He turned slowly, and his face was cold, and set. "I never mistake who you are, or who you're not."
"I don't need your kind of justice because I survived what happened to me, and made my own."
"And you cry in your sleep, and shake from the nightmares."
She was close to shaking now, but she wouldn't cry. Tears wouldn't help either of them. "What you're thinking about won't change that. Bring in whoever Feeney agrees to. I have to work."
"Wait." He walked to his own dresser, opened a drawer. He was angry, as she was, and wished he knew how they'd so seamlessly turned from intimacy to temper. He took out the small, framed photograph he'd placed there, then walked over to hand it to Eve.
She saw a pretty young woman with red hair and green eyes, healing bruises on her face, and a splint on the finger of a hand she held against the boy.
The gorgeous little boy with the Celtic blue eyes who had his cheek pressed against the woman's. Against his mother's.
Roarke and his mother.
"There was nothing I could do for her. If I'd known... I didn't, so that's that. She was dead before I was old enough to fix her face in my memory. I couldn't even give her that much."
"I know it hurts you."
"It isn't about that. They knew about him. The HSO, Interpol, all the global intel organizations. They knew about Patrick Roarke long before he traveled to Dallas to meet with Richard Troy. But she, the woman who birthed me, the woman he murdered and tossed away didn't even merit a footnote in their files. She was nothing to them, as a small, helpless child in Dallas was nothing to them."
She hurt for him, for herself, and for a woman she'd never met. "You couldn't save her, and I'm sorry. You couldn't save me, and I'm not. I'm good at saving myself. I'm not going to argue with you about this because it doesn't fix anything. We've both got a lot of work to do."
She set the photo on his dresser. "You should leave this out. She was beautiful."
But when Eve left the room, he put the photo away. It was still too painful to look at those images for long.
***
They gave each other a wide berth, working in their separate areas late into the night. Sleeping, for once, with a sea of bed between them and neither attempting to bridge it. In the morning, they circled around the distance that had spread between them, carefully avoiding each other's territory, and cautious of their moves when that territory overlapped.
She knew Reva Ewing and Tokimoto were in the house, and was leaving them to Feeney while she bunkered in her office, waiting for Peabody and McNab to get in.
She could focus on the work at hand for long periods, running her probabilities, then sifting through data to create other scenarios. She could study her murder board, and reconstruct the crimes, the motives, the methods from what evidence she had and begin to see a picture.
But she only had to shift that evidence to one side and a different picture formed.
And if her concentration wavered, even for an instant, there was yet another image. One of herself and Roarke on opposing sides of a bottomless chasm.
She hated that her personal life interfered with work. Hated more that she couldn't stop it from creeping into her thoughts when she needed to train them on the job.
And what was she upset about, really? she asked herself as she stalked back into the kitchen yet again for coffee. That Roarke wanted to hunt up and bloody some HSO agent she didn't even know? She was fighting with him, and just because they weren't yelling and slamming around didn't mean they weren't fighting still.
She'd figured out that much of the marriage game.
They were fighting because he had a rage like a trapped tiger about what had been done to her as a child. Layered over it, sharpening the claws and teeth of the trapped tiger was the rage over what had happened to his mother.
Brutality, violence, neglect. Christ knew they'd both lived with it and survived. Why couldn't they live with it still?
She shoved through the kitchen door to stand on the little terrace beyond, and just breathe.
And how did she live with it? The work-and, yes, sometimes she used the work until it dragged her down to exhaustion, even misery, but she needed what it gave her, through the process, through the results. Standing not just over the victim but for the victim, and working to find whatever balance the system allowed. Even hating the system from time to time when that balance didn't meet her own standards.
But you could respect something, even when you hated it.
The nightmares? Weren't they some sort of coping mechanism, an unconscious outlet for the fear, the pain, even the humiliation? Mira could probably give her a whole cargoload of fancy terms and psychiatric buzz on the subject. But at the base they were just triggers, for events she could stand to remember. Maybe a few she wasn't sure she could stand. But she coped.
God knew she coped better with Roarke there to pull her out of the sticky grip of them, to hold onto her, to remind her she was beyond them now.
But she didn't deal with what had been done to her by meeting brutality with more of the same. How could she wear her badge if she didn't believe, at the core, in the heart and soul of the law?
And he didn't.
She scooped a hand through her hair as she stared out over the riotous late-summer gardens: the full green trees, the sheen and sparkle of the world he'd built, his way. She'd known when she met him, when she'd fallen in love with him, when she married him, that he didn't, and never would, have the same in-the-bone beliefs as she had.
They were, on some elemental plane, opposite.
Two lost souls, he'd once said. So they were. But as much as they had in common, they would never meet smoothly on this one point.
