The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  For you, perhaps, Roarke thought, but let it go.

  “Anyway, I can’t figure if the meet was really about Kohli or if it’s more about the Ricker connection.”

  “Max Ricker?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes sharpened. “You know him. I should’ve figured that.”

  “We’ve met. What’s the connection?”

  “Kohli worked on the task force that busted Ricker about six months back. He wasn’t a key player, and Ricker slithered through, but it had to cost him a lot of time and money. Could be Ricker put out contracts and is getting some of his own back by whacking cops.”

  “What I saw in Purgatory today didn’t seem like Ricker’s style.”

  “I don’t figure he’d want his fingerprints on it.”

  “There’s that.” Roarke was silent for a moment. “You want to know if I ever did business with him.”

  “I’m not asking you that.”

  “Yes, you are.” He took her hand, kissed it lightly, then got to his feet. “Let’s have a walk.”

  “I brought work home with me.” She let him pull her up, smiled. “So much for the experiment. I should get to it.”

  “You’ll work better if we clear this up.” He kept her hand in his, started across the lawn.

  The breeze had shaken some of the petals from the trees so they lay like pink and white snowdrops on the green. Flowers, banks of them she couldn’t name, flowed out of beds in soft, blurry blues and shimmering whites. The light was beginning to go, softening the air. She caught drifts of fragile perfumes, country sweet.

  He bent, snapped off a tulip, its cup as perfect as something sculpted from white wax, handed it to her.

  “I haven’t seen or dealt with Max Ricker in a number of years. But there was a time we had business of sorts.”

  She held the tulip and heard the city sniffing at the gates. “What kind of business?”

  He stopped, tipped her head back so their eyes met. Then saw, with regret, that hers were troubled. “First, let me say that even one with my . . . let’s call it eclectic palate . . . hasn’t the taste for certain activities. Murder for hire being one of those. I never killed for him, Eve, nor for that matter, for anyone but myself.”

  She nodded again. “Let’s not go there, not now.”

  “All right.”

  But they’d come too far to shy away now. She walked with him. “Illegals?”

  “There was a time in the beginning of my career, I couldn’t . . . No,” he corrected, knowing that honesty was vital. “When I wasn’t particularly selective in the products I handled. Yes, I dealt in illegals from time to time, and some of those dealings involved Ricker and his organization. The last time we associated was . . . Christ, more than ten years back. I didn’t care for his business practices, and I’d reached a point where I wasn’t obliged to negotiate with those who didn’t appeal to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Eve.” He kept his hand on her face, his eyes on hers. “When I met you, most of my business was legitimate. I made that choice long ago because it suited me. After you, I dispensed with or reconstructed those interests left that were questionable. I did that because I knew it would suit you.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what I already know.”

  “I think I do, just now. There’s little I wouldn’t do for you. But I can’t, and I wouldn’t, change my past, or what brought me here.”

  She looked down at the tulip, perfect and pure. Then back up at him. Not pure, God knew, but for her, perfect. “I wouldn’t want you to change anything.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “We’re okay.”

  Later, after they’d shared dinner where they were both careful not to discuss his business or hers, Eve settled down in her home office and began to study the data on Taj and Patsy Kohli’s financials.

  She came at them from several different angles, drank three cups of coffee, reached certain conclusions, then rose. She knocked briefly on the door that adjoined her work space to Roarke’s, then stepped inside.

  He was at his console, and from what she could gather, he was talking to someone in Tokyo. He held up a hand, out of the range of his screen, in a signal for her to wait.

  “I regret that projection will not meet my needs at this time, Fumi-san.”

  “The projection is, of course, preliminary and negotiable.” The voice through his desk-link was precise and cool, but no cooler, Eve thought, than her husband’s mild and polite expression.

  “Then perhaps we should discuss it further when the figures are no longer preliminary.”

