by J. D. Robb
“Mrs. Clooney.” Eve sat, leaning forward in an attitude that invited trust and confidence. “I want to help him. I want to get him the kind of help he needs. Where would he go?”
“I just don’t know. I would have once.” She took a tattered tissue from her pocket. “He stopped talking to me, stopped letting me in. At first, when Thad was killed, we clung together, we grieved together. He was the most wonderful young man, our Thad.”
She looked toward a photograph, in a frame of polished silver, of a young man in full dress uniform. “We were so proud of him. When we lost him, we held on tight, to each other, to that love and pride. We shared that love and pride with his wife and sweet baby. It helped, having our grandchild close by.”
She rose, picked up another photograph. This time Thad posed with a smiling young woman and a round-cheeked infant. “What a lovely family they made.”
Her fingers brushed lovingly over the faces before she set the photograph down again, sat.
“Then, a few weeks after we lost Thad, Art began to change, to brood and snap. He wouldn’t share with me. He wouldn’t go to Mass. We argued, then we stopped even that. Existing in this house,” she said, looking around at the familiar, the comforting, as if it all belonged to strangers, “instead of living in it.”
“Do you remember, Mrs. Clooney, when that change in your husband began?”
“Oh, nearly four months ago. Doesn’t seem like a long time, I suppose, when you think of more than thirty years together. But it felt like forever.”
The timing worked, Eve calculated, slid the puzzle piece of the first murder into place.
“Some nights he wouldn’t come home at all. And when he did, he slept in Thad’s old room. Then he moved out. He told me he was sorry. That he had to set things right before he could be a husband to me again. Nothing I could say could change his mind. And God forgive me, at that point I was so tired, so angry, so empty inside, I didn’t care that he was going.”
She pressed her lips together, blinked away the tears. “I don’t know where he is or what he’s done. But I want my husband back. If I knew anything that would make that happen, I’d tell you.”
Eve left, canvassed the neighborhood, talked to neighbors, and was given nothing but a picture of puzzled disbelief. Clooney had been a good friend, a loving husband and father, a trusted member of the community.
No one had heard from him—or would admit to it.
“Do you believe them?” Peabody asked as they headed back to the city.
“I believe his wife. She’s too afraid and confused to lie. He knows we’d cover the house. Friends and relatives. He’s not stupid enough to go to any knowns, but I had to check. We’ll go back to Central, run through his data again. Maybe something will click.”
But two hours through, and nothing had. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, thought about more coffee, then opened them and saw Mira in the doorway.
“You’re overdoing it, Eve.”
“My back’s to the wall. I’m sorry, did we have a meeting?”
“No, but I thought you could use my professional opinion on Clooney at this point.”
“Yeah, I could.” She glanced around, sighed. “This place is a dump. I wouldn’t let the cleaning crew in the last few days. Security clearances aren’t enough right now.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Mira made herself comfortable with a hip on the side of Eve’s desk. “I don’t believe he has, or can, change his agenda. He’ll still be focused on you, which means he’ll stay close.”
“He said he wouldn’t kill another cop, too. But he sure didn’t hesitate to slice that knife into Webster.”
“That was impulse rather than calculated. He wanted you, and even then he would have considered it self-defense. You were coming for him. You and a member of Internal Affairs. I believe he’s still in the city, still using whatever considerable skill he has to observe and regroup. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’d do if I’d decided I had to end something, would die trying.” She’d thought it over carefully, in one of her journeys into Clooney’s head. “He means to die, doesn’t he, Doctor?”
“Yes, I think so. He’ll give you until the stated deadline, and if you don’t prove yourself to his satisfaction, he’ll try to kill you. He may finish this by an attempted assassination of Ricker, then he will, almost certainly, self-terminate. He will not be able to face his wife, his colleagues, his priest. But he will face his son.”
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
She intended to go straight home. She’d called the hospital to check on Webster and was told there was no change. But, as with Clooney’s wife, she had to check for herself.
She strode down the corridor toward ICU, dreading every step. Hating the scent, the sound, the feel of the hospital. When the nurse on duty demanded if she was family, she didn’t hesitate. She lied.
And moments later found herself in the narrow cubicle, made smaller by the bed and machines, looking down on Webster’s white face.
“Well, this is just dandy, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you this was going to piss me off? You know how bad it makes me look for you to be lying here, taking the easy way? Damn it, Webster.”
