Loyalty in Death (6 page)

“I’ll see him out,” Roarke said. “Take care of your wife.”

For one long moment, Branson strained against Roarke’s hold; then he nodded, turned. He gathered his wife up, cradling her as he would a child, and carried her from the room.

“You’re done here, Mantz.” Eve faced him. “Unless you want to see if the Bransons have a dog you could kick.”

He acknowledged this, picked up his own briefcase. “We all do our jobs, Lieutenant.”

“Right, and yours is to run to a murderer and tell her she just got rich.”

His eyes never wavered. “Life is very rarely black and white.” He nodded to Suzanna. “Good evening, Counselor,” he murmured and left.

“He’s right.” Suzanna sighed and sat again. “He’s only doing his job.”

“Will she inherit?” Eve demanded.

Suzanna pinched the bridge of her nose. “As things stand, yes. With charges of second-degree manslaughter, it can be argued she killed J. C. in a moment of jealous passion. His will was a sealed document. We can’t prove she had prior knowledge of its contents or that those contents in any way influenced her. Under current law, she can gain by his death.”

“If the charges are bumped up?”

Suzanna dropped her hand into her lap, regarding Eve thoughtfully. “Then things change. Is there a chance of that? I was under the impression the case was closed.”

“Closed doesn’t mean locked.”

“I hope you’ll keep me updated,” Suzanna said as she rose and walked out with them to where the maid waited with their coats.

“I’ll let you know what I can when I can.” When they stepped outside, Eve slid her hands into her pockets. The limo was waiting. She struggled not to be embarrassed by it.

“Can we give you a lift home, Ms. Day?” Roarke asked.

“No, thanks. I could use a walk.” She paused a moment and her sigh puffed out a thin stream of white. “As an estate lawyer, I deal with this sort of thing all the time. Grief and greed. But it’s rare it hits this close to home. I really liked J. C. Some people you think will live forever.” Shaking her head, she walked away.

“Well, that was fun.” Eve started toward the car. “Wonder if Lissy my love will shed half as many tears over this guy as Clarissa. You know her very well?”

“Hmm, no.” Roarke slid into the car beside her. “In that false intimacy of social acquaintances, I run into the Branson brothers at events occasionally. Clarissa and Lisbeth were usually with them.”

“I’d’ve reversed it.”

Roarke sat back, lighted a cigarette. “Meaning?”

“I’d put Clarissa with J. C. Just going by what I’ve learned about him, he was lighter, less driven, more emotional than his brother. Clarissa comes off fragile, nearly tender — seems a little… intimidated by Branson. She doesn’t seem like your slick corporate wife. The man’s running a big, international company. Why doesn’t he have a slick corporate wife?” Even as she posed the question, Roarke was grinning, making her narrow her eyes. “What?”

“I was going to say that he might have fallen for a different type. It happens, even to the heads of big, international companies.”

Now her narrowed eyes glinted. “Are you saying I’m not a slick, corporate wife?”

He drew contemplatively on his cigarette. “If I said you were, you’d try to hurt me, then we’d end up wrestling back here. One thing would lead to another and we’d be very late for a business dinner.”

“I’d be real sorry about that,” she muttered. “You’re not exactly the typical cop’s spouse either, pal.”

“If you said I was, we’d end up wrestling back here, and so on.” He stubbed out his cigarette, then trailed a fingertip down the center of her body from throat to waist. “Wanna?”

“I didn’t get all polished up so you could leave fingerprints all over me.”

He smiled and cupped her breast. “Darling, I never leave prints.”

During the evening of dinner and conversation, Eve managed to slip away long enough to request a warrant to access data on Lisbeth Cooke’s finances. She cited the sizable inheritance as cause and got lucky with a judge who either agreed with her or was too tired to argue the point.

As a result, she was alert and edgy when they arrived home.

“I’ve got some stuff I want to check out,” she told Roarke when they walked into the bedroom. “I’m going to change and work in my office awhile.”

