Obsession in Death

  “Ah well, that clarifies things. I’d make a prime candidate. Both you and the lieutenant,” Summerset continued when Roarke’s eyes heated, “should know I’m capable.”

  “You’ve been hurt before. I’d prefer you weren’t hurt again. Vary your routine,” Roarke began.

  “The lieutenant has already . . . suggested the same. Don’t worry, boy. I’ll be careful and trust you to do the same.”

  Knowing he had to be satisfied with that, Roarke went upstairs. It surprised him not to find her in her office, but then again, he thought, it wouldn’t surprise him to find her facedown on the bed.

  There, he found only the cat, stretched out as if on the rack, eyes fixed on the elevator. Galahad rolled over as Roarke approached, exposed his belly. Obliging, Roarke gave it a brisk rub.

  “Went that way, did she?” Roarke nodded toward the elevator. “But to where?”

  He crossed to the in-house intercom.

  “Where is Eve?”

  Eve is in the fitness room.

  “On screen,” Roarke ordered, and angled to the screen.

  According to Summerset, she hadn’t come home injured, he thought, but she sported a bruise on her cheekbone now, and a bloody lip. The droid—still so new he’d yet to do more than a test round with it himself—staggered back when Eve spun into a vicious back kick, rammed her foot into its midsection.

  Crusher—he’d thought she’d find the name amusing—looked considerably worse for wear. Simulated blood ran into its swollen left eye, dripped from the corner of its mouth.

  Roarke winced when the droid caught Eve on the shoulder, but she turned her body into the blow, used the momentum and flipped the droid onto its back.

  Now Roarke hissed through his teeth as she stomped, enthusiastically, on the droid’s face.

  “Ah well,” he murmured, and loosening his tie, began to change out of his suit.

  By the time he pulled on a fresh shirt, she came, dripping sweat, out of the elevator.

  “Hey,” she said. “You’re home.”

  “As you are. Got in a workout, I see.”

  “Yeah.” She swiped at her puffy lip. “Needed it. You got a new sparring droid.”

  “I did. Do we still have it?”

  “Yeah. Well, it said it needed to do an internal diagnostic.” She rubbed and rolled her shoulder.

  “And you?”

  “It’s got a hell of a punch. And it bleeds, blooms bruises, too. I have to give you the frosty on that. It threw me off some, and he got by my guard a couple times.”

  “It’s a prototype. Or was.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have stomped on its face, but maybe you shouldn’t bring really expensive toys around for me to break.”

  “What fun would that be?” He opened the first-aid kit he had ready, took out a healing wand. “Over here.”

  “I need a shower.”

  “You do, yes, but this first.” He cupped her chin, ran the wand over her swollen lip. “Feel better now that you’ve kicked droid ass?”

  She grinned, hissed at the sting. “Yeah, some. Mostly the day blew wide.”

  He broke open an ice patch, laid it against her cheek. “Hold that there,” he told her, and did a second pass with the wand. “You know, you could’ve taken an hour with Master Wu, holographically, if you couldn’t manage a personal session.”

  She thought of the martial arts master—and her Christmas present from Roarke. “Wrong mood. I just needed a fight, down and dirty. Needed to punch something, and since Summerset’s all bone and would likely crack in half with a couple good shots—”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  She shrugged, regretted the movement as her shoulder sang a little tune. “Maybe. And you weren’t around to punch.”

  “From the look of the droid, I can be grateful for that.”

  She winced, but not from physical pain. “You saw?”

  “A glimpse. There, that’s better.”

  “It’s not so bad.” She tapped her lip. “Droid’s outfitted with gel gloves, so they cushion it some. Listen, I know they’re supposed to start work on the new dojo in a few days, but—”

  “You’re concerned,” he interrupted, “with having anyone who’s not us, or ours, in the house. You needn’t be on this. I know everyone who’ll be on the crew, and have already contacted the job boss, told him no substitutes unless I clear them, personally.”

  “Still . . .”

  “The men and women who’ll start after the first of the year depend on the job and the pay. Why don’t I give you their names and data, a list of them? You can run them all, satisfy yourself.”

  “Which you already have. All screened.”

  “I have, yes. But you’d feel better about it doing the same yourself.”

  “I would, yeah. On that same note, I’m hoping to use your comp lab later.”

  “You?”

  She deserved that, Eve thought, considering her comp skills. “Potentially we, but I can handle what I’ve got in mind. But I want that shower first.” She started toward the bathroom, glanced over her shoulder. “You should come wash my back.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  “I call it finishing off some physical therapy—and you getting lucky.”

  In the bath she peeled out of her tank, wriggled out of her shorts, then stepped into the enormous open shower. She ordered jets on full—and the temperature at 102.

  She’d boil his balls, Roarke thought, resigned. Then again, his hot, wet, willing wife would be worth it.

  He studied the long, lean length of her back as he undressed. She had a faint bruise at the right kidney, a moderately darker one on her left hip. The way she rolled her shoulder before she lifted her arms to slick back her wet hair told him it gave her some trouble.

