Creation in Death

  Family traditions, he thought, were the bedrock of a civilized society. He eschewed the elevator for the stairs. Gia had been quite right, he thought. He would benefit from more regular exercise.

  He’d let himself go just a little, he admitted as he patted his plump belly, during his last dormant stage. The wine, the food, the quiet contemplation, and of course, the medication. When this work period was finished, he would take a trip to a spa, concentrate on his physical and mental health. That would be just the ticket.

  Perhaps he would travel off planet this time. He’d yet to explore anything beyond his own terra firma. It might be amusing, and certainly beneficial, to spend some time in Roarke’s extra-planetary playground, the Olympus Resort.

  Doing so would be a kind of delicious topping after he’d completed his current goal.

  Eve Dallas, Lieutenant, NYPSD. She would not disappoint as Gia had, he was sure. Still a few kinks to work out in securing her, he admitted. Yes, yes, that was true. But he would find the way.

  He unlocked the steel-core basement door using code and key, stepped into the spacious and spotless kitchen. Relocked it.

  He would spend some quality time the next day studying the data he’d accumulated on his final Eve. She wasn’t as predictable as the ones he usually selected. But then again, that was one of the elements that would make her so special.

  He was looking forward to getting reacquainted with her, after so many years.

  He moved through the lovely old house, glancing around to make certain all was in order. Past the formal dining room, where he always took his meals, and the library, where he would often sit and read or simply listen to music.

  The parlor, his favorite, where he had a pretty little fire burning in the rose granite hearth, and Asian lilies, blushed with pink, rising glamorously out of a wide crystal vase.

  There was a grand piano in the corner, and he could still see her there, creating, re-creating such beautiful music. He could see her trying to teach his unfortunately stubby fingers to master the keys.

  He’d never mastered them, nor had his voice ever mastered the demands and beauty of the notes, but his love for music was deep and true.

  The double doors across from the parlor were closed, were locked. As he’d kept them for many years now. Such business as had been done there was carried on in other places.

  His home was his home. And hers, he thought. It would always be hers.

  He went up the curve of stairs. He still used the room he’d had as a boy. He couldn’t bring himself to use the bedroom where his parents had slept. Where she had slept.

  He kept it preserved. He kept it perfect, as she had once been.

  Pausing, he studied her portrait, one painted while she had glowed, simply glowed, with the bloom of youth and vibrancy. She wore white—he believed she should always have worn it. For purity. If only she’d remained pure.

  The gown swept down her body, that slim and strong body, and the glittery necklace, her symbol of life, lay around her neck. Swept up, her hair was like a crown, and indeed the very first time he’d seen her he’d thought her a princess.

  She smiled down at him, so sweetly, so kindly, so lovingly.

  Death had been his gift to her, he thought. And death was his homage to her through all the daughters he lay at her feet.

  He kissed the silver ring he wore on his finger, one that matched the ring he’d had painted onto the portrait. Symbols of their eternal bond.

  He removed his suit. Put the jacket, the vest, the trousers, the shirt in the bin for cleaning. He showered, he always showered. Baths could be relaxing, might be soothing, but how unsanitary was it to lounge in your own dirt?

  He scrubbed vigorously, using various brushes on his body, his nails, his feet, his hair. They, too, would be sanitized, then replaced monthly.

  He used a drying tube. Towels were, in his opinion, as unsanitary as bathwater.

  He cleaned his teeth, applied deodorant, creams.

  In his robe he went back to the bedroom to peruse his closet. A dozen white suits, shirts ranged on one side. But he never greeted company in his work clothes.

  He chose a dark gray suit, matching it with a pale gray shirt, a tone-on-tone gray tie. He dressed meticulously, carefully brushed his snow-white hair before adding the trim little beard and mustache.

  Then he replaced the necklace—her necklace—that he’d removed before his shower.

  The symbol of a tree with many branches gleamed in gold. The tree of life.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he traveled down to the kitchen, moved through it to the garage where he kept his black sedan. It was a pleasant drive across town, with Verdi playing quietly.

  He parked, as arranged, in a small, ill-tended lot three blocks from Your Affair, where his potential partner worked. If she was timely, she would be walking his way right now, she would be thinking about the opportunity he’d put in her hands.

  Her steps would be quick, and she would be wearing the dark blue coat, the multicolored scarf.

  He left the car, strolling in the direction of the store. He’d found her there, in the bakery section, and had been struck immediately by her looks, her grace, her skill.

  Two months had passed since that first sighting. Soon, all the time, the work, the care he’d put into this selection would bear fruit.

  He saw her from a block away, slowed his pace. He carried the two small shopping bags from nearby stores he’d brought along with him. He would be, to anyone glancing his way, just a man doing a little casual Sunday shopping.

  No one noticed, no one paid any mind. He smiled when she saw him, lifted his hand in a wave.

  “Ms. Greenfeld. I’d hoped to make it down and escort you all the way. I’m so sorry to make you walk so far in the cold.”

  “It’s fine.” She tossed back the pretty brown hair she wore nearly to her shoulders. “It’s so nice of you to pick me up. I could have taken a cab, or the subway.”

