In Death 12.5 - Interlude in Death (8 page)

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.”

“Y
our 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 too 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 bigheaded 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.”

“S
he 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.

S
ex, 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.”