Secrets in Death

  A hint of admiration glinted in his eyes. “Turns out she’s a boxer—competitor and an instructor at a local gym. She gives him a solid roundhouse, and he takes a header down the stairs, breaks his neck. She calls it in.”

  “How fast?” Eve asked, mostly for form.

  “Nine-one-one came in under two minutes after TOD. Uniforms respond, secure the scene. Her statement holds up, boss, and it reads self-defense. The DB has a sheet a mile wide. B and E—he goes for female households—assaults, again he goes for women. The locks and security were compromised, he’d piled up all the easily portable electronics and valuables on the first floor. Had an empty sack with him going up, and dropped it when he charged her. Looks like he tripped over it when she fought back.

  “She took some solid hits in the first round,” he added, with that admiration glinting again, “but she came back at him. She says he turned to run away, got his feet tangled in the sack, and took the dive down. That’s how it reads.”

  Eve folded her arms. “KO’d the DB.”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay. What about the kid? The rape and stabbing.”

  “You had the right angle, boss. I was able to talk straight to the dad, and when we brought Reo in, between her and Carmichael—and the dad again—we got the mother to tell the truth. Reo had to practically sign off in blood for the mom, but we got it worked out, we closed it.”

  “How’s the kid?”

  “Medicals say she’ll be fine. Rape counselor’s working with her and the mom. She’s got good parents. She’ll get through.”

  “Okay. Beat it.”

  She turned into her office, studied the boxes on her desk. Confirming Santiago’s statement, but still.

  She closed and locked her door. She walked to the AutoChef, rolled her shoulders, lifted it high enough to see the bottom, where she’d used black tape to affix her secret candy bar. She’d tried hiding it in the AC, programming it as something healthy and unappealing. That hadn’t fooled the infamous Candy Thief.

  But so far, her secret stash remained. Satisfied, she set the machine down again, and rolled her shoulders one more time. The ancient AC weighed a freaking ton.

  Which might be why the Candy Thief had yet to find her newest hiding place.

  Score one for Dallas, she thought, and programmed coffee.

  She took the mug to the door, unlocked it before anyone noticed.

  Sitting, she considered the books. The slow simmer—if that theory held—would have started there, but likely graduated to the top rating and the comp ledger.

  Unless the killer was never a target, but someone connected to one. She stacked the books on the floor, broke the seal on the top one, brought the ledger up on her comp.

  And heard the brisk click of heels coming toward her office.

  Nadine walked in.

  “What did you bribe the bullpen with?”

  “I went for the classic.”

  “What kind of donuts?”

  “Variety.”

  When Eve simply sat, head angled, Nadine reached into her enormous purse, pulled out a small take-out bag. “Separated yours.”

  “Smart.” Eve looked in, sniffed. The scent of yeast and sugar stirred the appetite she’d forgotten through the day. She took the fat, golden pastry out, bit in. Found cream.

  Bonus.

  “You earned a seat.”

  Nadine glanced dubiously at the visitor’s chair. “I earned better than that.”

  With a shrug, Eve rose, gave Nadine her desk chair.

  “I’ll go first,” Nadine said. “There’s a lot more underlying animosity mixed with trepidation about Mars than I knew. Most just kept their heads down with her. I may not be a cop, but I report on them. I’m going to say I didn’t brush up against anyone who appears to have had enough animosity or trepidation to kill her.”

  “People have a tendency to be careful how they appear to cops and those who report on them.”

  “True, but good cops, and good reporters, can see through that. I know a lot of these people personally, and I’m torn about this, but I’m going to give you a couple more names of people I think she might have been blackmailing.”

  “Okay.”

  “In addition to that, I have a source at Seventy-Five who’s romantically involved with someone at Knight at Night. Mars made herself at home over there, according to my source, more than anyone could figure. She’d breeze in and out, and often timed it when Annie had interviews or meetings with A-list celebs. She’d end up with her own little snippets and scoops that way. I know Annie, and like her. I especially like Bic, her partner. It’s hard to see Annie giving someone like Mars that kind of access unless she was being pressured.”

