Seduction in Death (27 page)

"Yes, sir."

"Detective Renfrew is here with his captain. He's considering filing a formal complaint re your conduct in the Theodore McNamara investigation, of which he is primary of record. In hopes to avoid any such action, I've asked you to come here so that the matter can be discussed."

There was a dull roar inside her head, a low burn deep in her gut. "Let him file."

"Lieutenant, neither I nor this department have a desire to wade through the mess of a complaint if it can be avoided."

"I don't give a damn what you or the department wants." Her tone bit and had something unidentifiable flashing in Whitney's eyes. "You file your complaint, Renfrew. File it, and I'll finish you."

"I told you how it was." Renfrew bared his teeth. "Got no respect for the badge, no respect for fellow officers. She comes onto my crime scene throwing her weight around, pulling rank, undermining my investigation. Questioned my crime scene unit after I requested her to remove herself before she contaminated the scene. Goes behind my back to the ME getting data on a body that's not hers."

Whitney held up a hand to halt Renfrew's tirade. "Your response to this, Lieutenant?"

"You want my response to this? I'll give it to you." Funous, she yanked a disc out of her pocket, slapped it onto the desk. "There's my response to this. On record. You idiot," she said to Renfrew. "I was going to let it slide. That was my mistake. Nobody should let cops like you slide. You think the badge is some sort of protection for you? Some sort of hammer you can toss around? It's your fucking responsibility, your goddamn duty, not your cushion and not your weapon."

Hayes made a move to speak. Whitney silenced him by lifting a single finger.

"Don't you tell me about duty." Renfrew braced his hands on his thighs, leaned his body forward. "Everybody knows you're out for other cops, Dallas. You're in IAB's pocket. The rat squad's poster girl."

"I don't have to justify what I did about the One-two-eight to you. It seems you've forgotten cops were dying. Want their names, because I've got them in my head. I stood over them, Renfrew, you didn't. You want a piece of me over that, you should've taken it outside the department, off a homicide investigation. You want a shot at me, you don't take it over the dead we're supposed to stand up for. I asked you to reach out, I asked you to share information vital to both our investigations so we could do the damn job."

"My robbery-homicide hasn't been connected to your sex whacks. And you've got no business on my scene without authority. You've got no right recording on that scene, and anything in such a recording is bogus."

"You pompous, egotistical, ignorant fuckhead. You don't have a robbery-homicide. I've got one half of your murder team in the tank. I've got a full confession, on record, that includes the murder of Theodore McNamara."

Renfrew leaped out of his chair. "You go around me to bring my suspect into interview?"

"My suspect, brought in for questioning re my investigation, which as I told you, asshole, is connected with yours. If you hadn't been so busy taking the easy way, so tight-assed about cooperating, you'd have been part of the op that brought him in. Get out of my face, and get out of it now, or I'll take that badge you don't deserve and make you eat it."

"That's enough, Lieutenant."

"It's not enough." She whirled back to Whitney. "It's not enough. I just listened to a twenty-two-year-old boy tell me how he and his sick friend were bored and made up a game. A dollar a point, a goddamn dollar a point for the one who bagged the most women in the most inventive ways. They drugged them, raped them, killed them, for the satisfaction of being the top stud. And when McNamara realized what his grandson and his playmate were doing, when he confronted them, they bashed his brains in, kept him alive with a stimulant, stripped him naked, bashed him again, and tossed him in the river where he had the bad luck to be assigned to this disgrace.

"Three people are dead, and one's in the hospital fighting to come back. Because one cop decides to take a personal dislike to another, there might have been more. So it's not enough. It's never going to be enough."

"You think you can hang your screwups on me," Renfrew began.

"Stand down, Detective." Hayes got slowly to his feet.

"Captain -- "

"I said stand down. Now. There will be no complaint filed from my house. If Lieutenant Dallas wishes to file -- "

"I have no wish to file."

Hayes inclined his head. "Then you're a better man than I. I'd like to request a copy of that disc, Commander."

"Request granted."

"I'll consider the contents of the recording and take such actions as are deemed appropriate. Open your mouth, Renfrew, and I'll be filing myself. I want you to step outside. That's an order."

The insult went deep enough to have him vibrating. "Yes, sir, but under protest."

"So noted." Hayes waited until the door slammed. "My apologies, Commander Whitney, for bringing this mess to your door, and for the unbecoming behavior of my officer."

"Your officer needs discipline, Captain."

"He needs a kick in the ass, sir, and I can promise you he'll get one. My apologies to you as well, Lieutenant."