  Bruised and bloodied, he thought, not in the line, but snug at home and voluntarily.

  “Couldn’t find some handy street thief to pummel?” he asked when he stepped in behind her.

  “On the holo tread, I did. Two of them. I like the new program.”

  “I thought you would.” And as he was nothing if not a considerate husband, he tapped the dispenser, took a palmful of silky liquid soap. “You should try the rural one.”

  “Why would I?”

  He stroked the soap over her back. “It might break through your baffling fear of cows.”

  “I don’t need a breakthrough. They stay where they are, I stay where I am.”

  “A psychopath’s taken a family hostage. You have to reach the farmhouse, take him out before he blows it up, and the family with it.”

  She angled her head around, intrigued. “Where are the cows?”

  “In the fields you have to cross to get to the house.”

  “Sneaky.”

  “We’re finding the games and challenges, group competition on the fitness machines increase their use in health clubs, and in homes. We launch the entire line of them January second—when people tend to actually believe they’ll keep their New Year’s resolutions.”

  “Sneaky,” she said again, and turned to twine her arms around his neck. “What’s your resolution?”

  “To take more showers with my wife.” Mindful of the injury, he touched his lips gently to hers.

  “No, you don’t.” She got a good grip on his hair, yanked him back to her, ravaged his mouth. “I just crushed Crusher. I can handle you.”

  “You think so?”

  If she needed the physical, the punch and the power, he’d oblige her. He’d had a bit of his own in his craw since he’d read the message on the wall that morning.

  So he hiked her up, slapped her back against the wet wall, and plunged into her.

  “Oh God!” Her hand slid off his shoulder, clawed back for purchase.

&nb
sp; “Can you handle me?”

  He thrust hard, deep, tore a cry from her, turned her eyes to gold glass. Those long legs chained around his waist as her breath came in tatters.

  But she leveled her gaze with his. “Like I told Crusher. Bring it.”

  “Get a good grip.” He nipped his teeth into her good shoulder, scraped them up her throat. “I want my hands on you.”

  She grabbed hold where she could, helpless, suspended, pinned while he drove her, drove into her.

  Nothing but glorious, shattering sensation while his hands took her breasts, ran rough down her body, up again, and all the while he plunged into her, wild, relentless. Everything she needed.

  The heat from the pulsing jets, the rising steam from him saturated her. All the hours in the cold, all the hours with blood and death burned away.

  Here was a violence of passion that purged and filled again, that scorched then soothed.

  She cried out once more, the sound of release twined in surrender echoing off the tiles.

  She imprisoned him with his own mad needs, enslaved him with his bottomless love. She enraptured and ensnared him—every inch of her. Her shape, her scent, her spirit.

  And when she moaned his name, went limp, she simply emptied him.

  They slid down, boneless, tangled together, ended up half propped against the shower wall. When he turned his head, brushed his lips at the curve of her throat, she smiled.

  “Now that’s what I call a shower.”

  “It’s what I call getting lucky.” He kissed her throat again. “This is what I call a shower. Temperature adjust to ninety degrees.”

  He wasn’t sure how he managed to hold her down in his weakened condition, or if his ears would ever stop ringing from the screaming, but, again, it was worth it.

  “No one sane considers ninety degrees cold,” he told her. “Now if I said eighty—”

  “I’ll kill you dead.” She wanted to be furious, but it was hard getting there when she felt so good and was sliding around with him on the shower floor. “Prick.”

  “Again? The woman’s insatiable. I’ll need about ten minutes first.”

  “Don’t even think about it, ace.” She managed to half sit, then just sighed and dropped her head on his shoulder.

  He stroked her back, gently now. “Computer lab?”

  “Yeah. I gave myself an hour to clear my head, and I’ve taken nearly twice that.”

  When she eased back, he took her hand. “We’ll get through this, Eve.”

  “Yeah, we’ll get through it.”

  • • •

  Clearer, steadier—she preferred the mild soreness from a good fight and exceptional sex to the dragging headache and irritation—she brought the disc files to Roarke’s computer lab.

  EDD couldn’t boast better, she thought—then frowned when Roarke opened a bottle of wine.

  “You wanted sweat and sex,” he pointed out. “I wanted a glass of wine when I got home. You got yours.”

  She couldn’t argue with that, but she’d keep her own to one glass for the same reason she’d dressed in a shirt and trousers, and strapped her weapon harness back on. If and when Dispatch contacted her, she wanted to be ready to roll.

  “I’ve got correspondence—mine and Nadine’s. It’s already had a first purge, eliminating what can be eliminated. What I’m looking to do is a search and analysis using these and the two crime scene messages.”

  “Looking for key words and phrases, syntax, grammar.”

  “Yeah. It’s a lot, but it’s less than it would’ve been without the first eliminations.”

  “We can run this a few ways,” he told her. “I’ll set it up to cross yours and Nadine’s, and that will pop out matches, even if they haven’t come from the same name or location. Pure content match. And we’ll run another on yours, a third on Nadine’s, those against the messages—names, locations.”

