J D Robb - Dallas 12I

by [Ss] Interlude In Death(lit)

  "She sort of sees it," Peabody added helpfully. "Not like a psychic or anything. She just walks it through with the killer. Really mag."

  "Okay, Peabody. She was a tool," Eve continued. "No more, no less. The same as Weeks was a tool. She probably joined the force to honor her father, and he used that, just as he's using Roarke's father to get to him. They don't mean anything to him as people, as flesh and blood. They're just steps and stages in his twenty-three-year war."

  "Maybe not tools, then," Darcia countered, "but soldiers. To some generals they are just as dispensable. Excuse us, Officer Peabody, if you please."

  "Yes, ma'am. Sir."

  "I want an apology." She saw Eve wince, and smiled. "Yes, I know it'll hurt, so I want one. Not for pursuing a line of investigation, and so on. For not trusting me."

  "I've known you less than twenty-four hours," Eve began, then winced again. "All right, shit. I apologize for not trusting you. And I'll go one better. For not respecting your authority."

  "Accepted. I'm going to have the body taken to the ME, as a probable homicide. Your aide is very well trained."

  "She's good," Eve agreed, since Peabody wasn't around to hear and get big-headed about it. "And getting better."

  "I missed the date, the significance, and I shouldn't have. I believe I would have seen these things once my annoyance with you had ebbed a bit, but that's beside the point. Now, I need to question Roarke regarding his conversation with the commander this morning, and regarding his association with Zita Vinter. To keep my official records clean, you are not included in this interview. I would appreciate it, however, if you'd remain and lead my team through the examination of the crime scene."

  "No problem."

  "I'll keep this as brief as I can, as I imagine both you and Roarke would like to go back and get out of those damp, dirty clothes." She tugged the sleeve of Eve's jacket as she passed. "That used to be very attractive."

  "She was easier on me than I'd've been on her," Eve admitted as she rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders. She'd hit the floor under Roarke harder than she'd realized and figured she should take a look at the bruises.

  After a long, hot shower.

  Since Roarke's response to her statement was little more than a grunt as they rode up to their suite, she took his measure. He could use some cleaning up himself, she thought. He'd ditched the ruined jacket, and the shirt beneath it had taken a beating.

  She wondered if her face was as dirty as his.

  "As soon as we clean up," she began as she stepped out of the elevator and into the parlor. And that was as far as she got before she was pressed up against the elevator doors with his mouth ravaging hers.

  Half her brain seemed to slide out through her ears. "Whoa. What?"

  "Another few seconds." With his hands gripping her shoulders and his eyes hot he looked down at her. "We wouldn't be here."

  "We are here."

  "That's right." He jerked the jacket halfway down her arms, savaged her neck. "That's damn right. Now let's prove it." He stripped the jacket away, ripped her shirt at the shoulder. "I want my hands on you. Yours on me."

  They already were. She tugged and tore at his ruined shirt, and because her hands were busy, used her teeth on him.

  Less than a foot inside the room, they dragged each other to the floor. She rolled with him, fighting with the rest of his clothes, then arching like a bridge when his mouth clamped over her breast.

  Need, deep and primal, gushed through her until she moaned his name. It was always his name. She wanted more. More to give, more to take. Her fingers dug into him -- hard muscle, damp flesh. The scent of smoke and death smothered under the scent of him so that it filled her with the fevered mix of love and lust that he brought to her.

  He couldn't get enough. It seemed he never could, or would. All of the hungers, the appetites and desires he'd known paled to nothing against the need he had for her -- for everything she was. The strength of her, physical and that uniquely tensile morality, enraptured him. Challenged him.

  To feel that strength tremble under him, open for him, merge with him, was the wonder of his life.

  Her breathing was short, shallow, and he heard it catch, release on a strangled gasp when he drove her over the first peak. His own blood raged as he crushed his mouth to hers again, and plunged inside her.

  All heat and speed and desperation. The sound of flesh slapping, sliding against flesh mixed with the sound of ragged breathing.

  She heard him murmuring something -- the language of his youth, so rarely used, slid exotically around her name. The pressure of pleasure built outrageously inside her, a glorious burn in the blood as he drove her past reason with deep, hard thrusts.

  She clung, clung to the edge of it. Then his eyes were locked on hers, wild and blue. Love all but swamped her.

  "Come with me." His voice was thick with Ireland. "Come with me now."

  She held on, and on, watching those glorious eyes go blind. Held on, and on while his body plunged in hers. Then she let go, and went with him.

  Sex, Eve had discovered, could, when it was done right, benefit body, mind, and spirit. She hardly bitched at all about having to dress up to meet with Belle Skinner at a ladies' tea. Her body felt loose and limber, and while the dress Roarke handed her didn't fit her image of cop, the weapon she snugged on under the long, fluid jacket made up for it.

  "Are you intending to blast some of the other women over the watercress sandwiches and petit fours?" he asked.