“On…?”

“I asked for a warrant to access Cooke’s financial data.” She wiggled out of the dress, tossed it aside, then stood there, much to her husband’s interest, in two tiny scraps of black and high leather boots. “It came through during the dessert course.”

“I must have a whip around here,” he murmured.

“A what?”

Grinning, he started toward her, amused when her eyes narrowed threateningly. “Keep your distance, ace. I said I have work.”

“I can access that information in half the time you can. I’ll help you out.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“No. But we both know I can do it faster and interpret it without getting a tension headache. And all I want in return is one little thing.”

“What little thing?”

“That when we’re finished you’re still wearing this very interesting getup.”

“Getup?” She glanced over, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and blinked in shock. “Jesus, I look like — “

“Oh yes,” Roarke agreed. “Yes, you do.”

She looked back at him, struggled to ignore the slick ball of lust the gleam in his eyes caused. “Men are so weird.”

“Then have pity on us.”

“I’m not parading around in my underwear so you can cook up some sordid little fantasy.”

“That’s all right,” he said as she snatched up a robe and bundled into it. “It’s already cooked. We can do this faster in my office.”

As she belted the robe, she eyed him suspiciously. “Do what faster?”

“Why, access the data, Lieutenant. What else?”

She refused to acknowledge the little tug of disappointment. “This is official business. I want the search initialized from my machine.”

“You’re the boss.” He took her hand to lead her out.

“Just remember that.”

“Darling, with what you’re wearing under that robe forever imprinted on my memory, how could I forget?”

“All roads,” she said dryly, “don’t lead back to sex.”

“The best ones do.” He gave her butt a friendly pat as she preceded him into her office.

Galahad was curled up in her sleep chair. The cat raised his head in obvious annoyance at the disturbance. Since neither of them headed for the kitchen, he closed his eyes again and ignored them.

She slid the warrant into a slot on her computer, engaged it. “I know how to do a financial search. You’re just here to interpret and tell me if you think she’s got anything buried under layers.”

“I’m here to serve.”

“Cut that out.” She dropped into the chair at her desk and called up Lisbeth Cooke’s case file. “Hold current data,” she ordered, “and initiate search of financial records on subject’s name and identification number. All accounts, cash, credit, and debit. Start with one-year period back from this date.”

Working….

“Personal property?” Roarke asked.

“I’ll get to it. We’ll do the bucks first.”

Data complete. Cooke, Lisbeth has four cash/credit accounts active.

“Scroll data on-screen.”

Acknowledged….

Eve made a low sound as the data popped. “Over two million in New York Security, another one and a half in New World Bank, just under a mil in American Trust, and a quarter million in Credit Managers.”

“The last would be for living expenses,” Roarke told her. “The other three are security and brokerage type accounts. Primarily long-term investments, managed by financial teams endorsed by those particular institutions. It’s smart business. She’s mixing high risk, big gain, with conservative interest income.”

“How can you tell that from the names of the banks and the amounts in them?”

“It’s my business to know the nature of banks. If you break this down to the next level, you’ll see she likely has a balanced mix of stocks, bonds, mutuals, and fluid cash to float into new investments as the market fluctuates.”

He ordered the breakdown himself and tapped a finger on the screen. “There, you see she believes in her own company. There’s a healthy chunk of stocks in Branson T and T, but she hedges her bets. She also has stocks in several other companies, including a number of mine. And including three that are in direct competition with Branson. She doesn’t invest her money emotionally.”

“She’s calculating.”

“When it comes to her finances, she’s smart and she’s realistic.”

“And she’s got over four million to play with. Seems like a lot for an ad exec. Computer, detail on-screen deposits and e-transfers during the one-year period.”

Working….

When the data appeared, Eve lifted her eyebrows. “Look at that. An e-transfer from J. Clarence Branson’s account to her living expense account. A quarter million every three months. A fucking million a year. Computer, list all transfers from subject Branson’s account into the name of Lisbeth Cooke.”