  “Good. That’s good. It’s thorough.”

  “It won’t take long to set it up. It may take considerable time for the search and analysis. I’ll put them on auto, and the comp will alert when we have—say ten potentials on each?”

  “Five. The sooner I start running them, the better.”

  “Five, then.”

  “I’ll do one. I can do one,” she insisted, a little miffed by his amused glance. “And yeah, it’ll take me as long to do one as it does for you to do the other two, but then they’ll all be done.”

  She took the discs of her own correspondence, chose a comp, got started.

  He finished his assignment, enjoyed his wine while she fought her way through the last of the programming.

  “Done.” Nearly as relieved as she might have been to avoid a midair collision, she shoved her hands through her hair, then hell, took a gulp of wine. “And you should check to make sure I didn’t screw it up.”

  “You didn’t. I had my eye on you.” He gave her shoulder a rub. “We’ll let the machines do their work—which they won’t do faster for being scowled at. We’ll get some food, and you can tell me what progress you made today. We may hit on another angle. This one?” He nodded toward the computers. “Is a good one.”

  “Okay, yeah. Okay. I had to bring my division in on it,” she said as they started out. “It was going to leak—and it did—so I wanted them up to date.”

  “They’d have heard bits and pieces, along with speculation and inaccuracies. It’s good they heard it all, and from you.”

  “Now they’re juggling—Jenkinson’s word—taking different angles on this along with their own caseloads.”

  “As it should be,” Roarke said. “As you would have done for any of them if they needed it. It’s not just detectives and officers in the same division, Lieutenant. It’s a unit, and it’s yours.”

  “They’re a little pissed off about the whole thing.”

  “As it should be,” he repeated.

  • • •

  They ate thick, chunky soup, hunks of crusty bread, while she filled him in.

  And while she filled him in, the brown-clad, nondescript delivery person strode toward the chosen address. It was hard to keep a spring out of the step.

  People bustled right on by—who paid attention? Oh, it had been genius, this method. Pride swelled.

  No one saw the real person, and that had always hurt and infuriated. Now it became a plus, an asset, even a weapon.

  Of course, it was a long, cold walk, but “careful” was the watchword. When it was done, just leave, walking in the same direction, turn at the corner, turn at the next, and the next.

  Zig, then zag, then zig again. Stay away from storefront security cams.

  Go in easy, leave easy.

  And all the rest in between? Exciting, fulfilling. Just inspired.

  Didn’t they say third time’s the charm? Maybe this one, this third one, would show Eve the value of friendship, the importance. The next time she stood before the cameras there would be acknowledgment, and that signal. That look in her eye that spoke, secretly, of unity and appreciation.

  It wasn’t too much to expect.

  Maybe this third one should be awake when it happened. Tape his mouth, his hands, keep him lightly stunned, but not out cold.

  It would be a different experience, and so much of life was just routine, just do what had to be done—without any genuine reward.

  This one, this third one, could hear the litany of his crimes and offenses before the ice pick stabbed through his eye, into his brain.

  The eye for this one rather than the tongue—though he had a nasty, nasty tongue. Symbolic again. Surely Eve would recognize that, appreciate that. And show that appreciation.

  Still, if he moved around too much, it could affect the aim, and that was a factor. But it could be worth it. Take a little more time with this, the third. The charm. More time wi
th a man who’d insulted, demeaned, assaulted—verbally and physically—a woman who was his superior in every way.

  As was the person who’d bring him to true justice. His superior, just like Eve.

  Just like her.

  And Eve would appreciate the time taken—it was, in a way, like reading him his rights. It made it more official, didn’t it—maybe that was what was missing, what Eve wanted. Yes, recite the Revised Miranda, just as Eve would do, list the offenses, as Eve would do.

  Then do what only Eve’s true friend and partner could do.

  Punish the guilty.

  He’d be working late in his studio tonight—alone. He was a man who disliked company, who held people in contempt, though he made his living immortalizing them.

  Approach the building without rush—just doing a job, getting in the last delivery of the day.

  Make certain ground-floor retail space is closed for the night. Excellent. Scan the two-tiered parking level—the cams were for show because kids kept zapping them anyway.

  Second-floor gallery, also closed. Perfect.

  Lights glinting against the privacy screens on the third-level studio, the apartment above.

  But he’d be in the studio. Wouldn’t like being disturbed, especially from the outside stairs.

  But this was a special delivery.

  Start up, nobody watching. Shoes quiet on the iron stairs, the coat almost blending into the building. Just dark enough now, and everyone below bundled against the cold, hurrying to get someplace else, somewhere inside, in the warm.

  And here we go!

  Press the buzzer on the third floor. Angle the box in case any of the cams work.

  Careful. Thorough.

  Press it again, hold it down. Be patient. Be insistent. Just doing the job, just want to get home like everybody else. Last delivery of the day.

  “What the fuck!” Dirk Hastings wrenched open the iron door. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stupid asshole.”

  He was a big man, big and burly, with beady eyes the color of mud. Fury rolled off him in hot, red waves.