Connections in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “You had an altercation.”

  Nervously now, Gary shifted. “Well … I guess. He took a swing at me. He missed, and nearly fell over. And, okay, I nearly punched him, and I’ve never punched anybody in my life. But he was drunk and stupid. Yeah, I was pissed off, so we had some words. I told him if he didn’t turn the screen down, I’d get a damn hammer and break it to pieces.”

  “You didn’t think to call the police about the noise?”

  Now he sighed. “I have before—and I’m not the only one. What’re they going to do? They tell him to turn it down, he turns it down, maybe keeps it down a few days. Then he gets drunk again, and around and around we go.”

  “That’s the truth.” A woman, still in her pajamas, jiggled a baby. “My husband and I finally ended up soundproofing the wall. We’re in 303. When Stu fell off the wagon—which was at least once a week—he got obnoxious. Gary didn’t kill anybody, Mildred, and you know it. Any more than my Rolo did, and Rolo had plenty of words with Stu about the noise before we gave it up and soundproofed that wall.”

  She wagged the finger of her free hand at Mildred Helmet Hair. “So did you, Mildred, and the rest of us. So did the family in the apartment below his because he’d stomp around half the night when he was drinking. Or he’d crash into things. Didn’t you have to call the MTs, Mildred, just last month when you heard a crash and found him sprawled out right here in the hall? Tripped,” she told Eve, “broke his nose that time. Either knocked himself unconscious or passed out from the drink.”

  Mildred crossed her arms over prodigious breasts. “I’m not saying he wasn’t a drunken idiot, but he didn’t stab himself in the belly.”

  “Or he did,” Eve countered. “Peabody! Bring up that apple.”

  Peabody brought up the evidence bag holding a sad-looking apple going sickly brown where the peel dangled away from the fruit.

  “Did Gary like apples?”

  Mildred’s wild eyes teared up. “‘Apple a day.’ That’s what he’d say. He liked to peel them, try to get the peel off in one run. Said it was good luck if you did.”

  “What did he peel them with?”

  “His pocketknife usually, I guess. But Gary—”

  “Did you get prints off the pocketknife from the body, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir. The victim’s.”

  “We have work yet to do, but I’m going to tell you that—with the evidence and statements given thus far—this doesn’t look like a homicide. It reads, at this point, like an accident. Mr. Adler was drunk, he was using his pocketknife to peel an apple as he started down the stairs. Your elevator’s out of order.”

  “For four days now,” Mildred said bitterly. “The landlord—”

  “Ma’am, save that,” Eve advised. “He trips, loses his balance, takes a bad fall. When he lands, breaking his neck, fracturing his skull, he also has the misfortune of landing on his open pocketknife.”

  “It sounds just like him,” the woman with the baby muttered.

  “Why don’t you all go back in your apartments, let us do our job.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t punch him,” Gary said quietly. “I’m sorry I called him an asshole last night, but I’m glad I didn’t punch him.”

  * * *

  Accident or not, death had to be investigated, evidence gathered, statements taken. All that took a bite out of the morning. By the time Eve sat back down at her desk in Cop Central to write the report, Roarke’s admin, Caro, led Rochelle into his office in Midtown.

  Rochelle tried not to goggle. She’d never seen an office so big, so classy. When the man himself stood up from his really important desk, with that heart-stopping framework of New York behind him, and crossed that plush carpet to shake her hand, she let out a breathless laugh.

  “I never expected to meet you at all, much less twice in a matter of days.”

  “I appreciate you coming in, and so quickly.”

  “Curiosity’s a big motivator.”

  “How about some coffee? Or tea?”

  “Whatever you’re having’s fine. Thanks.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  The admin looked as classy as the office, to Rochelle’s mind, with her gorgeous hair the color of fresh snow, the sharp suit that made Rochelle’s—now in its third season—feel just sad.

  “Let’s have a seat.” Roarke steered her to a sofa as plush as the rest of the place.