  “Okay,” Eve said again.

  Nadine’s gaze sharpened, catlike. “And you already knew that, or some of it. It’s common knowledge in our world that Mars was screwing around with Mitch L. Day, and you already know Day’s wife gave him the boot, and Mars dumped him—just as you’ve likely concluded by now Mitch couldn’t plan a two-car parade much less a murder. So, let’s try the research portion.”

  Nadine pointed toward the AutoChef. Eve shrugged.

  “My team’s been going at this hard, and I picked up the shovel myself. Dig down and Mars’s data doesn’t hold. The background, lineage, education, it all starts to shake and slide if you get far enough below the surface. I’ve got some more work to do, but I’m going to have to break that story within a day or two, before someone beats me to it.”

  Nadine came back with her coffee, sat down. “I’m not too worried, as there’s not much reason for another reporter to dig down too deep, but a good one could smell something and keep going. If Mars is going to be exposed, Channel Seventy-Five needs to do it, or we look like fools.”

  Logical, Eve thought. Hard to argue with logic—and what Nadine and her team were finding on their own. “You’ve talked to the big guns about it?”

  “Had to. I can’t hold something like this. The woman we’re now officially mourning, one who had a prime spot on our network, was a fraud. Worse. The worse will start tumbling, too. I need you to give me the go.”

  “Can’t do it. Yet,” Eve added before Nadine exploded. “Think of it this way: When I can give you the go, you’ll be able to break bigger. We’ll have arrested or at least detained a suspect in Mars’s murder, and part of what led the investigation to that suspect is you and your team’s independent investigation.”

  Nadine narrowed her eyes again. “Would that be accurate?”

  “It’s not inaccurate. You’re here corroborating information and data that my investigation has found, and is pursuing. And when I can, I’ll give you details on how our investigation, with the skills and dedication of various arms of the NYPSD, uncovered the truth about the victim and identified her killer.”

  Nadine held up a finger. “A one-on-one, and a full-spot interview on Now.”

  “Agreed.” With DeWinter, Eve thought, or Elsie Kendrick. But she wouldn’t add that just yet.

  “That was too easy.”

  “Maybe it’s the donut. Or maybe it’s because this one’s different. Off the record, Nadine.”

  Nadine knocked her fists against her temples in frustration. “You ought to be bringing me donuts. Off the damn record.”

  “She had another place, and in her other place she had records and lists and books. Of her marks, of the transactions. Her data on them, the meets. And in the books were pages dedicated to individual potential marks. Photos—some of which appear to have been taken without the person’s knowledge—articles, interviews, connections to other people. They’re ranked low to high—for potential. You’re in there.”

  “What?” Nadine came straight out of the chair. “What?”

  “She looked into you, fairly hard, and she’s thorough. She lists your favorite shops, restaurants, where you work out, where you buy cop-bribing donuts. And she has a list of people in those places she’s either talked to about you, or ho
pes to find something on so they’ll dish it out on you.”

  “That goes too far. That fucking bitch.”

  “You’re mine.”

  “What?” Nadine stopped pacing.

  “According to Mars you’re Dallas’s bitch. And I don’t think she was talking sexy three-way on that.”

  Nadine kicked at the visitor’s chair with a foot clad in a skyscraper red heel. “I wish she was still alive so I could slap her stupid.”

  “You make a lousy bitch then. A good, solid bitch punches. Slaps are for little girls.”

  “Slaps are humiliating for the slapee—and don’t bruise the slapper’s knuckles.” Stunned and angry enough to forget about the ass-biting properties of the visitor’s chair, Nadine dropped down into it. “She never approached me other than what I told you before. I swear. I’d have told you. I told her to go to hell, basically, had that recording to back it up. Thought that was that.”