  “Nonsense.” He didn’t touch her as they walked, in fact moved aside as a pedestrian, chattering on a pocket ’link, clipped between them. “Here you are, giving me your time on a Sunday afternoon.” He gestured toward the lot. “And this gave me an opportunity to do a little shopping.”

  He opened the car door for her, and estimated they’d been together no more than three minutes on the street.

  When he got in, he started the car, smiled. “You smell of vanilla and cinnamon.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your granddaughter.”

  “She’s very excited. Wedding plans.” He laughed, shook his head, the indulgent grandfather. “Nothing but wedding plans these days. We both appreciate you meeting with us, on the QT, we’ll say. My darling is very choosy. No wedding planners, no coordinators. Has to do it all herself. No companies, no organizations.”

  “A woman who knows her own mind.”

  “Indeed. And when I saw some of your work, I knew she’d want to meet with you. Even though you worked at Your Affair, and she refuses to so much as go through the doors.” With a little laugh, he shook his head. “Over a year now since she had trouble with the manager. But that’s my girl. Her mother, God rest her, was the same. Stubborn and headstrong.”

  “I know Frieda can be temperamental. If she found out I was doing a proposal like this on the side, she’d wig. So, well, keeping this between us is best for everyone.”

  “It certainly is.”

  When he pulled off the street, she gaped at the house. “What a beautiful home! Is it yours? I mean, do you own the whole building?”

  “Yes, indeed. It’s been in the family for generations. I wanted us to meet here, particularly, so you could see it, the wedding and reception venue.”

  He turned off the engine and led the way into the house. “Let me take you into the parlor—you can make yourself at home.”

  “It’s gorgeous, Mr. Gaines.”

&nb
sp; “Thank you. Please, call me Edward. I hope I can call you Ariel.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Here, let me have your coat.”

  He hung her things in the foyer closet. He would, of course, dispose of the coat, the scarf, her clothing. But he enjoyed this part of the pretense.

  He stepped back into the parlor, sighed. “I see my granddaughter isn’t here yet. She’s rarely prompt. I’m just going to make us some tea. Be at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the kitchen, he switched his security screen to the parlor, so he could watch her as he prepared.

  He had house droids, of course, and replaced their memory drives routinely. But for the most part he preferred doing for himself.

  He selected Earl Grey, and his grandmother’s Meissen tea set. He brewed it as he’d been taught—heating the pot, boiling the water fully, measuring precisely.

  Using tongs, he added the precious and pricey sugar cubes to the bowl. She would add sugar, he knew. He’d observed her adding the revolting chemical sweetener to her tea. She would think the cubes a treat, and never notice they were spiked with the tranq until it was already swimming in her system.

  After setting a lacy doily on a plate, he arranged the thin, frosted cookies he’d bought especially for this little tête-à-tête. And on the tray he set a single pink rose in a pale green bud vase.

  Perfect.

  He carried the tea tray—with the three cups to maintain the granddaughter fantasy—into the parlor where Ariel wandered, looking at some of his treasures.

  “I love this room. Will you use this for the wedding?”

  “We will. It’s my favorite room in the house, so welcoming.” He set the tray down between the two wing chairs that faced the fire. “We’ll have some tea while we wait for the bride. Oh, these cookies are some of her favorites. I thought it might be nice if you re-created them for the reception.”

  “I’m sure I can.” Ariel sat, angling herself so she could face him. “I brought a disc with images of some of the cakes I’ve done, and some I’ve assisted in making.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled, held up the sugar bowl. “One lump or two?”

  “I’ll live dangerously, and go for two.”

  “Perfect.” He sat back, nibbling on a cookie while she chattered about her plans and ideas. While her eyes began to droop, her voice began to slur.

  He dusted the crumbs from his fingers when she tried to push out of the chair. “Something’s wrong,” she managed. “Something’s wrong with me.”

  “No.” He sighed and sipped his tea when she slumped into unconsciousness. “Everything’s just as it should be.”

  10

  IN ORDER TO WORK WITHOUT GOING MAD, Roarke erected a mental wall of silence. He simply put himself behind that wall and filtered out the ringing, the clacking, the voices, and electronic beeps and buzzes.

  Initially, he’d taken the names A through M, with Eve working on the second half of the alphabet. How could he possibly employ so many brunettes with names beginning with A? Aaronson, Abbott, Abercrombie, Abrams, and down to Azula.

  It hadn’t taken long before it had been monumentally clear two people weren’t enough to handle the contacts.

  Eve pulled in more cops, and the noise level increased exponentially.

  He tried not to think about the time dripping away while he sat, contacting employees he didn’t even know, had never met, would unlikely ever meet. Women who depended on him for their livelihoods, who performed tasks he, or someone else who worked for him, created and assigned to them.

  Each contact took time. A housekeeper at a hotel wasn’t accustomed to receiving a call at home, at work, on her pocket ’link from the owner of that hotel. From the man in the suit, in the towering office. Each call was tedious, repetitious, and he was forced to admit, annoyingly clerical.

  Routine, Eve would have called it, and he wondered how she could stand the sheer volume of monotony.