"Unnecessary, Captain."

"That's the first thing you've said I disagree with since you walked in. Renfrew is a problem child, but he is, for the moment, my problem child. I run a clean house, Lieutenant, and take responsibility for any untidiness that works its way in. Thank you for your time, Commander."

He started for the door, paused, and turned. "Lieutenant, Sergeant Clooney and I rookied together. I went to see him after the events of last May came to light. He said you were an untarnished badge and he was grateful you were the one to bring him in. I don't know if that makes any difference to you, but it did to him."

He nodded again, stepped out, and closed the door quietly at his back.

When they were alone, Whitney rose and walked to his AutoChef. "Coffee, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. Thank you."

"Sit down, Dallas."

"Commander, I apologize for my disrespect and insubordination. My behavior was -- "

"Impressive," Whitney interrupted. "Don't spoil it by remembering who's in charge in this room now."

She winced and searched for something to say. "I have no excuse."

"I didn't ask for one." He brought his coffee back to his desk. "But if I required one I might start by asking how much sleep you got last night."

"I don't -- "

"Answer the question."

"A couple."

"And the night before?"

"I don't... I can't say."

"I told you to sit down," he reminded her. "Shall I make it an order?"

She sat.

"I've never been a witness to you dressing down an officer -- heard rumors," he added. "Now I can safely say you've earned your rep. You did what had to be done with Clooney and the One-twenty-eight. That doesn't mean you won't take flak for it."

"Understood, sir."

He studied her face, and because he could see hints of fatigue, grief, anger, knew she was running thin. "The badge doesn't make the man, Eve, it's the other way around."

She blinked, off balance by his use of her first name. "Yes, sir. I know."

"You're high-profile, professionally and personally. That kind of exposure and shine causes jealousy and resentment in certain types. Renfrew's a prime example."

"He doesn't concern me, personally, Commander."

"Glad to hear it. You have Kevin Morano's confession."

"Yes, sir." She started to rise, to give her oral, but Whitney gestured her back down.

"I don't require a formal report at this time. I got the gist from your rant. Has the warrant for Lucias Dunwood been issued?"

"Requested. It should be waiting for me in my office."

"Then go get him, Lieutenant." Whitney sipped his coffee as she got to her feet. "Contact me when you've wrapped him up. We'll need to schedule a press conference after which you're ordered to go home and use whatever method you choose to guarantee you eight full hours' sleep."

When she left, Whitney picked up the disc, turned it in his hand. Light glinted from it.

An untarnished badge, he thought. It was a good description of her. Watching the light play, he contacted Chief Tibble to make his own report.

It was tempting to blow the doors on the brownstone and blast in with a full squad of cops armed with riot guns and body armor. The circumstances of the case and the weight of the charges gave her the option to do just that.

It would make a splash, a blistering statement.

And it would be completely self-indulgent.

Eve let the fantasy fly away, and with only Peabody beside her, approached the door.

"All stations manned and ready?"

"That's affirmative," Feeney said through her earpiece. "He tries to rabbit and gets past you, we'll scoop him up."

"Copy that." She glanced at Peabody. "He's not getting past us."

"Not in this life."

Eve pressed the bell, counted off seconds as she rocked on the balls of her feet. She'd reached ten when the house droid opened the door.

"Remember me?" She gave him a toothy smile. "I need to speak with Mr. Dunwood."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. I'll tell Mr. Dunwood you're here. May I offer you some refreshment while you wait?"

"No, we're set, thanks."

"Very well. Please make yourself comfortable."

He walked away, stiff and formal in his classic black uniform.

"Now if Roarke would ditch Summerset and get a droid, I could be treated politely like that every day."

"Yeah." Peabody grinned. "You'd really hate it."

"Who says?"

"Those who know you best, sir."

"I think I know me best," she countered. "What makes you say... hold that thought," she said when she saw Lucias turn into the foyer. "Mr. Dunwood."

"Lieutenant." He'd dressed in black as well, had used just a hint of makeup to give his face a grieving pallor. It had worked wonders on his mother that morning, and he had no doubt it would set just the right tone with the cops. "You have some news about my grandfather? I spent the morning with my mother, and she..."

He trailed off, looked away as if composing himself. "We'd both be grateful for any news. Anything at all to help us make some sense out of our loss."

"I think I can help you with that. We already have someone in custody."

He looked back at her, an instant of surprise before it was masked. "I can't tell you what this means to us. To have his killer brought to justice quickly."