  Wilson had assured her Roarke was “a regular dude,” but come on! This was Roarke. Billionaire businessman, philanthropist, innovator. And toss in the outright mouthwatering.

  His eyes really were as blue as they looked on-screen.

  “You enjoyed the party.”

  “So much! I saw Avenue A in concert when I was in college. Nosebleed seats, but it was wonderful. As wonderful as it was, that impromptu concert on Nadine’s terrace? Well, I run out of words. I’ve seen Mavis in concert, too, and now it’s an entirely different perspective.”

  “You like music.”

  “All kinds.” She looked at Caro as the admin brought over a tray of coffee, cups, cream, sugar. “Thanks so much.”

  “You’re very welcome. How do you take it?”

  “A little cream, one sugar.” Of course, both were fake in her world.

  “Thank you, Caro,” Roarke said after she’d doctored the coffee.

  As Caro closed the doors behind her, Rochelle lifted her cup. “I assume you want to talk about…” She trailed off as she took a sip. “Oh,” she said. “My.” She took another sip. “My entire system just stood up and cheered. There were some mentions in the Icove book and vid about your coffee. Now I know.”

  “I often think it’s how I convinced my cop to marry me.”

  “It may have been a factor. In any case, I assume you want to talk to me about some of my work at Dochas. I know you take an active interest.”

  “It’s a factor,” he said, and smiled at her. “You’re aware of the youth facility we’re completing in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Of course. Do you really believe you’ll have it ready for students by May?”

  He appreciated the term students—another point in her favor. “We’re on track for that. I’m aware that in addition to the consulting you’ve done at Dochas, you’ve been on staff at the Family Counseling Center downtown for the past five years.”

  “Yes.”

  “No ambition to open your own practice?”

  She shifted, met his eyes easily, smiled with it. “That takes more wherewithal than I have available, frankly. And, moreover, I prefer being part of a team. When you are, you use that team, pull on their strengths to help you do better work, to help treat the whole patient. From what I understand, that’s exactly what An Didean will do. Counsel, educate, rehabilitate, provide structure and safety and, not the least of it, a community where young people can connect with each other, with adults who want to guide them toward a good, healthy, productive life.”

  “That’s precisely it. The work over the past months hasn’t only focused on rehabbing, remodeling the building itself, but in gathering a staff that not only understands the purpose, has the training and dedication to fulfill that purpose, but believes in it. I’m confident you check all those boxes.”

  He waited a beat, watched her eyebrows draw together. “Are you interested in having me consult at An Didean when needed as I do at Dochas?”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you’d be interested in coming on staff in the position of head therapist.”

  “I—I’m sorry.” Because the cup rattled in the saucer, Rochelle put her coffee down carefully. “I was under the impression Dr. Susann Po had accepted that position. Mr. Roarke—”

  “Just Roarke.”

  “I have tremendous respect for Dr. Po, professionally and personally. While I appreciate— While I’m very flattered you’d consider me for the position, I could never undermine someone with Dr. Po’s skills and reputation.”

  “Dr. Po would never have been offered the position
if I didn’t share your respect. Unfortunately, she’s dealing with a family emergency, and is relocating to East Washington, perhaps permanently. She regretfully resigned from the position late last week.”

  “Oh, I see. I hadn’t heard. I’m very sorry. I…” Rochelle picked up her cup again, drank more coffee. Took a very careful breath.

  “Dr. Po has nearly thirty years’ experience in youth psychology and counseling. I have barely ten. It feels ungracious to ask, but I have to ask: Does this offer have to do with my relationship with Wilson?”

  “Last fall when I offered Dr. Po the position—a key position in a project that’s very important to me, to my wife—I did so because of her experience, reputation, and a variety of other reasons. There were five names, five highly qualified people I considered before making that offer. You were second on that list.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t believe you were in a relationship with … Wilson at that time.”