  "You never know." She looked at the gold earrings he held out, shrugged, then put them on. "While I'm swilling tea and browbeating Belle Skinner, you can follow up on a hunch for me. Do some digging, see if Hayes was connected to any of the downed cops under Skinner's command during the botched bust. Something there too close for employer/employee relations."

  "All right. Shoes."

  She stared at the needle-thin heels and flimsy straps. "Is that what you call them? How come guys don't have to wear death traps like those?"

  "I ask myself that same question every day." He took a long scan after she'd put them on. "Lieutenant, you look amazing."

  "Feel like an idiot. How am I supposed to intimidate anyone dressed in this gear?"

  "I'm sure you'll manage."

  "Ladies' tea," she grumbled on the way out. "I don't know why Angelo can't just haul the woman in to her cop shop and deal."

  "Don't forget your rubber hose and mini-stunner."

  She smirked over her shoulder as she stepped onto the elevator. "Bite me."

  "Already did."

  The tea was already under way when Eve walked in. Women in flowy dresses, and some -- Jesus -- in hats, milled about and gathered under arbors of pink roses or spilled out onto a terrace where a harpist plucked strings and sang in a quavery voice that instantly irritated Eve's nerves.

  Tiny crustless sandwiches and pink frosted cakes were arranged on clear glass platters. Shining silver pots steamed with tea that smelled, to Eve, entirely too much like the roses.

  At such times she wondered how women weren't mortified to be women.

  She tracked down Peabody first and was more than slightly amazed to see her stalwart aide decked out in a swirly flowered dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat with trailing ribbons.

  "Jeez, Peabody, you look like a -- what is it -- milkmaid or something."

  "Thanks, Dallas. Great shoes."

  "Shut up. Run down Mira. I want her take on Skinner's wife. The two of you hang close while Angelo and I talk to her."

  "Mrs. Skinner's out on the terrace. Angelo just walked in. Wow, she's got some great DNA."

  Eve glanced back, nodded to Angelo. The chief had chosen to wear cool white, but rather than flowing, the dress clung to every curve.

  "On the terrace," Eve told her. "How do you want to play it?"

  "Subtly, Lieutenant. Subtle's my style."

  Eve lifted her brows. "I don't think so."

  "Interview style," Darcia said and breezed onto
the terrace. She stopped, poured tea, then strolled to the table where Belle was holding court. "Lovely party, Mrs. Skinner. I know we all want to thank you for hosting this event. Such a nice break from the seminars and panels."

  "It's important to remember that we're women, not just wives, mothers, career professionals."

  "Absolutely. I wonder if Lieutenant Dallas and I might have a private word with you? We won't take up much of your time."

  She laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the women seated at the table. Subtle, Eve thought. And effective, as the woman rose to give Darcia her chair.

  "I must tell you how much I enjoyed the commander's keynote this morning," Darcia began. "So inspiring. It must be very difficult for him, and you, to deal with the convention after your tragic loss."

  "Douglas and I both believe strongly in fulfilling our duties and responsibilities, whatever our personal troubles. Poor Reggie." She pressed her lips together. "It's horrible. Even being a cop's wife for half a century... you never get used to the shock of violent death."

  "How well did you know Weeks?" Eve asked.

  "Loss and shock and sorrow aren't connected only to personal knowledge, Lieutenant." Belle's voice went cool. "But I knew him quite well, actually. Douglas and I believe in forming strong and caring relationships with our employees."

  Likes Angelo, Eve thought. Hates me. Okay, then. "I guess being full of shock and sorrow is the reason you eavesdropped from your bedroom instead of coming out when we notified Commander Skinner that one of his security team had been murdered."

  Belle's face went very blank and still. "I don't know what you're intimating."

  "I'm not intimating, I'm saying it straight out. You were in the spare room -- not the master with the commander. I know you were awake, because your light was on. You heard us relay the information, but despite this close, personal relationship, you didn't come out to express your shock and loss. Why is that, Mrs. Skinner?"

  "Dallas, I'm sure Mrs. Skinner has her reasons." Darcia put a light sting of censure in her voice, then turned a sympathetic smile to Belle. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Skinner. The lieutenant is, quite naturally, on edge just now."

  "There's no need for you to apologize, Chief Angelo. I understand, and sympathize -- to an extent -- Lieutenant Dallas's desire to defend and protect her husband."

  "Is that what you're doing?" Eve tossed back. "How far would you go? How many close, personal relationships are you willing to sacrifice? Or didn't you have one with Zita Vinter?"

  "Zita?" Belle's shoulders jerked, as if from a blow. "What does Zita have to do with any of this?"

  "You knew her?"

  "She's our godchild, of course I... Knew?" Every ounce of color drained out of the lovely face so that the expertly applied enhancements stood out like paint on a doll. "What's happened?"

  "She's dead," Eve said flatly. "Murdered early this morning, a few hours after Weeks."

  "Dead?Dead?" Belle got shakily to her feet, upending her teacup as she floundered for balance. "I can't -- I can't talk to you now."