"Brightens my day, too." Indulgent, she told herself. She was being indulgent after all. But what the hell. "Actually, there were two people responsible. One has been charged, and an arrest of the second is imminent."

"Two? Two against a helpless old man." He worked rage into his voice. "I want them to suffer. I want them to pay."

"We're riding the same wave on that one. So let's get started. Lucias Dunwood, you're under arrest."

She whipped out her weapon when he took a quick step back. "Oh, please," she invited. "Keep going. I didn't have the opportunity to use this on your pal, Kevin, and it's made me twitchy."

"You stupid bitch."

"I'll take the bitch, but hey, which one of us is going into a cage? Stupid is as stupid does. Hands up and behind your head. Now."

He raised his hands, and when she turned him to face the wall, made him move.

Maybe she let him. Eve wasn't going to lie awake at night debating the point. But when he shoved, she let her body flow back, gave him room to swing. And ducking under the arch of his fist, rammed her own, twice, into his gut.

"Resisting arrest," she said when he fell to his hands and knees, retching. "Another mark on your permanent record." She nudged him flat with her foot, then put her boot lightly on the back of his neck. "I won't add assaulting an officer because you missed. Restrain this clown, Peabody, while I finish stating the charges against him and read him his rights."

He was demanding a lawyer before she'd finished.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The sky was still blue, a deep, dreamy evening blue, when she walked up the steps to her own front door. For the first time in days her mind was clear enough to let the sound of birdsong and the soft drift of flowers register.

She considered just sitting down on the steps and drawing it in, all those sweet and simple pleasures the world could offer. Remembering, taking the time to remember there was more than death, more than blood and those who spilled it with the selfishness of spoiled children made the difference between living and sinking.

Instead she pinched off a sprig of the purple flower spilling out of an urn and went inside. There was something she wanted more than fresh air.

Summerset took one look at the blossom in her hand and scowled. "Lieutenant, the arrangements in the urns are not cutting flowers."

"I didn't cut it. I snapped it off. Is he home?"

"In his office. If you want a display of verbena, you can order one from one of the greenhouses."

"Blah, blah, blah," she said as she walked up the stairs. "Yak, yak, yak."

Summerset nodded with approval. It seemed the medications had put her back to normal.

Roarke was at the window, holding a conversation on his headset. It seemed to be something about a revision to the prototype of some new communication/data system, but there was too much e-jargon for her to decipher. So she tuned out the words themselves, and just listened to the flow of his voice.

The Irish in it occasionally gave her a strange thrill, along with misty images of warriors and fragrant fires. And poetry, she supposed. Maybe the female of the species was just hardwired to react to certain stimuli.

Maybe in ten or twenty years, she'd actually get used to it. To him.

The sun, sinking in the sky, spilled in the window and drenched him in shimmering gold. He'd tied back his hair, which made her think he'd been at something that had required his hands and no distractions.

The light made a halo around him they both knew he didn't deserve, but that looked incredibly right.

He had the screen on, and a news report was humming. His desk 'link beeped and was ignored.

There was a scent to the room that was money, that was power. That was Roarke. Inside her rose a need basic as breath.

And he turned to her.

With her eyes locked on his she crossed the room, jerked him to her by his shirtfront, and captured his mouth with hers.

In the headset a voice continued to buzz in his ear, dim under the stirring of his own blood. He caught her hips, pressed heat against heat.

"Later," he muttered into the headset, then pulled it off, tossed it aside. "Welcome home, Lieutenant, and congratulations." He lifted a hand to brush it over her hair. "I caught your press conference on Seventy-five."

"Then you know it's over." She offered the verbena. "Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome." He sniffed the flower. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact." She tugged the band out of his hair. "I've got another assignment for you."

"Really? My schedule's a bit tight right now, but I want to do my civic duty." He tucked the little flower behind her ear. "What sort of assignment is it? And be specific."

"You want me to be specific?"

"I do, yes. Very... very specific."

With a laugh, she boosted herself up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. "I want you to get naked."

"Ah, an undercover assignment." Bracing her hips, he started toward his office elevator. "Is it dangerous?"

"It's deadly. Neither of us may make it out alive."

Inside the elevator, he pressed her back against the wall. Felt the strength of her -- and the yielding. "Master bedroom," he ordered, then ravaged her mouth. "I live for danger. Tell me more."

"It involves a lot of physical exertion. Timing..." Her breath clogged when his teeth found her throat. "Rhythm, coordination has to be perfect."

