Promises in Death id-34

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re responsible for his father’s imprisonment, and you’re mine. Anything he could do to hurt you may be worth it to him.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. Could’ve been the little prick’s idea, and execution. He doesn’t like me.”

  “And I’ll bet you were so friendly and polite in your dealings with him.”

  “Nah, I liked pinching at his tight ass. Either way, I mean if it was either of them that set up that stupid ambush, it’ll trip them up. And Alex will be taking up residence in a cage next to his old man’s. I’m working with Mira. In some ways he fits her profile, in others, it’s not quite the right fit. I have to keep looking at her. There’s a connection between Coltraine and her killer, and looking at her may be how to find him. Find him, wrap him up, put him down.”

  “Do you want it to be Alex because of his father?”

  She took time to drink a little wine, consider it. “I hope not, but I can’t discount that element. I know-who’d know better?-that who and what we come from go a long way to forming who we are. Would I be a cop if it wasn’t for what was done to me? What he did to me? Would you be who you are without what was done to you?”

  “It comes down to fate for me, I think. There are choices made, of course, along each step, but part of fate is what we make.”

  She frowned. “That only makes sense if you’re Irish.”

  “Could be. You chose, Eve, the law, the order of it. You could’ve chosen to hide inside the victim instead of standing for others.”

  “I couldn’t be the victim. It wasn’t a choice. I couldn’t be what they’d tried to make me, and live that way. Neither could you. You couldn’t be the kind of man your father was, one who took orders from others, who beat young boys, who killed the innocent.”

  “And enjoyed it.”

  “Yeah, enjoyed it. Your father and mine.” Everything inside her darkened. “And Max Ricker. They got off on the cruelty, and the power it gave them over someone smaller or weaker. So we know a lot about that, you and me-and him. And Alex. We know a lot about that, because it’s in us. You and me, we took different roads, but we never took that one. We never took the cruel for the sake of it. But it’s in us.”

  “And you have to wonder which road Alex took.”

  “He was trained to run his father’s empire. That empire took a major hit last year. But the son developed his own interests, too. He’s got those contacts, that backing, that foundation, and the smarts and know-how to absorb some of his father’s holdings-some that slipped through. To restructure others. He’s crooked, and a cop he used to sleep with is dead.”

  She stabbed a bite of meatball. “Maybe Coltraine was dirty, maybe she wasn’t. But she was involved with him. And maybe, since she’d made her distance there, taken this fresh start, she was working up to some whistle-blowing on him. That’s a good, strong motive to kill her.”

  “But?”

  “But.” She shook her head as she ate. “Where’s her documentation? Feeney and his gang of geeks would’ve detected a wipe, or tampering. I damn well think I’d have detected somebody being in her place and doing that wiping or tampering. But her comps are clear. He’s not as good as you.”

  “Why, thank you, darling.”

  “I’m serious. There’s nothing in his background that leads me to believe he’s that savvy with the e-work. That he’s that damn good he could pull all this off. Get to her, get to her files, and leave nothing. No trace.”

  She stared into her wine as if she might find that trace, that one vital clue swimming in the deep red. “If she was going after him, or she was going to drop the dime there, she’d have documentation. She was a maniac about documentation. Her reports and case notes are fucking textbook. It was her strength.”

  “Kept elsewhere.”

  “Yeah, yeah, shit, like I haven’t thought of that?” Frustrated, she took another sip of wine. “I’ve got nothing that indicates she had a safe house, a bank box, a hidey-hole. Nothing that… Oh fuck me. Fuck me!”

  “Again? Good God, Eve.”

  “Yeah, a riot of laughs.” She pushed her glass into his hand, shoved up. “Morris. She hooks up, falls for Morris. Spends a lot of time with him, a lot of time at his place.”

  “Ah. And may have passcoded and hidden something on one of his units. Or stashed copies of said data among his data discs.”

  “I’m an idiot for not thinking of it.”

  “That would make me an idiot, as I didn’t think of it either. And I’m a bloody genius about these things.” He smiled when she stared at him. “So I’m told.”

