Naked in Death

“Not yet. Monroe’s going to take you to Sharon’s other safe box. You take good care of him, Feeney. We’re going to need him. And you take damn good care of whatever you find in the box.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “I’ve got to catch a plane.” She broke transmission, then called Roarke. It took another three minutes of very precious time before he came on-line.

  “I was about to call you, Eve. It looks like I have to fly to Dublin. Care to join me?”

  “Roarke, I need your plane. Now. I have to get to Virginia fast. If I go through channels or take public transport—”

  “The plane will be ready for you. Terminal C, Gate 22.”

  She closed her eyes. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  Her gratitude lasted until she arrived at the gate and found Roarke waiting for her.

  “I don’t have time to talk.” Her voice was a snap, her long legs eating up the distance from gate to lift.

  “We’ll talk on the plane.”

  “You’re not going with me. This is official—”

  “This is my plane, lieutenant,” he interrupted smoothly as the lift closed them in together, gliding silently up.

  “Can’t you do anything without strings?”

  “Yes. This isn’t one of them.” The hatch opened. The flight attendant waited efficiently.

  “Welcome aboard, sir, lieutenant. Can I offer you refreshments?”

  “No, thank you. Have the pilot take off as soon as we’re cleared.” Roarke took his seat while Eve stood fuming. “We can’t take off until you’re seated and secured.”

  “I thought you were going to Ireland.” She could argue with him just as easily sitting down.

  “It’s not a priority. This is. Eve, before you state your case, I’ll outline mine. You’re going to Virginia in quite a rush. That points to the DeBlass case and some new information. Beth and Richard are friends, close friends. I don’t have many close friends, nor do you. Reverse situations. What would you do?”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair as the plane began to taxi. “This can’t be personal.”

  “Not for you. For me, it’s very personal. Beth contacted me even as I was arranging for the plane to be readied. She asked me to come.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She didn’t have to—she only had to ask.”

  Loyalty was a trait Eve had a difficult time arguing against. “I can’t stop you from going, but I’m warning you, this is department business.”

  “And the department is in upheaval this morning,” he said evenly, “because of certain information leaked to the media—by an unnamed source.”

  She hissed out a breath. Nothing like backing yourself into a corner. “I’m grateful for your help.”

  “Enough to tell me the outcome?”

  “I imagine the cap will be off by the end of the day.” She moved her shoulders restlessly, staring out the window, willing the miles away. “Simpson’s going to try to ditch the whole business on his accounting firm. I can’t see him pulling it off. The IRS’ll get him for tax fraud. I imagine the internal investigation will uncover where he got the money. Considering Simpson’s imagination, I’d bet on the standard kickbacks, bribes, and graft.”

  “And the blackmail?”

  “Oh, he was paying her. He admitted as much before his lawyer shut him up. And he’ll cop to it, once he realizes paying blackmail’s a lot less dicey than accessory to murder.”

  She took out her communicator, requested Feeney’s access.

  “Yo, Dallas.”

  “Did you get them?”

  Feeney held a small box up so that she could see it in the tiny viewing screen. “All labeled and dated. About twenty years’ worth.”

  “Start with the last entry, work back. I should hit destination in about twenty minutes. I’ll contact you as soon as I can for a status report.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant Sugar.” Charles edged his way on-screen and beamed at her. “How’d I do?”

  “You did good. Thanks. Now, until I say different, forget about the safe box, the diaries, everything.”

  “What diaries?” he said with a wink. He blew her a kiss before Feeney elbowed him aside.

  “I’m heading back to Cop Central now. Stay in touch.”

  “Out.” Eve switched off, slipped the communicator back in her pocket.

  Roarke waited a beat. “Lieutenant Sugar?”

  “Shut up, Roarke.” She closed her eyes to ignore him, but couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off her face.

  When they landed, she was forced to admit that Roarke’s name worked even faster than a badge. In minutes they were in a powerful rental car and eating up the miles to Front Royal. She might have objected about being delegated to the passenger seat, but she couldn’t fault his driving.

