by J. D. Robb
“I had the impression that Mr. Hammett regretted that, that he loved her very much.”
“If he did, why didn’t he push?” Anna demanded, and tears threatened. “She wouldn’t have died alone then, would she? She wouldn’t have been alone.”
Eve drove out of the quiet suburbs, and on impulse she pulled her car over to the curb and slumped down in the seat. She needed to think. Not about Roarke, she assured herself. There was nothing to think about there. That was settled.
On a hunch, she called up her computer at her office and had it get to work on David Angelini. If he was like his father, maybe he had also made a few poor investments. While she was at it, she ordered a run on Randall Slade and the boutique in Rome.
If anything popped up, she would have a scan on the flights from Europe to New York.
Damn it, a woman who had nothing to worry about didn’t leave her warm, dry apartment in the middle of the night.
Stubbornly, Eve retraced all the steps in her head. As she thought it through, she studied the neighborhood. Nice old trees spreading shade, neat postcard-sized yards with one-and two-story fully detached houses.
What would it have been like to have been raised in a pretty, settled community? Would it make you secure, confident, the way being dragged from filthy room to filthy room, from stinking street to stinking street made her jittery, moody?
Maybe there were fathers here who snuck into their little girls’ bedrooms, too. But it was hard to believe it. The fathers here couldn’t smell of bad liquor and sour sweat and have thick fingers that pushed themselves into innocent flesh.
Eve caught herself rocking in the seat and choked back a sob.
She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t remember. She wouldn’t let herself conjure up that face looming over her in the dark, or the taste of that hand clamping over her mouth to smother her screams.
She wouldn’t do it. It had all happened to someone else, some little girl whose name she couldn’t even remember. If she tried to, if she let herself remember it all, she would become that helpless child again and lose Eve.
She laid her head back on the seat and concentrated on calming herself. If she hadn’t been wallowing in self-pity, she would have seen the woman breaking the window at the side of the modified rancher across the street before the first shard fell.
As it was, Eve scowled, asked herself why she’d had to pull over at just this spot. And did she really want the hassle of dealing with intra-jurisdiction paperwork?
Then she thought about the nice family who would come home that night and find their valuables gone.
With a long-suffering sigh, she got out of the car.
The woman was half in and half out of the window when Eve reached her. The security shield had been deactivated by a cheap jammer, available at any electronic outlet. With a shake of her head for the naïveté of suburbanites, Eve tapped the thief smartly on the butt that was struggling to wiggle through the opening.
“Forget your code, ma’am?”
Her answer was a hard donkey-style kick to the left shoulder. Eve considered herself lucky it had missed her face. Still, she went down, crushing some early tulips. The perp popped out of the window like a cork and bolted across the lawn.
If her shoulder hadn’t been aching, Eve might have let her go. She caught her quarry in a flying tackle that sent them both sprawling into a bed of sunny-faced pansies.
“Get your fucking hands off me, or I’ll kill you.”
Eve thought briefly that it was a possibility. The woman outweighed her by a good twenty pounds. To ensure it didn’t happen, she jammed an elbow against the woman’s windpipe and dug for her badge.
“You’re busted.”
The woman’s dark eyes rolled in disgust. “What the hell’s a city cop doing here? Don’t you know where Manhattan is, asshole?”
“Looks like I’m lost.” Eve kept her elbow in place, adding just a little more pressure for her own satisfaction while she pulled out her communicator and requested the closest ’burb cruiser.
chapter six
By the next morning, her shoulder was singing as fiercely as Mavis on a final set. Eve admitted the extra hours she’d put in with Feeney and a night tossing alone in bed hadn’t helped it any. She was leery of anything but the mildest painkillers, and took a single stingy dose before she dressed for the memorial service.
She and Feeney had come across one tasty little tidbit. David Angelini had withdrawn three large payments from his accounts over the last six months, to a grand total of one million six hundred and thirty-two dollars, American.
That was more than three-quarters of his personal savings, and he’d drawn it in anonymous credit tokens and cash.
They were still digging on Randall Slade and Mirina, but so far, they were both clean. Just a happy young couple on the brink of matrimony.
God knew how anybody could be happy on the brink, Eve thought as she located her gray suit.
The damn button on the jacket was still missing, she realized as she started to fasten it. And she remembered Roarke had it, carried it like some sort of superstitious talisman. She’d been wearing the suit the first time she’d seen him—at a memorial for the dead.
She ran a hasty comb through her hair and escaped the apartment and the memories.
St. Patrick’s was bulging by the time she arrived. Uniforms in the best dress blues flanked the perimeter for a full three blocks on Fifth. A kind of honor guard, Eve mused, for a lawyer who cops had respected. Both street and air traffic had been diverted from the usually choked avenue, and the media was thronged like a busy parade across the wide street.
After the third uniform stopped her, Eve attached her badge to her jacket and moved unhampered into the ancient cathedral and the sounds of the dirge.
She didn’t care for churches much. They made her feel guilty for reasons she didn’t care to explore. The scent of candle wax and incense was ripe. Some rituals, she thought as she slipped into a side pew, were as timeless as the moon. She gave up any hope of speaking directly with Cicely Towers’s family that morning and settled down to watch the show.