  “I’ve got to check it out. I’ve got to-crap, he could be a target, too.”

  “I believe we’re going out,” Roarke said, and set his wine and hers aside.

  From the sidewalk, Eve stared at the windows of Morris’s loft while her stomach clenched. The privacy screens were engaged, and she could see only the faintest glow behind the glass.

  “God, I hate this. He wants to be alone, just wants time and space to grieve, and I’ve got to go in there, pry in there.”

  “A lesser friend would have waited until tomorrow, and sent an EDD contingent in. You’re respecting him and his grief as much as you possibly can.” Roarke took her hand. “I don’t want to put myself in his place, but if I were? I’d want the same.”

  “I promised to tell him the truth, and keep him in the loop. Well, this is the damn loop.” She bore down, walked over, and pressed his buzzer.

  It took time, but she saw the security light go on. She faced the camera. “I’m sorry, Morris, really sorry to disturb you. We need to come up. We need to talk.”

  The only response was the green glow, and the mechanical thunk of the locks being released. They went in, but when she turned to the stairs, the elevator grate opened, and its light went green.

  “Okay then.” She took a breath, stepped in with Roarke.

  When the grate opened again, Morris stood on the other side.

  He looked as he had that afternoon. A little tired, Eve thought, a little more worn, but much the same. The lights of the loft were quiet, as was the music haunting the air.

  “Have you made an arrest?”

  “No. But I need to tug on another line of investigation.”

  He nodded, then seemed to focus on Roarke for the first time. “Please, come in. Both of you.”

  Roarke touched Morris’s arm, just the lightest of contacts. “I wish there were more than words, because they’re never enough, or they’re simply too much. But I’m very sorry.”

  “I’ve been sitting here, in the dark-or near dark-alone, trying to come to terms. Death is my business. It’s a reality, a finality I’ve made into my profession. But I can’t come to terms.”

  “Death is your business,” Roarke said before Eve could comment. “Eve often says the same. I’m on the outside, of course, but I’ve never seen it that way. The truth is your business. Seeking it for those who can’t seek it for themselves is what you’ve made into your profession. She worries for you.”

  “Roarke.”

  “Quiet,” he said to Eve, mildly. “Hurts for you. You mean a great deal to her. To both of us. We’ll do whatever it takes to help find the truth for Amaryllis.”

  “I saw her today.” Morris stepped away, sat-weariness in every movement. “Clip had done all he could. The people in my house, all they could. How many times have I stood there while someone looked on dead love? How many hundreds and hundreds of times? It doesn’t prepare you for when it’s yours. They’ll release her soon. I’ve, ah, cleared it to have her memorial tomorrow, in one of Central’s bereavement suites. At two. Her family will have one next week in Atlanta. I’ll go. And still, it doesn’t seem real.”

  Eve sat on the table in front of him, to face him. “Have you spoken with a grief counselor?”

  “Not yet. I’m not ready for that yet. I should offer you a drink.” When Eve started to shake her head, he continued. “I could use one. I’ve been careful not to, not to use that
to block it out. But I think I could use a drink. There’s brandy on the sideboard.”

  “I’ll get it,” Roarke told him.

  “If not a counselor, would you speak with Mira? A friend?”

  He waited until Roarke came back with a snifter. “Thanks. I don’t know,” he said to Eve. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been thinking of dead love.”

  He drank some brandy, met her eyes. “But here you are,” he murmured. “Did you know I had a brother?”

  “No.”

  “I lost him when I was a boy. He was twelve, and I was ten. We were very close. There was an accident while we were on holiday one summer. He drowned. He wanted to go out, into the ocean early in the morning. We were forbidden, of course. Not without our parents, but we were just boys. He was a strong swimmer, and a daredevil. I worshipped him, as boys do.”

  He sat back, sipped his brandy. “I promised I wouldn’t tell, swore an oath to him. So he let me go with him, and I was so excited and terrified.” The memory brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, to his eyes. “There was little I liked more than when he’d let me in on an adventure. Our father would skin us if he found out, which made it only more thrilling. In we went-warm water, warm waves, with the sun barely up, and the gulls screaming.”