  “I would be honored to discuss the matter with you, Roarke-san, in person. It is the feeling of my associates that such a delicate negotiation would be better served in this way. Tokyo is lovely in the spring. Perhaps you will visit my city, at our expense, of course, some time in the near future.”

  “I regret that such a trip, as appealing as it may be, is impossible, given my current schedule. However, I would be happy to meet with you, and any of your associates, in New York. If this is possible for you, you have only to contact my administrator. She will be delighted to assist you in any travel arrangements.”

  There was a slight pause. “Thank you for your gracious invitation. I will consult with my associates and contact you through your administrator as soon as possible.”

  “I look forward to it. Domo, Fumi-san.”

  “What are you buying now?” Eve asked.

  “That remains to be seen, but how do you feel about owning a Japanese baseball team?”

  “I like baseball,” Eve said after a moment.

  “Well then. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “If you’re busy buying sports teams, it can wait.”

  “I’m not buying anything, at least not until negotiations are completed.” The wolf came into his eyes. “And on my turf.”

  “Okay, first a question. If I were to refuse to discuss any part of my work with you, or my professional business, what would you do?”

  “Slap you around, of course.” He rose, amused, when she laughed. “But, I imagine we can both be spared that unhappy event as the question doesn’t apply. So, why do you ask it?”

  “Let me put it another way, since I’m so terrified of being slapped around. Can two people be married, live in the same house, have a solid marriage, and one of them have no clue about the other’s outside business?”

  When he merely lifted his eyebrows, she swore. “You don’t apply. Nobody could keep up with your outside business. Besides, I know stuff you do. You buy everything you can get your hands on and manufacture and sell almost every product known to humankind. And right now, you’re considering buying a Japanese ball team. See?”

  “My God, my life’s an open book.” He came around the desk. “But to go back to your question, yes, I suppose it’s possible for people to live together and not know the thrust, or at least the intricacies of the other’s work or outside interests. What if I liked to fish?”

  “To fish?”

  “As an example. We’ll hypothesize that fishing is a passion of mine, and I often toddle off for a wild weekend of dry fly fishing in Montana. Would you pay attention to my recitation of every cast and catch upon my return?”

  “To fish?” she repeated and made him laugh.

  “And there you have my point. So, yes to your question. Now, why do you ask?”

  “Just tying to get a picture. Anyway, since you might be tempted to belt me—and then I’d have to take you down—I’m willing to share some of my professional business with you. How about taking a look at something?”

  “All right. But you couldn’t take me down.”

  “Can and have.”

  “Only when you cheat,” he said and walked by her into her office.

  She’d left the financials on the wall screen. Roarke eased a hip onto her desk, angled his head, and scanned them.

  Figures, they both knew, were like breath to him. He simply drew them in.

  “Sta
ndard outlays for a typical middle-class lifestyle,” he commented. “Reasonable rent payments, made in a timely fashion. Vehicle payments and maintenance costs, garage fees are a little on the high side. They ought to shop around a bit. Taxes, clothing, food, entertainment are a bit light. They don’t get out much. Deposits are regular bimonthly, which would coincide with salaries. You certainly couldn’t accuse this family of living over their incomes.”

  “No, you couldn’t. Interesting though about the vehicle expenses. Seeing as Kohli had a city unit and neither he nor his wife own a personal vehicle.”

  “Is that so?” Frowning, he refocused. “So, there’s some skimming or padding going on, but at just under four thousand a month, it’s hardly big time.”

  “Every little bit,” Eve murmured. “Now take a look at this. Investment account. College funds, retirement, savings.” She flipped the screens and heard Roarke’s quiet “Ah.”

  “Someone was looking to the future. A half million in the past five months, and earning decently. Though I’d advise a bit more diversity and more of the pie in growth areas if college tuition is, indeed, the goal.”

  “He won’t be needing a portfolio consult. A cop doesn’t come up with a half million by watching his pennies. He comes up with it by being dirty.”