  “Ever done the Indy?”

  “No.” He spared her a brief glance as they bulleted up Route 95 at just under a hundred. “But I’ve driven in a few Grand Prix.”

  “Figures.” She tapped her fingers against the chicken stick when he shot the car into a vertical rise, skimmed daringly—and illegally—over the top of a small jam of cars. “You say Richard is a good friend. How would you describe him?”

  “Intelligent, dedicated, quiet. He rarely speaks unless he has something to say. Overshadowed by his father, often at odds with him.”

  “How would you describe his relationship with his father?”

  He brought the vehicle down again, wheels barely skidding on the road surface. “From the little he might have said, and the things Beth let drop, I’d have to say combative, frustrated.”

  “And his relationship with his daughter?”

  “The choices she made were in direct opposition to his lifestyle, his, well, morals, if you wish. He’s a staunch believer in freedom of choice and expression. Still, I can’t imagine any father wanting his daughter to become a woman who sells herself for a living.”

  “Wasn’t he involved in designing his father’s security for the last senatorial campaign?”

  He took the vehicle up again, maneuvered it off the road, muttering something about a shortcut. In the time he took to skim through a glade of trees, over a few residential buildings, and down again onto a quiet suburban street, he was silent.

  She stopped counting the traffic violations.

  “Family loyalty transcends politics. A man with DeBlass’s views is either well loved or well hated. Richard may disagree with his father, but he’d hardly want him assassinated. And as he specializes in security law, it follows he’d assist his father in the matter.”

  A son protects his father, Eve thought. “And how far would DeBlass go to protect his son?”

  “From what? Richard is a moderate’s moderate. He maintains a low profile, supports his causes quietly. He—” The import of the question struck. “You’re off target,” Roarke said between his teeth. “Way off target.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The house on the hill looked peaceful. Under the cold blue sky, it sat serenely, warmly, with a few brave crocuses beginning to peep out of the winter stung grass.

  Appearances, Eve thought, were deceiving more often than not. She knew this wasn’t a home of easy wealth, quiet happiness, and tidy lives. She was certain now that she knew what had gone on behind those rosy walls and gleaming glass.

  Elizabeth opened the door herself. If anything, she was paler and more drawn than when Eve had last seen her. Her eyes were puffy from weeping, and the mannishly tailored suit she wore bagged at the hips from recent weight loss.

  “Oh, Roarke.” As Elizabeth went into his arms, Eve could all but hear the fragile bones knocking together. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He tilted her face up with a gentleness that tugged at the heart Eve was struggling to hold distant. “Beth, you’re not taking care of yourself.”

  “I can’t seem to function, to think, or to do. Everyt
hing’s crumbling away at my feet, and I—” She broke off, remembering abruptly that they weren’t alone. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  Eve caught the quick accusation in Elizabeth’s eyes when she looked at Roarke. “He didn’t bring me, Ms. Barrister. I brought him. I received a call this morning from this location. Did you make it?”

  “No.” Elizabeth stepped back. Her hands reached for each other, twisted. “No, I didn’t. It must have been Catherine. She arrived here last night, suddenly. Hysterical, overwrought. Her mother has been hospitalized, and the prognosis is poor. I can only think the stress of the last few weeks has been too much for her. That’s why I called you, Roarke. Richard’s at his wit’s end. I don’t seem to be any help. We needed someone.”

  “Why don’t we go in and sit down?”

  “They’re in the parlor.” In a jittery move, Elizabeth turned to look down the hall. “She won’t take a sedative, she won’t explain. She refused to let us do more than call her husband and son and tell them she was here, and not to come. She’s frantic at the idea they might be in some sort of danger. I suppose what happened to Sharon has made her worry more about her own child. She’s obsessed with saving him from God knows what.”

  “If she called me,” Eve put in. “Then maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  “Yes. Yes, all right.”

  She led the way down the hall, and into the tidy, sunwashed parlor. Catherine DeBlass sat on a sofa, leaning into her brother’s arms. Eve couldn’t be sure if he was comforting, or restraining.

