Promises in Death

  “I’ll run them. I’ll do it,” he said when she started to protest. “I can do it faster, as we both know. And it’ll be easier for you if you don’t have to do it yourself. I know it troubles you to look at one of your own this way.”

  “It’s worse. She’s dead. I can’t ask her. She can’t defend herself. She can’t say, ‘Fuck you, bitch, for even thinking it.’ ”

  She dragged a hand through her hair, then crossed the room to stand and look out the window. “And here I am, using illegal means to try to find out if she was tangled in something wrong. If she was on the take, or Alex Ricker’s weasel.”

  “As chief medical examiner, Morris could access this case file?”

  “Yeah, he could find a way to get it. So by making sure this area of investigation isn’t in that file, am I protecting him or myself?”

  “Darling Eve, I see nothing wrong with doing either, and both. If you find the worst, he’ll have to know. If you don’t, what good would it do you or him for him to know you felt compelled to look?”

  “You’re right. You do it. You’ll be faster.”

  She stayed at the window, staring out at dark and light. Had Morris taken a soother, given himself a chance to sleep, to put it away for a few hours? Or was he staring out at the dark and the light?

  She promised she’d find the answers for him. But what if those answers were the woman he loved was a bad cop, a liar, that she’d used him? What if the answers were as painful as the questions?

  “Eve.”

  She turned, braced. “What?”

  “I can do another level or two, try some tricks, but what I’m seeing here is a woman who lived within her means. You may be interested to know a New York City detective third grade makes a bit more than an Atlanta detective. But the cost of living balances that out. She paid her bills on time, and now and then went a little over budget on her credit card and carried a balance for a month or two. There aren’t any unusual deposits or withdrawals, no major purchases.

  “I’ve tried the most usual mix of names—hers, her family’s, Atlanta, and other key words that make sense to me and the computer to search for a second account. I haven’t found one.”

  Most of the tension eased. “So, at this point, it doesn’t look like she was on the take.”

  “You were in her apartment. Was there any art, any jewelry?”

  “Nothing that rings the bells. Framed posters, street art, a couple of good pieces of jewelry, the rest tasteful costume. Let’s let this alone until we talk to Alex Ricker. I don’t want to do this to her any more until I have to.”

  “All right.” He ordered all data saved, then laid his hand over the palm plate again. “Roarke. Power down.”

  When the console winked off, he crossed to her, put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s harder when it’s personal.”

  She closed her eyes a moment. “I can’t stop thinking about him. How he’s dealing, or not dealing. What I might find, and how whatever that is will affect him. I should take myself off the case, for all the same reasons I can’t and won’t take myself off the case. Because a friend’s life has been turned inside out.”

  With a nod of understanding, he stepped back to take her hand, to walk her to the elevator. “Tell me your instincts about her—your feelings. No filters,” he added as they stepped into the car. “Master bedroom,” he ordered.

  Eve hesitated, then shrugged. “I was a little bitchy about her, I guess.”

  “Because?”

  “Well, it sounds stupid. But because of Morris. Because he’s . . . He’s Morris, and I didn’t see her coming until she was already there and he’s gooey-eyed. It’s not like I have—ever had—that kind of thing with Morris. Or wanted one, or even thought about him. Not like Peabody and her sexual fantasies. I mean, Jesus.”

  “Why that slut. I thought I was her sexual fantasy.”

  Relieved with how he’d played it, she gave him a bland stare as they stepped into the bedroom. “You lead the charge, but apparently Peabody’s got the capacity for lots of fantasy partners. Probably all at the same time.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “And I probably just violated some girl code by saying that, which doesn’t apply to your question anyway.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what I thought of her, exactly, because it was all filtered through that ‘Wait a damn minute, this is Morris’ attitude. Which is embarrassing now that I really think about it.”

  “You have a connection. An intimacy. Not all intimacies are sexual. She was an interloper.”

  “That’s it.” Eve pointed a finger at him. “That’s exactly it. And she didn’t deserve that from me. She made him happy. Anybody could see it. I’d say, now that I think about it, her apartment didn’t surprise me. The look of it, the neatness of it, because that’s how she struck me. A woman who had things in place, and knew what she liked. Dressed well—not flashy, but well. Sexual. She gave off the sexual and the female more than the cop, but the cop was there. Under it. She took her time, in how she talked, how she moved. That’s a Southern thing, isn’t it? Nothing New York about her. I don’t know.” She shrugged again. “It’s not much.”