Working…. Data complete. Initial transfer of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars made July second, 2055. Transfers every quarter in that amount for period of one year. Transfers increased to two hundred thousand on July second, 2056, continuing at six-month increments until July second 2057, when transfers were increased to two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Eve muttered.

“He provided her with a steady and generous income.” From behind her chair, Roarke rubbed absently at the tension in Eve’s shoulders. “Why kill him?”

“A million a year?” She glanced back at him. “That would be nothing to you.”

“Darling, it’s all something.”

“You probably blow that on shoes.”

Chuckling, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If your feet aren’t happy, you aren’t happy.”

She grunted, tapped her fingers on the desk. “So what if she got greedy, got tired of hanging out for a million a year? Kill him, and do it right, and she gets it all and gets it now.”

“It’s a big risk. It goes wrong, she’s charged with murder and gets nothing but a cage for her trouble.”

“She’s calculating. She’d figure the odds. Computer, what is the value of J. Clarence Branson’s personal estate, not including any holdings in Branson Toys and Tools.”

Working….

Roarke moved away to pour himself a brandy. He knew Eve would drink nothing — save coffee — while she worked like this. And since he wanted her to sleep, he bypassed the AutoChef.

She was up and pacing when he turned back. The belt of her robe had loosened, reminding him he had plans for her before sleep. Very specific, interesting plans.

Data complete. Estimated value, including appraisals of real estate, transportation vehicles, art, and jewelry is two hundred and sixty-eight million dollars.

“That’s a hell of an increase in salary.” Eve scooped her hair back with her hand. “You deduct the minor bequests, the death taxes, and he’d have finagled some there to cut them back, and she stands to get about two hundred million.”

“Mantz will argue she didn’t know about the inheritance.”

“She knew. They’d been together over three years. Damn straight she knew.”

“How much am I worth, Eve, and how are the bequests in my will distributed?”

She glanced up briefly, irritation in her eyes. “How the hell would I know?” When he smiled at her, she blew out a breath. “That’s different. We didn’t make a business arrangement.”

“True enough. But Mantz will still argue it.”

“He can argue until his tongue falls out. She knew. I’m going to talk to her again, hit her tomorrow. Her story about the other woman and her insane fit of jealousy just isn’t holding up for me.”

She swung back behind the desk and called up the debit data. Dissatisfied, she studied it, sliding her hands into her pockets. “Expensive taste, but nothing out of line with her income. She bought a lot of men’s jewelry, clothing. Maybe she had a guy on the side. That’s an angle worth looking into.”

“Hmm.” Her robe was open now, revealing a delightful strip of flesh, black silk, and leather. “I suppose all of that has to wait until tomorrow.”

“Not much more I can do here tonight,” she agreed.

“On the contrary.” He moved quickly, tugging the robe off, then running his hands over her. “I can think of a great deal more.”

“Oh yeah?” Her blood was already on boil. The man had the most creative hands. “Such as?”

“Why don’t I make a few suggestions.” With his lips curving against hers, he backed her up against the wall. The first one murmured against her ear made her eyes cross.

“Wow. That’s a good one. I’m just not sure it’s physically possible.”

“Never know until you try,” Roarke said, and began to demonstrate.

CHAPTER SIX

Peabody was already waiting when Eve arrived in her office in the morning. “Thanks for the time off, Dallas.”

Eve eyed the slim vase of red, hothouse roses on her desk. “You bought me flowers?”

“Zeke did.” The smile Peabody offered managed to be both whimsical and wry. “He does stuff like that all the time. He wanted to thank you for yesterday. I told him you weren’t the type for flowers, but he thinks everyone is.”

“I like flowers.” Feeling slightly defensive about Peabody’s take on her, Eve deliberately bent down and sniffed them. Twice. “What’s not to like? So what’s baby brother up to today?”