  “No, no we weren’t. That is, we met near the end of December. So we’ve known each other for a few months. But we didn’t begin to … We didn’t get involved right away.”

  “I can assure you, I wasn’t aware you knew each other at all. In fact, it was an interesting surprise for me to meet you Saturday at Nadine’s party, with Wilson, as I had decided only that morning to ask you to come in, to speak to you about the position.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that. If I’d known this was an interview for such a vital position, I’d have come more prepared.”

  “We’ve already had most of the interview.” Because he sensed genuine nerves now, Roarke smiled at her again. “Saturday night, and over coffee here. Rochelle, you wouldn’t have been on the list last fall if I hadn’t already done my due diligence. I’m aware of your educational qualifications, your professional work and reputation, your volunteer work, including the hours you’ve given to Dochas. Either I personally or Caro has spoken with a number of your colleagues, your superiors, your professors, and so on. As with everyone else who’ll be a part of An Didean, I complete this process as we are here. A face-to-face.”

  The way her stomach jittered, she almost expected to see the skirt of her suit bounce. “A man with your—let’s say reach—would be aware that my father died in prison. He was an addict, a troubled, often violent man. And that my mother’s addiction to him and to the substances he introduced her to contributed to her suicide.”

  “I am. We make our choices, don’t we, to overcome the brutality of our youth or to follow that path into the cycle of it. I don’t need your skills to intuit that the path you took was influenced by your own childhood, and the desire to help the vulnerable, the defenseless. I’ve added that to your list of qualifications.

  “More coffee?”

  Now her throat wanted to close. “Actually, I could use a glass of water.”

  “Of course.” He rose, strolled across the room to a little alcove, took a bottle of water from a cold box, poured a glass. “If you have an interest in the position, we can discuss more details. Job description, structure, salary, and so on.”

  “That would be…” She took the water he brought her, took three careful sips. “It’s an important decision, life changing really. I should take some time, think it through before we…”

  She set the water down, turned to him. “Am I crazy? Am I stupid? No, I’m not either of those things.” She let out a rolling laugh. “Of course I’m interested. I’m staggered and flattered and working up to giddy while I’m trying to be sober and dignified.”

  She had to stop, laugh again, pat a hand on her heart while he smiled at her.

  “And, yes, I’d like very much to talk about the details of your amazing offer. I’d really like to tour the building. I’d like to see where the children will live, the educational and recreational facilities, the group and individual counseling areas. All of it.”

  “Of course,” he said again. “How about now?”

  Her eyes widened, blinked. “How about … now?”

  “We can discuss those details while I give you a tour. I’m interested in what you think.”

  She picked up the water, drank again. “Now works.”

  * * *

  After the tour, and the handshake that concluded it, Roarke went back to his headquarters. He stopped by Caro’s office.

  “You can send the contract, as is, to Dr. Pickering, Caro.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. She’s extremely qualified, clearly has the passion. And while I know you’re sorry to lose someone of Dr. Po’s standing, Rochelle Pickering’s relative youth may add something. Plus, I got a good feeling from her.”

  “Did you?”

  “She was overwhelmed, and struggling not to show it. Grateful for the opportunity, and not afraid to show that. I liked the mix.”

  “So did I. You can start juggling in those meetings you juggled out, Caro.”

  “You’ve got the ’link conference with Hitch in San Francisco and Castor’s team in Baltimore in…” She checked her wrist unit. “Eight minutes. I juggled that back in when you texted you were on the way back.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “To prove your point, I switched your lunch meeting to the executive dining room. Why go out in that ugly weather again? And it’ll save you the time you lost this morning.”

  “Perfect, as usual. Are you due for a raise?”

  She fluttered her lashes. “Always.”

  He laughed, walked to his office.

  * * *

  By the time he got home that night, the rain had sputtered out, and the wind had toned down to stiff with the occasional angry gust. It flapped at his topcoat—a treasured Christmas gift from Eve—streamed through his hair, and made him grateful for the warmth of home.

