat. The heavy gold of his fifty-year
ring gleamed on his finger.

She took his
measure in a matter of seconds as, she noted, he took hers.

“Lieutenant
Dallas.”

“Commander
Skinner.” She accepted the hand he held out, found it cool, dry and more frail
than she'd expected. “My aide, Officer Peabody.”

His gaze
stayed on Eve's face an extra beat, then shifted to Peabody. His lips curved.
“Officer, always a pleasure to meet one of our men or women in uniform.”

“Thank you,
sir. It's an honor to meet you, Commander. You're one of the reasons I joined
the force.”

“I'm sure the
NYPSD is lucky to have you. Lieutenant, I'd -- “

“My husband,”
Eve interrupted. “Roarke.”

Skinner's
expression didn't waver, but it chilled. “Yes, I recognized Roarke. I spent
some of my last decade on the job studying you.”

“I'm
flattered. I believe this is your wife.” Roarke turned his attention to the
woman beside Skinner. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you.”
Her voice was the soft cream of the southern United States. “Your Olympus is a
spectacular accomplishment. I'm looking forward to seeing more of it while
we're here.”

“I'd be happy
to arrange a tour, transportation.”

“You're too
kind.” She brushed a hand lightly over her husband's arm.

She was a
striking woman. She had to be close to her husband in age, Eve thought, as
their long marriage was part of Skinner's pristine rep. But either superior DNA
or an excellent face-and-body team had kept her beauty youthful. Her hair was
richly black, and the gorgeous tone of her skin indicated mixed race. She wore
a sleek silver gown and starry diamonds as if she'd been born to such things.

When she
looked at Eve it was with polite interest. “My husband admires your work,
Lieutenant Dallas, and he's very exacting in his admiration. Roarke, why don't
we give these two cops a little time to talk shop?”

“Thank you,
Belle. Excuse us, won't you, Officer?” Skinner gestured toward a table guarded
by a trio of black-suited men. “Lieutenant? Indulge me.” When they sat, the men
moved one step back.

“Bodyguards at
a cop convention?”

“Habit. I
wager you have your weapon and shield in your evening bag.”

She
acknowledged this with a little nod. She would have preferred to wear them, but
the dress didn't allow for her choice of accessories. “What's this about,
Commander?”

“Belle was
right. I admire your work. I was intrigued to find us on the same program. You
don't generally accept speaking engagements.”

“No. I like
the streets.”

“So did I.
It's like a virus in the blood.” He leaned back, nursed his drink. The faint
tremor in his hand surprised her. “But working the streets doesn't mean being
on them, necessarily. Someone has to command -- from a desk, an office, a war
room. A good cop, a smart cop, moves up the ranks. As you have, Lieutenant.”

“A good cop, a
smart cop, closes cases and locks up the bad guys.”

He gave one
short laugh. “You think that's enough for captain's bars, for a command star?
No, the word 'naive' never came up in any of the reports I've read on you.”

“Why should
you read reports on me?”

“I may be
retired from active duty, but I'm still a consultant. I still have my finger in
the pie.” He leaned forward again. “You've managed to work and close some very
high-profile cases in the murder book, Lieutenant. While I don't always approve
of your methods, the results are unarguable. It's rare for me to judge a female
officer worthy of command.”

“Excuse me.
Back up. Female?”

He lifted his
hand in a gesture that told her he'd had this discussion before and was vaguely
weary of it. “I believe men and women have different primary functions. Man is
the warrior, the provider, the defender. Woman is the procreator, the nurturer.
There are numerous scientific theories that agree, and certainly social and
religious weight to add.”

“Is that so?”
Eve said softly.

“Frankly, I've
never approved of women on the force, or in certain areas of the civilian
workplace. They're often a distraction and rarely fully committed to the job.
Marriage and family soon -- as they should for women -- take priority.”

“Commander
Skinner, under the circumstances, the most courteous thing I can think of to
say is you're full of shit.”

He laughed,
loud and long. “You live up to your reputation, Lieutenant. Your data also
indicate that you're smart and that your badge isn't something you just pick up
off the dresser every morning. It's what you are. Or were, in any case. We have
that in common. For fifty years I made a difference, and my house was clean. I
did what had to be done, then I did what came next. I was full commander at the
age of forty-four. Would you like to be able to say the same?”

She knew when
she was being played, and kept her face and tone neutral. “I haven't thought
about it.”

“If that's
true, you disappoint me. If that's true, start thinking. Do you know,
Lieutenant, how much closer you would be right now to a captaincy if you hadn't
made some ill-advised personal decisions?”

“Really?”
Something began to burn inside her gut. “And how would you know the promotion
potential of a homicide cop in New York?”

“I've made it
my business to know.” His free hand balled into a fist, tapped lightly,
rhythmically on the tabletop. “I have one regret, one piece of unfinished
business from my active duty. One target I could never keep in my sights long
enough to bring down. Between us, we could. I'll get you those captain bars,
Lieutenant. You get me Roarke.”

She looked
down at her wine, slowly ran a fingertip around the rim. “Commander, you gave
half a century of your life to the job. You shed blood for it. That's the
single reason I'm not going to punch you in the face for that insult.”

“Think
carefully,” he said as Eve got to her feet. “Sentiment over duty is never a
smart choice. I intend to bring him down. I won't hesitate to break you to do
it.”

Riding on
fury, she leaned down very close, and whispered in his ear. “Try it. You'll
find out I'm no fucking nurturer.”

She stepped
away, only to have one of the bodyguards move into her path. “The commander,”
he said, “isn't finished speaking with you.”

“I'm finished
speaking with the commander.”

His gaze
shifted from her face briefly, and he gave the faintest nod before he edged
closer, clamped a hand on her arm. “You'll want to sit down, Lieutenant, and
wait until you've been dismissed.”

“Move your
hand. Move it now, or I'm going to hurt you.”

He only
tightened his grip. “Take your seat and wait for leave to go. Or you're going
to be hurt.”

She glanced
back at Skinner, then into the guard's face. “Guess again.” She used a
short-arm jab to break his nose, then a quick snap kick to knock back the guard
beside him as he surged forward.

By the time
she'd spun around, planted, she had her hand in her bag and on her weapon.
“Keep your dogs on a leash,” she said to Skinner.

She scanned
the faces of cops who'd turned, who'd moved forward, to see if there was
trouble coming from another direction. Deciding against it, she turned away and
walked through the buzzing crowd.

She was nearly
at the door when Roarke fell in step beside her, draped an arm around her
shoulders. “You got blood on your dress, darling.”

“Yeah?” Still
steaming, she glanced down at the small splatter. “It's not mine.”

“I noticed.”

“I need to
talk to you.”

“Um-hmm. Why
don't we go upstairs, see what the valet can do about that bloodstain? You can
talk before we come down to have a drink with your friends from Central.”

“Why the hell
didn't you tell me you knew Skinner?”

Roarke keyed
in the code for the private elevator to the owner's suite. “I don't know him.”

“He sure as
hell knows you.”

“So I
gathered.” He waited until they were inside the car before he pressed a kiss to
her temple. “Eve, over the course of things, I've had a great many cops looking
in my direction.”

“He's still
looking.”

“He's welcome
to. I'm a legitimate businessman. Practically a pillar. Redeemed by the love of
a good woman.”

“Don't make me
hit you, too.” She strode out of the elevator, across the sumptuous living area
of the suite, and directly outside onto the terrace so she could finish
steaming in fresh air. “The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch wants me to help
him bring you down.”

“Rather rude,”
Roarke said mildly. “To broach the subject on such a short acquaintance, and at
a cocktail reception. Why did he think you'd agree?”

“He dangled a
captaincy in my face. Tells me he can get it for me, otherwise I'm in the back
of the line because of my poor personal choices.”

“Meaning me.”
Amusement fled. “Is that true? Are your chances for promotion bogged down
because of us?”

“How the hell
do I know?” Still flying on the insult, she rounded on him. “Do you think I
care about that? You think making rank drives me?”

“No.” He
walked to her, ran his hands up and down her arms. “I know what drives you. The
dead drive you.” He leaned forward, rested his lips on her brow. “He
miscalculated.”

“It was a
stupid and senseless thing for him to do. He barely bothered to circle around
much before he hit me with it. Bad strategy,” she continued. “Poor approach. He
wants your ass, Roarke, and bad enough to risk censure for attempted bribery if
I report the conversation -- and anyone believes it. Why is that?”

“I don't
know.” And what you didn't know, he thought, was always dangerous. “I'll look
into it. In any case, you certainly livened up the reception.”

“Normally
I'd've been more subtle, just kneed that jerk in the balls for getting in my
way. But Skinner had gone into this tango about how women shouldn't be on the
job because they're nurturers. Tagging the balls just seemed too girly at the
time.”

He laughed,
drew her closer. “I love you, Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
But she was smiling again when she wrapped her arms around him.

-=O=-***-=O=-

As a rule,
being crowded ass to ass at a table in a club where the entertainment included
music that threatened the eardrums wasn't Eve's idea of a good time.

But when she
was working off a good mad, it paid to have friends around.

The table was
jammed with New York's finest. Her butt was squeezed between Roarke's and
Feeney's, the Electronic Detective Division captain. Feeney's usually hangdog
face was slack with amazement as he stared up at the stage.

On the other
side of Roarke, Dr. Mira, elegant despite the surroundings, sipped a Brandy
Alexander and watched the entertainment -- a three-piece combo whose costumes
were red-white-and-blue body paint doing wild, trash-rock riffs on American
folk songs. Rounding out the table were Morris, the medical examiner, and
Peabody.

“Wife
shouldn't've gone to bed.” Feeney shook his head. “You have to see it to
believe it.”

“Hell of a
show,” Morris agreed. His long, dark braid was threaded through with silver
rope, and the lapels of his calf-length jacket sparkled with the same sheen.

For a dead
doctor, Eve thought, he was a very snappy dresser.

“But Dallas
here” -- Morris winked at her -- “was quite some warm-up act.”

“Har har,” Eve
replied.

Morris smiled
serenely. “Hotshot lieutenant decks legend of police lore's bodyguards at law
enforcement convention on luxury off-planet resort. You've got to play that all
the way out.”

“Nice left
jab,” Feeney commented. “Good follow-through on the kick. Skinner's an
asshole.”

“Why do you
say that, Feeney?” Peabody demanded. “He's an icon.”

“Who said
icons can't be assholes?” he tossed back. “Likes to make out like he put down
the Urban Wars single-handed. Goes around talking about them like it was all
about duty and romance and patriotism. What it was, was about survival. And it
was ugly.”

“It's typical
for some who've been through combat to romanticize it,” Mira put in.

“Nothing
romantic about slitting throats or seeing Fifth Avenue littered with body
parts.”

“Well, that's
cheerful.” Morris pushed Feeney's fresh glass in front of him. “Have another
beer, Captain.”

“Cops don't
crow about doing the job.” Feeney glugged down his beer. “They just do it. I'da
been closer, Dallas, I'da helped you take down those spine crackers of his.”

Because the
wine and his mood made her sentimental, she jabbed him affectionately with her
elbow. “You bet your ass. We can go find them and beat them brainless. You
know, round out the evening's entertainment.”

Roarke laid a
hand on her back as one of his security people came to the table and leaned
down to whisper in his ear. Humor vanished from his face as he nodded.

“Someone beat
you to it,” he announced. “We have what's left of a body on the stairway
between the eighteenth and nineteenth floors.”

CHAPTER THREE

Eve stood at
the top of the stairwell. The once pristine white walls were splattered with
blood and gray matter. A nasty trail of both smeared the stairs. The body was
sprawled on them, faceup.

There was
enough of his face and hair left for her to identify him as the man whose nose
she'd broken a few hours before.

“Looks like
somebody was a lot more pissed off than I was. Your man got any Seal-It?” she
asked Roarke.

When Roarke
passed her the small can of sealant, she coated her hands, her shoes. “I could
use a recorder. Peabody, help hotel security keep the stairwells blocked off.
Morris.” She tossed him the can. “With me.”

Roarke gave
her his security guard's lapel recorder. Stepped forward. Eve simply put a hand
on his chest. “No civilians -- whether they own the hotel or not. Just wait.
Why don't you clear Feeney to confiscate the security disks for this sector of
the hotel? It'll save time.”

She didn't
wait for an answer, but headed down the steps to the body. Crouched. “Didn't do
this with fists.” She examined his face. One side was nearly caved in, the
other largely untouched. “Left arm's crushed. Guy was lefthanded. I made that
at the reception. They probably went for the left side first. Disabled him.”

“Agreed.
Dallas?” Morris jerked his head in the direction of the seventeenth floor. A
thick metal bat coated with gore rested on a tread farther down the stairs.
“That would've done the trick. I can consult with the local ME on the autopsy,
but prelim eyeballing tells me that's the weapon. Do you want me to dig up some
evidence bags, a couple of field kits?”

She started to
speak, then hissed out a breath. The smell of death was in her nostrils, and it
was too familiar. “Not our territory. We've got to go through station police.
Goddamn it.”

“There are
ways to get around that, with your man owning the place.”

“Maybe.” She
poked a sealed finger in a blood pool, nudged something metal and silver. And
she recognized the star worn on the epaulets of hotel security.

“Who would be
stupid enough to beat a man to death in a hotel full of cops?” Morris wondered.

She shook her
head, got to her feet. “Let's get the ball rolling on this.” When she reached
the top of the steps, she scanned the hallway. If she'd been in New York, she
would now give the body a thorough examination, establish time of death, gather
data and trace evidence from the scene. She'd call her crime scene unit, the
sweepers, and send out a team to do door-to-doors.

But she wasn't
in New York.

“Has your
security notified station police?” she asked Roarke.

“They're on
their way.”

“Good. Fine.
We'll keep the area secure and offer any and all assistance.” Deliberately, she
switched off her recorder. “I don't have any authority here. Technically, I
shouldn't have entered the crime scene area. I had a previous altercation with
the victim, and that makes it stickier.”

“I own this
hotel, and I hold primary interest in this station. I can request the
assistance of any law enforcement agent.”

“Yeah, so
we've got that clear.” She looked at him. “One of your security uniforms is
missing a star. It's down there, covered with body fluid.”

“If one of my
people is responsible, you'll have my full cooperation in identifying and
apprehending him.”

She nodded
again. “So we've got that clear, too. What's your security setup for this
sector?”

“Full-range
cameras -- corridors, elevators, and stairwells. Full soundproofing. Feeney's
getting the disks.”

“He'll, have
to hand them to station police. When it's homicide, they have a maximum of
seventy-two hours before they're obliged to turn the investigation over to ILE.
Since ILE has people on-site, they'd be wise to turn it over now.”

“Is that what
you want?”

“It's not a
matter of what I want. Look, it's not my case.”

He took a
handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood smear from her hand. “Isn't
it?”

Then he turned
as the chief of police stepped off the elevator.

Eve hadn't
been expecting a statuesque brunette in a tiny black dress with enough hair to
stuff a mattress. As she clipped down the hall on towering high heels, Eve
heard Morris's reverent opinion.

“Hubba-hubba.”

“Jeez, try for
dignity,” Eve scolded.

The brunette
stopped, took a quick scan. “Roarke,” she said in a voice that evoked images of
hot desert nights.

“Chief.
Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Dr. Morris, NYC Medical Examiner.”

“Yes. Darcia
Angelo. Chief of Olympus Police. Excuse my appearance. I was at one of the
welcome events. I'm told we have a possible homicide.”

“Verified
homicide,” Eve told her. “Victim's male, Caucasian, thirty-five to forty. Bludgeoned.
The weapon, a metal bat, was left on scene. Preliminary visual exam indicates
he's been dead under two hours.”

“There's been
a prelim exam?” Darcia asked. Coldly.

“Yes.”

“Well, we
won't quibble about that. I'll verify personally before my team gets here.”

“Messy down
there.” Coolly, Eve handed over the can of Seal-It.