  With anger simmering, she sat. “He was taking. The question is, from who and why. The deposits and the accounts were down a couple of levels, but not buried deep, not covered up so a full scan didn’t pop them right out. Pretty damn cocky.”

  She rose again to pace. “Pretty damn cocky. I don’t think he was stupid. I think he was just sure of himself, sure he’d be covered.”

  “If he hadn’t been killed, no one would have been looking at his financials,” Roarke pointed out. “His lifestyle wasn’t sending up red flags. He lived within his means.”

  “Yeah, he did his job, no more, no less. Went home at night to his pretty wife and pretty kids, then got up the next morning and did it all over again. No flash. The kind of cop nobody pays a lot of attention to and everybody likes. Nice guy, quiet guy. But IAB was looking at him.”

  She stopped in front of the wall screen. “They were looking, and they knew about the take. They don’t want it coming out. Last time I looked, IAB didn’t have a heart, so it’s not concern for his grieving widow. So who’s covering whose ass?”

  “Perhaps they’re simply being territorial. If they had him under investigation, they want to close that internal business up themselves.”

  “Yes, could be. I wouldn’t put it past them.” But it stuck in her craw. “Dirty or not, I’ve got a dead cop. And he’s mine.” She nodded at the screen. “I want to talk to Max Ricker.”

  “Lieutenant.” Roarke moved behind her, rubbed her shoulders. “I have every confidence in your abilities, your intellect, and your instincts. But Ricker is a dangerous man, with a taste for the unpleasant. Particularly where women are involved. You’ll appeal to him on several levels, not the least of which is your connection to me.”

  “Really?” she murmured and turned around.

  “We didn’t sever our business association on the best of terms.”

  “So, I can use that. If he’s interested, it’ll be easier to wade through his lawyers and set up a meet.”

  “Let me do it.”

  “No.”

  “Stop and think. I can get you to him quicker and more directly.”

  “Not this time, and not this way. You can’t change your past,” she said, “and he’s part of that. But he’s not part of your today.”

  “He’s part of yours.”

  “That’s right. Let’s try to keep this, if not separate, sort of side by side. If he’s part of it, you’ll probably know before I do, because you won’t leave it alone. But whatever kind of cop Kohli was, I’m the one standing for him now. I’ll set up the meet when the time’s right.”

  “Let me look into it a bit first, then you’ll have more in your pocket when you do.” And he’d have more time to do what needed to be done to keep her away from Ricker.

  “Go ahead and look.” But she was careful not to agree. “Tell me what you know about him. Give me an inside track.”

  Troubled, Roarke walked away, poured a brandy. “He’s very smooth, educated, and can be charming when it suits him. He’s quite vain and enjoys the company of beautiful women. When they please him, he can be very generous. When they displease him . . .”

  Roarke turned, swirling the brandy. “He can and will be brutal. He’s the same with his employees and associates. I once saw him slit the throat of a servant over a chipped wine goblet.”

  “It’s hard to get good help these days.”

  “Isn’t it? His main income is through the manufacture and distribution of illegals on a wide scale, but he also dabbles in weapons, assassinations, and sex. He has several high-placed officials in his pocket, which keeps him protected. Within an hour of your contact with him, he’ll know whatever there is to know about you. He’ll know, Eve, things you would prefer no one knew.”

  Her gut clenched, but she nodded. “I can handle that. Does he have family?”

  “He had a brother. Rumor is Ricker dispensed with him over some sibling dispute. In any case, his body was never discovered. He has a son about my age, perhaps a few years younger. Alex. I never met him as he was living primarily in Germany when I had dealings with Ricker. Word is he’s kept close, and insulated.”

  “Weaknesses?”

  “Vanity, arrogance, greed. So far, he’s been able to indulge himself in all three with relative impunity. But over the last year or so, there’ve been rumors. Quiet, very cautious ones, that his mental health is deteriorating, and as a result, some of his businesses are in mild distress. That’s one of the avenues I’ll explore more carefully.”