“He’s got a list of museums and galleries. A long list,” Peabody added. “Then he’s going to go down and stand in line for discount theater tickets for tonight. He doesn’t care what show, as long as he gets to see something on Broadway.”

Eve studied Peabody’s face, the concerned eyes, the teeth McNab had admired busily gnawing her bottom lip. “Peabody, people manage to do all the things he’s planning and survive New York every day.”

“Yeah, I know. And we went over all the warnings. Six or seven times,” she added with a wry smile. “But he’s just so… Zeke. Anyway, first he’s going to contact the Bransons, again, see what they want him to do. He couldn’t reach them yesterday.”

“Hmm.” Eve sat and began to poke through the interoffice and outside mail Peabody had already brought in and stacked. “Roarke and I sat in on the will reading last night. Cooke terminates her lover and inherits millions.” Eve shook her head. “We’re going to drop by her place this morning, have a little chat about that. Who the hell is Cassandra?”

“Who?”

“That’s what I said.” Frowning, Eve turned over the disc pouch. “Outside package — return address in the Lower East Side. I don’t like packages from people I don’t know.”

“All outside deliveries are scanned for explosives, poisons, and hazardous materials.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But instinct had her reaching in a drawer for a can of Seal-It and coating her fingers before she opened the pouch and took out the disc. “The virus killer on this thing in working order?”

Peabody looked sadly at Eve’s computer. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Fucking piece of junk,” Eve muttered and slipped the disc into a slot. “Computer, engage and run disc.”

There was a low buzzing, like a distant swarm of angry bees on the rise. Her screen blinked on, off, then with a whine came on again.

“First chance I get,” Eve vowed, “I’m paying a personal visit to those clowns in maintenance.”

Disc in text only. Message as follows…

Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York Police and Security, Cop Central, Homicide Division.

We are Cassandra. We are the gods of justice. We are loyal.

The present corrupt government with its self-serving and weak-stomached leaders must and will be destroyed. We will dismantle, we will remove, we will annihilate as it becomes necessary to make way for the republic. No longer will the masses tolerate the abuse, the suppression of ideas and voices, the neglect of the pitiful few who cling to power.

Under our rule, all will live free.

We admire your skills. We admire your loyalty in the matter of Howard Bassi, known as The Fixer. He was useful to us and terminated only because he proved defective.

Eve slammed another disc into a slot. “Computer, copy disc currently running.”

We are Cassandra. Our memory is long. We are prepared. We will make our needs and demands known to you, in time. At nine-fifteen this morning, we will provide a small demonstration of our scope. You will believe. Then you will listen.

“A demonstration,” Eve said when the message ended. With a quick check of her wrist unit, she grabbed both discs, sealed the original. “We’ve got less than ten minutes.”

“To do what?”

“They gave us an address.”.She tapped a finger on the pouch, scooped up her jacket. “Let’s check it out.”

“If these are the people who took out Fixer,” Peabody began as they strode to the elevator, “they already know you’re looking into it.”

“Not that hard to know. I’ve been in contact with New Jersey, I went to his shop yesterday. Run the address, Peabody, see what it is. Apartment, private home, business.”

“Yes, sir.”

They climbed into the car. Eve reversed, spun into a neat one-eighty, and shot out of the garage. “Display map,” she ordered, heading south. “Lower East Side, sector six.” When the street grid of the proper area shimmered onto her view screen, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. It’s a warehouse district.”

“The building in question is an old glass factory slated for rehab. It’s listed as unoccupied.”

“Maybe the address is bogus, but they expect us to check it out. We won’t disappoint them. Time?”

“Six minutes.”

“Okay. We’re going up.” Eve punched the warning siren, hit vertical lift, and shot over the roofs of southbound traffic.

She swung east, passed reconditioned lofts where young professionals liked to live and shop and eat in overpriced cafes with bad lighting and good wine.

Barely a block over, the ambiance changed to disuse, disrepair, and despair. Misery walked the streets below in the guise of the unemployed and the unwashed, the failed and the desperate.