“Thanks.”
Darcia stepped out of her evening shoes. Eve couldn't fault her for it. She did
the same thing herself, when she remembered. When she'd finished, she handed
the can back to Eve. Darcia took a small recorder out of her purse, clipped it
where the fabric of her dress dipped to hug her breasts.

Morris let out
a long sigh as she walked into the stairwell. “Where do you find them?” he
asked Roarke. “And how can I get one of my very own?”

Before Eve
could snarl at him, Feeney hurried down the hall. “Got a snag with the disks,”
he announced. “Stairway cams were overridden for a fifty-minute period. You got
nothing but static there, and static for two sixty-second intervals on the
twentieth-floor corridor. Somebody knew what they were doing,” he added. “It's
a complex system, with a fail-safe backup plan. It took a pro -- with access.”

“With that
time frame there had to be at least two people involved,” Eve stated.
“Premeditated, not impulse, not crime of passion.”

“You got an ID
on the victim? I can run a background check.”

“Police
chief's on scene,” Eve said flatly.

For a moment
Feeney looked blank. “Oh, right. Forgot we weren't home, sweet home. The locals
going to squeeze us out?”

“You weren't,”
Darcia said as she came out of the stairwell, “ever -- in an official capacity
-- in.”

“On the
contrary,” Roarke told her. “I requested the assistance of the lieutenant and
her team.”

Irritation
flickered across Darcia's face, but she controlled it quickly. “As is your
privilege. Lieutenant, may I have a moment of your time?” Without waiting for
an answer, Darcia walked down the corridor.

“Arrogant,
territorial, pushy.” Eve glared at Roarke. “You sure can pick them.”

He only smiled
as his wife's retreating back. “Yes, I certainly can.”

“Look, Angelo,
you want to bust my balls over doing a visual, you're wasting your time and
mine.” Eve tugged her lapel recorder free, held it out. “I verified a homicide,
at the request of the property owner. Then I stepped back. I don't want your
job, and I don't want your case. I get my fill of walking through blood in New
York.”

Darcia flipped
her mane of glossy black hair. “Four months ago I was busting illegal dealers
in Colombia, risking my life on a daily basis and still barely able to pay the
rent on a stinking little two-room apartment. In the current climate, cops are
not appreciated in my country. I like my new job.”

She opened her
purse, dropped Eve's recorder inside. “Is that job in jeopardy if I refuse to
hand over this case to my employer's wife?”

“Roarke
doesn't fight my battles, and he doesn't fire people because they might not
agree with me.”

“Good.” Darcia
nodded. “I worked illegals, bunko, robbery. Twelve years. I'm a good cop.
Homicide, however, is not my specialty. I don't enjoy sharing, but I'd
appreciate any help you and your associates are willing to give in this
matter.”

“Fine. So what
was this dance about?”

“Simply? So
you and I would both be aware it is my case.”

“You need to
be aware that earlier tonight I punched the dead man in the face.”

“Why?” Darcia
asked suspiciously.

“He got in my
way.”

“I see. It'll
be interesting to find out if you and I can close this matter without getting
in each other's way.”

Two hours
later, for convenience's sake, the two arms of the investigation gathered in
Roarke's on-site office.

“The victim is
identified as Reginald Weeks, thirty-eight. Current residence is Atlanta,
Georgia, Earth. Married, no children. Current employer, Douglas R. Skinner,
Incorporated. Function personal security.” Darcia finished, inclined her head
at Eve.

“Crime scene
examination of body shows massive trauma.” Eve picked up the narrative. “Cause
of death, most likely, fractured skull. The left side of the head and body were
severely traumatized. Victim was left-handed, and this method of attack
indicates foreknowledge. Security for the stairwell and the twentieth floor
were tampered with prior to and during the act. A metal bat has been taken into
evidence and is presumed to be the murder weapon. Also taken into evidence a
silver-plated star stud, identified as part of the hotel security team's
uniform. Chief Angelo?”

“Background
data so far retrieved on Weeks show no criminal activity. He had held his
current employment for two years. Prior that, he was employed by Right Arm, a
firm that handles personal security and security consults for members of the
Conservative Party. Prior to that he was in the military, Border Patrol, for
six years.”

“This tells us
he knows how to follow orders,” Eve continued. “He stepped up in my face
tonight because Skinner, or one of Skinner's arms, signaled him to do so. He
laid hands on me for the same reason. He's trained, and if he was good enough
to last six years in the Border Patrol and land a job in Right Arm, he's not
the type of guy who would go into a soundproof stairwell with a stranger, even
under duress. If he'd been attacked in the corridor, there'd be a sign of it.
If they took him on the twentieth floor, what the hell was he doing on the
twentieth floor? His room, his security briefing room, and Skinner's suite are
all on twenty-six.”

“Could've been
meeting a woman.” Feeney stretched out his legs. “Conventionitis.”

“That's a
point,” Eve allowed. “All evidence points to this being a planned attack, but a
woman could have been used as a lure. We need to verify or eliminate that. You
want to track it down, Feeney?”

“Captain
Feeney may assist my officers in that area of investigation.” Darcia merely
lifted her eyebrows when Eve turned to her. “If he is agreeable. As I hope he
will be to continuing to work with the hotel security team.”

“We're a real
agreeable group,” Eve said with a wide, wide smile.

“Excellent.
Then you have no problem accompanying me to twenty-six to inform the victim's
employer of his death.”

“Not a one.
Peabody. My aide goes with me,” Eve said before Darcia could speak.
“Non-negotiable. Peabody,” Eve said again, gesturing as she walked out of the
room and left Darcia assigning her officers to different tasks. “I want your
recorder on when we talk to Skinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I get hung
up, I need you to wheedle an update out of the local ME. If you can't open him
up, tag Morris and have him use the good buddy, same field approach.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to
find the uniform that star came from. We need to check recyclers, the valet,
outside cleaning sources. Get chummy with the home team. I want to know the
minute the sweepers and crime scene units' reports are in. I'm betting there's
going to be traces of Seal-It on that bat, and nobody's blood but the victim's
on the scene. Fucking ambush,” she grumbled, and turned as Darcia came out.

Darcia said
nothing until she'd called for the elevator and stepped inside. “Do you have a
history with Douglas Skinner, Lieutenant?”

“No. Not until
tonight.”

“My
information is that he specifically called you to his table to speak with you
privately. You, apparently, had words of disagreement, and when the victim
attempted to prevent you from leaving the table, you struck him. Would this be
accurate?”

“It would.”

“What were
those words of disagreement between you and Douglas Skinner?”

“Am I a
suspect in this case or a consultant?”

“You're a
consultant, and as such I would appreciate any and all data.”

“I'll think
about it.” Eve stepped out on twenty-six.

“If you have
nothing to hide.”

“I'm a cop,”
Eve reminded her. “That line doesn't work on me.” She rang the bell, waited.
She watched the security light blink to green, kept her face blank while she
and her companions were scanned. Moments later. Skinner opened the door
himself.

“Lieutenant.
It's a bit late for paying calls.”

“It's never
too late for official calls. Chief Angelo, Douglas Skinner.”

“Pardon the
intrusion, Commander Skinner.” Darcia's voice was low and respectful, her face
quietly sober. “We have some unfortunate news. May we come in?”

“Of course.”
He stepped back. He was dressed in the long white robe provided by the hotel,
and his face looked pale against it. The large living area was dimly lit and
fragrant from the bouquets of roses. He ordered the lights up 10 percent, and
gestured toward the sofa.

“Please,
ladies, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”

“We're not
here to chat. Where were you between twenty-two hundred and midnight?”

“I don't like
your tone, Lieutenant.”

“Please,
excuse us.” Darcia stepped in smoothly. “It's been a difficult night. If I
could ask you to verify your whereabouts, as a formality?”

“My wife and I
came up to our suite a bit after ten. We retired early, as I have a long, busy
day scheduled tomorrow. What's happened?”

“Weeks got his
brains bashed in,” Eve said.

“Weeks?
Reggie?” Skinner stared at Eve. Those hard blue eyes widened, darkened, and
seemed to draw a cast of gray over his skin as shock shifted into fury. “Dead?
The boy is dead? Have you determined Roarke's whereabouts! Or would you go so
far as to cover up murder to protect him? She attacked Weeks only hours ago.”
He pointed at Eve. “An unprovoked and vicious assault on one of mine because I
questioned her about her alliance with a criminal. You're a disgrace to your
badge.”

“One of us
is,” Eve agreed as Skinner sank into a chair.

“Commander.”
Darcia stepped forward. “I know this is a shock for you. I want to assure you
that the Olympus PD is actively pursuing all avenues of investigation.”

For a moment
he said nothing, and the only sound was his quick, labored breathing. “I don't
know you, Chief Angelo, but I know who pays you. I have no confidence in your
investigation as long as it's bankrolled by Roarke. Now, excuse me. I have
nothing more to say at this time. I need to contact Reggie's wife and tell her
she's a widow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Well, that
went well.” Eve rolled her shoulders as she headed back to the elevator.

“If one
doesn't mind being accused of being a fool or a dirty cop.”

Eve punched
the elevator button. “Ever hear the one about sticks and stones in Colombia?”

“I don't like
that one.” Obviously stewing, Darcia strode onto the elevator. “And I don't
like your Commander Skinner.”

“Hey, he's not
mine.”

“He implies
Roarke is my puppet master. Why does he assume that, and why does he believe
Roarke is responsible for Weeks's death?”

The quiet,
respectful woman was gone, and in her place was a tough-eyed cop with steel in
her voice. Eve began to see how Darcia Angelo had risen through twelve years in
Colombia.

“One reason is
Weeks annoyed me, and since I'm just a procreating, nurturing female, it would
be up to my warrior, defender, penis-owning husband to follow through.”

“Ah.” Darcia
sucked in her cheeks. “This is an attitude I recognize. Still, splattering a
man's brains is considerable over-compensation for such a minor infraction. A
very large leap of conclusion for the commander to make. There's more.”

“Might be. I
haven't worked it out yet. Meanwhile, Skinner seemed awfully alert for someone
who'd already gone to bed. And while the lights in the living area were on low
when we walked in, they were full on in the bedroom off to the right. He didn't
close the door all the way when he came out.”

“Yes, I
noticed that.”

“Suite's set
up along the same basic floor plan as the one I'm in. Second bedroom off to the
left. There was a light on in there, too. His wife had that door open a crack.
She was listening.”

“I didn't
catch that,” Darcia mused, then glanced back when Peabody muttered.

“She missed
it, too,” Eve said. “She hates that. And if Belle Skinner was eavesdropping
from the second bedroom, she wasn't snuggled up with the commander in the
master, was she? No connubial bliss, which is interesting. And no alibi.”

“What motive
would Skinner have for killing one of his own bodyguards?”

“Something to
think about. I want to check some things out.” She stopped the elevator so both
Darcia and Peabody could exit. “I'll get back to you.”

Being willing
to fall into step with Darcia Angelo didn't mean she couldn't make some lateral
moves of her own. If she was going to wade into a murder investigation off her
own turf, without her usual system and when her badge was little more than a
fashion accessory, she was going to make use of whatever tools were available.

There was one
particular tool she knew to be very versatile and flexible.

She was
married to him.

She found
Roarke, as she'd expected to, at work on the bedroom computer. He'd removed his
dinner jacket, rolled up his sleeves. There was a pot of coffee beside him.

“What have you
got?” She picked up his cup, gulped down half his coffee.

“Nothing that
links me or any of my business dealings with Skinner. I have some interests in
Atlanta, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Communications,
electronics, entertainment. Real estate, of course.” He took the cup back from
her, idly rubbed her ass with his free hand. “And during one lovely interlude
previous to my association with you, a nicely profitable smuggling enterprise.
Federal infractions -- “

“Infractions,”
she repeated.

“One could
say. Nothing that bumped up against state or local authorities.”

“Then you're
missing something, because it's personal with him. It doesn't make any sense
otherwise. You're not a major bad guy.”

“Now you've
hurt my feelings.”

“Why does he
latch on to you?” she demanded, ignoring him. “Fifty years a cop, he'd have
seen it all. And he'd have lost plenty. There are stone killers out there,
pedophiles, sexual predators, cannibals, for Christ's sake. So why are you
stuck in his craw? He's been retired from active, what, six years, and -- “

“Seven.”

“Seven, then.
Seven years. And he approaches me with what could be considered a bribe or
blackmail, depending on your point of view, to pressure me into rolling over on
you. It was arrogant and ill-conceived.”

She thought it
through as she paced. “I don't think he expected it to work. I think he expected
me to tell him to fuck off. That way he could roll us into a ball together and
shoot two for one.”

“He can't
touch you -- or me, for that matter.”

“He can make
things hot by implicating us in a homicide. And he's laying the groundwork. He
pushes my buttons in a public venue, then gets one of his monkeys to get in my
face. Altercation ensues. A couple hours later, monkey has his brains
splattered all over the stairway of a Roarke Enterprises hotel -- and what's
this! Why it's a clue, Sherlock, and a dandy one, too. A star stud from one of
Roarke Securities uniforms, floating in the victim's blood.”

“Not
particularly subtle.”

“He doesn't
have time to be subtle. He's in a hurry,” she continued. “I don't know why, but
he's rushing things. Shove circumstantial evidence down the throat of the local
authorities and they've got to pursue the possibility that the irritated
husband and suspected interplanetary hoodlum ordered one of his own monkeys to
teach Skinner's a lesson.”

“You touched
my wife, now I have to kill you?” Roarke's shrug was elegant and careless.
“Over-dramatic, over-romanticized. Particularly since you punched him in the
face before I could ride to the rescue.”

“In his narrow
little world, men are the hunters, the defenders. It plays when you look at it
through his window. It's another miscalculation though, because it's not your
style. You want the hell beat out of someone, you do it yourself.”

He smiled at
her fondly. “I like watching you do it even more, darling.”

She spared him
a look. “Standard testing on you, any profile would kick the theory out of the
park. You're just not hardwired to pay somebody to kill, or to get your dick in
a twist because somebody hassles me. We could have Mira run you through a Level
One testing just to push that aside.”

“No, thank
you, darling. More coffee?”

She grunted,
paced a bit more while he rose to go to the mini AutoChef for a fresh pot and
cups. “It's a sloppy frame. Thing is, Skinner believes you're capable, and that
if he dumps enough on the ILE if and when they take over he'll push you into an
investigative process that will mess you up -- and me by association.”

“Lieutenant,
the ILE has investigated me in the past. They don't worry me. What does is that
if it goes that far, your reputation and career could take some bruises. I
won't tolerate that. I think the commander and I should have a chat.”

“And what do
you think he's counting on?” she demanded.

“Why
disappoint him?” Coffee cup in hand, he sat on the arm of his chair. “I've
compiled personal and professional data on Skinner. Nothing seems particularly
relevant to this, but I haven't studied his case files in depth. Yet.”

Eve set down
the coffee he'd just poured her with a little snap of china on wood. “Case
files? You hacked into his case files? Are you a lunatic? He gets wind of that,
you're up on charges and in lockup before your fancy lawyers can knot their
fancy ties.”

“He won't get
wind of it.”

“CompuGuard --
“ She broke off, scowled at the bedroom unit. CompuGuard monitored all
e-transmissions and programming on-planet or off. Though she was aware Roarke
had unregistered equipment at home, the hotel system was a different matter.
“Are you telling me this unit's unregistered?”

“Absolutely
not.” His expression was innocent as a choirboy's. “It's duly registered and
meets all legal requirements. Or did until a couple of hours ago.”

“You can't
filter out CompuGuard in a few hours.”

Roarke sighed
heavily, shook his head. “First you hurt my feelings, now you insult me. I
don't know why I put up with this abuse.”

Then he moved
fast, grabbing her up, hauling her against him and crushing her mouth with a
kiss so hot she wondered if her lips were smoking.

“Oh, yes.” He
released her, picked up his coffee again. “That's why.”

“If that was
supposed to distract me from the fact that you've illegally blocked CompuGuard
and broken into official data, it was a damn good try. But the joke's on you. I
was going to ask you to dig up the data.”

“Were you
really, Lieutenant? You never fail to surprise me.”