Maybe it was that opposition, the pull and tug of it, that made what was between them so intense. That gave that terrible and terrifying love such power.
She could reach his heart-it was so open to her, so miraculously open. She could reach his grief, give a kind of comfort to him she hadn't known herself capable of. But she couldn't, and never would, fully reach his rage. That hard knot inside him he covered so skillfully with elegance and style.
Maybe she wasn't meant to. Maybe if she could reach in, take hold of that knot and loosen it, he wouldn't be the same man she loved.
But God, my God, what would she do if he killed a man over her? How could she survive that?
How could they?
Could she continue to hunt killers knowing she lived with one? Because she was afraid of the answer, she didn't look too deeply. Instead she stepped back inside, filled her cup again.
She walked back into her office, stood in front of her board, and pushed her mind back into work. Her answer was an absent and faintly irritated "What?" when someone knocked on her door.
"Lieutenant. I'm sorry to disturb you."
"Oh. Caro." It threw her off to see Roarke's admin in her sharp black suit at her office door. "No problem. I didn't know you were here."
"I came in with Reva. I'm going into the midtown office, to work. I needed some details from Roarke on a project. Well, that doesn't matter." She lifted her hands in a rare flustered move, then dropped them again. "I wanted to speak to you before I left, if you have a moment."
"Sure. Okay. You want coffee or something?"
"No. Nothing, thank you. I... I'd like to close the door."
"Go ahead." She saw Caro's gaze go to the board, the stills of the murder scenes, the garish ones of the bodies. Deliberately, Eve moved to her desk and gestured to a chair that would put the images out of Caro's line of vision. "Have a seat."
"You look at this sort of thing all the time, I imagine." Caro made herself take a long look before she ordered her legs to move, and took the chair. "Do you get used to it?"
"Yes. And no. You look a little wobbly yet. Maybe you shouldn't be going back to work so soon."
"I need to work." Caro straightened her shoulders. "You'd understand."
"Yeah, I get that."
"A
s does Reva. I know getting back to what she does will help her state of mind. She's not herself. Neither am I. We're not sleeping well, but we pretend we are, for each other's sake. And this isn't at all what I came here to say. Rambling isn't like me either."
"Guess not. You always struck me as being hyperefficient. Have to be to handle Roarke's stuff. But if something like this didn't throw you off stride, I'd have to figure you for a droid."
"Just the right note." Caro nodded. "You know what note to take with victims and survivors, witnesses or suspects. You were brisk, even brusque with Reva. That's the sort of tone she responds best to when she's stressed. You're very intuitive, Lieutenant. You'd have to be... to handle Roarke."
"You'd think." Eve tried not to let the words that had passed between them the night before replay in her head. "What do you need, Caro?"
"Sorry. I know I'm taking up your time. I wanted to thank you for everything you've done, and are doing. I realize you look at variations of what's on that board every day. That you deal with victims and survivors, listen to statements and questions, and work toward finding the answers. It's what you do. But this is personal for me, so I wanted to tell you, to thank you, in a personal way."
"Then you're welcome in a personal way. I like you, Caro. I like your daughter. But if I didn't, I'd be doing the same thing I'm doing now."
"Yes, I know. But that fact doesn't change my gratitude. When Reva's father left us, I was devastated. My heart was broken, and my energies scattered. I was only a bit older than you," she added, "and it seemed the end of the world. I thought, 'What will I do? How will I get through this? How will I get my baby through it?'"
She stopped, shook her head. "And this isn't of any possible interest to you."
"No." Eve gestured Caro back down when she started to rise. "Finish it out. I am interested."
Caro sat again, sighed. "I will, then, as all this keeps running through my mind. I had, at that time, very few personal resources-some secretarial skills I'd let rust as I'd wanted to be a professional mother. There were debts, and though he'd incurred most of them, he was smarter and, well, meaner than I was."
"Must've been pretty smart, then."
"Thank you. I wasn't as... seasoned then as I am now. And he had better lawyers," she added with a ghost of a smile. "So I was in a pit, financially, emotionally, even physically as I let myself become ill with the stress and grief. I was very, very frightened. But it was nothing-no more than a bump that leaves you momentarily off-balance-compared to this. Reva might've been killed."
Caro pressed a hand to her lips, visibly fought for control. "No one's said that, but it's there, the possibility of what might have been. Whoever did this thing might have killed her instead of using her to cover the tracks."
"She wasn't. Might-have-beens shouldn't scare you."
"You don't have children," Caro said with another, stronger smile, but her eyes were beginning to shine with the tears she was fighting off. "Might-have-beens are the monster in the closet for parents. She might have been killed, or she might be in prison waiting for trial if you weren't so very good at what you do. If you and Roarke hadn't been willing to help. I owe him a great deal. Now I owe him, and you, a great deal more."