"Working on it," he managed and swung her out of the elevator into the bedroom.

The cat, stretched across the bed like a fat, furry rag, leaped up with a hissing complaint when they dropped onto the mattress beside him. Roarke reached out, gave him a light shove that sent him jumping down with a thud.

"This is no place for civilians."

With a snort of laughter, Eve locked her arms tight around him. "Naked." She raced kisses over his face. "Get naked. I want to sink my teeth into you."

Tugging at clothes, they rolled over the bed. Her shirt tangled in her weapon harness, making her curse breathlessly as she fought free of both. Their mouths met again, a frantic mating of lips, teeth, tongues that had the blood rushing hot through her veins and her body plunging under his.

She tugged at his shirt, yanking it down from his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into that hard ripple of muscle and test strength to strength.

But he caught her hands in his, drew her arms over her head. Stared down at her with those depthless blue eyes until her own muscles began to quake.

"I love you. Darling Eve. Mine." He lowered his mouth to hers in a soft, soft kiss that turned those trembling muscles to water.

His mouth left hers to skim along her jaw, down the column of her throat. He would know, she thought as her heart shuddered. He would know she needed more than the flash and the fire. She needed the sweet and the simple.

She relaxed and drew it in.

He felt her open, surrender herself. There was, for him, no more powerful seduction than the yielding of her to him, and to herself. When she accepted the tenderness inside him, he found himself filled with bottomless wells of it.

Gently, his lips slid over her skin, savoring the flavor. Gently, his hands played over her body, cherishing the shape. Her heart beat thick under the glide of his tongue. And she reached down to cradle his head against her when he nuzzled lazily at her breast.

She smelled of her shower at Central, of the practical soap available to her there. It made him want to pamper her, to smooth away the harshness she was too accustomed to. So his lips were like a balm over her flesh, teasing out the warmth before the heat.

She drifted on a cushion of sensation, sliding into pleasure so subtle, so soft, it wrapped around her like mists. Her fingers threaded through his hair as the mists became a river, and the river a quiet sea of bliss. With a sigh, she let herself sink into it.

She heard him murmur as he moved down her body, the Gaelic he used when he was most stirred. It sounded like music, both exotic and romantic.

"What does it mean?" Her voice was sleepy.

"My heart. You're my heart."

He traced a line of kisses down her torso fascinated, always fascinated by the long, lean line of her. So much strength and courage lived inside that whip-tight body. In the heart, he thought as his hands whispered over her breasts. In the gut. He rubbed his lips over her belly.

The muscles quivered, and he heard the first unsteady catch of her breath.

Still he took his time, his slow and torturous time until that catch of breath became a moan, until that tough, toned body trembled.

When he took her over, he felt her release spill through her, and into him.

And the sea where she was drifting turned restless. Bliss became a craving and pleasure, a deep and throbbing ache that pulsed through her like a hunger. She arched against his busy mouth, crying out as her system erupted.

Desperate now, he worked his way up her body, inciting a dozen fires, a riot of the pulses. Maddening himself even as he maddened her. "Go up. Go up." Breath heaving, he drove his fingers into her, into the drenched heat. "I want to watch you. Again."

"God!" Her eyes went wide and blind as the orgasm ripped through her.

As she shuddered over the crest, he closed his mouth over hers, danced his tongue over hers until her breath, his breath slowed. Thickened. Slid slowly, slowly inside her.

Her eyes cleared, deepened, held his. Love, like silvered velvet, shimmered over the red haze of passion. She lifted a hand to his cheek as they moved together. The rise and fall of lovers who loved. The sweet and the simple.

When her pleasure peaked this time, it was like grace. He lowered his head, kissed away the tear that spilled down her cheek.

"My heart," he said again, then pressed his face into her hair and poured himself into her.

She lay with her body curled against his side. The light was going. The end of a long day. "Roarke."

"Hmm? You should sleep for a bit."

"I don't have the words the way you do. I can never seem to find them when they matter most."

"I know what they are." He toyed with the ends of her hair. "Turn your mind off, Eve, and rest a while."

She shook her head, pushed up so she could look down at him. How could he be so perfect, she thought, and still be hers?

"Say what you said before again. The Irish thing. I want to say it back to you."

He smiled. Took her hand. "You'll never pronounce it."

"Yes, I will."

Still smiling, he said it slowly, waited for her to fumble through. But her eyes stayed steady and serious as she brought his hand to her heart, laid hers on his, and repeated the words.

She saw emotion move over his face. His heart leaped hard against her hand. "You undo me, Eve."