“They beat him
until his bones were dust.” Her tone was flat, dull. All cop. “They erased half
his face. And left the other half clean so I'd know as soon as I saw him. The
minute he stepped in front of me tonight, he was dead. I was the goddamn murder
weapon.” She looked back at the computer. “So. Let's get to work.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

They culled
out cases during Skinner's last decade of active duty and cross-referenced with
anything relating to them during the seven years of his retirement. It
overlapped the time before Roarke had come to America from Ireland, but it
seemed a logical place to start.

As the
caseload was enormous, they split it. Eve worked on the bedroom unit, and
Roarke set up in the second bedroom.

By three,
Eve's temples were throbbing, her stomach raw from caffeine intake. And she'd
developed a new and reluctant admiration for Commander Skinner.

“Damn good
cop,” she acknowledged. Thorough, focused, and up until his retirement, he had
apparently dedicated himself, body and soul, to the job.

How had it
felt to step away from all that? she wondered. It had been his choice, after
all. At sixty-four, retirement was an option, not a requirement. He could have
easily put in another ten years on active. He might have risen to commissioner.

Instead, he'd
put in his fifty and then used that as a springboard in a run for Congress. And
had fallen hard on his face. A half century of public service hadn't been
enough to offset views so narrow even the most dug-in of the Conservative Party
had balked. Added to that, his platform had swung unevenly from side to side.

He was an
unwavering supporter of the Gun Ban, something the Conservatives tried to
overturn at every opportunity. Yet he beat the drum to reinstate the death
penalty, which alienated the Liberals from mid-road to far left.

He wanted to
dissolve legal and regulated prostitution and strike out all legal and tax
benefits for co-habitating couples. He preached about the sanctity of marriage,
as long as it was heterosexual, but disavowed the government stipend for
professional mothers.

Motherhood,
the gospel according to Skinner stated, was a God-given duty, and payment in
its own right.

His
mixed-voice and muddled campaign had gone down in flames. However much he'd
rebounded financially via lectures, books, and consults, Eve imagined he still
bore the burns of that failure.

Still, she
couldn't see how Roarke tied into it.

Rubbing her
forehead, she pushed away and got up to work out the kinks. Maybe she was
overreacting. Did she want it to be personal for Skinner because he'd made it
personal for her? Maybe Roarke was no more than a symbol for Skinner. Someone
who had slipped and slid around the system that Skinner himself had dedicated
his life to.

She checked
her wrist unit. Maybe she'd catch some sleep, go back to it fresh in the
morning. She would juggle the data first, though, so that when she looked at it
again it would be in a new pattern. Whatever she was missing -- and her gut
still told her she was missing something -- might float to the top.

“Computer,
extrapolate any and all references to Roarke ...” She yawned hugely, shook her
head to clear it. “In any and all files, personal and professional, under
Skinner, Commander Douglas.”

Working...

“List
references chronologically, first to last, um ... give me official police
records first, followed by personal files.”

Understood.
Working.... No reference to Roarke under Skinner, Commander Douglas police
records. Reference under Skinner, Captain Douglas only.... Extrapolating
personal files . . .

“Yeah, well,
you keep saying that, but...” Eve whirled around, stared at the monitor.
“Computer, stop. List any and all reference to Roarke under Skinner, Douglas,
any rank.”

Working...
first listed reference in Skinner, Captain Douglas, case file C-439014, to
Roarke, Patrick aka O'Hara, Sean, aka MacNeil, Thomas, date stamped March,
twelve, twenty-thirty-six. Subject Roarke suspect in illegal weapons running,
illegal entry into United States, grand theft auto and conspiracy to murder of
police officers. Subject believed to have fled Atlanta area, and subsequently
the country. Last known residence, Dublin, Ireland. Case file complete,
investigative data available. Do you wish full case file?

“Yes. In hard
copy.”

Working...

Eve sat down
again, slowly as the computer hummed. 2036, she thought. Twenty-three years
ago. Roarke would have been what, twelve, thirteen?

It wasn't
Roarke that was at the root of Skinner's obsession.

It was
Roarke's father.

-=O=-***-=O=-

At his own
unit, Roarke ran through layers of Skinner's financials. Among the most
clear-cut motives for murder were greed, revenge, jealousy, sex, fear of
disgrace, and profit. So he'd follow the money first.

There was a
possibility, he'd decided, that Skinner had invested in one of his companies --
or a competitor's. Perhaps he'd lost a substantial amount of money. Men had hated
men for less.

And
financially Skinner had taken a beating during his run for Congress. It had
left him nearly broke as well as humiliated.

“Roarke.”

“Hmm.” He held
up a finger to hold Eve off as she came into the room. “Communications,” he
said. “I have an interest in the Atlanta media sources, and they were very
unkind to Skinner during his congressional attempt. This would have weighed
heavily against his chances of winning. Media Network Link is mine outright,
and they were downright vicious. Accurate, but vicious. Added to that, he's
invested fairly heavily in Corday Electronics, based in Atlanta. My own company
has eroded their profits and customer base steadily for the last four years. I
really should finish them off with a takeover,” he added as an afterthought.

“Roarke.”

“Yes?” He
reached around absently to take her hand as he continued to scroll data.

“It goes
deeper than politics and stock options. Twenty-three years ago illegal arms
dealers set up a base in Atlanta, and Skinner headed up the special unit formed
to take them down. They had a weasel on the inside, and solid information. But
when they moved in, it was a trap. Weasels turn both ways, and we all know it.”

She took a
deep breath, hoping she was telling it the way it should be told. Love twisted
her up as often, maybe more often, than it smoothed things out for her.

“Thirteen cops
were killed,” she continued, “six more wounded. They were outgunned, but
despite it, Skinner broke the cartel's back. The cartel lost twenty-two men,
mostly soldiers. And he bagged two of the top line that night. That led to two
more arrests in the next twelve months. But he lost one. He was never able to
get his hands on one.”

“Darling, I
might've been precocious, but at twelve I'd yet to run arms, unless you're
counting a few hand-helds or homemade boomers sold in alleyways. And I hadn't
ventured beyond Dublin City. As for weaseling, that's something I've never
stooped to.”

“No.” She kept
staring at his face. “Not you.”

And watched
his eyes change, darken and chill as it fell into place for him. “Well, then,”
he said, very softly. “Son of a bitch.”

CHAPTER FIVE

As a boy,
Roarke had been the favored recipient of his father's fists and boots. He'd
usually seen them coming, and had avoided them when possible, lived with them
when it wasn't.

To his
knowledge, this was the first time the old man had sucker punched him from the
grave.

Still, he sat
calmly enough, reading the hard copy of the reports Eve had brought him. He was
a long way from the skinny, battered boy who had run the Dublin alleyways.
Though he didn't care much for having to remind himself of it now.

“This double
cross went down a couple of months before my father ended up in the gutter with
a knife in his throat. Apparently someone beat Skinner to him. He has that
particular unsolved murder noted in his file here. Perhaps he arranged it.”

“I don't think
so.” She wasn't quite sure how to approach Roarke on the subject of his father
and his boyhood. He tended to walk away from his past, whereas she -- well, she
tended to walk into the wall of her own past no matter how often, how
deliberately, she changed directions.

“Why do you
say that? Look, Eve, it isn't the same for me as it is for you. You needn't be
careful. He doesn't haunt me. Tell me why if my father slipped through
Skinner's fingers in Atlanta, Skinner wouldn't arrange to have his throat slit
in Dublin City.”

“First, he was
a cop, not an assassin. There's no record in the file that he'd located his
target in Dublin. There's correspondence with Interpol, with local Irish
authorities. He was working on extradition procedures should his target show up
on Irish soil, and would likely have gotten the paperwork and the warrant.
That's what he'd have wanted,” she continued, and rose to prowl the room. “He'd
want the bastard back on his own turf, back where it went down and his men were
killed. He'd want that face-to-face. He didn't get it.”

She turned
back. “If he'd gotten it, he could've closed the book, moved on. And he
wouldn't be compelled to go after you. You're what's left of the single biggest
personal and professional failure of his life. He lost his men, and the person
responsible for their loss got away from him.”

“Dead wouldn't
be enough, without arrest, trial, and sentencing.”

“No, it
wouldn't. And here you are, rich, successful, famous -- and married, for
Christ's sake -- to a cop. I don't need Mira to draw me a profile on this one.
Skinner believes that perpetrators of certain crimes, including any crime that
results in the death of a police official, should pay with their life. After
due process. Your father skipped out on that one. You're here, you pay.”

“Then he's
doomed to disappointment. For a number of reasons. One, I'm a great deal
smarter than my father was.” He rose, went to her, skimmed a finger down the
dent in her chin. “And my cop is better than Skinner ever hoped to be.”

“I have to
take him down. I have to fuck over fifty years of duty, and take him down.”

“I know.” And
would suffer for it, Roarke thought, as Skinner never would. As Skinner could
never understand. “We need to sleep,” he said and pressed his lips to her brow.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She dreamed of
Dallas, and the frigid, filthy room in Texas where her father had kept her. She
dreamed of cold and hunger and unspeakable fear. The red light from the sex
club across the street flashed into the room, over her face. And over his face
as he struck her.

She dreamed of
pain when she dreamed of her father. The tearing of her young flesh as he
forced himself into her. The snapping of bone, her own high, thin scream when
he broke her arm.

She dreamed of
blood.

Like Roarke's,
her father had died by a knife. But the one that had killed him had been
gripped in her own eight-year-old hand.

In the big,
soft bed in the plush suite, she whimpered like a child. Beside her, Roarke
gathered her close and held her until the dream died.

-=O=-***-=O=-

She was up and
dressed by six. The snappy jacket that had ended up in her suitcase fit well
over her harness and weapon. The weight of them made her feel more at home.

She used the
bedroom 'link to contact Peabody. At least she assumed the lump under the heap
of covers was Peabody.

“Whaa?”

“Wake up,” Eve
ordered. “I want your report in fifteen minutes.”

“Who?”

“Jesus,
Peabody. Get up, get dressed. Get here.”

“Why don't I
order up some breakfast?” Roarke suggested when she broke transmission.

“Fine, make it
for a crowd. I'm going to spread a little sunshine and wake everybody up.” She
hesitated. “I trust my people, Roarke, and I know how much I can tell them. I
don't know Angelo.”

He continued
to read the morning stock reports on-screen. “She works for me.”

“So, one way
or the other, does every third person in the known universe. That tells me
nothing.”

“What was your
impression of her?”

“Sharp, smart,
solid. And ambitious.”

“So was mine,”
he said easily. “Or she wouldn't be chief of police on Olympus. Tell her what
she needs to know. My father's unfortunate history doesn't trouble me.”

“Will you talk
to Mira?” She kept her gaze level as he rose, turned toward her. “I want to
call her in, I want a consult. Will you talk to her?”

“I don't need
a therapist, Eve. I'm not the one with nightmares.” He cursed softly, ran a
hand through his hair when her face went blank and still. “Sorry. Bloody hell.
But my point is we each handle things as we handle them.”

“And you can
push and nudge and find ways to smooth it over for me. But I can't do that for
you.”

The temper in
her voice alleviated a large slice of his guilt over mentioning her nightmare.
“Screen off,” he ordered and crossed to her. Took her face in his hands. “Let
me tell you what I once told Mira -- not in a consult, not in a session. You
saved me, Eve.” He watched her blink in absolute shock. “What you are, what I
feel for you, what we are together saved me.” He kept his eyes on hers as he
kissed her. “Call your people. I'll contact Darcia.”

He was nearly
out of the room before she found her voice. “Roarke?” She never seemed to find
the words as he did, but these came easy. “We saved each other.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

There was no
way she could make the huge, elegant parlor feel like one of the conference
rooms in Cop Central. Especially when her team was gorging on cream pastries,
strawberries the size of golf balls, and a couple of pigs' worth of real bacon.

It just served
to remind her how much she hated being off her own turf.

“Peabody,
update.”

Peabody had to
jerk herself out of the image of the good angel on her shoulder, sitting with
her hands properly folded, and the bad angel, who was stuffing another cream
bun in her greedy mouth. “Ah, sir. Autopsy was completed last night. They let
Morris assist. Cause of death multiple trauma, most specifically the skull
fracture. A lot of the injuries were postmortem. He's booked on a panel this
morning, and has some sort of dead doctors' seminar later today, but Morris
will finesse copies of the reports for you. Early word is the tox screen was
clear.”

“Sweepers?”
Eve demanded.

“Sweepers'
reports weren't complete as of oh-six-hundred. However, what I dug up confirmed
your beliefs. Seal-It traces on the bat, no blood or bodily fluid but the
victim's found on scene. No uniform missing an epaulet star has been found to
date. Angelo's team's doing the run on recylers, valets, outside cleaning
companies. My information is the uniforms are coded with the individual's ID
number. When we find the uniform, we'll be able to trace the owner.”

“I want that
uniform,” Eve stated, and when she turned to Feeney, the bad angel won. Peabody
took another pastry.

“Had to be an
inside job on the security cameras,” he said. “Nobody gets access to Control
without retina and palm scans and code clearance. The bypass was complicated,
and it was done slick. Twelve people were in the control sector during the
prime period last night. I'm running them.”

“All right. We
look for any connection to Skinner, any work-related reprimands, any sudden
financial increase. Look twice if any of them were on the job before going into
private security.” She took a disk off the table, passed it to Feeney. “Run
them with the names on here.”

“No problem,
but I work better when I know why I'm working.”

“Those are the
names of cops who went down in the line of duty in Atlanta twenty-three years
ago. It was Skinner's operation.” She took a deep breath. “Roarke's father was
his weasel, and he turned a double cross.”

When Feeney
only nodded, Eve let out a breath. “One of the names on there is Thomas Weeks,
father to Reginald Weeks, our victim. My guess is if Skinner had one of his
slain officer's kids on his payroll, he's got others.”

“Follows if
one was used to build a frame around Roarke, another would be,” Feeney added.

She checked
her wrist unit when the door buzzer sounded. “That'll be Angelo. I want you
running those names, Feeney, so I'm not giving them to her. Yet. But I'm going
to tell her, and you, the rest of it.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

While Eve was
opening the door for Darcia, Skinner opened his to Roarke.

“A moment of
your time, Commander.”

“I have little
to spare.”

“Then we won't
waste it.” Roarke stepped inside, lifted a brow at Hayes. The man stood just
behind and to the right of Skinner, and had his hand inside his suit jacket.
“If you thought I was a threat, you should've had your man answer the door.”

“You're no
threat to me.”

“Then why
don't we have that moment in private?”

“Anything you
say to me can be said in front of my personal assistant.”

“Very well. It
would've been tidier, and certainly more efficient, if you'd come after me
directly instead of using Lieutenant Dallas and sacrificing one of your own
men.”

“So you admit
you had him killed.”

“I don't order
death. We're alone, Skinner, and I'm sure you've had these rooms secured
against recording devices and surveillance cameras. You want to take me on,
then do it. But have the balls to leave my family out of it.”

Skinner's lips
peeled back over his teeth. “Your father was a dickless coward and a pathetic
drunk.”

“Duly noted.”
Roarke walked to a chair, sat. “There, you see. We already have a point of
agreement on that particular matter. First let me clarify that by 'family,' I
meant my wife. Second, I must tell you you're being too kind regarding Patrick
Roarke. He was a vicious, small-minded bully and a petty criminal with
delusions of grandeur. I hated him with every breath I took. So you see, I
resent, quite strongly resent, being expected to pay for his many sins. I've
plenty of my own, so if you want to try to put my head on a platter, just pick
one. We'll work from there.”

“Do you think
because you wear a ten-thousand-dollar suit I can't smell the gutter on you?”
Color began to flood Skinner's face, but when Hayes stepped forward, Skinner
gestured him back with one sharp cut of the hand. “You're the same as he was.
Worse, because he didn't pretend to be anything other than the useless piece of
garbage he was. Blood tells.”

“It may have
once.”

“You've made a
joke out of the law, and now you hide behind a woman and a badge she's shamed.”