  “I got that. I’d have gotten that even if she didn’t have the ranking system, and you never rated above a one. But she tried, even after you metaphorically slapped her. She talked to some guy you dated in college. Scotty. How could you have dated some dude who called himself Scotty and sells used sporting equipment in a mall in Poughkeepsie?”

  “Because he was gorgeous, and I only dated him for…” Nadine bapped her fists against her temples again. “Are you kidding me?”

  “He said you were a bitch, too. Ambitious and nosy.”

  “He would,” Nadine shot back.

  “She got a few people you’ve pushed, cornered, harangued by doing your job to say some uncomplimentary things along the way.”

  That earned no more than a satisfied smirk. “That means I did my job.”

  “But she couldn’t get any solid dirt. She threw out a wide net, and she got lucky with plenty.”

  “How many books like that?”

  Eve pointed to the boxes on the floor by her desk, and Nadine leaped up.

  “You have to let me see them.”

  “No.”

  “Damn it. At least let me see what she gathered on me.”

  “I can’t, and you know I can’t. What I’m telling you here is between friends. Mavis is in there, and Leonardo. She even has data on Bella—where she plays, where she takes her baby classes.”

  At her sides, Nadine’s hands balled into fists. “Maybe I would have bruised my knuckles on her bitch face. For that, maybe I would have.”

  “And maybe I feel the same, but somewhere in here, in the other records of her targets, her marks, those connected to them, is her killer. It’s my job to find him, to stand for her and bring her killer to justice. She deserved a few punches in the face, and some years in a cage. She didn’t deserve to bleed out on the floor of a bar.”

  To calm herself, Nadine took two long breaths. “You’re in there, too, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Roarke. Of course Roarke.” Taking another breath, Nadine unclenched her fists. “If you have another avenue you want me to explore, I’ll go there. Anything I can do, or have my team do. Not only for the story, and not for her. You have to stand for her. I don’t. But I’ll sure as hell stand with you and whoever else is in those books.”

  And that, Eve thought, was a primary reason they were friends.

  “Nudge your source at Seventy-Five. It could be interesting to get a different perspective on Knight Productions. I’ll be going through the data we collected, and may find others she targeted there. And at Seventy-Five. And see what you can find about Missy Lee Durante.”

  “The actress?”

  “She’s clear, but she has a lot of people surrounding her. Family, managers, hangers-on. A lot of people connected to her show and her career who might have been targets, or objected to her being targeted.”

  “We’ll get right on it.”

  “You heading down to the garage?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Good.” Eve swung on her coat, grabbed a file bag, hefted one of the boxes. “I’m going to work at home, in the quiet. Grab the other box.”

  Nadine bent down, lifted it two inches. “It’s heavy!”

  “Put your back into it, bitch.”

  Nadine hauled it up, teetered a little. “Let me show you how this is done.”

  Struggling some, she walked out with Eve, then angled toward Baxter’s desk. She didn’t flutter her lashes, Eve noted, but it was implied.

  Baxter swiveled away from his work, rose. “Hey, let me get that for you.”

  “Thanks. I was going to help Dallas take all this down to her car.”

  “Too heavy for you.”

  Eve didn’t roll her eyes, but it was implied. “Hold on a minute.” She carted her box, which was apparently not too heavy for her, to Peabody’s desk. “Taking these home to work. Keep on the comp data, and keep a running loop on it to me. Clock out at end of shift.”

  “I don’t think I’ll make a serious dent by then.”

  “Clock out. You can work at home on some of it.” She shifted the weight of the box. The damn thing was heavy. “Let’s go.”

  21

  Against the snapping cold, Eve carried the first box into the house. She had a Summerset snark set and felt annoyance when she found the foyer empty, and her snark at the ready.

  Still, without him there, she didn’t feel honor bound to cart the damn box up the stairs, and walked back to the elevator, used the box to hold the door open until she went back for the second.