  "Want to go after her?" Darcia asked when Belle rushed from the terrace.

  "No. Let's give her time to stew. She's scared now. Over what she knows and what she doesn't know." She looked back at Darcia. "We had a pretty good rhythm going there."

  "I thought so. But I imagine playing the insensitive, argumentative cop comes naturally to you."

  "Just like breathing. Let's blow this tea party and go get a drink." Eve signaled to Peabody and Mira. "Just us girls."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the bar, in a wide, plush booth, Eve brooded over a fizzy water. She'd have preferred the good, hard kick of a Zombie, but she wanted a clear head more than the jolt.

  "You've got a smooth, sympathetic style," she said to Darcia. "I think she'll talk to you if you stay in that channel."

  "So do I."

  "Dr. Mira here, she's got the same deal. You'd be able to double-team her." Eve glanced toward Mira, who was sipping white wine.

  "She was shocked and shaken," Mira began. "First, she'll verify the information about the death of her godchild. When she does, grief will tangle with the shock."

  "So, she'll be even more vulnerable to the right questions presented in the right style."

  "You're a cold one, Dallas," Darcia said. "I like that about you. I'd be very agreeable to interviewing Belle Skinner with Dr. Mira, if that suits the doctor."

  "I'm happy to help. I imagine you intend to talk to Skinner again, Eve."

  "With the chief's permission."

  "Don't start being polite now," Darcia told her. "You'll ruin your image. He won't want to talk to you," she went on. "Whatever his feelings toward you were before, my impression is -- after his keynote -- he's wrapped you and Roarke together. He hates you both."

  "He brought us up at his keynote?"

  "Not by name, but by intimation. His inspiring, rather cheerleader-type speech took a turn at the midway point. He went into a tangent on cops who go bad, who forget their primary duties in favor of personal comforts and gains. Gestures, body language..." Darcia shrugged. "It was clear he was talking about this place -- luxury palaces built on blood and greed, I believe he said -- and you. Bedfellows of the wicked. He got very worked up about it, almost evangelical. While there were some who appeared enthusiastic and supportive of that particular line of thought, it seemed to me the bulk of the attendees were uncomfortable -- embarrassed or angry."

  "He wants to use his keynote to take slaps at me and Roarke, it doesn't worry me." But Eve noticed Peabody staring down into her glass. "Peabody?"

  "I think he's sick." She spoke quietly, finally lifted her gaze. "Physically, mentally. I don't think he's real stable. It was hard to watch it happen this morning. He started out sort of, well, eloquent, then it just deteriorated into this rant. I've admired him all my life. It was hard to watch," she repeated. "A lot of the cops who were there stiffened up. You could almost feel layers of respect peeling away. He talked about the murder some, how a young, promising man had become a victim of petty and soulless revenge. How a killer could hide behind a badge instead of being brought to justice by one."

  "Pretty pointed," Eve decided.

  "A lot of the terrestrial cops walked out then."

  "So he's probably a little shaky now himself. I'll take him," Eve said. "Peabody, you track down Feeney, see what other details you can dig out on the two victims and anyone else on-site who's connected with the bust in Atlanta. That fly with you, Chief Angelo?"

  Darcia polished off her wine. "It does."

  Eve detoured back to the suite first. She wanted a few more details before questioning Skinner again. She never doubted Roarke had already found them.

  He was on the 'link when she got there, talking to his head of hotel security. Restless, Eve wandered out onto the terrace and let her mind shuffle the facts, the evidence, the lines of possibilities.

  Two dead. Both victims' fathers martyred cops. And those connected to Roarke's father and to Skinner. Murdered in a world of Roarke's making, on a site filled with police officials. It was so neat, it was almost poetic.

  A setup from the beginning? It wasn't a crime of impulse but something craftily, coldly planned. Weeks and Vinter had both been sacrifices, pawns placed and discarded for the greater game. A chess game, all right, she decided. Black king against white, and her gut told her Skinner wouldn't be satisfied with a checkmate.

  He wanted blood.

  She turned as Roarke stepped out. "In the end, destroying you won't be enough. He's setting you up, step by step, for execution. A lot of weapons on this site. He keeps the pressure on, piles up the circumstantial so there's enough appearance that you might have ordered these hits. All he needs is one soldier willing to take the fall. I'm betting Hayes for that one. Skinner doesn't have much time to pull it off."

  "No, he doesn't," Roarke agreed. "I got into his medical records. A year ago he was diagnosed with a rare disorder. It's complicated, but the best I c
an interpret, it sort of nibbles away at the brain."

  "Treatment?"

  "Yes, there are some procedures. He's had two -- quietly, at a private facility in Zurich. It slowed the process, but in his case... He's had complications. A strain on the heart and lungs. Another attempt at correction would kill him. He was given a year. He has, perhaps, three months of that left. And of that three months, two at the outside where he'll continue to be mobile and lucid. He's made arrangements for self-termination."