Slowly now,
Roarke got to his feet. “You know nothing of her. She's a miracle that I can't,
and wouldn't, explain to the likes of you. But I can promise you, I hide behind
nothing. You stand there, with fresh blood on your hands, behind your shield of
blind righteousness and your memories of old glory. Your mistake, Skinner, was
in trusting a man like my father to hold a bargain. And mine, it seems, was
thinking you'd deal with me. So here's a warning for you.”

He broke off
as Hayes shifted. Fast as a rattler, Roarke drew a hand laser out of his
pocket. “Take your bloody hand out of your coat while you still have one.”

“You've no
right, no authority to carry and draw a weapon.”

Roarke stared
at Skinner's furious face, then grinned. “What weapon? On your belly, Hayes,
hands behind your head. Do it!” he ordered when Hayes shot Skinner a look.
“Even on low these things give a nasty little jolt,” He lowered the sight to
crotch level. “Especially when they hit certain sensitive areas of the
anatomy.”

Though his
breathing was now labored, Skinner gestured toward Hayes.

“To the
warning. You step back from my wife. Step well and cleanly back, or you'll find
the taste of me isn't to your liking.”

“Will you have
me beat to death in a stairwell?”

“You're a
tedious man, Skinner,” Roarke said with a sigh as he backed to the door.
“Flaming tedious. I'd tell your men to have a care how they strut around and
finger their weapons. This is my place.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Despite its
size, Eve found the living area of the suite as stifling as a closed box. If
she were on a case like this in New York, she would be on the streets, cursing
at traffic as she fought her way to the lab to harass the techs, letting her
mind shuffle possibilities as she warred with Rapid Cabs on the way to the
morgue or back into Central.

The sweepers
would tremble when she called demanding a final report. And the asses she would
kick on her way through the investigation would be familiar.

This time
around Darcia Angelo got to have all the fun.

“Peabody, go
down and record Skinner's keynote, since he's playing the show must go on and
giving it on schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

The morose
tone had Eve asking, “What?”

“I know why
you're leaning toward him for this, Dallas. I can see the angles, but I just
can't adjust the pattern for them. He's a legend. Some cops go wrong because
the pressure breaks them inside, or because of the temptations or just because
they were bent that way to begin with. He never went wrong. It's an awful big
leap to see him tossing aside everything he's stood for and killing one of his
own to frame Roarke for something that happened when Roarke was a kid.”

“Come up with
a different theory, I'll listen. If you can't do the job, Peabody, tell me now.
You're on your own time here.”

“I can do the
job.” Her voice was as stiff as her shoulders as she started for the door. “I
haven't been on my own time since I met you.”

Eve set her
teeth as the door slammed, and was already formulating the dressing-down as she
marched across the room. Mira stopped her with a word.

“Eve. Let her
go. You have to appreciate her position. It's difficult being caught between
two of her heroes.”

“Oh, for
Christ's sake.”

“Sit, before
you wear a rut in this lovely floor. You're in a difficult position as well.
The man you love, the job that defines you, and another man who you believe has
crossed an indelible line.”

“I need you to
tell me if he could have crossed that line. I know what my gut tells me, what
the pattern of evidence indicates. It's not enough. I have data on him. Most of
it's public domain, but not all.” She waited a beat while Mira simply continued
to study her, calm as a lake. “I'm not going to tell you how I accessed it.”

“I'm not going
to ask you. I already know quite a bit about Douglas Skinner. He is a man
devoted to justice -- his own vision of it, one who has dedicated his life to
what the badge stands for, one who has risked his life to serve and protect. Very
much like you.”

“That doesn't
feel like much of a compliment right now.”

“There is a
parting of the ways between you, a very elemental one. He's compelled, has
always been compelled, to spread his vision of justice like some are compelled
to spread their vision of faith. You, Eve, at your core, stand for the victim.
He stands for his vision. Over time, that vision has narrowed. Some can become
victims of their own image until they become the image.”

“He's lost the
cop inside the hype.”

“Cleanly said.
Peabody's view of him is held by a great many people, a great many in law
enforcement. It's not such a leap, psychologically speaking, for me to see him
as becoming so obsessed by a mistake -- and the mistake was his own -- that
cost the lives of men in his command that that failure becomes the hungry
monkey on his back.”

“The man who's
dead wasn't street scum. He was a young employee, one with a clean record, with
a wife. The son of one of Skinner's dead. That's the leap I'm having trouble
with, Dr. Mira. Was the monkey so hungry that Skinner could order the death of
an innocent man just to feed it?”

“If he could
justify it in his mind, yes. Ends and means. How worried are you about Roarke?”

“He doesn't
want me to worry about him,” Eve answered.

“I imagine he's
much more comfortable when he can worry about you. His father was abusive to
him.”

“Yeah. He's
told me pieces of it. The old man knocked hell out of him, drunk or sober.” Eve
dragged a hand through her hair, walked back toward the window. There was barely
a hint of sky traffic.

How, she
wondered, did people stand the quiet, the stillness?

“He had Roarke
running cons, picking pockets, then he'd slap him around if he didn't bring
home enough. I take it his father wasn't much good at the rackets because they
lived in a slum.”

“His mother?”

“I don't know.
He says he doesn't know either. It doesn't seem to matter to him.” She turned
back, sat down across from Mira. “Can that be? Can it really not matter to him
what his father did to him, or that his mother left him to that?”

“He knows his
father started him on the path of, let's say circumventing the law. That he has
a predisposition for violence. He learned how to channel it, as you did. He had
a goal -- to get out, to have means and power. He accomplished that. Then he
found you. He understands where he came from, and I imagine it's part of his
pride that he became the kind of man a woman like you would love. And, knowing
his ... profile,” Mira said with a smile. “I imagine he's determined to protect
you and your career in this matter, every bit as much as you're determined to
protect him and his reputation.”

“I don't see
how...” Realization hit, and Eve was just getting to her feet when Roarke
walked in the door.

“Goddamn it.
Goddamn it, Roarke. You went after Skinner.”

CHAPTER SIX

“Good morning,
Dr. Mira.” Roarke closed the door behind him, then walked over to take Mira's
hand. The move was as smooth as his voice, and his voice smooth as cream. “Can
I get you some more tea?”

“No.” Her lips
twitched as she struggled to control a chuckle. “Thanks, but I really have to
be going. I'm leading a seminar right after the keynote session.”

“Don't think
you can use her as a shield. I told you to stay away from Skinner.”

“That's the
second time someone's accused me of hiding behind a woman today.” Though his
voice remained mild, Eve knew the edge was there. “It's getting annoying.”

“You want
annoying?” Eve began.

“You'll have
to forgive her,” Roarke said to Mira as he walked her to the door. “Eve tends
to become overexcited when I disobey.”

“She's worried
about you,” Mira said under her breath.

“Well, she'll
have to get over it. Have a good session.” He nudged Mira out the door, closed
it. Locked it. Turned. The edge was visible now. “I don't need a fucking
shield.”

“That was a
figure of speech, and don't change the subject. You went at Skinner after I
told you to stay clear of him.”

“I don't take
orders from you, Eve. I'm not a lapdog.”

“You're a
civilian,” she shot back.

“And you're a
consultant on someone else's case, and your authority here, in my bloody world,
is a courtesy.”

She opened her
mouth, closed it. Hissed. Then she turned on her heel, strode out through the
terrace doors, and kicked the railing several times.

“Feel better
now?”

“Yes. Because
I imagined it was your stupid, rock-hard head.” She didn't look back, but
braced her hands on the railing and looked out over what was indeed one of
Roarke's worlds.

It was lavish
and extravagant. The slick spears of other hotels, the tempting spreads of
casinos, theaters, the glitter of restaurants were all perfectly placed. There
were fountains, the silver ribbons of people glides, and the lush spread of
parks where trees and flowers grew in sumptuous profusion.

She heard the
click of his lighter, caught the scent of his obscenely expensive tobacco. He
rarely smoked these days, she thought.

“If you'd told
me it was important for you to have a face-to-face with Skinner, I'd have gone
with you.”

“I'm aware of
that.”

“Oh, Christ.
Men. Look, you don't need to hide behind me or anybody. You're a tough, badass
son of a bitch with a really big penis and balls of titanium steel. Okay?”

He cocked his
head. “One minute. I'm imagining throwing you off the balcony. Yes.” He nodded,
took a long drag on the cigarette. “That's indeed better.”

“If Skinner
took a couple of pops at your ego, it's because he knew it was a good target.
That's what cops do. Why don't you just tell me what happened?”

“He made it
clear, while Hayes stood there with a hand inside his coat and on his weapon,
that my father was garbage and by association so am I. And that it was long
past time for my comeuppance, so to speak.”

“Did he say
anything that led to him ordering Weeks killed?”

“On the
contrary, he twice pointed the finger at me. Full of barely restrained fury and
seething emotion. You could almost believe he meant it. I don't think he's
well,” Roarke continued and crushed out his cigarette. “Temper put a very
unhealthy color in his face, strained his breathing. I'll have to take a pass
through his medical records.”

“I want to
take a pass at his wife. Angelo agreed, after some minor complaints, to set it
up so we can double-team her later this afternoon. Meanwhile, Peabody's on
Skinner, between us we'll track down the uniform, and Feeney's running names.
Somebody on your security staff worked that bypass. We find out who, we link
them back to Skinner and get them into interview, we change the complexion of
this. Maybe put it away before ILE comes in.”

She glanced
back toward the suite as the 'link beeped. “Are we okay now?”

“We seem to
be.”

“Good. Maybe
that's Angelo with the setup for Belle Skinner.” She moved past Roarke to the
'link. Rather than Darcia's exotic face, Feeney's droopy one blipped on screen.

“Might have
something for you here. Zita Vinter, hotel security. She was in Control between
twenty-one-thirty and twenty-three hundred last night. Crossed her with your
list. Popped to Vinter, Detective Carl, Atlanta cop under Skinner. Line of duty
during the botched bust. Vinter's wife was pregnant with their second kid -- a
son, Marshall, born two months after his death. Older kid was five. Daughter,
Zita.”

“Bull's-eye.
What sector is she in now?”

“She didn't
come in today. Didn't call in either, according to her supervisor. Got her home
address. Want me to ride with you?”

She started to
agree, then looked back at Roarke. “No, I got it. See what else you can find on
her, okay? Maybe you can tag Peabody when the keynote crap's over. She's good
at digging background details. Owe you one, Feeney. Let me have the address.”

After she'd
ended transmission, Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and looked at
Roarke. “You wouldn't know where 22 Athena Boulevard might be, would you?”

“I might be
able to find it, yes.”

“I bet.” She
picked up her palm-link from the desk, stuck it in her pocket. “I'm not riding
in a limo to go interview a suspect. It's unprofessional. Bad enough I'm taking
some civilian wearing a fancy suit with me.”

“Then I'll
just have to come up with some alternate transportation.”

“While you're
at it, dig up your file on Zita Vinter, security sector.”

He drew out
his palm PC as they started out. “Always a pleasure to work with you,
Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
She stepped into the private elevator while he ordered something called a
GF2000 brought to a garage slot. “Technically, I should contact Angelo and
update her.”

“No reason you
can't. Once we're on the way.”

“No reason.
Saves time this way.”

“That's your
story, darling, and we'll stick to it. Vinter, Zita,” he began as she scowled
at him. “Twenty-eight. Two years with Atlanta PSD, then into private security.
She worked for one of my organizations in Atlanta. Clean work record. Promoted
to A Level over two years ago. She put in for the position here six months ago.
She's single, lives alone. Lists her mother as next of kin. Her employment
jacket's clean.”

“When did you
contract for this convention deal?”

“Just over six
months ago,” he said as they stepped off into the garage. “It was one of the incentives
to have several of the facilities complete.”

“How much do
you want to bet Skinner's kept in close contact with his dead detective's
daughter over the years? Angelo finesses a warrant for Vinter's 'link records,
we're going to find transmissions to and from Atlanta. And not just to her
mother.”

When he
stopped, put his PC away, she stared. “What the hell is this?”

Roarke ran a
hand over the sleek chrome tube of the jet-bike. “Alternate transportation.”

It looked fast
and it looked mean, a powerful silver bullet on two silver wheels. She
continued to stare as Roarke offered her a crash helmet.

“Safety
first.”

“Get a grip on
yourself. With all your toys I know damn well you've got something around here
with four wheels and doors.”

“This is more
fun.” He dropped the helmet onto her head. “And I'm forced to remind you that
part of this little interlude was meant to be a bit of a holiday for us.”

He took a
second helmet, put it on. Then tidily fastened hers. “This way you can be my
biker bitch.” When she showed her teeth, he only laughed and swung a leg nimbly
over the tube. “And I mean that in the most flattering way possible.”

“Why don't I
pilot, and you can be my biker bitch?”

“Maybe later.”

Swearing, she
slid onto the bike behind him. He glanced back at her as she adjusted her seat,
cupped her hands loosely at his hips. “Hang on,” he told her.

He shot like a
rocket out of the garage, and her arms latched like chains around his waist.
“Lunatic!” she shouted as he blasted into traffic. Her heart flipped into her
throat and stayed there while he swerved, threaded, streaked.

It wasn't that
she minded speed. She liked to go fast, when she was manning the controls.
There was a blur of color as they careened around an island of exotic
wildflowers. A stream of motion when they rushed by a people glide loaded with
vacationers. Grimly determined to face her death without blinking, she stared
at the snag of vehicular traffic dead ahead.

Felt the boost
of thrusters between her legs. “Don't you -- “

She could only
yip and try not to choke on her own tongue as he took the jet-bike into a sharp
climb. Wind screamed by her ears as they punched through the air.

“Shortcut,” he
shouted back to her, and there was laughter in his voice as he brought the bike
down to the road again, smooth as icing on cake.

He braked in
front of a blindingly white building, shut off all engines. “Well, then, it
doesn't come up to sex, but it's definitely in the top ten in the grand scheme.”

He swung off,
removed his helmet.

“Do you know
how many traffic violations you racked up in the last four minutes?”

“Who's
counting?” He pulled off her helmet, then leaned down to bite her bottom lip.

“Eighteen,”
she informed him, pulling out her palm 'link to contact Darcia Angelo. She
scanned the building as she relayed a message to Darcia's voice mail. Clean,
almost brutally clean. Well constructed, from the look of it, tasteful and
likely expensive.

“What do you
pay your security people?”

“A Level?”
They crossed the wide sidewalk to the building's front entrance. “About twice
what a New York police lieutenant brings in annually, with a full benefit
package, of course.”

“What a
racket.” She waited while they were scanned at the door and Roarke coded in his
master. The requisite computer voice welcomed him and wished him a safe and
healthy day.

The lobby was
tidy and quiet, really an extended foyer with straight lines and no fuss. At
the visitors' panel, Eve identified herself and requested Zita Vinter.

I'm sorry,
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Ms. Vinter does not respond. Would you care to leave a
message at this time?

“No, I don't
care to leave a message at this time. This is police business. Clear me into
Apartment Six-B.”

I'm sorry,
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, your credentials are not recognized on this station and
do not allow this system to bypass standard privacy and security regulations.

“How would you
like me to bypass your circuits and stuff your motherboard up your -- “

Warning!
Verbal threats toward this system may result in arrest, prosecution, and
monetary fines up to five thousand credits.

Before Eve
could spit out a response, Roarke clamped a hand on her shoulder. “This is
Roarke.” He laid his hand on the palm plate. “ID 151, Level A. You're ordered
to clear me and Lieutenant Dallas to all areas of this compound.”

Identification
verified. Roarke and companion, Dallas, Eve, are cleared.

“Lieutenant,”
Eve said between her teeth as Roarke pulled her toward an elevator.

“Don't take it
personally. Level six,” he ordered.

“Damn machine
treated me like a civilian.” The insult of it was almost beyond her
comprehension. “A civilian.”

“Irritating,
isn't it?” He strolled off onto the sixth floor.

“You enjoyed
that, didn't you? That 'Roarke and companion' shit.”