She broke down and laid a hand over his. Cold, she thought. His was too cold. “You think I have time for this? I’m up to my ears in work, and instead of lending a hand, you’re just stretched out hiding in a coma. You’d better get up off your ass.”
She leaned down, spoke clear and strong into his face. “You hear me, you bastard? You’d better get up off your ass, because I’ve had too many cops die on my watch just lately. I’m not letting you add to the number. And if you think I’ll put a posy on your grave and shed a tear, you are wrong, pal. I’ll spit on it.”
She squeezed his hand, waited for a response that didn’t come. “Jerk,” she muttered, with more affection than she’d realized she had for him.
She turned away, came to a skidding halt when she saw Roarke at the door. A thousand thoughts jumbled into her head, and not a single one of them came through clearly.
“I thought you might drop by here.”
“I was just . . .” Her hands found her pockets on the end of a shrug.
“Trying to help a friend,” he finished and crossed to her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, touched his lips to her forehead. The gesture was very gentle, very supportive, and very married. “Do you think I begrudge that?”
“I guess not. It’s a . . . the situation is a little weird, that’s all.”
“Do you want to stay with him awhile longer?”
“No. I said what I came to say.” But she glanced back. “When he comes out of this, I’m going to kick his ass just for the hell of it.”
“I’ll hold your coat.” Roarke slipped an arm around her. “Let’s go home, Lieutenant. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
It was busy and went by too quickly. From her station in Security Control, she was able to watch any and every section of the club on-screen.
She argued about the lights—too dim—but he hadn’t changed them. She sniped about the music—too loud—but he’d gone his own way there, as well. Now she saw she’d missed one more angle to hassle him over.
The crowd.
She hadn’t anticipated the number of people who’d pour in, jam in, elbow in for the club’s reopening. She went on slow burn, realizing that Roarke would have anticipated it.
“We don’t have enough cops,” she said to Feeney. “He hasn’t been open an hour, and they’re packed in like he’s offering free drinks and group sex to every second customer.”
“Might be he is. He’s got a way with drumming up business. We’re okay, Dallas. This security setup’ll handle it. Look there, we got a joker in sector two, table six, spiking his lady’s drink. A little Exotica’d be my guess.”
“Let Roarke’s security handle that kind of thing.” She rested a hand on Feeney’s shoulder as they both watched the screen. “I
don’t want police interference in the routine.” And she wanted to see just how good his security was.
Damn good, she decided, when within thirty seconds a large man in a black suit strolled up to the table in question, confiscated the drink, and lifted the offender out of his chair in one smooth move.
“Slick and quiet,” Feeney commented. “That’s the way to keep things steady.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like the whole deal. Too much can go wrong.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. You just got the heebie-jeebies.”
“The what?”
“Ants in your pants, nervous twitters.”
“Damn it, Feeney, I’ve never twittered in my life.”
“Doing it now,” he said solemnly. But there was a chuckle in his tone. “The man can handle himself, Dallas. Nobody better.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s what worries me.” On-screen, she picked Roarke out easily, watched him move through the crowd as if his biggest concern was the cut of his suit.
And she was two floors up, and breaking a sweat.
Because she was two floors up, she admitted. She’d have felt better, been cooler, if she’d been down in the action. Like Peabody, she thought, idling at the bar in plain clothes.
“Peabody, you read?”
At the bar, Peabody gave a barely perceptible nod as Eve’s voice hummed in her ear.
“That better be a soft drink you’re guzzling.”
Then came the smirk.
For some reason, it made Eve feel better.
The buzzer sounded at the door. With one hand on her weapon, she stepped over, checked the security screen. Disengaging locks, she opened it.
“Martinez, you’re away from your station.”
“There’s time. Can I have a minute? I didn’t have the chance to say it before,” she continued, lowering her voice. “And if things go the way we want, there won’t be time after. I want to thank you for bringing me in on this.”
“You earned it.”
“You better believe it. But you didn’t have to bring me in. You ever need a favor from me or my squad, you’ll have it.”
“Acknowledged and appreciated.”
“Thought you’d like to know the word on Roth, too. She’s getting slapped on record. They’re sending in an evaluator, and she’s going to be required to submit to counseling. She gets a six-month probationary period before they decide if she keeps her command.”
It was a hard knock for a woman like Roth, Eve mused. But . . . “Could’ve been a lot worse for her.”
“Yeah. Some were betting she’d just toss in and resign. But no way. She’ll tough it out.”
“Yeah, I think she will. Now, if we’ve finished our gossip session, get back to your station.”
