She snarled it as blood began to run down her arm.
“You were there, right there, and you let me die. What good are you?”
Truth, Eve thought, enough truth mixed in with the accusations and dismissals, she wouldn’t deny it.
But she could answer it with truth.
“Good enough to look at you,” she said, “to know you were a stone bitch and still work my ass off to find who killed you, to gather the evidence to put them away for it. Just the way I’d have put you away for screwing with people’s lives.”
“You’re not so pure, Lieutenant. Three dead men at your feet, and two of them are yours. I kept secrets—for a price, but I kept them. Not everybody can, not everybody will. Think about that. Secrets have a way of crawling their way out no matter how deep you bury them.
“I’m not going to die in this stinking alley even in your stupid dream. The dead don’t always rest,” Larinda said as she walked back into the shadows. “I can promise you that.”
As she spoke Patrick Roarke’s eyes blinked, fixed on Eve’s. Richard Troy turned his head, grinned at her. Big Rod’s fingers crawled over the littered ground toward her ankle.
Dread crawled into her heart.
“Call a cop,” Eve said coolly, drawing her weapon.
“That’s enough now,” Roarke murmured as he held her close and the cat bumped his head between her shoulder blades. “Enough.”
“I’m all right.” She pressed her face into Roarke’s shoulder as the dream broke. “I’m okay.”
At the sound of her voice, Galahad climbed onto her hip, stared at her until she stroked a hand over him. “I’m okay,” she repeated. “It wasn’t a nightmare. Just … a lot of weird.”
Roarke tipped her face up toward his, studied her as the cat had done. “Tell me.”
Couldn’t, she thought. Just couldn’t. So she hedged instead. “A conversation with Larinda Mars. She’s a little pissed off at me.” On a sigh, Eve closed her eyes. “I can live with that. Arguing with a dead woman’s annoying and useless. Sorry it woke you up.”
Not a lie, Eve decided as Roarke rubbed her back and the cat settled down again. Just not a full disclosure.
She shoved it away, willfully shoved it all away, and concentrated on Roarke’s scent, Galahad’s breathing, the simmer of the bedroom fire.
And, willfully, pushed herself into dreamless sleep.
Roarke lay awake even after he felt her slip off. Lay with his arm around her and his thoughts circling.
Not a lie, he thought in nearly a mirror of her own. But not altogether the truth.
And why was that?
Considering the whys, he backtracked over the evening as he would over a negotiation before its next round. Picking at details, tones, body language.
As possibilities came and went, he slept little. And rose early, as always.
He showered and dressed, handled a ’link conference, a holo meeting before dawn. His work energized him as much as sleep, as did his need to involve himself in the details, small and large, of all the arms of all the reaches of what he’d built.
Through wile and guile, through brains and sweat. Through a fierce and focused determination since childhood.
Once money had mattered utmost, because money equaled survival. Then power had joined that ambition, because power brought respect. And with both, a man could adjust his life as he pleased, toss off—at least in appearances—the ragged and violent beginnings.
Then came the building, and the wonder of it, the all but shocking realization that he could truly create. With that, the revelation of simple satisfaction.
Buy, sell, build, own, innovate, expand. Risk and reward. Take what was neglected, make it shine again. Create where a vaccum had once existed. Risk and reward—and yes, even when survival had been assured, some of that risk had involved snaking over and under and across the line of the law.
Habits, particularly enjoyable ones, are hard to break, after all.
But then Eve. Just Eve. Only Eve. Difficult, cynical, troubled, and fascinating Eve had changed him, saved him, completed him. And habits had been as easily broken as a dry twig under a boot.
Even then he’d never seen himself as now. As a man who could and would shuffle his own work, check on hers, contribute to hers. Never imagined that satisfaction.
He read through the results of the auto-search he’d run for her—his cop—considered those results from both sides of the line he straddled now.
The criminal past, the Eve present.
As dawn approached, he continued his habit—checked on her through house security, saw she slept yet, and the cat felt confident enough in her comfort to have left her.
He rose and, diverging from habit, went downstairs.
As he approached the kitchen, he heard Summerset’s voice, the murmur of some early media show under it.
Talking to the cat, Roarke realized. The conversational tone amused him—as he often found himself doing the same, as if expecting the cat to talk back.
“I expect you’ll behave while I’m gone, and keep an eye on the children.”
Roarke paused to take in the scene. Summerset, a baker’s apron over shirtsleeves, was kneading dough while Galahad sat on a counter stool and watched, apparently listening as well.
“I’m leaving it to you,” Summerset continued, his long, thin hands working methodically and with what looked like an easy enjoyment. “You’ll have to see they get a decent meal in them.”
“He’s generally more worried about his own meals.”
Summerset glanced over, eyebrows lifting. “He’ll keep his clever eyes on you nonetheless. Is all well?”
Roarke made a sound of affirmation, wandered in. He rarely came to the kitchen. It, like the rooms beyond, were Summerset’s domain—an arrangement that suited them both.
“You’re about ready to be off, I’d think.”
Summerset continued to knead. “Early tomorrow. I’m entertaining myself by baking and cooking. You and the lieutenant won’t starve while I’m gone. Do you want coffee?”