“I did, yes.
Immensely.” He gestured. “Six-B.” When she said nothing, he rang the buzzer
himself.

“She didn't
answer before, she's not going to answer now.”

“No.” He
dipped his hands lightly in his pockets. “Technically ... I suppose you need to
ask Chief Angelo to request a warrant for entry.”

“Technically,”
Eve agreed.

“I am,
however, the owner of this building, and the woman's employer.”

“Doesn't give
you any right to enter her apartment without legal authority or permission.”

He simply
stood, smiled, waited.

“Do it,” Eve
told him.

“Welcome to my
world.” Roarke keyed in his master code, then hummed when the lock light above
the door remained red. “Well, well, she appears to have added a few touches of
her own, blocked the master code. I'm afraid that's a violation of her lease
agreement.”

Eve felt the
little twist in her gut and slipped her hand under her jacket to her weapon.
“Get in.”

Neither
questioned that whatever methods had been taken, he could get around them.
Through them. He took a small case of tools out of his pocket and removed the
anti-intruder panel on the scanner and identification plate.

“Clever girl.
She's added a number of tricky little paths here. This will take a minute.”

Eve took out
her 'link and called Peabody. “Track down Angelo,” she ordered. “We're at 22
Athena Boulevard. Six-B. She needs to get over here. I want you with her.”

“Yes, sir.
What should I tell her?”

“To get here.”
She dropped the 'link back in her pocket, stepped back to Roarke just as the
lock lights went green. “Move aside,” she ordered and drew her weapon.

“I've been
through a door with you before, Lieutenant.” He took the hand laser out of his
pocket, and ignored her snarl when she spotted it. “You prefer low, as I recall.”

Since there
wasn't any point in biting her tongue or slapping at him for carrying, she did
neither. “On my count.” She put a hand on the door, prepared to shove it open.

“Wait!” He
caught the faint hum, and the sound sent his heart racing. The panel lights
flashed red as he yanked Eve away from the door. They went down in a heap, his
body covering hers.

She had that
one breathless second to understand before the explosion blasted the door
outward. A line of flame shot into the air, roaring across the hall where
they'd been standing seconds before. Alarms screamed, and she felt the floor
beneath her tremble at a second explosion, felt the blast of vicious heat all
over her.

“Jesus!
Jesus!” She struggled under him, slapped violently at the smoldering shoulder
of his jacket with her bare hands. “You're on fire here.”

Water spewed
out of the ceiling as he sat up, stripped off the jacket. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She
shook her head, shoved the hair soaked with the flood of the safety sprinklers
out of her face. “Ears are ringing some. Where are you burned?” Her hands were
racing over him as she pushed up to her knees.

“I'm not. The
suit's fucked is all. Here, now. We're fine.” He glanced back at the scarred
and smoldering hole that had been the doorway. “But I'm afraid I'm going to
have to evict Six-B.”

Though she
doubted it was necessary, Eve kept her weapon out as she picked her way over
still smoking chunks of wall and door. Smoke and wet clogged the air in the
hall, in the apartment, but she could see at one glance that the explosion had
been smaller than she'd assumed. And very contained.

“A little
paint and you're back in business.”

“The explosion
was set to blow the door, and whoever was outside it.” There were bits of
broken crockery on the floor, and a vase of flowers had fallen over, spilling
water into the rivers already formed by the sprinkler system.

The furniture
was sodden, the walls smeared with streaks from smoke and soot. The hallway
walls were a dead loss, but otherwise, the room was relatively undamaged.

Ignoring the
shouts and voices from outside the apartment, he moved through it with Eve.

Zita was in
bed, her arms crossed serenely across her chest. Holstering her weapon, Eve
walked to the bed, used two fingers to check for the pulse in the woman's
throat.

“She's dead.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Your
definition of cooperation and teamwork apparently differs from mine,
Lieutenant.”

Wet, filthy,
and riding on a vicious headache, Eve strained while Darcia completed her
examination of the body. “I updated you.”

“No, you left
a terse message on my voice mail.” Darcia straightened. With her sealed hands,
she lifted the bottle of pills on the nightstand, bagged them. “When you were,
apparently, at the point of illegally entering this unit.”

“Property
owner or his representative has the right to enter a private home if there is
reasonable cause to believe a life or lives may be in danger, or that said
property is threatened.”

“Don't quote
your regulations at me,” Darcia snapped. “You cut me out.”

Eve opened her
mouth, then blew out a long breath. “Okay, I wouldn't say I cut you out, but I
did an end run around you. In your place, I'd be just as pissed off. I'm used
to being able to pursue a line on an investigation in my own way, on my own
time.”

“You are not
primary on this case. I want this body bagged and removed,” Darcia ordered the
uniforms flanking the bedroom doors. “Probable cause of death, voluntary
self-termination.”

“Wait a
minute, wait a minute. Wait!” Eve ordered, throwing out a hand to warn the
uniforms back. “This isn't self-termination.”

“I see an
unmarked body, reclining in bed. Hair neatly brushed, cosmetic enhancements
unblemished. I see on the bedside table a glass of white wine and a bottle of
pills prescribed for use in painless, gentle self-termination. I have here,”
she continued, holding up another evidence bag containing a single sheet of
paper, “a note clearly stating the subject's intention to end her own life due
to her guilt about her part in the death of Reginald Weeks. A death she states
was ordered by Roarke and for which she was paid fifty thousand, in cash. I see
a satchel containing that precise amount of cash on the dresser.”

“Roarke didn't
order anyone's murder.”

“Perhaps not.
But I am accustomed to pursuing a line on an investigation in my own way. On my
own time.” She tossed Eve's words back at her. “Commander Skinner has lodged a
complaint claiming that Roarke threatened him this morning, with words and a
weapon. Security disks at the hotel verify that Roarke entered the commander's
suite and remained there for seven minutes, forty-three seconds. This incident
is corroborated by one Bryson Hayes, Skinner's personal assistant, who was
present at the time.”

There was no
point in kicking something again and pretending it was Roarke's head.
“Skinner's in this up to his armpits, and if you let him deflect your focus
onto Roarke, you're not as smart as I thought. First things first. You're
standing over a homicide, Chief Angelo. The second one Skinner's responsible
for.”

Darcia ordered
her men away by pointing her finger. “Explain to me how this is homicide, and
why I shouldn't have you taken to the first transport and removed from this
station. Why I should not, on the evidence at hand, take Roarke in for
interview as a suspect in the murder of Reginald Weeks.” Temper pumped into her
voice now, hot and sharp. “And let me make this clear: Your husband's money
pays my salary. It doesn't buy me.”

Eve kept her
focus on Darcia. “Peabody!” As she waited for her aide to come to the room, Eve
struggled with her own temper.

“Sir?”

“What do you
see?”

“Ah. Sir.
Female, late twenties, medium build. No sign of struggle or distress.” She
broke off as Eve took an evidence bag from Darcia, passed it over. “Standard
barb, commonly used in self-termination. Prescription calls for four units. All
are missing. Date on the bottle is two weeks ago, prescribed and filled in
Atlanta, Georgia.”

Eve nodded
when she saw the flicker in Darcia's eyes, then handed Peabody the note.

“Apparently
suicide note, with signature. Computer-generated. The statement therein is
contradictory to other evidence.”

“Very good,
Peabody. Tell Chief Angelo how it contradicts.”

“Well,
Lieutenant, most people don't have self-termination drugs tucked in their med
cabinets. Unless you're suffering from an incurable and painful illness, it
takes several tests and legalities to access the drug.”

Darcia held up
a hand. “All the more reason to have them around.”

“No, sir.”

“Ma'am,”
Darcia corrected with a smirk at Eve. “In my country a female superior is
addressed as 'ma'am.' “

“Yes, ma'am.
It may be different in your country as to the process of accessing this sort of
drug. In the States, you have to register. If you haven't -- that is, if you're
still alive within thirty days of filling the prescription, you're on
auto-recall. The drugs are confiscated and you're required to submit to
psychiatric testing and evaluation. But besides that, it doesn't play.”

“Keep going,
Peabody,” Eve told her.

“The note
claims she decided to off herself because she was guilty over events that took
place last night. But she already had the drug in her possession. Why? And how?
You established time of death at oh-four-hundred this morning, so she got her
payoff and the guilts awful close, then the means to self-terminate just happen
to be in her possession. It's way pat, if you follow me.”

She paused,
and when Darcia nodded a go-ahead, pulled in a breath and kept going. “Added to
that, it doesn't follow that she would rig her apartment door to an explosive,
or set another in the surveillance area to destroy the security disks of the
building. Added to that,” Peabody continued, obviously enjoying herself now,
“Roarke's profile is directly opposed to hiring out hits, especially since
Dallas popped the guy, which is one of the things he admires about her. So when
you add that all up, it makes that note bogus, and this unattended death
becomes a probable homicide.”

“Peabody.” Eve
dabbed an imaginary tear from her eye. “You do me proud.”

Darcia looked
from one to the other. Her temper was still on the raw side, which she could
admit colored her logic. Or had. “Perhaps, Officer Peabody, you could now
explain how person or persons unknown gained access to this unit and persuaded
this trained security expert to take termination drugs without her struggling.”

“Well...”

“I'll take
over now.” Eve patted her shoulder. “You don't want to blow your streak. Person
or persons unknown were admitted to the unit by the victim. Most likely to pay
her off or to give her the next stage of instructions. The termination drugs
were probably mixed into the wine. Person or persons unknown waited for her to
slip into the first stage of the coma, at which time she was carried in here,
laid out nice and pretty. The note was generated, the stage set. When it was
determined that victim was dead, the explosives were rigged, and person or
persons unknown went on their merry way.”

“She sort of
sees it,” Peabody added helpfully. “Not like a psychic or anything. She just
walks it through with the killer. Really mag.”

“Okay,
Peabody. She was a tool,” Eve continued. “No more, no less. The same as Weeks
was a tool. She probably joined the force to honor her father, and he used
that, just as he's using Roarke's father to get to him. They don't mean
anything to him as people, as flesh and blood. They're just steps and stages in
his twenty-three-year war.”

“Maybe not
tools, then,” Darcia countered, “but soldiers. To some generals they are just
as dispensable. Excuse us, Officer Peabody, if you please.”

“Yes, ma'am.
Sir.”

“I want an
apology.” She saw Eve wince, and smiled. “Yes, I know it'll hurt, so I want
one. Not for pursuing a line of investigation, and so on. For not trusting me.”

“I've known
you less than twenty-four hours,” Eve began, then winced again. “All right,
shit. I apologize for not trusting you. And I'll go one better. For not
respecting your authority.”

“Accepted. I'm
going to have the body taken to the ME, as a probable homicide. Your aide is
very well trained.”

“She's good,”
Eve agreed, since Peabody wasn't around to hear and get big-headed about it.
“And getting better.”

“I missed the
date, the significance, and I shouldn't have. I believe I would have seen these
things once my annoyance with you had ebbed a bit, but that's beside the point.
Now, I need to question Roarke regarding his conversation with the commander
this morning, and regarding his association with Zita Vinter. To keep my
official records clean, you are not included in this interview. I would
appreciate it, however, if you'd remain and lead my team through the
examination of the crime scene.”

“No problem.”

“I'll keep
this as brief as I can, as I imagine both you and Roarke would like to go back
and get out of those damp, dirty clothes.” She tugged the sleeve of Eve's
jacket as she passed. “That used to be very attractive.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

“She was
easier on me than I'd've been on her,” Eve admitted as she rolled the stiffness
out of her shoulders. She'd hit the floor under Roarke harder than she'd
realized and figured she should take a look at the bruises.

After a long,
hot shower.

Since Roarke's
response to her statement was little more than a grunt as they rode up to their
suite, she took his measure. He could use some cleaning up himself, she
thought. He'd ditched the ruined jacket, and the shirt beneath it had taken a
beating.

She wondered
if her face was as dirty as his.

“As soon as we
clean up,” she began as she stepped out of the elevator and into the parlor.
And that was as far as she got before she was pressed up against the elevator
doors with his mouth ravaging hers.

Half her brain
seemed to slide out through her ears. “Whoa. What?”

“Another few
seconds.” With his hands gripping her shoulders and his eyes hot he looked down
at her. “We wouldn't be here.”

“We are here.”

“That's
right.” He jerked the jacket halfway down her arms, savaged her neck. “That's
damn right. Now let's prove it.” He stripped the jacket away, ripped her shirt
at the shoulder. “I want my hands on you. Yours on me.”

They already
were. She tugged and tore at his ruined shirt, and because her hands were busy,
used her teeth on him.

Less than a
foot inside the room, they dragged each other to the floor. She rolled with
him, fighting with the rest of his clothes, then arching like a bridge when his
mouth clamped over her breast.

Need, deep and
primal, gushed through her until she moaned his name. It was always his name.
She wanted more. More to give, more to take. Her fingers dug into him -- hard
muscle, damp flesh. The scent of smoke and death smothered under the scent of
him so that it filled her with the fevered mix of love and lust that he brought
to her.

He couldn't
get enough. It seemed he never could, or would. All of the hungers, the
appetites and desires he'd known paled to nothing against the need he had for
her -- for everything she was. The strength of her, physical and that uniquely
tensile morality, enraptured him. Challenged him.

To feel that
strength tremble under him, open for him, merge with him, was the wonder of his
life.

Her breathing
was short, shallow, and he heard it catch, release on a strangled gasp when he
drove her over the first peak. His own blood raged as he crushed his mouth to
hers again, and plunged inside her.

All heat and
speed and desperation. The sound of flesh slapping, sliding against flesh mixed
with the sound of ragged breathing.

She heard him
murmuring something -- the language of his youth, so rarely used, slid
exotically around her name. The pressure of pleasure built outrageously inside
her, a glorious burn in the blood as he drove her past reason with deep, hard
thrusts.

She clung,
clung to the edge of it. Then his eyes were locked on hers, wild and blue. Love
all but swamped her.

“Come with me.”
His voice was thick with Ireland. “Come with me now.”

She held on,
and on, watching those glorious eyes go blind. Held on, and on while his body
plunged in hers. Then she let go, and went with him.

-=O=-***-=O=-

Sex, Eve had
discovered, could, when it was done right, benefit body, mind, and spirit. She
hardly bitched at all about having to dress up to meet with Belle Skinner at a
ladies' tea. Her body felt loose and limber, and while the dress Roarke handed
her didn't fit her image of cop, the weapon she snugged on under the long,
fluid jacket made up for it.

“Are you
intending to blast some of the other women over the watercress sandwiches and
petit fours?” he asked.

“You never
know.” She looked at the gold earrings he held out, shrugged, then put them on.
“While I'm swilling tea and browbeating Belle Skinner, you can follow up on a
hunch for me. Do some digging, see if Hayes was connected to any of the downed
cops under Skinner's command during the botched bust. Something there too close
for employer/employee relations.”

“All right.
Shoes.”

She stared at
the needle-thin heels and flimsy straps. “Is that what you call them? How come
guys don't have to wear death traps like those?”

“I ask myself
that same question every day.” He took a long scan after she'd put them on.
“Lieutenant, you look amazing.”

“Feel like an
idiot. How am I supposed to intimidate anyone dressed in this gear?”

“I'm sure
you'll manage.”

“Ladies' tea,”
she grumbled on the way out. “I don't know why Angelo can't just haul the woman
in to her cop shop and deal.”

“Don't forget
your rubber hose and mini-stunner.”

She smirked
over her shoulder as she stepped onto the elevator. “Bite me.”

“Already did.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

The tea was
already under way when Eve walked in. Women in flowy dresses, and some -- Jesus
-- in hats, milled about and gathered under arbors of pink roses or spilled out
onto a terrace where a harpist plucked strings and sang in a quavery voice that
instantly irritated Eve's nerves.

Tiny crustless
sandwiches and pink frosted cakes were arranged on clear glass platters.
Shining silver pots steamed with tea that smelled, to Eve, entirely too much
like the roses.

At such times
she wondered how women weren't mortified to be women.