  He closed his eyes, and even that hint of smile vanished. “I wasn’t as strong a swimmer, and couldn’t keep up. He was laughing and teasing me as I thrashed my way back toward shore.

  “Out of breath, eyes stinging from the salt, the sun starting to burn over the water. I remember all that. I can still feel all that. I turned in the shallows, panting, to yell at him to come on, to come back before we got caught.”

  He opened his eyes, looked into Eve’s again. She saw old pain in them.

  “And he was gone. I couldn’t swim back, couldn’t save him. Couldn’t see him. I suppose if I’d tried, if it had occurred to me to do anything but run for my father, I’d have drowned, too.”

  He let out a breath. “So. They said he may have gotten a cramp, or been swamped by a wave, simply tired out, or been caught in an undertow. I wanted to know how and why my brother was dead. I wanted the truth. But they couldn’t tell me.”

  “So you look for it now,” Roarke said.

  “So I look for it now.” He looked at Roarke. “You’re right. The business of truth. I never found it with my brother. I’m not sure I can bear losing someone I love a second time and not know why. Not know the truth.”

  “What was his name?”

  Morris looked up from the brandy, into Eve’s face. For a moment his eyes swam with memories, tears, and gratitude. “Jin. His name was Jin.” He sat forward, gripped Eve’s hand. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re here. You… you’ve hurt your head,” he said abruptly.

  “It’s nothing. Just banged it.”

  “You’re not clumsy.”

  Truth, she remembered, and told him.

  “You’re not considering this may be someone who simply wants to kill or hurt cops?”

  “It doesn’t play that way. Neither incident was random.”

  “No.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “You’re right. You didn’t come here to tell me about this. Why did you?”

  “EDD’s been combing her electronics. Nothing pops, Morris. The investigations she was working on just don’t fit in with murder. There’s nothing in her files, her notes, her personals to give any indication she was in trouble, felt uneasy, had been threatened. There’s only one notation about Ricker-and that’s a memo in her date book that she was meeting AR, at the time and the date he confirms. There’s nothing to indicate she knew she was or had been under the watch of IAB. And she had been.”

  “IAB had investigated her.”

  “They got a tip about her relationship with Ricker, when they were in Atlanta. They had eyes on her, eyes and ears when they could manage it. They lived together, essentially, for well over a year.”

  He kept his eyes steady. “I knew she’d had a serious relationship. She never lied to me about it, or tried to play it down.”

  “Okay. She occasionally traveled with Ricker. Vacation type stuff. He bought her some jewelry. That’s all they had. They never assembled any evidence that it was anything but a personal, a romantic relationship.”

  “And, of course, never just asked her.”

  “Not according to my source.”

  “Which would be Webster, Dallas, I’m not a fool. Have they had her under watch here?”

  “Initially. The relationship with Ricker ended, appeared to end, a couple of months before she requested the transfer. Their contact was minimal after the breakup, and dribbled down to none. But the New York bureau was notified, and took a look at her. Webster said they bumped her down-just nothing there-and they weren’t on her when Ricker contacted her, when he got to New York.”

  “He’s your prime suspect.”

  “He’s a suspect. Prime’s pushing it with what I have. I know he’s crooked. She would have known that, too. Webster’s going to do some digging, and keep a lid on it. He’ll be careful with her, Morris.”

  “IAB, now-it’s-” He broke off, shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. She may have been a source for Alex back in Atlanta. Morris, you know I have to consider that. If she was involved with him, in love with him, she might’ve stepped over the line for him. I have to look there as long as I’m looking at him. And I have to think, either way it was, maybe she took a good hard look at things. After she’d come here, after she had that distance, and you. Maybe she’d started to put things down, thought about putting down details and flipping on him.”

  Both the anger and the fatigue had cleared from his face as he heard her out. “If that’s true, and he found out-”

  “If and if. But there’s nothing on her units. Nothing. She spent a lot of time here. A lot of time with you. Maybe time here when you weren’t.”