Shaking his head, Roarke continued to wander, restless. “You and I, we’ve evaded with each other now and again over the years. That’s natural enough, isn’t it?”
Summerset turned the dough into a bowl, covered it with a cloth before walking to the sink to wash his hands. “What’s on your mind, boy?”
“I don’t recall either of us lying outright to the other. Well, not since my beginnings with you when lying was my default. And you saw through that, more than I thought then. Though I may have slipped a few by you.”
“I doubt it.”
Roarke smiled, leaning on the counter as Summerset dried his hands. “Those were the days. And still, after those raw beginnings, after trust and respect and affection, I don’t see either of us lying to the other if a question was asked straight and direct.”
“What’s your question?”
“Did you kill Patrick Roarke?”
Summerset laid the dish towel aside, and simply said, “Yes.”
“Ah, well.” On a nod, Roarke kept his eyes on Summerset. “All this time, you never said a word.”
“For what purpose?”
“You couldn’t think I would have cared? That I would have turned even an inch away from you for it.”
“No, not that.” Summerset walked over to the breakfast area, sat, waiting for Roarke to join him. “You were just a boy, beaten down and barely beginning to believe you could have a life without the fist. Why burden you? As time passed, again, what purpose would there have been to tell you? I wondered when she would. The lieutenant’s scale weighs different than mine. No less right or wrong, just different measures.”
“She didn’t tell me. Why did you tell her? And when?”
Obviously surprised, Summerset sat back. “I may never get a true handle on your wife, boy. Not one that holds firm. I didn’t tell her, not in so many words. She has a way of finding out, of … interpreting and intuiting. I di
dn’t confirm or deny, but she knew. It was when I fell down the stairs, when I was healing from breaking my own careless leg. I suppose I was a bit less guarded.”
Roarke looked back to the accident, the aftermath, and wondered how he hadn’t seen. “A considerable time for her as well, to keep that secret from me.”
Summerset’s narrow shoulders stiffened. “You won’t blame her for that or you’ll disappoint me.”
How they protect each other, Roarke thought, though both would be appalled to have it pointed out.
“I won’t blame her for that, no, nor you. But neither of you needed to carry this for my sake. Will you tell me why you decided to end him?”
Summerset sighed. “I want coffee.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Sit. I know my way around here better than you, more’s the pity.”
Rising, Summerset walked to one of the three AutoChefs, programmed coffee for both of them. “He had contacts, as you know, and some of them had badges. I won’t call them cops as I did then. I’ve come to understand and admire the difference between having a badge and honoring it.”
He brought the coffee back—a dollop of cream in his own—and sat again. “He knew where you were, bided his time it seems. If you’d died after that last beating, he’d have been fine with that, but you hadn’t. So he wanted his property back, as he put it. He had uses for you. He knew talent when he saw it, I can give him that. You were, even then, skilled and clever.”
Summerset sipped his coffee, looked back. “We had a decent place.”
“It seemed a palace to me,” Roarke replied.
“His view wasn’t palace, but he assumed there’d be money, so he was agreeable to a deal. I could buy you.”
Unsurprised, unmoved, Roarke nodded. “How much was I worth?”
“To me? A great deal more than the price he set. It wouldn’t have ended there, and we both knew that. He’d come for more.”
“A leech,” Roarke said, thinking of Missy Lee’s word for Mars, “never tires of sucking blood.”
“So paying wouldn’t have solved the matter. I thought about taking you and Marlena and leaving. Though Patrick Roarke had those contacts beyond Dublin, so did I. And better ones, so I considered that.”
Summerset paused, sipping at his coffee. “So did he. He had those badges, and he’d use them, he told me. They’d come knocking before I could pack the first bag, and I’d be charged with abusing you, and my girl. Sexually.”
“Christ Jesus.” Surprised now, sickened now, Roarke shoved his coffee aside.
His voice calm, matter-of-fact, Summerset continued on, “And of selling you to others for that purpose. There’d be proof of it, he guaranteed me, and I believed him. I had not a doubt he’d have seen both of you raped and beaten and traumatized. The money might have put that off for a time, and maybe I could have gotten you safe. But I chose to end it before it could begin. I wouldn’t risk either of you.”
The man who sat across from him had had a life before he’d brought a beaten street rat into it. He’d had a child of his own.
“You could’ve given me back to him, left with Marlena. He’d have had nothing.”
“He’d have had you,” Summerset said simply. “That was never an option. Never. I put the knife in him without a moment’s regret. He never saw it coming, with all his contacts and blustering. He saw me as a weak man he could bully and frighten.”
“You’ve never been weak.”
“His mistake.”
Roarke sat a moment in silence, absorbing it all. “I went back to the alley where they’d found him, and I wished it had been me that had done him.” He looked up again, met Summerset’s eyes. “Next best thing.”
“I took no pleasure in it.”
“No. I would have—then.” Roarke laid his hand over Summerset’s, left it there for a quiet moment. “I’m not what I was.”
“You were never what he wanted you to be. And more than even I hoped. In weak moments, I might credit the lieutenant for some of that.”