She tracked
down Peabody first and was more than slightly amazed to see her stalwart aide
decked out in a swirly flowered dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat with
trailing ribbons.

“Jeez,
Peabody, you look like a -- what is it -- milkmaid or something.”

“Thanks, Dallas.
Great shoes.”

“Shut up. Run
down Mira. I want her take on Skinner's wife. The two of you hang close while
Angelo and I talk to her.”

“Mrs.
Skinner's out on the terrace. Angelo just walked in. Wow, she's got some great
DNA.”

Eve glanced
back, nodded to Angelo. The chief had chosen to wear cool white, but rather
than flowing, the dress clung to every curve.

“On the
terrace,” Eve told her. “How do you want to play it?”

“Subtly,
Lieutenant. Subtle's my style.”

Eve lifted her
brows. “I don't think so.”

“Interview
style,” Darcia said and breezed onto the terrace. She stopped, poured tea, then
strolled to the table where Belle was holding court. “Lovely party, Mrs.
Skinner. I know we all want to thank you for hosting this event. Such a nice
break from the seminars and panels.”

“It's
important to remember that we're women, not just wives, mothers, career
professionals.”

“Absolutely. I
wonder if Lieutenant Dallas and I might have a private word with you? We won't
take up much of your time.”

She laid a
hand on the shoulder of one of the women seated at the table. Subtle, Eve
thought. And effective, as the woman rose to give Darcia her chair.

“I must tell
you how much I enjoyed the commander's keynote this morning,” Darcia began. “So
inspiring. It must be very difficult for him, and you, to deal with the
convention after your tragic loss.”

“Douglas and I
both believe strongly in fulfilling our duties and responsibilities, whatever
our personal troubles. Poor Reggie.” She pressed her lips together. “It's
horrible. Even being a cop's wife for half a century ... you never get used to
the shock of violent death.”

“How well did
you know Weeks?” Eve asked.

“Loss and
shock and sorrow aren't connected only to personal knowledge, Lieutenant.”
Belle's voice went cool. “But I knew him quite well, actually. Douglas and I
believe in forming strong and caring relationships with our employees.”

Likes Angelo,
Eve thought. Hates me. Okay, then. “I guess being full of shock and sorrow is
the reason you eavesdropped from your bedroom instead of coming out when we
notified Commander Skinner that one of his security team had been murdered.”

Belle's face
went very blank and still. “I don't know what you're intimating.”

“I'm not
intimating, I'm saying it straight out. You were in the spare room -- not the
master with the commander. I know you were awake, because your light was on.
You heard us relay the information, but despite this close, personal
relationship, you didn't come out to express your shock and loss. Why is that,
Mrs. Skinner?”

“Dallas, I'm
sure Mrs. Skinner has her reasons.” Darcia put a light sting of censure in her
voice, then turned a sympathetic smile to Belle. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Skinner. The
lieutenant is, quite naturally, on edge just now.”

“There's no
need for you to apologize, Chief Angelo. I understand, and sympathize -- to an
extent -- Lieutenant Dallas's desire to defend and protect her husband.”

“Is that what
you're doing?” Eve tossed back. “How far would you go? How many close, personal
relationships are you willing to sacrifice? Or didn't you have one with Zita
Vinter?”

“Zita?”
Belle's shoulders jerked, as if from a blow. “What does Zita have to do with
any of this?”

“You knew
her?”

“She's our
godchild, of course I... Knew?” Every ounce of color drained out of the lovely
face so that the expertly applied enhancements stood out like paint on a doll.
“What's happened?”

“She's dead,”
Eve said flatly. “Murdered early this morning, a few hours after Weeks.”

“Dead? Dead?”
Belle got shakily to her feet, upending her teacup as she floundered for
balance. “I can't -- I can't talk to you now.”

“Want to go
after her?” Darcia asked when Belle rushed from the terrace.

“No. Let's
give her time to stew. She's scared now. Over what she knows and what she
doesn't know.” She looked back at Darcia. “We had a pretty good rhythm going
there.”

“I thought so.
But I imagine playing the insensitive, argumentative cop comes naturally to
you.”

“Just like
breathing. Let's blow this tea party and go get a drink.” Eve signaled to
Peabody and Mira. “Just us girls.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

In the bar, in
a wide, plush booth, Eve brooded over a fizzy water. She'd have preferred the
good, hard kick of a Zombie, but she wanted a clear head more than the jolt.

“You've got a
smooth, sympathetic style,” she said to Darcia. “I think she'll talk to you if
you stay in that channel.”

“So do I.”

“Dr. Mira
here, she's got the same deal. You'd be able to double-team her.” Eve glanced
toward Mira, who was sipping white wine.

“She was
shocked and shaken,” Mira began. “First, she'll verify the information about
the death of her godchild. When she does, grief will tangle with the shock.”

“So, she'll be
even more vulnerable to the right questions presented in the right style.”

“You're a cold
one, Dallas,” Darcia said. “I like that about you. I'd be very agreeable to
interviewing Belle Skinner with Dr. Mira, if that suits the doctor.”

“I'm happy to
help. I imagine you intend to talk to Skinner again, Eve.”

“With the
chief's permission.”

“Don't start
being polite now,” Darcia told her. “You'll ruin your image. He won't want to
talk to you,” she went on. “Whatever his feelings toward you were before, my
impression is -- after his keynote -- he's wrapped you and Roarke together. He
hates you both.”

“He brought us
up at his keynote?”

“Not by name,
but by intimation. His inspiring, rather cheerleader-type speech took a turn at
the midway point. He went into a tangent on cops who go bad, who forget their
primary duties in favor of personal comforts and gains. Gestures, body language
...” Darcia shrugged. “It was clear he was talking about this place -- luxury
palaces built on blood and greed, I believe he said -- and you. Bedfellows of
the wicked. He got very worked up about it, almost evangelical. While there
were some who appeared enthusiastic and supportive of that particular line of
thought, it seemed to me the bulk of the attendees were uncomfortable --
embarrassed or angry.”

“He wants to
use his keynote to take slaps at me and Roarke, it doesn't worry me.” But Eve
noticed Peabody staring down into her glass. “Peabody?”

“I think he's
sick.” She spoke quietly, finally lifted her gaze. “Physically, mentally. I
don't think he's real stable. It was hard to watch it happen this morning. He
started out sort of, well, eloquent, then it just deteriorated into this rant.
I've admired him all my life. It was hard to watch,” she repeated. “A lot of
the cops who were there stiffened up. You could almost feel layers of respect
peeling away. He talked about the murder some, how a young, promising man had
become a victim of petty and soulless revenge. How a killer could hide behind a
badge instead of being brought to justice by one.”

“Pretty
pointed,” Eve decided.

“A lot of the
terrestrial cops walked out then.”

“So he's
probably a little shaky now himself. I'll take him,” Eve said. “Peabody, you
track down Feeney, see what other details you can dig out on the two victims
and anyone else on-site who's connected with the bust in Atlanta. That fly with
you, Chief Angelo?”

Darcia
polished off her wine. “It does.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Eve detoured
back to the suite first. She wanted a few more details before questioning
Skinner again. She never doubted Roarke had already found them.

He was on the
'link when she got there, talking to his head of hotel security. Restless, Eve
wandered out onto the terrace and let her mind shuffle the facts, the evidence,
the lines of possibilities.

Two dead. Both
victims' fathers martyred cops. And those connected to Roarke's father and to
Skinner. Murdered in a world of Roarke's making, on a site filled with police
officials. It was so neat, it was almost poetic.

A setup from
the beginning? It wasn't a crime of impulse but something craftily, coldly
planned. Weeks and Vinter had both been sacrifices, pawns placed and discarded
for the greater game. A chess game, all right, she decided. Black king against
white, and her gut told her Skinner wouldn't be satisfied with a checkmate.

He wanted
blood.

She turned as
Roarke stepped out. “In the end, destroying you won't be enough. He's setting
you up, step by step, for execution. A lot of weapons on this site. He keeps
the pressure on, piles up the circumstantial so there's enough appearance that
you might have ordered these hits. All he needs is one soldier willing to take
the fall. I'm betting Hayes for that one. Skinner doesn't have much time to
pull it off.”

“No, he
doesn't,” Roarke agreed. “I got into his medical records. A year ago he was
diagnosed with a rare disorder. It's complicated, but the best I can interpret,
it sort of nibbles away at the brain.”

“Treatment?”

“Yes, there
are some procedures. He's had two -- quietly, at a private facility in Zurich.
It slowed the process, but in his case ... He's had complications. A strain on
the heart and lungs. Another attempt at correction would kill him. He was given
a year. He has, perhaps, three months of that left. And of that three months,
two at the outside where he'll continue to be mobile and lucid. He's made
arrangements for self-termination.”

“That's
rough.” Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. There was more -- she could see
it in Roarke's eyes. Something about the way he watched her now. “It plays into
the rest. This one event's been stuck in his gut for decades. He wants to clear
his books before he checks out. Whatever's eating at his brain has probably
made him more unstable, more fanatic and less worried about the niceties. He
needs to see you go down before he does. What else? What is it?”

“I went down
several more layers in his case file on the bust. His follow-ups, his notes. He
believed he'd tracked my father before he'd slipped out of the country again.
Skinner used some connections. It was believed that my father headed west and
spent a few days among some nefarious associates. In Texas. In Dallas, Eve.”

Her stomach
clenched, and her heart tripped for several beats. “It's a big place. It
doesn't mean ...”

“The timing's
right.” He walked to her, ran his hands up and down her arms as if to warm
them. “Your father and mine, petty criminals searching for the big score. You
were found in that Dallas alley only a few days after Skinner lost my father's
trail again.”

“You're saying
they knew each other, your father and mine.”

“I'm saying
the circle's too tidy to ignore. I nearly didn't tell you,” he added, resting
his forehead on hers.

“Give me a
minute.” She stepped away from him, leaned out on the rail, stared out over the
resort. But she was seeing that cold, dirty room, and herself huddled in the
corner like an animal. Blood on her hands.

“He had a deal
going,” she said quietly. “Some deal or other, I think. He wasn't drinking as
much -- and it was worse for me when he wasn't good and drunk when he came
back. And he had some money. Well.” She took a deep breath. “Well. It plays
out. Do you know what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“I think
sometimes fate cuts you a break. Like it says, okay, you've had enough of that
crap, so it's time you fell into something nice. See what you make out of it.”
She turned back to him then. “We're making something out of it. Whatever they
were to us, or to each other, it's what we are now that counts.”

“Darling Eve.
I adore you.”

“Then you'll
do me a favor. Keep yourself scarce for the next couple of hours. I don't want
to give Skinner any opportunities. I need to talk to him, and he won't talk if
you're with me.”

“Agreed, with
one condition. You go wired.” He took a small jeweled pin from his pocket,
attached it to her lapel. “I'll monitor from here.”

“It's illegal
to record without all parties' knowledge and permission unless you have proper
authorization.”

“Is it
really?” He kissed her. “That's what you get for bedding down with bad
companions.”

“Heard about
that, did you?”

“Just as I
heard that a large portion of your fellow cops walked out of the speech. Your
reputation stands, Lieutenant. I imagine your seminar tomorrow will be packed.”

“My . . .
Shit! I forgot. I'm not thinking about it,” she muttered on the way out. “Not
thinking about it.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

She slipped
into the conference room where Skinner was leading a seminar on tactics. It was
some relief to realize she'd missed the lecture and had come in during the
question-and-answer period. There were a lot of long looks in her direction as
she walked down the side of the room and found a seat halfway from the back.

She scoped out
the setup. Skinner on stage at the podium, Hayes standing to his back and his
right, at attention. Two other personal security types on his other side.

Excessive, she
thought, and obviously so. The message was that the location, the situation,
posed personal jeopardy for Skinner; but he was taking precautions and doing
his job.

Very neat.

She raised her
hand, and was ignored. Five questions passed until she simply got to her feet
and addressed him. And as she rose, she noted Hayes slide a hand inside his
jacket.

She knew every
cop in the room caught the gesture. The room went dead quiet.

“Commander
Skinner, a position of command regularly requires you to send men into
situations where loss of life, civilian and departmental, is a primary risk. In
such cases, do you find it more beneficial to the operation to set personal
feelings for your men aside, or to use those feelings to select the team?”

“Every man who
picks up a badge does so acknowledging he will give his life if need be to
serve and protect. Every commander must respect that acknowledgment. Personal
feelings must be weighed, in order to select the right man for the right
situation. This is a matter of experience and the accumulation, through years
and that experience, of recognizing the best dynamic for each given op. But
personal feelings -- i.e., emotional attachments, private connections,
friendships, or animosities -- must never color the decision.”

“So, as
commander, you'd have no problem sacrificing a close personal friend or
connection to the success of the op?”

His color came
up. And the tremor she had noticed in his hand became more pronounced. “
'Sacrificing,' Lieutenant Dallas? A poor choice of words. Cops aren't lambs being
sent to slaughter. Not passive sacrifices to the greater good, but active,
dedicated soldiers in the fight for justice.”

“Soldiers are
sacrificed in battle. Acceptable losses.”

“No loss is
acceptable.” His bunched fist pounded the podium. “Necessary, but not
acceptable. Every man who has fallen under my command weighs on me. Every child
left without a father is my responsibility. Command requires this, and that the
commander be strong enough to bear the burden.”

“And does
command, in your opinion, require restitution for those losses?”

“It does,
Lieutenant. There is no justice without payment.”

“For the
children of the fallen? And for the children of those who escaped the hand of
justice? In your opinion.”

“Blood speaks
to blood.” His voice began to rise, and to tremble. “If you were more concerned
with justice than with your own personal choices, you wouldn't need to ask the
question.”

“Justice is my
concern, Commander. It appears we have different definitions of the term. Do
you think your goddaughter was the best choice for this operation? Does her
death weigh on you now, or does it balance the other losses?”

“You're not
fit to speak her name. You've whored your badge. You're a disgrace. Don't think
your husband's money or threats will stop me from using all my influence to
have that badge taken from you.”

“I don't stand
behind Roarke any more than he stands behind me.” She kept talking as Hayes
stepped forward and laid a hand on Skinner's shoulder. “I don't stand on
yesterday's business. Two people are dead here and now. That's my priority,
Commander. Justice for them is my concern.”

Hayes stepped
in front of Skinner. “The seminar is over. Commander Skinner thanks you for
attending and regrets Lieutenant Dallas's disruption of the question-and-answer
period.”

People
shuffled, rose. Eve saw Skinner leaving, flanked by the two guards.

“Ask me,”
someone commented near her, “these seminars could use more fucking
disruptions.”

She made her
way toward the front and came up toe to toe with Hayes.

“I've got two
more questions for the commander.”

“I said the
seminar's over. And so's your little show.”

She felt the
crowd milling around them, some edging close enough to hear. “You see, that's
funny. I thought I came in on the show. Does he run it, Hayes, or do you?”

“Commander
Skinner is a great man. Great men often need protection from whores.”

A cop moved
in, poked Hayes on the shoulder. “You're gonna want to watch the name-calling,
man.”

“Thanks.” Eve
acknowledged him with a nod. “I've got it.”

“Don't like
play cops calling a badge a whore.” He stepped back, but he hovered.

“While you're
protecting the great man,” Eve continued, “you might want to remember that two
of his front-line soldiers are in the morgue.”

“Is that a
threat, Lieutenant?”

“Hell, no.
It's a fact, Hayes. Just like it's a fact that both of them had fathers who
died under Skinner's command. What about your father?”

Furious color
slashed across his cheekbones. “You know nothing of my father, and you have no
right to speak of him.”

“Just giving
you something to think about. For some reason I get the feeling that I'm more
interested in finding out who put those bodies in the morgue than you or your
great man. And because I am, I will find out -- before this show breaks down
and moves on. That one's a promise.”

CHAPTER NINE

If she
couldn't get to Skinner, Eve thought, she'd get to Skinner's wife. And if
Angelo and Peabody hadn't softened and soothed enough, that was too fucking
bad. Damned if she was going to tiptoe around weepy women and dying men, then have
to turn the case over to the interplanetary boys.