He sat up, dropped his brow against hers. "Thank God for you," he murmured in a voice gone raw. "Thank God for you."

She refused to sleep, so he talked her into sharing a meal in bed. She sat cross-legged on the sheets, plowing her way through a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

The combination of sex, food, and a blistering shower had done the job.

"Morano broke down in interview," she began.

"I'd put it that you broke him down," Roarke corrected. "I watched you." And had seen the way she'd stared into the glass. Into herself. "He wouldn't have known how difficult it was for you."

"Not so difficult, because I knew I'd break him. I didn't know you were there."

"I was part of the operational team." He twirled a bit of her pasta onto his fork. "And I enjoy watching you work."

"It was a contest to them, and the women game pieces. All I had to do was box Morano into a corner, and game over. The way he sees it, it was Dunwood's fault, and he was just trying to keep up. Bankhead was an accident, Cline didn't die, and McNamara, well that was, in his view, a kind of self-defense. I looked at him, and I didn't see anything calculating or particularly vicious. He's just empty, weak and empty. A kind of -- it sounds hokey -- void of evil."

"It sounds accurate. Dunwood's a different kettle, isn't he?"

"And then some." She picked up her wineglass, sipped, then leaned over to sample some of Roarke's linguini with clam sauce. "Mine's better," she decided, pleased. "After the session with Renfrew in Whitney's office -- "

"What session?" *

"Forgot. I didn't tell you."

So, between mouthfuls of spaghetti and the herbed bread he offered, she did. "I can't believe I practically told Whitney to shut up. He should've slapped me down for it."

"He's a smart man. And a good cop. Renfrew now, he's just the type of cop who made things relatively easy for me. During a past, and regrettable period of my life," he added soberly when she frowned at him. "More ambitious than clever, narrow of view and focus. Lazy."

He scooped up another forkful of her pasta. She was right; hers was better. "And," he continued, "he epitomizes my previous view of the species. The view I held of badges before I got to know one more intimately."

"His kind pisses me off, but his captain... He's solid. He'll deal with it. Anyway. Anyway." She let out a long breath. She was stuffed, but still wanted more. "I took the team, minus our civilian consultant, to his place to bring him in. He lawyered straight off, and kept his mouth shut. He's not stupid, and he's not weak. His mistake is believing everyone else is. That's what'll take him under."

"No, you're what will take him under."

His absolute confidence in her warmed as much as any words of love. "Really stuck on me, aren't you?"

"Apparently. How about letting me have what's left of that meatball?"

She nudged the plate in his direction. "Dunwood had three lawyers in tow before we finished booking him. He claims to know nothing about nothing, except he did notice his good friend and companion Kevin's been acting a bit strange, coming in at odd hours, dressing up in strange getups to go out."

"Friendship's a beautiful thing."

"You bet. We've got no DNA on him, and he knows it. He's playing the innocent victim, the outraged citizen, and letting his reps do all the talking. He didn't even blink when we brought up the home lab, and the samples we're testing from it. Didn't even get a shrug out of him when I pointed out we'd found the wig and the suit worn in the Lutz security disc in his bedroom closet. That his bathroom vanity contained the brand of face putty and enhancements found on her body and her sheets. His story is Kevin used them, planted them. Same thing with the Carlo account," she added. "The illegals operation. He doesn't know a thing. It must've been Kevin."

"Where do you go from here?"

"Feeney's doing his e-thing with all the 'links and computers we confiscated from the townhouse. He'll find something. Dunwood was meeting someone on the night he killed his grandfather, and my take is she didn't show. We find her, verify the correspondence and the meeting scheduled that night for the club where he bought drinks, and we add more layers. The samples from the lab are going to test out for Whore and Rabbit. His lawyers can try to dance around that experimenting isn't illegal, and we have to prove use and/or distribution for sale. But it adds the next tier. We dig until we connect him to the distribution of those illegals as Carlo, through Charles Monroe's client. Crime Scene's fluoroscoping the house, and they'll find blood. We've got Morano's point-by-point confession. We've got plenty for an indictment. When we add up everything we'll lock in over the next couple days, we'll wrap him up in it."

More due to a need to move around than a sense of tidiness, she cleared the plates off the bed. "I'll sic Mira on him," she added. "But even she's going to have a tough time chipping at that shell. In the end, we'll dump all the evidence -- physical, circumstantial, forensic, the psych profiles, the statements -- into a box and wrap it up for the lawyers. He won't walk away."