  “If he’s involved in Kohli’s death, that impunity ends. If he’s mentally defective, it won’t keep him out of a cage. Do you figure he’ll agree to meet me if I make an approach?”

  “He’ll see you because he’ll be curious. And if you take a shot at him, he’ll never forget it. He’s cold, Eve, and he’s patient. If he has to wait a year, ten years, to circle back to you, he will.”

  “Then if I take a shot at him, I’ll have to make it count.”

  More, Roarke thought as he finished his brandy. If she went after Ricker, Ricker would have to die.

  He, too, could be cold. And patient.

  She turned to him in the night. It was rare for her to do so unless the dreams were chasing her. When she slept, she slept deep and unprotected. Perhaps she knew he needed it, needed to feel her wrapped around him in the dark, the intimacy of it that stated more truly than words what they’d come to be to each other.

  Her mouth found his, offered, while her hands roamed up the solid length of his back, down again to his hips.

  They shifted on the wide bed, a tangle of limbs, of warm flesh, of breath beginning to quicken with each touch.

  The taste of her—lips, throat, breasts—filled him, as it always did, even as it stirred hunger for more. Her heartbeat under his hand, under his mouth, and her first sign of pleasure trailed off into a quiet moan.

  She arched against him, strength and surrender. Opened for him, invitation and demand.

  He slipped inside her—hot and wet and waiting—and it was he who moaned as she closed around him. Shadows in the dark, their bodies rose and fell together, a slow, silky rhythm to draw out the night.

  Pleasuring her, pleasuring himself, he slipped his hands under her hips, lifted her. Gave her more.

  She locked herself around him, rode the edge. And when she felt herself begin to fall, she said his name.

  He lifted his head, saw the gleam of her eyes, open, on him. “Eve,” he said, and let himself fall with her.

  Into the night, in the dark, he lay beside her, listening to her breathe. He knew the varied and sundry reasons a man would kill. But none were more fierce, none were more vital than to hold safe what he loved.

>   chapter four

  Lieutenant Alan Mills caught Eve on her communicator as she was grabbing her second cup of coffee. Her first thought was that he looked as though he could have used a good jolt of caffeine himself.

  His eyes were sleepy and irritable, a watery gray in a pale face.

  “Dallas. Mills, here. You looking for me.”

  “That’s right. I’m primary on the Kohli homicide.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Mills snorted, sniffed. “I’d like a piece of the dickweed who did Kohli. What have you got?”

  “This and that.” She wasn’t about to share investigative data with a man who looked like he’d yet to roll out of bed and had probably rolled into it with a little chemical enhancement, not strictly departmentally approved. “You and a Detective Martinez worked with Kohli on a task force over the past year. Max Ricker.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Mills rubbed his face. She could actually hear the scrub brush sound of his stubble against his palm. “Him and about a dozen other cops, and the slick bastard still oozed through the cracks. You think Ricker’s tied to this?”

  “I’m covering my bases here. I need a picture of Kohli, then maybe I’ll get a picture of his killer. You got some time this morning, Mills, maybe you could hook Martinez and meet me at the crime scene. I’d appreciate any input.”

  “I heard the case was being transferred to our house.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  He seemed to digest this information and not find it particularly to his liking. “Kohli was one of ours.”

  “And now he’s mine. I’m asking for some cooperation on this. Are you going to give it to me?”

  “I want a look at the scene anyway. When?”

  “No time like the present. I’ll be at Purgatory in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll round up Martinez. Probably still taking her siesta. She’s a Mex.”

  He ended transmission and left Eve regarding her communicator thoughtfully before she stuck it in her trouser pocket. “Gee, Mills. Nobody told me you were a complete and total asshole. Go figure.”

  “The asshole is still going to want to prove he has harder balls than you,” Roarke commented. He’d stopped scanning the morning stock reports to watch her handle her colleague.