It was her
case, and she meant to close it.

She knew that
part of her anger and urgency stemmed from the information Roarke had given
her. His father, hers, Skinner, and a team of dead cops. Skinner was right
about one thing, she thought as she headed for his suite. Blood spoke to blood.

The blood of
the dead had always spoken to her.

Her father and
Roarke's had both met a violent end. That was all the justice she could offer
to the badges lost so many years before. But there were two bodies in cold
boxes. For those, whatever they'd done, she would stand.

She knocked,
waited impatiently. It was Darcia who opened the door and sent Eve an
apologetic little wince.

“She's a
mess,” Darcia whispered. “Mira's patting her hand, letting her cry over her
goddaughter. It's a good foundation, but we haven't been able to build on it
yet.”

“Any
objections to me giving the foundation a shake?”

Darcia studied
her, pursed her lips. “We can try it that way, but I wouldn't shake too hard.
She shatters, we're back to square one with her.”

With a nod,
Eve stepped in. Mira was on the sofa with Belle, and was indeed holding her
hand. A teapot, cups, and countless tissues littered the table in front of
them. Belle was weeping softly into a fresh one.

“Mrs. Skinner,
I'm sorry for your loss.” Eve sat in a chair by the sofa, leaned into the
intimacy. She kept her voice quiet, sympathetic, and waited until Belle lifted
swollen, red-rimmed eyes to hers.

“How can you
speak of her? Your husband's responsible.”

“My husband
and I were nearly blown to bits by an explosive device on Zita Vinter's
apartment door. A device set by her killer. Follow the dots.”

“Who else had
cause to kill Zita?”

“That's what
we want to find out. She sabotaged the security cameras the night Weeks was
murdered.”

“I don't
believe that.” Belle balled the tissue into her fist. “Zita would never be a
party to murder. She was a lovely young woman. Caring and capable.”

“And devoted
to your husband.”

“Why shouldn't
she be?” Belle's voice rose as she got to her feet. “He stepped in when her
father died. Gave her his time and attention, helped with her education. He'd
have done anything for her.”

“And she for
him?”

Belle's lips
quivered, and she sat again, as if her legs quivered as well. “She would never
be a party to murder. He would never ask it of her.”

“Maybe she
didn't know. Maybe she was just asked to deal with the cameras and nothing
else. Mrs. Skinner, your husband's dying.” Eve saw Belle jerk, shudder. “He
doesn't have much time left, and the loss of his men is preying on him as he
prepares for death. Can you sit there and tell me his behavior over the last
several months has been rational?”

“I won't
discuss my husband's condition with you.”

“Mrs. Skinner,
do you believe Roarke's responsible for something his father did? Something
this man did when Roarke was a child, three thousand miles away?”

She watched
tears swim into Belle's eyes again, and leaned in. Pressed. “The man used to
beat Roarke half to death for sport. Do you know what it feels like to be hit
with fists, or a stick, or whatever the hell's handy -- and by the person who's
supposed to take care of you? By law, by simple morality. Do you know what it's
like to be bloody and bruised and helpless to fight back?”

“No.” The
tears spilled over. “No.”

“Does that
child have to pay for the viciousness of the man?”

“The sins of
the fathers,” Belle began, then stopped. “No.” Wearily, she wiped her wet
cheeks. “No, Lieutenant, I don't believe that. But I know what it has cost my
husband, what happened before, what was lost. I know how it's haunted him --
this good, good man, this honorable man who has dedicated his life to his badge
and everything it stands for.”

“He can't
exorcise his ghosts by destroying the son of the man who made them. You know
that, too.”

“He would
never harm Zita, or Reggie. He loved them as if they were his own. But...” She
turned to Mira again, gripped her hands fiercely. “He's so ill -- in body,
mind, spirit. I don't know how to help him. I don't know how long I can stand
watching him die in stages. I'm prepared to let him go because the pain --
sometimes it's so horrible. And he won't let me in. He won't share the bed with
me, or his thoughts, his fears. It's as if he's divorcing me, bit by bit. I
can't stop it.”

“For some,
death is a solitary act,” Mira said gently. “Intimate and private. It's hard to
love someone and stand aside while they take those steps alone.”

“He agreed to
apply for self-termination for me.” Belle sighed. “He doesn't believe in it. He
believes a man should stand up to whatever he's handed and see it through. I'm
afraid he's not thinking clearly any longer. There are moments ...”

She steadied
her breathing and looked back at Eve. “There are rages, swings of mood. The
medication may be partially responsible. He's never shared the job with me to
any great extent. But I know that for months now, perhaps longer, Roarke has
been a kind of obsession to him. As have you. You chose the devil over duty.”

She closed her
eyes a moment. “I'm a cop's wife, Lieutenant. I believe in that duty, and I see
it all over you. He would see it, too, if he weren't so ill. I swear to you he
didn't kill Reggie or Zita. But they may have been killed for him.”

“Belle.” Mira
offered her another tissue. “You want to help your husband, to ease his pain.
Tell Lieutenant Dallas and Chief Angelo what you know, what you feel. No one
knows your husband's heart and mind the way you do.”

“It'll shatter
him. If he has to face this, it'll destroy him. Fathers and sons,” she said
softly, then buried her face in the tissue. “Oh, dear God.”

“Hayes.” It
clicked for Eve like a link on a chain. “Hayes didn't lose a father during the
bust. He's Commander Skinner's son.”

“A single
indiscretion.” Tears choked Belle's voice when she lifted her head again.
“During a bump in a young marriage. And so much of it my fault. My fault,” she
repeated, turning her pleading gaze to Mira. “I was impatient, and angry, that
so much of his time, his energies went into his work. I'd married a cop, but I
hadn't been willing to accept all that that meant -- all it meant to a man like
Douglas.”

“It isn't easy
to share a marriage with duty.” Mira poured more tea. “Particularly when duty
is what defines the partner. You were young.”

“Yes.”
Gratitude spilled into Belle's voice as she lifted her cup. “Young and selfish,
and I've done everything in my power to make up for it since. I loved him
terribly, and wanted all of him. I couldn't have that, so I pushed and prodded,
then I stepped away from him. All or nothing. Well. He's a proud man, and I was
stubborn. We separated for six months, and during that time he turned to
someone else. I can't blame him for it.”

“And she got
pregnant,” Eve prompted.

“Yes. He never
kept it from me. He never lied or tried to hide it from me. He's an honorable
man.” Her tone turned fierce when she looked at Eve.

“Does Hayes
know?”

“Of course. Of
course he knows. Douglas would never shirk his responsibilities. He provided
financial support. We worked out an arrangement with the woman, and she agreed
to raise the child and keep his paternity private. There was no point, no point
at all in making the matter public and complicating Douglas's career, shadowing
his reputation.”

“So you paid
for his ... indiscretion.”

“You're a hard
woman, aren't you, Lieutenant? No mistakes in your life? No regrets?”

“Plenty of
them. But a child -- a man -- might have some problem being considered a
mistake. A regret.”

“Douglas has
been nothing but kind and generous and responsible with Bryson. He's given him
everything.”

Everything
except his name, Eve thought. How much would that matter? “Did he give him
orders to kill, Mrs. Skinner? Orders to frame Roarke for murder?”

“Absolutely
not. Absolutely not. But Bryson is ... perhaps he's overly devoted to Douglas.
In the past several months, Douglas has turned to him too often, and perhaps,
when Bryson was growing up, Douglas set standards that were too high, too harsh
for a young boy.”

“Hayes would
need to prove himself to his father.”

“Yes. Bryson's
hard, Lieutenant. Hard and cold-blooded. You'd understand that, I think.
Douglas -- he's ill. And his moods, his obsession with what happened all those
years ago is eating at him as viciously as his illness does. I've heard him
rage, as if there's something else inside him. And during the rage he said
something had to be done, some payment made, whatever the cost. That there were
times the law had to make room for blood justice. Death for death. I heard him
talking with Bryson, months ago, about this place. That Roarke had built it on
the bones of martyred cops. That he would never rest until it, and Roarke, were
destroyed. That if he died before he could avenge those who were lost, his
legacy to his son was that duty.”

“Pick him up.”
Eve swung to Darcia. “Have your people pick Hayes up.”

“Already on
it,” Darcia answered as she switched on her communicator.

“He doesn't
know.” Belle got slowly to her feet. “Or he's not allowing himself to know.
Douglas is convinced that Roarke's responsible for what's happened here.
Convinced himself that you're part of it, Lieutenant. His mind isn't what it
was. He's dying by inches. This will finish him. Have pity.”

She thought of
the dead, and thought of the dying. “Ask yourself what he would have done, Mrs.
Skinner, if he were standing in my place now. Dr. Mira will stay with you.”

She headed out
with Darcia, waited until they were well down the hall. “There should be a way
to separate him from Skinner before we bag him. Take him quietly.”

Darcia called
for the elevator. “You're some ruthless hard-ass, aren't you, Dallas?”

“If Skinner
didn't give him a direct order, there's no point in smearing him with Hayes, or
making the arrest while he's around. Christ, he's a dead man already,” she
snapped when Darcia said nothing. “What's the fucking point of dragging him
into it and destroying half a century of service?”

“None.”

“I can request
another interview with Skinner, draw him away far enough for you to make the
collar.”

“You're giving
up the collar?” Darcia asked in a shocked voice as they stepped onto the
elevator.

“It was never
mine.”

“The hell it
wasn't. But I'll take it,” Darcia added cheerfully. “How'd you click to the
relationship between Skinner and Hayes?”

“Fathers. The
case is lousy with them. You got one?”

“A father?
Doesn't everyone?”

“Depends on
your point of view.” She stepped off the car on the main lobby level. “I'm
going to round up Peabody, give you a chance to coordinate your team.” She checked
her wrist unit. “Fifteen minutes ought to ... Well, well. Look who's holding
court in the lobby lounge.”

Darcia
tracked, studied the group crowded at two tables. “Skinner looks to have
recovered his composure.”

“The man likes
an audience. It probably pumps him up more than his meds. We could play it this
way. We go over, and I apologize for disrupting the seminar. Distract Skinner,
get him talking. You tell Hayes you'd like to have a word with him about Weeks.
Don't want to disturb Skinner with routine questions and blah, blah. Can you
take him on your own?”

Darcia gave
her a bland stare. “Could you?”

“Okay, then.
Let's do it. Quick and quiet.”

They were
halfway across the lobby when Hayes spotted them. Two beats later, he was
running.

“Goddamn it, goddamn
it. He's got cop instincts. Circle that way,” Eve ordered, then charged the
crowd. She vaulted the smooth gold rail that separated the lounge from the
lobby. People shouted, spilled back. Glassware crashed as a table overturned.
She caught a glimpse of Hayes as he swung through a door behind the bar.

She leaped the
bar, ignoring the curses of the servers and patrons. Bottles smashed, and there
was a sudden, heady scent of top-grade liquor. Her weapon was in her hand when
she hit the door with her shoulder.

The bar
kitchen was full of noise. A cook droid was sprawled on the floor in the narrow
aisle, its head jerking from the damage done by the fall. She stumbled over it,
and the blast from Hayes's laser sang over her head.

Rather than
right herself, she rolled and came up behind a stainless-steel cabinet.

“Give it up,
Hayes. Where are you going to go? There are innocent people in here. Drop your
weapon.”

“Nobody's
innocent.” He fired again, and the line of heat scored across the floor and
finished off the droid.

“This isn't
what your father wants. He doesn't want more dead piling up at his feet.”

“There's no
price too high for duty.” A shelf of dinnerware exploded beside her, showering
her with shards.

“Screw this.”
She sent a line of fire over her head, rolled to the left. She came up weapon
first and cursed again as she lost the target around a corner.

Someone was
screaming. Someone else was crying. Keeping low, she set off in pursuit. She
turned toward the sound of another blast and saw a fire erupt in a pile of
linens.

“Somebody take
care of that!” she shouted and turned the next corner. Saw the exit door.
“Shit!”

He'd blasted
the locks, effectively sealing it. In frustration she rammed it, gave it a
couple of solid kicks, and didn't budge it an inch.

Holstering her
weapon, she made her way back out the mess and smoke. Without much hope, she
ran through the lobby, out the main doors to scan the streets. By the time
she'd made it to the corner, Darcia was heading back.

“Lost him. Son
of a bitch. He had a block and a half on me.” Darcia jammed her own weapon
home. “I'd never have caught him on foot in these damn shoes. I've got an APB
out. We'll net the bastard.”

“Fucker
smelled the collar.” Furious with herself, Eve spun in a circle. “I didn't give
him enough credit. He knocked some people around in the bar kitchen. Offed a
droid, started a fire. He's fast and smart and slick. And he's goddamn mean on
top of it.”

“We'll net
him,” Darcia repeated.

“Damn right we
will.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Lieutenant.”

Eve winced,
turned and watched Roarke walk toward her. “Guess you heard we had a little
incident.”

“I believe
I'll just see to some damage control.” Humor cut through the anger on Darcia's
face. “Excuse me.”

“Are you
hurt?” Roarke asked Eve.

“No. But
you've got a dead droid in the bar kitchen. I didn't kill it, in case you're
wondering. There was a little fire, too. But I didn't start it. The ceiling
damage, that's on me. And some of the, you know, breakage and stuff.”

“I see.” He
studied the elegant facade of the hotel. “I'm sure the guests and the staff
found it all very exciting. The ones who don't sue me should enjoy telling the
story to their friends and relations for quite some time. Since I'll be
contacting my attorneys to alert them to a number of civil suits heading our
way, perhaps you'd take a moment to fill me in on why I have a dead droid, a
number of hysterical guests, screaming staff, and a little fire in the bar
kitchen.”

“Sure. Why
don't we round up Peabody and Feeney, then I can just run through it once?”

“No, I think
I'd like to know now. Let's just have a bit of a walk.” He took her arm.

“I don't have
time to -- “

“Make it.”

He led her
around the hotel, through the side gardens, the patio cafe, wound through one
of the pool areas and into a private elevator while he listened to her report.

“So your
intentions were to spare Skinner's feelings and reputation.”

“Didn't work
out, but, yeah, to a point. Hayes made us first glance.” The minute she was in
the suite, she popped open a bottle of water, glugged. Until that moment she
hadn't realized the smoke had turned her throat into a raw desert of thirst.
“Should've figured it. Now he's in the wind, and that's on me, too.”

“He won't get
off the station.”

“No, he won't
get off. But he might take it in mind to do some damage while he's loose. I'll
need to look at the maps and plats for the resort. We'll do a computer
analysis, earmark the spots he'd be most likely to go to ground.”

“I'll take
care of that. I can do it faster,” he said before she could object. “You need a
shower. You smell of smoke.”

She lifted her
arm, sniffed it. “Yeah, I guess I do. Since you're being so helpful, tag
Peabody and Feeney, will you? I want this manhunt coordinated.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

Too many
places for him to hide.” An hour later, Eve scowled at the wall screens and the
locations the computer had selected. “I'm wondering, too, if he had some sort
of backup transpo in case this turned on him, someone he's bribed to smuggle
him off-site. If he gets off this station, he could go any fucking where.”

“I can work
with Angelo on running that angle down,” Feeney said. “And some e-maneuvering
can bog down anything scheduled to leave the site for a good twenty-four hours.”

“Good
thinking. Keep in touch, okay?”

“Will do.” He
headed out, rattling a bag of almonds.

“Roarke knows
the site best. He'll take me around to the specified locations. We'll split
them up with Angelo's team.”

“Do I
coordinate from here?” Peabody asked.

“Not exactly.
I need you to work with Mira. Make sure Skinner and his wife stay put and
report if Hayes contacts them. Then there's this other thing.”

“Yes, sir.”
Peabody looked up from her memo book.

“If we don't
bag him tonight, you'll have to cover for me in the morning.”

“Cover for
you?”

“I've got the
notes and whatever in here.” Eve tossed her ppc into Peabody's lap.

“Notes?”
Peabody stared at the little unit in horror. “Your seminar? Oh, no, sir. Uh-uh.
Dallas, I'm not giving your seminar.”

