Golden in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “How did he respond?”

  “He said he’d keep his eye open for her. You know, Dallas, he’d bring flowers in sometimes because he said they brightened things up for us and the patients. Or he’d bring in a box of pastries. He was considerate and generous, and I’m sick about what happened.”

  “We haven’t contacted Martin,” Charles said, “because we don’t want to intrude. But we thought if we could, maybe tomorrow, contact their son or daughter. Just to see if there’s anything … There’s never really anything.”

  “Can you tell us what happened? At least something that makes sense?”

  Eve studied Louise—dry-eyed now, but barely. She’d tell them what they’d hear on the morning reports—and maybe just a bit more. “I can tell you the package containing the substance was addressed to Dr. Kent Abner. I can tell you the person who delivered it was just doing her job, and isn’t a suspect. She shares your view of the victim. She liked him, liked them both, and in a way was victimized by the killer. She’ll carry the weight for a while.

  “We’ll know more when we ID the substance, how it got into his system but, from the timeline, it only took minutes.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Louise pressed.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m not an expert, but I know something about poisons, toxins, exposure. If I knew his symptoms—”

  “That’s for Morris.”

  But Louise, in professional mode, didn’t shake off easily. “You don’t know if it was something he touched, ingested, inhaled?”

  “That’s for Morris and the lab.”

  “Fast-acting, very fast,” Louise murmured. “Not ingested.”

  “Why?”

  “A fastidious man, a little bit of a health nut? I don’t see Kent popping something that came in the mail into his mouth right off. Well, maybe if he knew who sent it, or if he was expecting…”

  “Bogus name and address.”

  “Then he didn’t know the sender, he wasn’t expecting a package. I don’t see him eating or drinking something from a package without checking it first. And you said minutes.”

  “About seven from delivery to death.”

  “God.” But she breathed that out, went back to doctor mode. “By touch then, especially if there’s a cut or puncture. Or inhalation.” Gray eyes narrowing with a frown, she shook her head slowly.

  “But Martin’s all right, he wasn’t affected? The report said he found the body.”

  “He’s clear. We’re all clear.”

  “So the toxicity dissipated. Were there windows open?”

  “No, but yes, it dissipated or disbursed or faded. How were they financially?”

  “Martin and Kent? I’d say very comfortable.”

  “And Kent’s practice? Successful? Lucrative?”

  “God, it must be dark in a cop’s world.” Louise sighed again. “You have to think maybe someone killed Kent for money. It certainly wouldn’t be Martin, whom I’d assume would benefit most there. Or their kids. Lissa—that’s Melissa Rendi—worked with him, as the practice needed two doctors. She strikes me as a good doctor, but she wouldn’t gain monetarily that I know of.”

  “We’ve met their circle of friends, Dallas,” Charles continued. “I wouldn’t say we know them all intimately, but there isn’t anyone we do know who I can believe would hurt Kent. I know you said it was addressed to him, but could it still be random? Like, Jesus, a name pulled out of a hat.”

  “Yes.”

  But she didn’t think so.

  “Is there anything we can do to help? I could work with Morris if—”

  “Not my call. And not a good idea.”

  “I’m a doctor. I’m a scientist. I can be objective.”

  “He was a friend, and he gave time to your clinic. Better if you keep a step, several of them, back from the investigation. I’ll tell you what I can when I can,” Eve added. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “A man suffered a loss,” Roarke said gently, “from what I’ve heard here, a great one, a deep one. I would think he would welcome the comfort of good friends at such a time.”

  “He’s with his family,” Louise murmured.

  “Isn’t it only blood, just DNA, that separates good friends, true friends, from family?”

  Louise’s eyes filled again. “Yes. Thanks. Yes. We’ll contact him in the morning. I know you probably told us more than you wanted to,” she said to Eve. “It won’t leave this room, I promise you. I’m really grateful. You know my complicated relationship with my own family. Kent—well, Martin, too—they’ve been surrogate fathers to me. Roarke’s right. It’s just DNA.”

  When they left, Eve sat back. “She looked steadier when she walked out. What you said helped.”

  “It all helped. And, as tragic as it is for our friends, it’s a help to you to know and trust two people who appear to have known your victim so well.”

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Now, how can I help you, Lieutenant?”

  She smiled at him. “I thought about that when I was driving home. Not what you could do, but that you’d ask. That you’d make me eat something, probably get some wine into me. You’d listen and offer to help.”

  She angled her head. “Do you think we’re sweet together?”

  “It would entirely depend on what level of sweet, wouldn’t it?”

  “The right level, for us. I say we sometimes hit that. I need to set up the board and book. If you want, you can poke around in the financials—the vic, the spouse, the practice. It’s not going to be the lever, but we need to cross it off.”

  “Poking about in other people’s money? A sweet reward for me.”

  She did all she could do—lab and sweeper and ME reports still pending. And since Peabody had the interviews at the victim’s office set for seven-thirty, she had her schedule for the morning in place.

  Interview, morgue, lab—all before she got to Central. Hopefully, some of the answers she drew in that mix would start clearing a path.