  Summerset, always at the ready, took his coat while the cat wound pudgily through his legs.

  “An evening made for a whiskey by the fire,” Summerset commented.

  “You’re not wrong.” He had work yet, Roarke thought, but he’d get to it. “Let’s have one.”

  He wandered into the parlor, dealt with the fire while Summerset poured the whiskey.

  He had a fondness for this room, the rich colors, the gleam of antiques, the art he’d chosen. He settled into it while the wind rattled the bare branches of the trees outside the windows.

  Summerset—his father in all but name, and the person who ran the house as efficiently as Caro ran his office—sat across from him.

  He had thick hair the color of good pewter; dark, canny eyes; a thin, angular face of deep hollows Eve liked to call ghoulish. And had, once upon a time, saved a ragged Dublin street rat from a life of misery, and worse.

  Roarke lifted his whiskey in a toast. “Sláinte. And how was your day?”

  “Wet this morning for the marketing. But that afforded me and our friend there,” he added as Galahad leaped onto Roarke’s lap, and sprawled—belly up—over it, “an enjoyable afternoon in the kitchen. I had a yen to make fresh pasta, which I haven’t done in some time.”

  At Roarke’s puzzled look, Summerset sighed. “The noodles themselves, boy. Fresh. I’ve made up some capellini in a sauce with some bite. I think the lieutenant might enjoy it.”

  “We’ll try it tonight.”

  “Speaking of the lieutenant, I did a bit of laundry as well. The sweatshirt, or what’s left of it, from the Academy—”

  “Isn’t worth your life,” Roarke interrupted.

  “It’s a rag.”

  “A sentimental one.” He sipped his whiskey, lazily scratched the cat’s belly with his other hand. And thought of the gray button he kept in his pocket. “We all need our talismans, don’t we? On another front, I met with Dr. Pickering this morning, and gave her a tour of An Didean. She’s taking the position.”

  “I’ll make a note of it. She strikes me, from the reports I’ve read, as very suitable. And the progress on An Didean?”

  “On schedule. They’ve finished the main kitchen, nea
rly completed all the bathrooms and the training kitchen. Most of the work’s down to cosmetics now. We should have the Use and Occupancy in about a month, time enough for the staff to set up, for us to load in furniture, supplies, and so on.”

  “It’ll be a fine thing for the children who’ll make their home there.”

  “It will.” Roarke set his glass aside, nudged the cat. “I’ve some work to finish up before Eve gets home.”

  “Whenever that might be.”

  “Whenever. Finish your whiskey, and thanks in advance for the pasta.”

  When Roarke went out, the cat obviously considered his options, then decided on Summerset’s lap.

  As Roarke had done, Summerset sipped his whiskey and scratched Galahad’s belly.

  “Will she have made it through the day without getting bloodied, do you think? Well, we’ll hope for it.”

  3

  She came home unbloodied, but with her brain scorched. Why, why had she opted to end her day as she’d started it? With paperwork, with numbers, percentages, reports?

  Whatever smug satisfaction she gained from being completely caught up would die within twenty-four hours when it piled up again.

  She stepped in out of the whoosh of wind to face the looming presence of Summerset.

  “Neither late nor bleeding.” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “One expects a tympani.”

  She didn’t know what the hell a tympani was, but knew damn well he’d had that one ready. Two could play. She studied him as she shrugged out of her coat and the cat did his greeting wind and rub.

  “Did you go out in this today?”

  “I had marketing.”

  “That explains the reports of a flying skeleton.” She tossed her outdoor gear on the newel post and, considering it a draw, headed upstairs with Galahad trotting behind her.

  She considered going straight to the bedroom, ditching the work clothes, but habit sent her to her home office. She heard Roarke’s voice from his adjoining office. Something about numbers—why was it always numbers? At least she didn’t have to decipher these.