  “Yes, depending on our shifts, or if either of us got called in. You think she might have used my comps, tucked something in, because it felt safer. More secure.”

  “I’d like to have my expert consultant here take a look. And, I know it’s weird, but if I could do a search. In case she hid discs or any kind of documentation.”

  “Yes. Please.” He got to his feet. “I’ll make coffee.”

  Morris helped with the search, and Eve thought he seemed more himself-precise, focused-for the doing. She took the kitchen, the living area, leaving him to the bedroom while Roarke concentrated on the office.

  She dug through containers and clear jars, in drawers and behind them. Under tables, cushions, behind art, and through Morris’s extensive music disc collection. She examined every stair tread before going up.

  In the bedroom Morris stood in front of the closet, a filmy white robe in his hands.

  “It smells of her,” he said quietly. “It smells of her.” And hung it up again. “I can’t find anything.”

  “Maybe Roarke’ll have better luck. Can you think of anywhere else she might put something? Hide something?”

  “I can’t. She was friendly but distant with her neighbors. You know how it is. She was closest with her squad. But if she’d given one of them anything, they’d have come to you, or certainly to their lieutenant, with it by now.”

  “Yeah.”

  She blew out a breath. “Maybe there’s nothing here because there’s nothing anywhere.”

  “It feels as though it’s the first thing I’ve done of any consequence, the first I’ve done to help her. Even if it was to find nothing. You believe she crossed the line.”

  “IAB couldn’t prove it.”

  “That’s evasion. You think it.”

  “Truth, Morris? I don’t know.”

  “What did she do with the jewelry he bought her?”

  “She gave it back when they split.”

  He smiled, really smiled, for the first time since she’d come to his door the day before. “That’s who she was, Dallas.”

  She brooded ab
out it on the drive home. “Waste of three hours. Nothing. Nothing there. If we couldn’t find anything between us, there’s nothing there. Wasted time.”

  “It wasn’t, and far from it. He looked alive again when we left. In pain, in sorrow, but alive.” Roarke reached out to cover her hand. “Not wasted time.”

  11

  BACK IN HER HOME OFFICE, SHE RAN THE SECUrity discs. She watched Rod Sandy, carrying a briefcase, exit the elevator, cross the lobby, exit the building at eleven-twenty-six the morning after Coltraine’s murder.

  He looked grim.

  “Favor,” she said to Roarke, “do a search on the time the first media reports of Coltraine’s murder hit.”

  While Roarke obliged, she continued the run, watched people come and go. None exited-according to the elevator readout-on the penthouse levels until Sandy returned at twelve-oh-eight.

  “The first bulletin hit at ten-fifty-three on ANN,” Roarke said, referring to All News Network. “Broad sweep reports followed on every major station by eleven.”

  “Quick work,” Eve muttered. “That’s quick work if Sandy carried discs and anything incriminating or questionable out with him-which he damn well did-to another location.”

  “He wouldn’t have taken his unregistered out across a public lobby.”

  “No.” She switched to elevator security. Again she saw Sandy step in, ride down, get off. Others took the car to other floors. Then the screen went blank and black. “What the-is that the disc or my equipment?”

  “Neither. The security cam shut down. Was shut down,” Roarke corrected. “No blip, no static, no jump such as you’d get if there was a malfunction. The building would have a basement, utility areas, a delivery entrance.”

  “Delivery entrance on the cross street.” Eve shifted to that disc. “Son of a bitch, coordinated shutdown. Smooth. Even if I dig up a wit from the building, or the buildings across the street that saw loading and unloading, it proves nothing. Still…”

  “He’d need a vehicle-truck or… a van to move the equipment.”

  “And to carry the new furniture in. He wouldn’t have used a stolen van,” she added, in response to Roarke’s unspoken question. “Furniture delivery truck maybe. He owns an antique store on Madison, and another downtown. Maybe I get somebody to ID it, and say, ‘Yeah, I saw these guys carting out boxes, carting in a dresser,’ it’s not evidence. But this tells me he took care of business the morning after Coltraine was killed. He covered his ass.”