  “Yo, Irish.” Callendar broke through Roarke’s wall, poking him in the arm. “You need to get up, move around, pour in some fuel.”

  “Sorry?” For a moment, her voice was nothing more than a buzz within the buzz. “What?”

  “This kind of work, the energy bottoms if you don’t keep it pumped. Take a break, get something to power up from Vending. Use a headset for a while.”

  “I’m not even through the bloody B’s.”

  “Long haul.” She nodded, offered him a soy chip from the open bag at her station. “Take it from me, move around some. Blood ends up in your ass this way, not that yours isn’t prime. But you want to get the blood back up in your head or your brain’s going to stall.”

  She was right, he knew it himself. And still there was a part of him that wanted to snarl at her to mind her own and let him be. Instead he pushed back from the station. “Want something from Vending, then?”

  “Surprise me, as long as it’s wet and bubbly.”

  It did feel good to be on his feet, to move, to step away from the work and the noise.

  When he walked out, he noted cops breezing along, others in confabs in front of vending machines. A man, laughing wildly, was quick-marched along by a couple of burly uniforms. He didn’t rate even a glance from the others in the corridors.

  The place smelled of very bad coffee, he thought, old sweat, and someone’s overly powerful and very cheap perfume.

  Christ Jesus, he could’ve used a single gulp of fresh air.

  He selected a jumbo fizzy for Callendar, then just stood, staring at his choices. There was absolutely nothing there he wanted. He bought a water, then took out his ’link and made a call.

  When he turned, he saw Mira walking toward him. There, he decided, was the closest thing to fresh air he was likely to experience inside the cop maze of Central.

  “I didn’t realize you were still here,” he said.

  “I went home, couldn’t settle. I sent Dennis off to have dinner with our daughter, and came back to do some paperwork.” She glanced down at the enormous fizzy in his hand, smiled a little. “That doesn’t strike me as your usual choice of beverage.”

  “It’s for one of the e-cops.”

  “Ah. This is difficult for you.”

  “Bloody tedious. I’d sooner sweat a year running an airjack than work a week as a cop.”

  “That, yes, not at all the natural order for you. But I meant being used this way, and not knowing why, or by whom.”

  “It’s maddening,” he admitted. “I was thinking a bit ago that I don’t know the bulk of these women we’re trying to contact. They’re just cogs in the wheel, aren’t they?”

  “If that’s all they were to you, you wouldn’t be here. I could tell you that you’re responsible for none of what’s happened, or may happen to someone else. But you know that already. Feeling it, that’s a different matter.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “That it is. What I want is a target, and there isn’t one. Yet.”

  “You’re used to having the controls, and taking the actions, or certainly directing them.” She touched a sympathetic hand to his arm. “Which is exactly what you’re doing now, though it may seem otherwise. And that’s why I’m here, too. Hoping Eve will give me some job to do.”

  “Want a fizzy?”

  She laughed. “No, but thanks.”

  They walked in together, then separated as Roarke went back to his station and Mira crossed to Eve.

  “Give me an assignment,” Mira said. “Anything.”

  “We’re contacting these women.” Eve explained the list, the approach, then gave Mira a list of names.

  Wearing black-tie, he settled into his box in the Grand Tier of the Metropolitan Opera House. He richly anticipated the performance of Rigoletto. His newest partner was secured and sleeping. As for Gia…well, he didn’t want to spoil his evening dwelling on that disappointment.

  He would end that project tomorrow, and he would move on.

  But tonight was for the music, the voices, the
lights, and the drama. He knew he would take all of that home with him, relive it, reexperience it while he sipped a brandy in front of the fire.

  Tomorrow, he would stop the clock.

  But now, he would sit, tingling with pleasure, while the orchestra tuned up.

  He ordered a freaking deli, was all Eve could think when the food began to roll in. There were trays and trays of meats, bread, cheese, side salads, sweets. Added to it, she saw two huge bags—distinctly gold—of the coffee (real coffee) he produced.

  She caught his eye, and hers was distinctly hairy. He only shook his head.

  “No lip,” he said.

  She pushed her way through the schoolyard rush to his station. “A word.”

  She moved out of the room, and when he joined her the din from the war room was a clear indicator no one else objected to the possibility of corned beef on rye.

  “Listen, I went along with the pizza parlor, but—”

  “I have to do something,” he interrupted. “It’s little enough, but at least it’s something. It’s positive. It’s tangible.”

  “Cops can spring for their own eats, and if I clear an order in, I’ve got a budget. There are procedures.”

  He turned away from her, turned back again with frustration simply rolling off of him. “Christ Jesus, we’re buried in shagging procedures already. Why would you possibly care if I buy some fucking sandwiches?”

  She stopped herself when she felt the teeth of her own temper in her throat. “Because it’s tangible.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes, rubbed hard. “It’s something to kick at.”

  “Can’t you take an hour? Look at me. Look at me,” he repeated, laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re exhausted. You need an hour to stretch out, to turn off.”

  “Not going to happen, and by the way, you’re not looking so perky yourself.”

  “I feel like my brain’s been used as a punching bag. It’s not the time, or even the lack of sleep so much. It’s the unholy tedium.”