  Who targets a well-liked man, a valued doctor, a loving and loved husband and father for fast, ugly death?

  She’d damn well find out.

  But since she’d done all she could for the night, she decided both she and Roarke had earned one more sweet reward.

  She walked to his adjoining office, where he sat at his command center studying something that might have been written in Greek (nerd qualified, in her opinion).

  “Done, are you?” He glanced over. “As I found nothing helpful, I didn’t interrupt.”

  “What did you find that’s unhelpful?”

  “They’re comfortable—very—as Charles and Louise assumed. The victim’s practice did quite well, and his spouse draws a fine salary with solid benefits. They’ve invested wisely, have a smart estate plan in place. It looks to me as if they planned to retire in about ten years. They enjoyed traveling, and traveled well, and lived within their means. They give a fair and generous portion of their income to charities of their choosing—and I have to say I feel they chose well.

  “No hidden accounts, for either,” he continued, “no nefarious gambling debts or strange purchases. They have trusts set up, as I said, for their children, grandchildren, some generous but not outlandish bequests for people who work for or with them, and have for some time. They’ve left a particular piece of art to Charles and Louise. Other specifics—like a set of cuff links, an antique shaving kit, and such—to people I assume are close friends and would appreciate the memento.”

  One hip cocked, Eve leaned on the doorjamb. “I didn’t ask you to look at his will.”

  “Ah well, once I started, I wanted to do a thorough job. I think I would have liked Dr. Abner.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone. I’m calling it for the night. You?”

  “With you, as always, Lieutenant. I’m just dabbling here—not case related.”

  “It doesn’t look related to anything human,” she said as he disengaged the comp.

&nb
sp; “It is, and isn’t.” He rose. “A Mars Colony thing.”

  “Mars.” She shook her head as they walked out. “You really are trying to corner the universe.”

  “And wouldn’t that be fun? We could spend a weekend on Mars.”

  “Not in this lifetime or any other. Italy worked fine.”

  He slid an arm around her. “It did, yes, and very well.”

  “Your hotel thing there. It’s going to be pretty great. The way it looks old, like it hasn’t changed in a thousand years, but it’s going to have everything.”

  “That’s the plan. Still cool enough for a fire at night,” he said as they walked into the bedroom, and ordered it on.

  The cat already stretched his bulk across the bed as if he owned it. Eve calculated he’d soon stalk away in disgust.

  She sat, pulled off her boots. “You remember how I kept my word on the shuttle to Italy? Banged you like a drum?”

  “I have a very good memory.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  She rose, unhooked her weapon harness, peeled it off. “I think it’s time for a repeat performance.”

  He’d paused in the act of taking off his shirt, smiled slowly. “Do you, now?”

  “I do. Despite ugly death, or maybe due to same, I realized today you need to appreciate what you’ve got when you’ve got it. More, you should grab on to it.”

  She hooked a hand in his waistband, yanked him to her. “I’m grabbing.”

  She took his mouth, dived deep, added a quick little bite at the end. And smiled. “Being an investigator who recognizes evidence, I don’t have to ask if you’re up for it.”

  With a pivot, her foot moving behind his to shift the balance, she had him on his back on the bed.

  The cat, as predicted, leaped off the bed and stalked away.

  “Nice move.”

  After straddling him, she curved down to him. “I got more.”

  And took his mouth again to prove it.

  She wanted heat, and speed, some quick and reckless abandon for both of them. The man who’d waited, worried; the cop who carried fresh weight.

  Here she could show him what she couldn’t always find words for. That her love was boundless, furious, blazing through her so fierce she would always, always fight to hold it, hold him.

  With her body she could give them both a reprieve from whatever tomorrow asked of them.

  She let herself fly into it, not soft and slow, but like an arrow loosed from a bow. Hot-tipped and keen. And when his hands, all too clever and skilled, roamed over her, she stopped them, gripped them tight in hers. And conquered him with only her mouth.

  His lips, his throat, his chest. That heartbeat pounding, pounding as she feasted on warm flesh, on the quiver of strong muscles.

  “You wait,” she managed, ripe with her own power as she released his hands. “You wait.” Undid the buttons to free him.

  And gripping his hands again, used her mouth.

  She destroyed him. Relentless, agile, she destroyed control, layer by layer. Not eroded, he thought, already half mad for her, but simply burned it away like a brushfire.

  The heat, God, the heat was unbearable. Was glorious.

  He fought to hold back, swore he felt the world, the whole of it, turn upside down. She took him to the searing edge, left him there all but shuddering, as she worked her way up his body again.

  At the end, at his limit, he said her name. Like a prayer, a plea, a demand all in one.

  He saw her eyes, just her eyes, tawny as a lion’s with her own power. She said, “You wait.”

  He snapped, and answered, “No.”

  He rolled her over, pinned her. And freed, his hands had their way.

  He ravished, as she had, burned away those layers, as she had. Now he feasted, that lean and limber body his to touch, taste, take. She cried out as she came, a sound that thrilled, pushed him to drive her up again, sweeping her from limp to desperate.

  Now the world spun, stealing the air, blurring the vision until they clung to each other, wrecked and ready.