South of there, the old factories and warehouses loomed, nearly every one abandoned. Bricks were soot gray from smoke, smog, time. Window glass was in shards and sparkling on ground littered with garbage and straggling with weeds that struggled out of broken concrete.

Eve set the car down, briefly studied the square six-story building of brick closed in behind a security fence. The gate was equipped with a card lock but was wide open.

“I’d say we’re expected.” She drove through, scanning the building for any sign of life. Then, frowning, she stopped the car, climbed out. “Time?”

“About a minute,” Peabody told her as she got out the opposite door. “Are we going in?”

“Not quite yet.” She thought of Fixer and his nasty little shop. “Call for backup. Let Dispatch know where we are. I don’t like the feel of this.”

It was as far as she got. There was a rumble, and the ground shook under her feet. A series of flashes bloomed in the broken windows of the building and had her swearing.

“Take cover!” Even as she started to dive behind the car, the air exploded and gave her a hot little slap that had her skidding on her knees. The noise was huge, slamming against her eardrums, shooting a high-pitched wine through the center of her skull.

Bricks rained. A smoldering chunk smashed into the ground inches from her face as she rolled under the car. Her body bumped solidly into Peabody’s.

“You hurt?”

“No. Jesus, Dallas.”

A wave of heat swarmed over them, brutally intense. The air was screaming. Debris flew overhead, battering the car like hot, furious fists. This is what the end of the world would feel like, Eve thought as she fought to catch her breath. Hot and filthy and full of noise.

Above them, the car rocked, bucked, shuddered. Then there was no sound but the ringing in her ears and Peabody’s ragged pants. No movement but the wild hammering of her own heart.

She lay there another moment, assuring herself she was still alive, that all her parts were intact. There was a burning sensation where she’d met the concrete. Her fingers came away wet with blood as she probed the area. That disgusted her enough to have her bellying out from under the car.

“Goddamn it, goddamn it! Just look at my ride.”

The car was dents and scorch marks, the windshield a fancy web of cracks. The roof carried a fist-sized hole.

Peabody crawled to her feet, coughed at the smoke that was stinking the air. “You don’t look so good yourself, sir.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Eve muttered and wiped her bloody fingers on her ruined trousers.

“No, I meant as a whole.”

Scowling, Eve glanced over, then narrowed her eyes. Peabody’s face was smeared with black, making the whites of her eyes stand out like moons. She’d lost her uniform cap and her hair was standing wildly on end.

Eve rubbed her fingers over her own face, studied the now blackened tips, and swore. “Shit. That caps it. Call this in. Get some units out here for crowd control. We’re going to have a hell of a crowd once people in this area crawl out from under their beds. And get — “

At the sound of a car, she whirled, one hand on the butt of her weapon. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed when she recognized the vehicle that pulled in behind hers.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded when Roarke got out of the car.

“I could ask the same. Your leg’s bleeding, Lieutenant.”

“Not much.” She rubbed a hand under her nose. “I’ve got myself a crime scene here, Roarke, and a hazardous area. Go away.”

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, crouching down, examined the cut before tying the cloth over the wound. “You’ll need that tended. It’s full of grit.” Rising, he stroked a hand over her hair. “Interesting do, and somehow you.”

She caught Peabody’s smirk out of the corner of her eye but decided to let it pass. “I don’t have time for you, Roarke. I’m working.”

“Yes, I can see that. But I think you’ll want to make time.” His eyes were cold and flat as he scanned the smoldering rubble. “This used to be my building.”

“Oh hell.” Eve shoved her hands into her pockets, paced away, back, away again. “Hell,” she repeated and glared at him.

“I knew you’d be delighted.” He took a disc pouch out of his pocket, offered it to her. He’d already copied the disc and secured it. “I received that this morning. It’s a text message from a group calling themselves Cassandra. Basically, it calls me a capitalist opportunist — which of course is absolutely true — and states that I’ve been chosen in their first demonstration. There’s some tired and tedious political jargon thrown in. The redistribution of wealth, the exploitation of the poor by the rich. Nothing terribly original.”