  Then, shoving them both in, stepped in and ordered her office. She decided Summerset would likely be dealing with packing. He’d need at least a dozen black suits, right? He probably sat on the beach wearing one, with a carefully knotted tie.

  At least, she didn’t want to imagine him wearing anything else. Or less.

  The idea made her shudder.

  When the elevator opened, she shoved the boxes out. She bent to lift one, heard Roarke’s voice from his adjoining office.

  Leaving the boxes where they were, she crossed over.

  “I’m looking at it now, yes,” he said into the ’link as he studied some sort of schematic on screen. “Hold a moment.” He put the ’link on pause. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

  “You, too.”

  “I only got here shortly ago.”

  Long enough, she thought, to have taken off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and tied back his hair.

  The cat stretched across his command center, yawned.

  “Just a bit of work I wanted to handle in the quiet.”

  “Same here.”

  “I should be wrapped up with this in about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay.” She started to step back. “Summerset packing?”

  “Unpacking by now, I’d hope. We have weather coming in late tonight into the morning. I nudged him along.”

  She stopped stepping back. “‘Along’ as in out? Out of the house?”

  “I didn’t like the idea of him flying out in bad weather, so persuaded him to leave today.”

  Eve held up a hand like a stop sign. “You’re saying—let’s be absolutely clear—this house is Summerset-free?”

  “I expect he and Ivanna are enjoying blue skies and balmy breezes, so yes.”

  “Okay. Okay,” she repeated. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  She moved just out of his eyeline, heard him go back to the ‘link. And boogied her way back to the elevator with the cat trotting behind her. She started to pick up a box, straightened again.

  And decided to go with impulse.

  Roarke finished the meeting. It ran a bit longer than he’d estimated, but the small changes he and the engineer made would, he was sure, be worth the time and trouble.

  Plus, though he had a few things that could keep him busy, this cleared his slate enough he could see what his wife was up to.

  He walked in, glanced at her board, noted some updates, then looked toward her command center.

  She sat, in nothing but
a couple of tiny swaths of lace, purple boots propped on the desk. When his gaze traveled up, up those long, bare legs, over the lean torso, those firm, lace-frothed breasts, to meet hers, she smiled.

  “I figured since I’ve got the boots anyway, they ought to get some wear.”

  His wife, Roarke thought, his cop, so often a creature of habit and straight lines, could and did pull out the most fascinating curves.

  “They look … perfect.”

  She jiggled one. “Comfortable, too. You all done?”

  “Oh, I believe I’m just about to start.”

  He crossed over, trailed a finger up her leg. “How about you?”

  “I’ve got work that’s going to keep me chained here for hours. No reason I can’t take a little personal time first.”

  “Good, as I believe this is going to be very personal.”

  She smiled again. “Want to sit on my lap?”

  He laughed and simply plucked her out of the chair and off her feet. In response, she hooked her legs around his waist.

  “I had a donut,” she warned, “and came home to a Summerset-free zone. I’m riding a high.”

  “Let’s see if we can keep you there.”

  He took her mouth, ferociously. With her legs clamped tight, she dragged at the leather strip so she could fill her hands with his hair. Then she levered her hands between them to fight with buttons until she got to skin.

  She could luxuriate there, mouth feeding on mouth, skin pressed hot to skin, and his fingers, long and strong, sliding over and under lace.

  The big house empty around them, and all the world locked outside.

  When he set her on the command center, she kept her legs hooked to bring him close. Reaching up, she tugged his shirt away before she nipped her teeth at his throat.

  “Better than a donut,” she murmured.

  His hands played over her, curves and angles, tough and smooth. His took her lips again, more tenderly now, and let the taste of her fill him, fill him even as it stirred deeper cravings.

  He’d planned to set up a romantic meal before she got home—candles and wine, music playing low, and a fire simmering. A dance with her, a seduction, a long, slow build to passion.