  Richard raised stricken eyes to Roarke’s. “It’s good of you to come. We’re a mess, Roarke.” His voice shook, nearly broke. “We’re a mess.”

  “Elizabeth.” Roarke crouched in front of Catherine. “Why don’t you ring for coffee?”

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  “Catherine.” His voice was gentle, as was the hand he laid on her arm. But the touch had Catherine jerking up, her eyes going wide.

  “Don’t. What—what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Beth and Richard. I’m sorry you’re not well.”

  “Well?” She gave what might have been a laugh as she curled into herself. “None of us will ever be well again. How can we? We’re all tainted. We’re all to blame.”

  “For what?”

  She shook her head, pushed herself into the far corner of the sofa. “I can’t talk to you.”

  “Congresswoman DeBlass, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. You called me a little while ago.”

  “No, no I didn’t.” Panicked, Catherine wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. “I didn’t call. I didn’t say anything.”

  As Richard leaned over to touch her, Eve shot him a warning glance. Deliberately, she put herself between them, sat and took Catherine’s frigid hand. “You wanted me to help. And I will help you.”

  “You can’t. No one can. I was wrong to call. We have to keep it in the family. I have a husband, I have a little boy.” Tears began to swim in her eyes. “I have to protect them. I have to go away, far away, so I can protect them.”

  “We’ll protect them,” Eve said quietly. “We’ll protect you. It was too late to protect Sharon. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I didn’t try to stop it,” Catherine said in a whisper. “Maybe I was even glad, because it wasn’t me anymore. It wasn’t me.”

  “Ms. DeBlass, I can help you. I can protect you and your family. Tell me who raped you.”

  Richard let out a hiss of shock. “My God, what are you saying? What—”

  Eve turned on him, eyes fierce. “Be quiet. There’s no more secrets here.”

  “Secrets,” Catherine said between trembling lips. “It has to be a secret.”

  “No, it doesn’t. This kind of secret hurts. It crawls inside you and eats at you. It makes you scared, and it makes you guilty. The ones who want it to be secret use that—the guilt, the fear, the shame. The only way you can fight back is to tell. Tell me who raped you.”

  Catherine’s breath shuddered out. She looked at her brother, terror bright in her eyes. Eve turned her face back, held it.

  “Look at me. Just me. And tell me who raped you. Who raped Sharon?”

  “My father.” The words burst from her in a howl of pain. “My father. My father. My father.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  “Oh God.” Across the room, Elizabeth stumbled back into the server droid. China shattered. Coffee seeped dark into the lovely rug. “Oh my God. My baby.”

  Richard shot off the couch, reaching her as she swayed. He caught her hard against him. “I’ll kill him for this. I’ll kill him.” Then he pressed his face into her hair. “Beth. Oh, Beth.”

  “Do what you can for them,” Eve murmured to Roarke as she gathered Catherine to her.

  “You thought it was Richard,” Roarke said in an undertone.

  “Yes.” Her eyes were dull and flat when she lifted them to his. “I thought it was Sharon’s father. Maybe I didn’t want to think that something so foul could flourish in two generations.”

  Roarke leaned forward. His face was hard as rock. “One way or the other, DeBlass is a dead man.”

  “Help your friends,” Eve said evenly. “I have work to do here.”

  chapter eighteen

  She let Catherine cry it out, though she knew, too well, that the tears wouldn’t wash the wound clean. She knew, too, that she wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation alone. It was Roarke who calmed Elizabeth and Richard, who ordered in the domestic droid to gather up the broken crockery, who held their hands, and when he gauged the time was right, it was he who gently suggested bringing Catherine some tea.

  Elizabeth fetched it herself, carefully closing the parlor doors behind her before she carried the cup to her sister-in-law. “Here, darling, drink a little.”

  “I’m sorry.” Catherine put both shaky hands around the cup to warm them. “I’m sorry. I thought it had stopped. I made myself believe it had stopped. I couldn’t live otherwise.”