"You figure he wants payback for pitching in for you and Reva?"
"No. He never does." She opened her purse, took out a tissue and dabbed at her cheeks. Every movement was economical. "It annoys him. And you, I imagine. You're so well-suited."
Eve felt her throat close, and only managed a shrug.
"I wondered if you would be. When you first came to the office, so fierce and tough. And cold. At least that's how I saw you. Then I saw him, after you'd gone. He was baffled and dazzled and frustrated. A rarity for Roarke."
"Really? Well, that made two of us."
"It's been an education watching the two of you find each other." She replaced the tissue, closed her neat black handbag. "He's an important part of my life. It's good to see him happy."
She didn't know what to say to that, so asked a question that was circling in her brain. "How did you come to work for him?"
"I took a secretarial position, entry level, and did drone work at an advertising agency here in New York. My skills weren't as rusty as I'd thought, and I'd scraped together the money for some classes to reacquaint myself with them. For the most part I was a gofer in one of the legal departments for a time. Then I was a revolving clerk, moving from department to department, filling in where and how I was needed."
"Getting a little bit of everything."
"Yes. It pleased me, and I thought of it as training. It was good work, and paid well. At a point, I suppose it's been about a dozen years ago now, Roarke took over the company where I worked, and the company-along with several others-moved into the midtown building."
Her voice was stronger now as she took herself back. Took some distance from the present.
"Shortly after, I was promoted to an assistant to an assistant in one of the project development arms of the company. A year or so into that, I was asked to sit in on a meeting-just to keep notes, fetch coffee, and look presentable as Roarke himself would be attending. The New York branch was quite young then. There was such energy, and most of it came from him."
"He's got more than his share," Eve added.
"He certainly does. During the meeting, one of the execs snapped at me when I didn't move fast enough to suit him, and I responded with something about his manners being as unattractive as his suit, or some such thing."
"So Reva gets her temper from you."
Caro let out a half-laugh. "I suppose she does. Roarke ignored the little altercation-or so I thought-and continued with the meeting. At some point he asked me to run the holo of the building he was designing, and later to bring up the data on something else. He had me hopping around, doing tasks that weren't in any particular domain, but those years of revolving had paid off. Still, once my annoyance with the exec was cleared, I was terrified I was going to be fired. The meeting lasted more than two hours, and it seemed like years. When it was over, all I wanted to do was find a corner and collapse. But he gestured to me. 'It's Caro, isn't it,' he said in that wonderful voice of his. 'Bring those files and come with me, would you?'
"Now I knew I was going to be fired, and I was frantic thinking of how I'd find another job, keep Reva in college, make the payments on the condo I'd bought three years before. He took me in his private elevator, and I was shaking inside, but I wasn't going to let him see it. I'd had enough humiliation from my ex-husband to last me a lifetime, so I wasn't going to let this young turk see how frightened I was."
"He knew," Eve commented, picturing it.
"Of course. He always knows. But at the time I was proud of my composure, and assumed it was about all I had left. He asked me what I thought of..." Her forehead creased. "I've forgotten his name. The exec who'd snapped at me in the meeting. I answered back, very crisply as I thought I was already heading out the door, did he mean personally or professionally, and he grinned at me."
She paused a moment, angled her head. "I hope you won't take offense if I add something here."
"Go ahead. I don't offend all that easy."
"I was old enough to be his mother, and when he looked down at me and grinned, I felt it in the pit of my belly. The power of his sexuality, in a situation that wasn't, in any way, sexual. I'm surprised I could form a coherent thought or word after the exposure."
"I get that, too."
"Undoubtedly you do. When he grinned at me and said he was interested in both my personal and professional opinion of this exec, I was just mortified and stunned enough by my own completely inappropriate reaction to tell him I thought the man was competent enough in his job, but on a personal level he was an ass.
"The next thing I know I'm in his office, and he's offering me coffee, and asking me to wait just a moment. He went to his desk and went to work while I sat there in complete confusion. I didn't know then that he'd pulled up m
y file, was checking my work evals, my security ratings."
"And very likely what you'd had for breakfast that morning."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Caro agreed. "Then he said, pleasantly, that he was looking for an administrative assistant who could think on her feet, who had good judgment of situations and people, and who wouldn't serve him a plate of bullshit when he wanted the truth. She'd have to be efficient, tireless, and loyal, as she'd answer only to him and there would be times he'd ask the... unusual. He continued on, outlining the job description, but I'm not sure I was hearing it all clearly. And he named a salary that made me very grateful I was sitting down. Then he asked me if I was interested in the position."
"Guess you were."
J D Robb - Dallas 19 - Divided In Death Page 24