Martinez flashed a grin. “Yes, sir.”
Eve secured the door again and returned to the screens. She started to sit, to settle, then tensed. “God. Why didn’t I think of it? That’s Mavis. Mavis and Leonardo.” Going with the gut, or the heart, she switched to Roarke’s channel.
“Mavis just walked in. She and Leonardo are moving through section five. Get rid of them. Make them go home.”
“I’ll take care of them,” was his murmured response, and all she could do was stand by helplessly.
“Roarke!” Mavis gave a squeal of delight, and launched herself, decked out in swirl of blue feathers over a gold body paint job, into his arms. “The place is mag! Even more mag than before! Where’s Dallas? Isn’t she here for the big night?”
“She’s working.”
“Oh, bum-time. Well, we’ll keep you company. Listen to that band! They’re incendiary. Can’t wait to dance.”
“You’ll have a better view from the second level.”
“Lots of action down here.”
“There, too.” He’d never get them out, not without an explanation. But he could calm Eve’s nerves by moving them as far away as possible. “Rue?” He signaled his manager. “These are friends of mine. Get them the best table on the second level. Their tab’s on the house.”
“That’s gracious of you.” Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. “And unnecessary.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ve got some business to see to shortly. When it’s done, I’ll come up and join you for a drink.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet. We’ll see you upstairs later.”
When he was sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. “Keep an eye on them. Make certain they’re tucked up until this is played out.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied.
Onstage, the dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric blue mist crawled over the floor.
Prowling around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.
Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.
He hadn’t come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.
They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying miniscanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.
They would find only what he’d elected to have them find.
Ignoring them, he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.
“Okay,” Eve said from her station. “Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge, everyone to move into first position. Let’s do this right.”
And where before she’d sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. “Feeney, give me a weapons check. I want to know who’s carrying and how many.”
“Already coming through.”
And so, she thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.
“It’s been awhile,” Roarke said.
Ricker’s lips curved, just at the corners. “Quite a long while.” He looked away from Roarke just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. “Impressive,” he said with the slightest hint of boredom. “But a strip club is still a strip club, however it’s trimmed.”
“And business is still business.”
“I’d heard you’ve had a little trouble with yours.”
“Nothing that hasn’t been dealt with.”
“Really? You lost a few of your clients last year.”
“I did some . . . restructuring.”
“Ah yes. A wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife.”
“Leave my wife out of it.”
“Difficult, if not impossible.” It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of tension in Roarke’s voice. There’d been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn’t have shown. “But we can discuss just what you’re willing to trade for that kind of consideration.”
As with an effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. “We’ll use my booth. I’ll buy you a drink.”
As he started to turn, one of Ricker’s guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man’s thumb, and jerked it backward.
Too much weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.
“Do that again, and I’ll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you.” His eyes went back to Ricker’s. “And you know it.”
“I’m glad to see at least that much hasn’t changed.” Ricker gestured his man back. “But you can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions.”
“Have one of the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn’t satisfy, fuck yourself. It’s my place now.”
A muscle in Ricker’s cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he nodded. “I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as you say, it’s your place. For the moment.”
&nbs
p; “All right,” Eve said. “They’re moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system’s going to override their scan.”
“It overrode mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled.” He swiveled toward a secondary monitor. “Look, see, their sweep’s coming up clean, getting just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we’ll settle us down for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation.”
“Peabody,” Eve said, reading off the weapons scan. “Your man is left end of the bar, mixed race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He’s armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?”
At Peabody’s nod, she continued. “Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range, but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered. Martinez, your man is . . .”
“Your droid squad stays out of the booth,” Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. “I don’t talk business with an audience.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut behind him.
He had what he wanted now, what he’d planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up Ricker’s left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome face.
“Hell of a view,” he commented as the dancers spun onstage. “You always did have a taste for women. A weakness for them.”
“True enough. As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife.”
“Did I?” Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he’d been itching for. So very long. “How careless of me. Does she know we’re having this conversation, or does she let you keep your balls now and then?”
Roarke took out his cigarettes, tapping one on the table as he met Ricker’s sneer. An inner struggle showed on his face and made Ricker laugh. Then Roarke turned to the menu. “Whiskey,” he ordered, lifted a brow.
“The same, for old times’ sake.”
“Two whiskeys. Jameson’s. Doubles, and straight up.” Then he sat back, lighted the cigarette. “And I’ll say this straight up, and that’s for old times’ sake as well. My marriage stays out of your reach.”