  “Your instincts on a very brief acquaintance told you she was a woman of subtlety—not flashy. Comfortable with her sexuality, who took her time and who liked order, respected her own tastes, and who was willing to try something new. A new city, a new man. That’s considerable, I’d say. Your instincts and what you’ve learned since confirm that her work was just that to her. Work. It didn’t drive her life. Given that, it’s very possible, isn’t it, that a sexual woman of taste could find herself attracted to a man like Alex Ricker. And he to her. Wouldn’t that relationship, if one developed, have eventually conflicted with her work, or become somewhat problematic?”

  “A cop hooking up with a guy with a shady rep?” She arched her eyebrows. “Gee, why should that be a problem?”

  He laughed. “We’re different, you and I.” He put his arms around her. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, to speculate how a similiar situation might go very, very badly.”

  “We could’ve taken a turn, ended up—”

  He shook his head, touched his lips to hers to stop the words. “No. We were always meant to end up here.” He pressed the release on her weapon harness. “Always meant to find each other. Save each other. Be with each other.”

  She laid her hands on his cheeks. “That’s the Irish. But I like the thought of it. Those weird intersects in the past—your father, mine, Ricker. They didn’t stop us from getting here. Roarke.” She lowered her hands, removed her harness. “When Ricker intersected with us again, it screwed us up for a while. I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want wherever this investigation may lead to cause a rift between us again.”

  “I wouldn’t want to see you take this investigation into an area that causes a rift. Same goal,” he said at her frown. “Different angles of approach. Do you want me to promise, Eve, that I won’t get pissed off if you put yourself in Alex Ricker’s sights, as you did with his father? I can’t. The name Ricker makes it personal. There’s no way around that.”

  “You have to trust me to do my job, to handle myself.”

  “I do. Every day of my life.”

  She understood then it was his trust in her, his belief in her that held his fear for her at bay. “Then I’ll promise something. That I’ll try to tell you beforehand whenever I have to deal with Alex Ricker during this investigation.”

  “Try?”

  “If something comes up, if I can’t take the time, or hell, don’t know ahead of time, then I can’t tell you. I can’t make a promise to you I might have to break.”

  “All right. That’s fair enough. I’ll promise to try not to get pissed off.”

  She smiled now. “I’ll probably have to do something, and you’ll probably get pissed off.”

  “But we’ll have tried.”

  “Yeah. So in case trying doesn’t turn out to
be enough, let me say this now. I love you.”

  The pleasure rose warm in him, circled his heart. Again his arms went around her, again his mouth lowered to hers. “No one but you,” he murmured. “Always.”

  She wrapped around him, hard and tight, giving what he needed before he asked. All. Everything. It undid him, this love, for her and from her. The depth and breadth of it left him weak and wanting, desperate and staggered.

  She poured herself into the kiss and filled him. And still, he thought, there would always be more.

  However many times they’d loved each other, how many ways, it was always now, and always new. The taste of her, familiar and fresh, stirred him like the first time. Those strong arms around him, that mouth both pliant and avid. Yes, this was everything. This was all.

  His murmur came from the core of his heart, in the language of his blood. “A grha.”

  He lifted her. That quick, careless strength, the sensation of being taken made her head spin. His power, hers, combined so she felt just a little drunk when he laid her on the bed, when his body covered hers. The weight, the shape, the feel of him. How could she ever get enough?

  Had all the years they’d both starved for love caused this bottomless need for each other? His scent—she turned her face into his throat, breathing him in. His touch—and arched under the stroke of his hands. His taste—that punch of sensation whenever their mouths met.

  No one else had ever brought her here. No one else had ever compelled her to take him with her.

  Slow, dreamy, drugging, hands and lips, sighs and movement. His shirt and hers peeled away so flesh could meet flesh, so hands could roam over curves, over planes to entice and delight.

  The long lines of her never failed to fascinate and arouse him. The shape of her—the subtle curves captivated him with those seductive contrasts. Skin so soft, so smooth over rigidly toned muscle.

  A warrior’s body, he often thought. One who gave herself to him and brought him endless thrill, and impossible peace. She trembled for him, rose up and over. Lost as he was lost. And when he slipped inside her, she said his name. Said his name as her body arched up to his, as she twined around him, as their eyes met.

  He was inside there, too, he thought. In those eyes, in that gilted brown. Lost, and found. And it was her name on his lips as they took each other.

  7

  EVE CONTACTED PEABODY WITH ORDERS TO REturn to Central and follow up with EDD. She’d keep her partner in reserve regarding interviews with Alex Ricker. It seemed good strategy for her and Roarke to meet the son of the man who’d enjoy seeing the pair of them slow-roasted over an open fire without additional cop presence.

  As she maneuvered through morning traffic to the Park Avenue condo, she hoped it wasn’t a mistake.

  “I need information from him,” Eve began. “More, I need to get a sense of what his relationship was with Coltraine—if they had a relationship.”

  “All right.” As she drove, Roarke continued to work with his PPC.