“Just think of
yourself as backup,” Eve suggested. “Roarke?” She walked to the door and
through it, leaving Peabody sputtering.

“Just how much
don't you want to give that seminar tomorrow?” Roarke wondered.

“I don't have
to answer that until I've been given the revised Miranda warning.” Eve rolled
her shoulders and would have sworn she felt weight spilling off them.
“Sometimes things just work out perfect, don't they?”

“Ask Peabody
that in the morning.”

With a laugh,
she stepped into the elevator. “Let's go hunting.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

They hit every
location, even overlapping into Angelo's portion. It was a long, tedious, and
exacting process. Later she would think that the operation had given her a more
complete view of the scope of Roarke's pet project. The hotels, casinos,
theaters, restaurants, the shops and businesses. The houses and buildings, the
beaches and parks. The sheer sweep of the world he'd created was more than
she'd imagined.

While
impressive, it made the job at hand next to impossible.

It was after
three in the morning when she gave it up for the night and stumbled to bed.
“We'll find him tomorrow. His face is on every screen on-site. The minute he
tries to buy any supplies, we'll tag him. He has to sleep, he has to eat.”

“So do you.”
In bed, Roarke drew her against him. “Turn it off, Lieutenant. Tomorrow's soon
enough.”

“He won't go
far.” Her voice thickened with sleep. “He needs to finish it and get his
father's praises. Legacies. Bloody legacies. I spent my life running from
mine.”

“I know.”
Roarke brushed the top of her head with his lips as she fell into sleep. “So
have I.”

This time it
was he who dreamed, as he rarely did, of the alleyways of Dublin. Of himself, a
young boy, too thin, with sharp eyes, nimble fingers, and fast feet. A belly
too often empty.

The smell of
garbage gone over, and whiskey gone stale, and the cold of the rain that
gleefully seeped into bone.

He saw himself
in one of those alleyways, staring down at his father, who lay with that
garbage gone over, and smelled of that whiskey gone stale. And smelled, too, of
death -- the blood and the shit that spewed out of a man at his last moments.
The knife had still been in his throat, and his eyes -- filmed-over blue --
were open and staring back at the boy he'd made.

He remembered,
quite clearly, speaking.

Well now,
you bastard, someone's done for ya. And here I thought it would be me one day
who had the pleasure of that.

Without a
qualm, he'd crouched and searched through the pockets for any coin or items
that might be pawned or traded. There'd been nothing, but then again, there
never had been much. He'd considered, briefly, taking the knife. But he'd liked
the idea of it where it was too much to bother.

He'd stood
then, at the age of twelve, with bruises still fresh and aching from the last
beating those dead hands had given him.

And he'd spat.
And he'd run.

-=O=-***-=O=-

He was up
before she was, as usual. Eve studied him as she grabbed her first cup of
coffee. It was barely seven a.m. “You look tired.”

He continued
to study the stock reports on one screen and the computer analysis of potential
locations on another. “Do I? I suppose I could've slept better.”

When she crouched
in front of him, laid a hand on his thigh, he looked at her. And sighed. She
could read him well enough, he thought, his cop.

Just as he
could read her, and her worry for him.

“I wonder,” he
began, “and I don't care to, who did me the favor of sticking that knife in
him. Someone, I think, who was part of the cartel. He'd have been paid, you
see, and there was nothing in his pockets. Not a fucking punt or pence on him,
nor in the garbage hole we lived in. So they'd have taken it, whatever he
hadn't already whored or drank or simply pissed away.”

“Does it
matter who?”

“Not so very
much, no. But it makes me wonder.” He nearly didn't say the rest, but simply
having her listen soothed him. “He had my face. I forget that most times,
remember that I've made myself, myself. But Christ, I have the look of him.”

She slid into
his lap, brushed her hands through his hair. “I don't think so.” And kissed
him.

“We've made
each other in the end, haven't we, Darling Eve? Two lost souls into one steady
unit.”

“Guess we have.
It's good.”

He stroked his
cheek against hers, and felt the fatigue wash away. “Very good.”

She held on
another minute, then drew back. “That's enough sloppy stuff. I've got work to
do.”

“When it's
done, why don't we get really sloppy, you and I?”

“I can get
behind that.” She rose to contact Darcia and get an update on the manhunt.

“Not a sign of
him anywhere,” Eve told Roarke, then began to pace. “Feeney took care of
transpo. Nothing's left the station. We've got him boxed in, but it's a big box
with lots of angles. I need Skinner. Nobody's going to know him as well as
Skinner.”

“Hayes is his
son,” Roarke reminded her. “Do you think he'd help you?”

“Depends on
how much cop is left in him. Come with me,” she said. “He needs to see us both.
He needs to deal with it.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

He looked
haggard, Eve thought. His skin was gray and pasty. How much was grief, how much
illness, she didn't know. The combination of the two, she imagined, would
finish him.

But, she
noted, he'd put on a suit, and he wore his precinct pin in the lapel.

He brushed
aside, with some impatience, his wife's attempt to block Eve.

“Stop fussing,
Belle. Lieutenant.” His gaze skimmed over Roarke, but he couldn't make himself
address the man. “I want you to know I've contacted my attorneys on Hayes's
behalf. I believe you and Chief Angelo have made a serious error in judgment.”

“No, you
don't, Commander. You've been a cop too long. I appreciate the difficulty of
your position, but Hayes is the prime suspect in two murders, in sabotage, in a
conspiracy to implicate Roarke in those murders. He injured bystanders while
fleeing and caused considerable property damage. He also fired his weapon at a
police officer. He's currently evading arrest.”

“There's an
explanation.”

“Yes, I
believe there is. He's picked up his father's banner, Commander, and he's
carrying it where I don't think you intended it to go. You told me yesterday no
losses are acceptable. Did you mean it?”

“The pursuit
of justice often... In the course of duty, we...” He looked helplessly at his
wife. “Belle, I never meant -- Reggie, Zita. Have I killed them?”

“No, no.” She
went to him quickly, wrapped her arms around him. And he seemed to shrink into
her. “It's not your fault. It's not your doing.”

“If you want
justice for them, Commander, help me. Where would he go? What would he do
next?”

“I don't know.
Do you think I haven't agonized over it through the night?”

“He hasn't
slept,” Belle told her. “He won't take his pain medication. He needs to rest.”

“I confided in
him,” Skinner continued. “I shared my thoughts, my beliefs, my anger. I wanted
him to carry on my mission. Not this way.” Skinner sank into a chair. “Not this
way, but I beat the path. I can't deny that. Your father killed for sport, for
money, for the hell of it,” he said to Roarke. “He didn't even know the names
of the people he murdered. I look at you and see him. You grew out of him.”

“I did.”
Roarke nodded. “And everything I've done since has been in spite of him. You
can't hate him as much as I can, Commander. No matter how hard you try, you'll
never reach my measure of it. But I can't live on that hate. And I'm damned if
I'll die on it. Will you?”

“I've used it
to keep me alive these past months.” Skinner looked down at his hands. “It's
ruined me. My son is a thorough man. He'll have a back door. Someone inside
who'll help him gain access to the hotel. He'll need it to finish what he
started.”

“Assassinate
Roarke?”

“No,
Lieutenant. Payment would be dearer than that. It's you he'll aim for.” He
lifted a hand to a face that had gone clammy. “To take away what his target
cherishes most.”

When he hissed
in pain, Eve stepped forward. “You need medical attention, Commander. You need
to be in the hospital.”

“No hospitals.
No health centers. Try to take him alive, Dallas. I want him to get the help he
needs.”

“You have to
go.” Belle stepped in. “He can't take any more of this.”

“I'll send Dr.
Mira.” Even as Eve spoke, Skinner slumped in the chair.

“He's
unconscious.” Roarke instinctively loosened Skinner's tie. “His breathing's
very shallow.”

“Don't touch
him! Let me -- “ Belle jerked back as her eyes met Roarke's. She took a long,
deep breath. “I'm sorry. Could you help me, please? Take him into his bedroom.
If you'd call for Dr. Mira, Lieutenant Dallas, I'd be grateful.”

-=O=-***-=O=-

“His body's
wearing down,” Eve said once Skinner was settled in the bedroom with Mira in
attendance. “Maybe it's better all around if he goes before we take Hayes.”

“His body was
already worn down,” Roarke corrected. “But he's let go of his reason to live.”

“There's
nothing to do but leave him to Mira. The computer didn't think Hayes would come
back to the hotel. Skinner does. I'm going with Skinner. Hayes wants me, and he
knows Skinner's on borrowed time so he has to move fast.” She checked her wrist
unit. “Looks like I'm going to give that damn seminar after all.”

“And make
yourself a target?”

“With plenty
of shield. We'll coordinate your security people and Angelo's and pluck him
like a goose if he tries for a hit here.” She started out, pulling a borrowed
communicator out of her pocket.

Then drew her
weapon as she saw Hayes step out of the stairway door at the end of the
corridor.

“Stop!” She
pounded after him when he ducked back into the stairwell. “Get to security!”
Eve shouted at Roarke. “Track him!”

Roarke shoved
through the door ahead of her. The weapon in his hand was illegal. “No. You
track him.”

Since cursing
was a waste of time, she raced down the stairs with him. “Subject sighted,” she
called through the communicator as they streaked down the stairs. “Heading down
southeast stairwell, now between floors twenty-one and twenty. Moving fast.
Consider subject armed and dangerous.”

She clicked
the communicator off before she spoke to Roarke. “Don't kill him. Don't fire
that thing unless there's no choice.”

A blast hit
the landing seconds before their feet. “Such as now?” Roarke commented.

But it was Eve
who fired, leaning over the railing and turning the steps below into rubble.
Caught in mid-stride, Hayes tried to swing back, bolt for the door, but his
momentum skewed his balance.

He went down
hard on the smoking, broken steps.

And Angelo
shoved through the door, weapon gripped in both hands.

“Trying to
take my collar, Dallas?”

“All yours.”
Eve stepped down, onto the weapon that had flown out of Hayes's hand. “Two
people dead. For what?” she asked Hayes. “Was it worth it?”

His mouth and
his leg were bleeding. He swiped at the blood on his chin while his eyes burned
into hers. “No. I should've been more direct. I should've just blown you to
hell right away and watched the bastard you fuck bleed over you. That would've
been worth everything, knowing he'd live with the kind of pain his father
caused. The commander could've died at peace knowing I'd found his justice. I
wanted to give him more.”

“Did you give
Weeks or Vinter a choice?” Eve demanded. “Did you tell them they were going to
die for the cause?”

“Command isn't
required to explain. They honored their fathers, as I honor mine. There's no
other choice.”

“You signaled
Weeks to move in on me, and he didn't have a clue what it was going to cost
him. You had Vinter sabotage the cameras, and when she realized why, you killed
her.”

“They were
necessary losses. Justice requires payment. You were going to be my last gift
to him. You in a cage,” he said to Roarke. “You in a coffin.” He smiled at Eve
when he said it. “Why aren't you giving your seminar, Lieutenant? Why the hell
aren't you where you're scheduled to be?”

“I had a
conflict of...” She shot to her feet. “Oh, God. Peabody.”

She charged
through the door and out into the corridor. “What floor? What floor?”

“This way.”
Roarke grabbed her hand, pulled her toward the elevator. “Down to four,” he
said. “We'll head left. Second door on the right takes us behind the stage
area.”

“Explosives.
He likes explosives.” She dragged out her communicator again as she willed the
elevator to hurry. “She's turned hers off. Son of a bitch! Any officer, any
officer, clear Conference Room D immediately. Clear the area of all personnel.
Possible explosive device. Alert Explosive Division. Clear that area now!”

She was
through the door and streaking to the left.

I sent her
there, was all she could think. And I smirked about it.

Oh, God,
please.

There was a
roaring in her ears that was either her own rush of blood, the noise of the
audience, or the shouted orders to clear.

But she
spotted Peabody standing behind the podium and leaped the three steps on the
side of the stage. Leaped again the minute her feet hit the ground and, hitting
her aide mid-body, shot them both into the air and into a bruised and tangled
heap on the floor.

She sucked in
her breath, then lost it again as Roarke landed on top of her.

The explosion
rang in her ears, sent the floor under her shaking. She felt the mean heat of
it spew over her like a wave that sent the three of them rolling in one ball
toward the far edge of the stage.

Debris rained
over them, some of it flaming. Dimly she heard running feet, shouts, and the
sizzling hiss of a fire.

For the second
time in two days, she was drenched with the spray of overhead sprinklers.

“Are you all
right?” Roarke said in her ear.

“Yeah, yeah.
Peabody.” Coughing, eyes stinging with smoke, Eve eased back, saw her aide's
pale face, glassy eyes. “You okay?”

“Think so.”
She blinked. “ 'Cept you've got two heads. Dallas, and one of them's Roarke's.
It's the prettiest. And I think you've really gained some weight.” She smiled
vaguely and passed out.

“Got herself a
nice concussion,” Eve decided, then turned her head so her nose bumped
Roarke's. “You are pretty, though. Now get the hell off me. This is seriously
undignified.”

“Absolutely,
Lieutenant.”

While the
med-techs tended to Peabody, and the Explosives Division cordoned off the
scene, Eve sat outside the conference room and drank the coffee some unnamed
and beloved soul had handed her.

She was soaked
to the skin, filthy, had a few cuts, a medley of bruises. She figured her ears
might stop ringing by Christmas.

But all in
all, she felt just fine.

“You're going
to have a few repairs on this dump of yours,” she told Roarke.

“Just can't
take you anywhere, can I?”

She smiled,
then got to her feet as Darcia approached. “Hayes is in custody. He's waived
his right to attorney. My opinion, he'll end up in a facility for violent
offenders, mental defectives. He's not going to serve time in a standard cage.
He's warped. If it's any consolation, he was very disappointed to hear you
aren't splattered all over what's left of that stage in there.”

“Can't always
get what you want.”

“Hell of a way
to skate out of giving a workshop, though. Have to hand it to you.”

“Whatever
works.”

Sobering,
Darcia turned. “We beat interplanetary deadline. Thanks.”

“I won't say
anytime.”

“I'll have a
full report for your files by the end of the day,” she said to Roarke. “I hope
your next visit is less ... complicated,” she added.

“It was an
experience watching you in action, Chief Angelo. I'm confident Olympus is in
good hands.”

“Count on it.
You know, Dallas, you look like you could use a nice resort vacation.” She shot
out that brilliant smile. “See you around.”

“She's got a
smart mouth. I've got to admire that. I'm going to check on Peabody,” she
began, then stopped when she saw Mira coming toward her.

“He's gone,”
Mira said simply. “He had time to say goodbye to his wife, and to ask me to
tell you that he was wrong. Blood doesn't always tell. I witnessed the
termination. He left life with courage and dignity. He asked me if you would
stand in the way of his departmental service and burial.”

“What did you
tell him?”

“I told him
that blood doesn't always tell. Character does. I'm going back to his wife
now.”

“Tell her I'm
sorry for her loss, and that law enforcement has lost one of its great heroes
today.”

Mira leaned
over to kiss Eve's cheek, smiling when Eve squirmed. “You have a good heart.”

“And clear
vision,” Roarke added when Mira walked away.

“Clear
vision?”

“To see
through the dreck and the shadows to the core of the man.”

“Nobody gets
through life without fucking up. He gave fifty years to the badge. It wasn't
all what it should've been, but it was fifty years. Anyway.” She shook off
sentiment. “I've got to check on Peabody.”

Roarke took
her hand, kissed it. “We'll go check on Peabody. Then we'll talk about that
nice resort vacation.”

In a pig's
eye, she thought. She was going home as soon as humanly possible. The streets
of New York were resort enough for her.

eBook Info

Identifier:

J.D. Robb - Interlude In Death (part of "Out Of This World" anthology

Title:

Interlude In Death

Creator:

J.D. Robb

Copyrights:

Hmmm, looks like another genie got out of the bottle

Publisher:

Me

Subject:

Mystery And Detective