Catholic rites had gone back to Latin some time in the last decade. Eve supposed it added a kind of mysticism and a unity. The ancient language certainly seemed appropriate to her in the Mass for the Dead.
The priest’s voice boomed out, reaching to the lofty ceilings, and the congregation’s responses echoed after. Silent and watchful, Eve scanned the crowd. Dignitaries and politicians sat with bowed heads. She’d positioned herself just close enough to catch glimpses of the family. When Feeney slipped in beside her, she inclined her head.
“Angelini,” she murmured. “That would be the daughter beside him.”
“With her fiancé on her right.”
“Um-hmm.” Eve studied the couple: young, attractive. The woman was of slight build with golden hair, like her mother. The unrelieved black she wore swept down from a high neck, covered her arms to the wrists, and skimmed her ankles. She wore no veil or shaded glasses to shield her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Grief, simple, basic, and undiluted, seemed to shimmer around her.
Beside her, Randall Slade stood tall, one long arm supporting her shoulders. He had a striking, almost brutally handsome face, which Eve remembered well from the image she’d generated on her computer screen: large jaw, long nose, hooded eyes. He looked big and tough, but the arm around the woman lay gently.
Flanking Angelini’s other side was his son. David stood just a space apart. That sort of body language hinted at friction. He stared straight ahead, his face a blank. He stood slightly shorter than his father, as dark as his sister was fair. And he was alone, Eve thought. Very much alone.
The family pew was completed by George Hammett.
Directly behind were the commander, his wife, and his family.
She knew Roarke was there. She had already glimpsed him once at the end of an aisle beside a teary-eyed blond. Now, when Eve skimmed a glance his way, she saw him lean
down to the woman and murmur something that had her turning her face into his shoulder.
Furious at the quick pang of jealousy, Eve scanned the crowd again. Her eyes met C. J. Morse’s.
“How’d that little bastard manage to get in?”
Feeney, a good Catholic, winced at the use of profanity in church. “Who?”
“Morse—at eight o’clock.”
Shifting his eyes, Feeney spotted the reporter. “A crowd like this, I guess some of the slippery ones could slide through security.”
Eve debated hauling him out just for the satisfaction of it, then decided the scuffle would give him just the kind of attention he craved.
“Fuck him.”
Feeney made a sound like a man who’d been pinched. “Christ Jesus, Dallas, you’re in St. Pat’s.”
“If God’s going to make little weasels like him, she’s going to have to listen to complaints.”
“Have some respect.”
Eve looked back to Mirina, who lifted a hand to her face. “I’ve got plenty of respect,” she murmured. “Plenty.” With this she stepped around Feeney and strode down the side to the exit.
By the time he caught up with her, she was just finishing issuing instructions to one of the uniforms.
“What’s the problem?”
“I needed some air.” Churches always smelled like the dying or the dead to her. “And I wanted to get a jump on the weasel.” Smiling now, she turned to Feeney. “I’ve got the uniforms looking out for him. They’ll confiscate any communication or recording devices he’s got on him. Privacy law.”
“You’re just going to steam him.”
“Good. He steams me.” She let out a long breath, studying the media horde across the avenue. “I’ll be damned if the public has a right to know everything. But at least those reporters are playing by the rules and showing some of that respect you were talking about for the family.”
“I take it you’re done in there.”
“There’s nothing I can do in there.”
“I figured you’d be sitting with Roarke.”
“No.”
Feeney nodded slowly and nearly dug into his pocket for his bag of nuts before he remembered the occasion. “Is that the burr up your butt, kid?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She started to walk without any destination in mind, stopped, and turned around. “Who the hell was that blonde he was wrapped around?”
“I couldn’t say.” He sucked air through his teeth. “She was a looker though. Want me to rough him up for you?”
“Just shut up.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “The commander’s wife said they were having a small, private memorial at their home. How long do you figure this sideshow will take?”
“Another hour, minimum.”
“I’m heading back to Cop Central. I’ll meet you at the commander’s in two hours.”
“You’re the boss.”
Small and private meant there were more than a hundred people packed into the commander’s suburban home. There was food to comfort the living, liquor to dull the grieving. The perfect hostess, Anna Whitney hurried over the moment she spotted Eve. She kept her voice down and a carefully pleasant expression on her face.
“Lieutenant, must you do this now, here and now?”
“Mrs. Whitney, I’ll be as discreet as I possibly can. The sooner I complete the interview stage, the sooner we’ll find Prosecutor Towers’s killer.”
“Her children are devastated. Poor Mirina can barely function. It would be more appropriate if you’d—”
“Anna.” Commander Whitney laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let Lieutenant Dallas do her job.”
Anna said nothing, merely turned and walked stiffly away.
“We said good-bye to a very dear friend today.”
“I understand, Commander. I’ll finish here as quickly as I can.”
“Be careful with Mirina, Dallas. She’s very fragile at the moment.”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps I could speak to her first, privately.”
“I’ll see to it.”
When he left her alone, Eve backed up toward the foyer and turned directly into Roarke.