  “He’s not going to like us, or appreciate finding us on his doorstep. His father’s locked in a cage. We turned the key.”

  “One of my fondest memories.”

  “Which is exactly what we can’t push in his face if we want any kind of cooperation.”

  “And you think I’ll go in with a neener-neener?”

  She’d have laughed at the term if she hadn’t been concerned he’d go in with the Roarke equivalent. The ice-cold fuck-you look. “I’m saying we either distance ourselves from past history, or use it. Depending on his reaction. His reaction may tell us if Coltraine’s murder was, in any way, connected to us. I need something from him, so approach matters.”

  Roarke smiled a little, spoke blandly. “And, of course, I know nothing about the art of negotiation and interview.”

  “I’ve seen you work, pal. I don’t want him squealing for a lawyer because you put on Scary Roarke.”

  “I’ve seen you work, pal. So I’d advise you to keep Lieutenant Kick-Ass under wraps.”

  She scowled before swinging over to the curb in front of the dignified old building. “I need to set the tone, the pace.”

  “You need to remember I’ve been on interviews with you before.”

  Roarke got out. The doorman halted his quick march mid-stride. The sour expression the dingy police-issue brought to his face transformed into polite welcome.

  Irritating, Eve thought. One look at Roarke wearing his power the same way he wore the perfectly cut suit and Italian shoes, and it went from “Get that piece of shit away from my building” to “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Eve nearly snorted. Roarke merely angled his head and sent her a very subtle smirk. “Lieutenant?”

  She thought, Showoff. But said, “NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge for the doorman. “Here to see Alex Ricker. My ride stays where it is.”

  The doorman’s eyes shifted from Eve to Roarke, and back again. The puzzlement was clear, but obviously he knew a man didn’t keep a primo gig on a door like this one by asking the wrong questions of the wrong people. “I’ll call up, see if Mr. Ricker is in and available. If you’d like to step into the lobby?”

  He moved briskly to the door, held it open for them.

  The outer dignity continued inside with the black-veined marble floor, the rich tones of wood that had likely been in place for a couple of centuries. The seating was red and plush, the tables topped by antique lamps with touches of gilt, all set off under a multitiered chandelier of dripping crystal.

  The doorman opened a panel to reveal a wall ’link. After entering a code, he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders.

  Eve studied the face that came on-screen. Not Ricker, she mused, but a man about the same age. What she’d call a slick character with an expensive haircut styled so the dark waves curved around a smooth, even-featured face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sandy. I have the police in the lobby asking to speak to Mr. Ricker.”

  Nothing registered on Sandy’s face, and his tone was very cool, very authoritative, faintly European. And, Eve thought, just a little prissy.

  “Verify their identification, please.”

  Eve simply held up her badge again, waiting while the doorman ran his scanner over it, read the display. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified.” He turned to Roarke.

  “Expert consultant, civilian. Roarke,” Eve said briskly. “With me.”

  “Send them up, please.” Sandy ordered. “I’ll inform Mr. Ricker.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The doorman started for an elevator as its dull gold door slid open. “Two passengers cleared for Ricker penthouse.”

  Eve and Roarke stepped inside. The doors closed without a sound. “Nice building,” she said conversationally. “Yours?”

  “No.” Knowing, as he was sure Eve did, the elevator’s security likely ran to audio as well as video, he leaned back casually against the wall. “I doubt he’d feel . . . comfortable living in a building I owned.”

  “Guess not. Bet it’s a nice view from the penthouse.”

  “No doubt.”

  The elevator opened directly inside a foyer that smelled of roses from the forest of them madly blooming out of a Chinese urn on a pond-sized table. Slick Character stood beside it.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Roarke, I’m Rod Sandy, Mr. Ricker’s personal assistant. If you’d come with me?”

  He led the way into a wide living space.

  She’d been right about the view, it was a killer. The wall of windows and glass doors opened to a bricked terrace that jutted out toward the spires and towers of New York. Inside, the sunny, open space murmured with European dignity. Antiques mixed with deeply cushioned chairs and sofas, all in deep hues that translated wealth without flash.

  A room, Eve mused, Amaryllis Coltraine would have approved of.

  More flowers sat in the hearth in lieu of a fire, framed in marble. Paneled walls conc
ealed such mundane matters, she thought, as entertainment and mood screens, room security, data-and-communication centers.

  All that showed was comfort, style, and the money required to maintain both.

  “Mr. Ricker’s just finishing up a ’link transmission. He’ll join you as soon as he’s free.” The tenor of the statement indicated Mr. Ricker was a very busy, very important man, and would make time for his lessers when it suited him. “Meanwhile, please sit, be comfortable. May I offer you coffee?”