  When their eyes met, he plunged into her. Fast, rough, with a violence they both craved in the moment, they drove each other to that burning edge, clawed at it to hold the mad pleasure.

  And finally spilled over.

  Breathless, they lay like survivors of the wreck, waiting for sense and sanity to seep back.

  “You said…” She had to pause, pull in more air through still-laboring lungs, then picked her way through something resembling Irish. “What does it mean?”

  She’d mangled it, Roarke thought, but he put it together. “Did I?”

  “Yeah, right before we killed each other.”

  “Apt then. It’s Is mise mo chiall. You’re my madness.”

  She thought it over. “I’m going to say that’s a good thing, under the circumstances.”

  Turning his head, he brushed his lips over her hair. “You unravel me, Eve, in thousands of ways.”

  “I needed to, I don’t know, burn off the day.”

  “I’d say we succeeded there.” He shifted, drew her in so she curled against him. “You’ll sleep.”

  “Yeah.” She closed her eyes, breathed him in, began to drift. “You have lights on all over the house when I come home at night, when I come home late.”

  “To help you find your way.”

  “It’s nice,” she murmured, and slipped into sleep.

  The cat, concluding his spot was once again clear, leaped onto the bed to settle in the small of Eve’s back.

  Yes, Roarke thought, it was very nice.

  * * *

  She woke alone and early, considered trying for another ten, then gave it up. Too much to do, she reminded herself, and stumbled across the room to program coffee.

  The first life-giving gulp got her system going. She gulped more as she headed for the shower.

  Between the coffee, hot jets on full, a quick spin in the drying tube, she felt not only human again but ready to deal with the day. The robe on the back of the door—thin, soft cotton the color of apricots—had to be yet another new one. When she shrugged it on, it felt like she was wrapped up in a cloud.

  The man never missed.

  And there he was, back from whatever predawn meeting he’d scheduled, sitting on the sofa in a perfectly tailored suit the color of moonless midnight offset by a shirt nearly as magical a blue as his eyes. His tie married that blue with paler tones in thin stripes.

  The cat sat with him, content to have his head scratched by those clever fingers while Roarke drank coffee and watched the morning stock reports scroll by on-screen.

  “I thought to wake you, but you got an early start.”

  “A lot going on.” Since he’d programmed a pot, she poured coffee from the table into her mug. “And I may have to browbeat Dickhead for results.”

  Dick Berenski, chief lab tech, had skills—and a thirst for a good bribe.

  “What’ll it be this time?” Roarke wondered as she moved by him into her closet. “Single malt scotch, box seats?”

  “Browbeat,” she repeated from the depths of her closet. “No bribe. If he even hints at one over this, I may have to arrest myself for felony assault.”

  “I’ll stand your bail.”

  In the closet, she thought of the interviews, the morgue, the lab, and all that might ray out from them. Too many clothes, too many choices.

  Why couldn’t everything just be black or brown?

  “If I were interviewing grieving employees and likely family as well,” Roarke said conversationally from the bedroom, “I’d go with somber. But not full black,” he added even as Eve reached for black pants. “I’d leave black to those in mourning.”

  Brown, she thought. Brown was somber. She started to reach for brown pants, pulled back again. Thought, Shit.

  Gray, maybe gray because it was almost black. But not black.

  And she didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  It took longer than it should have, an
d she dressed in the closet to avoid having Roarke exchange one or all of her choices for something else.

  Something, no doubt, better. But still.

  When she stepped out—gray pants, darker gray boots, a thin navy sweater, holding a gray jacket (she’d spotted the navy buttons, the navy leather cuffs on the sleeves, trim on the pockets), he already had breakfast under warming trays.

  “A very somber and dignified choice,” he told her. “And still authoritative and fashionable. Well done.”

  “Bite me.” She tossed the jacket over a chair, strapped on her weapon harness. “It took twice as long as black. You’re wearing a black suit,” she pointed out.

  “Indigo, actually, but close enough. It suits, we’ll say, my day’s agenda.”

  “What planet are you buying?”

  “While not buying Mars, as yet,” he said with a smile, “I do have some business regarding the colony. But prior, I’ll attend the first staff meeting at An Didean later this morning. After which, we’ll have a secondary meeting including some of the staff of Dochas, as we’ll want them working together as needs be.”

  She glanced over. “You could, potentially, have minors who come to Dochas for shelter transferred to the school.”

  “That’s a hope.”

  She sat beside him. “It’s a good thing, an all-around good thing. You said when we were in Italy everything’s on schedule.”

  “And so it is.” He lifted the warmers.

  No oatmeal, Eve noticed—happily. Though she had a feeling the little dish didn’t contain fruit and crunchy stuff over ice cream, but yogurt. Still, the omelets and bacon could make up for it.

  “And Rochelle, she’s working out?”

  “Brilliantly. She’ll mourn her brother for some time yet.” He touched Eve’s hand. “But you gave her and her family closure. She told me during a brief conversation yesterday that she thinks of him when she’s in the school, thinks what a difference it would have made in his life, and how proud he would be she’s a part of it.”