His words might have been casual, but the tone was much too controlled. And she knew him. Beneath those cool eyes, violence was bubbling.

She handled it the only way she knew how, with professional dispatch. “I’m going to need you to come in so I can take a detailed statement. I’ll have to take this as evidence.”

She broke off as the violence in his eyes swam to the surface. No one, she thought fleetingly, no one could look more dangerous than Roarke in an icy temper.

Abruptly, he swung away from her to stride through the smoking bricks.

“Damn it.” Impatient, she scooped a hand through her disordered hair and tossed a glance at Peabody.

“Units are on the way, Dallas.”

“Stand at the gate,” Eve ordered. “Secure it if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” With some sympathy, Peabody watched as Eve walked over to deal with her husband.

“Look, Roarke, I know you’re pissed off. I don’t blame you. Somebody blows up one of your buildings, you’ve got a right to be pissed.”

“Damn right I do.” He spun back to her, fury ripe in his eyes. The fact that she’d nearly backed up a step in the face of it both mortified and infuriated her. She compensated by leaning forward until her boots bumped his shoes.

“This is a goddamn crime scene, and I don’t have the time or inclination to stand around and pat you on the head because one of your six million buildings got blown to hell. Now, I’m sorry about it, and I understand you feel ticked off and violated, but don’t take it out on me.”

He gripped her arms and hauled her up to her toes in a move guaranteed to make her snarl and spit. If his property hadn’t been heaved out in a half-block pile of stinking ruin, she might have decked him.

“Do you think that’s the problem?” he demanded. “Do you think the fucking warehouse is the problem?”

She struggled to think through her own temper. “Yes.”

He hauled her up another inch. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot? I’m an idiot? You’re a moron if you think I’m going to stand here making clucky noises to your ego while I’ve got somebody blowing up buildings on my watch. Now, get your hands off before I take you down.”

“How close were you to going in?”

“That’s not — ” She broke off, deflating as it hit her. It wasn’t the building that put that wicked light in his eyes. It was her. “Not that close.” She said it quietly as she unclenched her fists. “Not that close, Roarke. I didn’t like the setup. I’d just ordered Peabody to call it in, send for a couple of backup units. I know how to handle myself.”

“Yeah.” He took a hand off her arm to brush his fingertips over her filthy cheek. “It shows.” Then he released her completely, stepped back. “Have that leg tended to. I’ll meet you at your office.”

When he started to walk away, she jammed her hands in her pockets, pulled them out. Rolled her eyes. Damn it, she did know how to handle herself. She just didn’t always know how to handle him. “Roarke.”

He stopped, glanced back. And nearly smiled when he watched the obvious struggle between duty and heart on her face. Looking over to make certain Peabody had her back discreetly turned, she crossed to him, lifted a hand to his cheek.

“Sorry. I was a little pissed off, myself. Having a building blow up in my face does that to me.” When she heard the approaching sirens, she dropped her hands, frowned. “No kissing in front of the uniforms.”

Now he did smile. “Darling, no kissing until you wash your face. I’ll meet you at your office,” he repeated and walked away.

“Give it a couple of hours,” she called out. “I’ll be tied up here at least that long.”

“Fine.” He stopped by her car, angling his head as he studied it. “Actually, this suits you better now.”

“Bite me,” she said with a laugh, then put on her official face for the bomb squad.

When she returned to Cop Central, Eve hit the showers and washed off the stink and soot. She remembered the gash in her leg when the hot water stung. Setting her teeth, she cleaned the wound herself, dug out a first-aid kit, and went to work on it. She figured she’d watched the med-techs poke around her body often enough to handle a few cuts.

Satisfied, she rooted through her locks for her spare set of clothes and made herself a memo to bring more in. Those she’d been wearing went straight into the recycler as a dead loss.