Roarke smiled again. “In her weak moments, she might credit you. It’s a sum of work, isn’t it?”
“You’ll tell her all this?”
“Her scale’s different than ours, and it’s weighing on her. I’ll tell her, yes, and it’ll lighten.” Roarke rose. “I’ll see you before you go.”
“Of course.”
“You were right not to tell me before. I would have celebrated it, even a handful of years ago.”
“And now?”
“Now, I can be grateful for the man you were and are. That’s more than enough.”
As Roarke started out, the cat leaped down and trotted behind him.
“He’s been fed,” Summerset called out.
“It rarely makes a bit of difference to him.”
Eve woke, frowned at the sofa where she’d expected to see Roarke drinking coffee, watching the stocks, maybe working on his PPC or a tablet.
World-domination meeting ran over, she decided, pushing herself out of bed. She hit coffee first, let it fire up her brain.
She needed to check the search results, nag DeWinter, push through more interviews, she thought as she headed for the shower.
The search results might give her a new path to pursue, and nagging DeWinter in person could prove more productive than a text. Then there was Guy Durante—some possibilities there. Time to press.
She stepped out of the shower, into the drying tube, let the warm air swirl.
It occurred to her she could beat Roarke to breakfast. There could be anything but oatmeal.
She jumped out, grabbed a soft white robe, and was shoving her arms into it as she stepped out.
And thought, Damn it, when she saw Roarke already at the AutoChef.
“Did buying Uruguay run over?”
“Uruguay?”
“It sounds buyable.” She shrugged, resigned herself to oatmeal. “Where is Uruguay?”
“South and, though I have a few interests there, I haven’t considered buying it outright. I’ve got this, and since you’re up and about, why don’t you get us a pot of coffee?”
He carried the tray to the sitting area; she got the coffee.
“If not Uruguay, what?”
“This and that.”
He lifted the warming domes. Oatmeal—oh well. Berries, brown sugar, bacon. It could be worse.
“Summerset’s making bread.”
She said, “Huh?”
“He was kneading dough when I went down to see him, so I assume it’s bread.” He poured coffee for both of them. “Do you want to know why he killed Patrick Roarke?”
Her hand froze before it reached the cup. “What?”
“I should have seen it before,” he said easily now. “In him, in you. As a boy there was only relief, and I never thought of Summerset. He knew violence, and certainly had used violence during the wars, but he heals. His instincts are to heal, so I never thought of him for it. And, in truth, I thought of it all very rarely. You should eat.”
She only shook her head, so he covered both plates again.
“It’s secrets, isn’t it, and it dovetails with your case. Maybe that’s why it opened for me now. After your dream you say wasn’t a nightmare, though I suspect it came close, you wouldn’t tell me. You brushed it off. Evaded, and looking back, I realized you’d done the same earlier in your office when we talked of Mars, of her murder possibly being done to protect a child or another. Then of Patrick Roarke. You turned away, but I’d seen it, just something on your face for an instant. It didn’t strike home until I thought back, and I began to see. So I asked him, and he told me. He assumed you’d told me.”
“I—” She started to get up, but Roarke simply took her hand, held her in place. “I didn’t know. I suspected. I didn’t push on it. It wasn’t like I pushed him to…”
“Confess?”
Everything inside her went tight and cold. “I wasn’t after a confession.”
“Eve.” His voice qu
iet, Roarke gripped her hand tighter. “I know that. Just as I know it was hard for you to know that a crime had been committed, that murder had been done, and do and say nothing.”
“I didn’t have evidence. I don’t have proof.”
“Stop it.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it. “Stop now.”
“I should’ve told you, but—”
“No. You did exactly the right thing.”
“How? How is it the right thing? You have to be able to trust me. The Marriage Rules—”
A half laugh escaped him. “Oh, bugger the Marriage Rules over this.”
“If you bugger them over one thing, you start buggering them over the next.”
Because he understood her genuine distress, he pushed away all amusement, shook his head. “The world’s not so black-and-white, as both of us know well. We’ve lived in the gray. You didn’t tell me even though it would’ve unburdened you because it would be a betrayal, and because it may have burdened me. So I’m telling you it doesn’t. And it wouldn’t even if I didn’t know the whole of it now. I’d like to tell you why.”
“I know why. It doesn’t take a cop to understand he was protecting you and his daughter. It’s clear. I want to say he should have gone to the police, but they were corrupt, careless, cruel.”
“And a lot of them were in Patrick Roarke’s pocket. And still, for you, one who stands for the dead, whoever they were, it’s very hard. I hope to make it a little easier. He’d found me,” Roarke began.
He told her all, letting her go when she pushed up to pace.
“Would the cops have been complicit in this?” she demanded. “Would they have looked away while two children were sexually and physically abused?”
“There may have been some good or at least decent cops in that area back then, but the ones he had, the ones he knew? Not just looked away, Eve. They’d have participated.”
“In the brutalization of children.”
“Homeland looked away when a child was being brutalized by her father because it didn’t fit their agenda,” Roarke reminded her. “In my world then, the garda lined their pockets and did dark deeds more often than not.”