  “It’s all right.” Her face blank, Elizabeth went back to her husband.

  “Ms. DeBlass, I need you to tell me everything. Congresswoman DeBlass?” Eve waited until Catherine focused on her again. “Do you understand this is being recorded?”

  “He’ll stop you.”

  “No, he won’t. That’s why you called me, because you know I’ll stop him.”

  “He’s afraid of you,” Catherine whispered. “He’s afraid of you. I could tell. He’s afraid of women. That’s why he hurts them. I think he may have given something to my mother. Broke her mind. She knew.”

  “Your mother knew your father was abusing you?”

  “She knew. She pretended she didn’t, but I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t want to know—she just wanted everything quiet and perfect, so she could give her parties and be the senator’s wife.” She lifted a hand, shielding her eyes. “When he would come into my room at night, I could see it on her face the next morning. But when I tried to talk to her, to tell her to make him stop, she pretended she didn’t know what I meant. She told me to stop imagining things. To be good, to respect the family.”

  She lowered her hand again, cupped her tea with both hands, but didn’t drink. “When I was little, seven or eight, he would come in at night and touch me. He said it was all right, because he was Daddy, and I was going to pretend to be Mommy. It was a game, he said, a secret game. He told me I had to do things—to touch him. To—”

  “It’s all right,” Eve soothed as Catherine began to tremble violently. “You don’t have to say. Tell me what you can.”

  “You had to obey him. You had to. He was a force in our house. Richard?”

  “Yes.” Richard caught his wife’s hand in his and squeezed, squeezed. “I know.”

  “I couldn’t tell you because I was ashamed, and I was afraid, and Mom just looked away, so I thought I had to do it.” She swallowed hard. “On my twelfth birthday, we had a party. Lots of friends, and a big cake, and the poni
es. You remember the ponies, Richard?”

  “I remember.” Tears tracked silently down his cheeks. “I remember.”

  “And that night, the night of my birthday, he came. He said I was old enough now. He said he had a present for me, a special present because I was growing up. And he raped me.” She buried her face in her hands and rocked. “He said it was a present. Oh God. And I begged him to stop, because it hurt. And because I was old enough to know it was wrong, it was evil. I was evil. But he didn’t stop. And he kept coming back. All those years until I could get away. I went to college, far away, where he couldn’t touch me. And I told myself it never happened. It never, never happened.

  “I tried to be strong, to make a life. I got married because I thought I would be safe. Justin was so kind, so gentle. He never hurt me. And I never told him. I thought if he knew, he’d despise me. So I kept telling myself it never happened.”

  She lowered her hands and looked at Eve. “I believed it, sometimes. Most of the time. I could lose myself in my work, in my family. But then I could see, I knew he was doing the same thing to Sharon. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. So I pushed it away, just like my mother did. He killed her. Now he’ll kill me.”

  “Why do you think he killed Sharon?”

  “She wasn’t weak like me. She turned it on him, used it against him. I heard them arguing. Christmas Day. When we all went to his house to pretend we were a family. I saw them go into his office, and I followed them. I opened the door, and I watched and I listened through the crack. He was so furious with her because she was making a public mockery of everything he stood for. And she said, ‘You made me what I am, you bastard.’ It warmed me to hear that. It made me want to cheer. She stood up to him. She threatened to expose him unless he paid her. She had it all documented, she said, every dirty detail. So he’d have to play the game her way. They fought, hurling words at each other. And then . . .”

  Catherine glanced over at Elizabeth, at her brother, then looked away. “She took off her blouse.” Elizabeth’s moan had Catherine trembling again. “She told him he could have her, just like any client. But he’d pay more. A lot more. He was looking at her. I knew the way he was looking at her, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack. He grabbed her breasts. She looked at me. Right at me. She’d known I was there, and she looked at me with such disgust. Maybe even with hate, because she knew I’d do nothing. I closed the door, closed it and ran. I was sick. Oh, Elizabeth.”