“Lieutenant.”
“Roarke.” She glanced at the glass of wine in his hand. “I’m on duty.”
“So I see. This wasn’t for you.”
Eve followed his gaze to the blonde sitting in the corner. “Right.” She could all but feel the marrow of her bones turn green. “You move fast.”
Before she could step aside, he put a hand on her arm. His voice, like his eyes, was carefully neutral. “Suzanna is a mutual friend of mine and Cicely’s. The widow of a cop, killed in the line of duty. Cicely put his murderer away.”
“Suzanna Kimball,” Eve said, battling back shame. “Her husband was a good cop.”
“So I’m told.” With the faintest trace of amusement shadowing his mouth, he skimmed a glance down her suit. “I’d hoped you’d burned that thing. Gray’s not your color, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not making a fashion statement. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
The fingers on her arm tightened. “You might look into Randall Slade’s gambling problem. He owes considerable sums to several people. As does David Angelini.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s quite right. I’m one of the several.”
Her eyes hardened. “And you’ve just decided I might be interested.”
“I’ve just discovered my own interest. He’s worked up a rather impressive debt at one of my casinos on Vegas II. Then there’s a matter of a little scandal some years back involving roulette, a redhead, and a fatality on an obscure gaming satellite in Sector 38.”
“What scandal?”
“You’re the cop,” he said and smiled. “Find out.”
He left Eve to go to the cop’s widow and hold her hand.
“I have Mirina in my office,” Whitney murmured at Eve’s ear. “I promised you wouldn’t keep her long.”
“I won’t.” Struggling to smooth the feathers Roarke had ruffled, she followed the commander’s broad back down the hall.
Though his home office wasn’t quite as spartan as the one at Cop Central, it was obvious that Whitney kept his wife’s lush feminine taste at bay here. The walls were a plain beige, the carpet a deeper tone, and the chairs were wide and a practical brown.
His work counter and console were in the center of the room. In the corner by the window, Mirina Angelini waited in her long sweep of mourning black. Whitney went to her first, spoke quietly, and squeezed her hand. With one warning glance at Eve, he left them alone.
“Ms. Angelini,” Eve began. “I knew your mother, worked with her, admired her. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Everyone is,” Mirina responded in a voice as fragile and pale as her white cheeks. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and glassy. “Except the person who killed her, I suppose. I’ll apologize ahead of time if I’m of little help to you, Lieutenant Dallas. I bowed to pressure and let myself be tranq’ed. I am, as anyone will tell you, taking this rather hard.”
“You and your mother were close.”
“She was the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. Why should I have to be calm and composed when I’ve lost her like this?”
Eve came closer, sat in one of the wide brown chairs. “I can’t think of any reason why you should be.”
“My father wants a public show of strength.” Mirina turned her face to the window. “I’m letting him down. Appearances are important to my father.”
“Was your mother important to him?”
“Yes. Their personal and professional lives were twined together. The divorce didn’t change that. He’s hurting.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He won’t show it because he’s too proud, but he’s hurting. He loved her. We all loved her.”
“Ms. Angelini, tell me about your mother’s mood, what you spoke of, who you spoke of, the last time you had contact.”
&
nbsp; “The day before she died we were on the ’link for an hour, maybe more. Wedding plans.” Tears dripped out and spilled over the pale cheeks. “We were both so full of wedding plans. I’d send her transmissions of dresses: wedding dresses, mother-of-the-bride ensembles. Randall was designing them. We talked about clothes. Doesn’t that seem shallow, Lieutenant, that the last time I’ll ever speak with my mother, I spoke of fashion?”
“No, it doesn’t seem shallow. It seems friendly. Loving.”
Mirina pressed a hand to her lips. “Do you think?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What do you talk to your mother about?”
“I don’t have a mother. I never did.”
Mirina blinked, focused again. “How odd. What does it feel like?”
“I . . .” There was no way to describe what simply was. “It wouldn’t be the same for you, Ms. Angelini,” Eve said gently. “When you were speaking to your mother, did she mention anything, anyone who was concerning her?”
“No. If you’re thinking about her work, we rarely talked of it. I wasn’t very interested in the law. She was happy, excited that I was coming over for a few days. We laughed a lot. I know she had this image, her professional image, but with me, with the family she was . . . softer, looser. I teased her about George, saying that Randy could design her wedding dress while he was doing mine.”
“Her reaction?”
“We just laughed. Mama liked to laugh,” she said, a little dreamy now as the tranq began to work. “She said she was having too much fun being mother of the bride to spoil it with the headaches of being a bride herself. She was very fond of George, and I think they were good together. But I don’t suppose she loved him.”
“Don’t you?”
“Why, no.” There was a faint smile on her lips, a glassy gleam to her eyes. “When you love someone, you have to be with them, don’t you? To be part of their life, to have them be part of yours. She wasn’t looking for that with George. With anyone.”
“Was Mr. Hammett looking for that with her?”
“I don’t know. If he was, he was happy enough to let their relationship drift. I’m drifting now,” she murmured. “I don’t feel as though I’m here at all.”
