by J. D. Robb
“Did it help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Christ, I’m so tired.”
“You could lean on me.” He slipped an arm around her, nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.
“For a little while,” she murmured. “Until we get to New York.”
“For a little while then.” He pressed his lips to her hair and hoped she would sleep.
chapter nineteen
DeBlass wouldn’t talk. His lawyers put the muzzle on him early, and they put in on tight. The interrogation process was slow, and it was tedious. There were times Eve thought he would burst, when the temper that reddened his face would tip the scales in her favor.
She’d stopped denying it was personal. She didn’t want a tricky, media blitzed trial. She wanted a confession.
“You were engaged in an incestuous affair with your granddaughter, Sharon DeBlass.”
“My client has not confirmed those allegations.”
Eve ignored the lawyer, watched DeBlass’s face. “I have here a transcript of a portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diary, dated on the night of her murder.”
She shoved the paper across the table. DeBlass’s lawyer, a trim, tidy man with a neat sandy beard and mild blue eyes picked it up, studied it. Whatever his reaction was, he hid it behind cool indifference.
“This proves nothing, lieutenant, as I’m sure you know. The destructive fantasies of a dead woman. A woman of dubious reputation who has long been estranged from her family.”
“There’s a pattern here, Senator DeBlass.” Eve stubbornly continued to address the accused rather than his knight at arms. “You sexually abused your daughter, Catherine.”
“Preposterous,” DeBlass blurted out before his attorney lifted a hand to silence him.
“I have a statement, signed and verified before witnesses from Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass.” Eve offered it, and the lawyer nipped it out of her fingers before the senator could move.
He scanned it, then folded his carefully manicured hands over it. “You may not be aware, lieutenant, that there is an unfortunate history of mental disorder here. Senator DeBlass’s wife is even now under observation for a breakdown.”
“We are aware.” She spared the lawyer a glance. “And we will be investigating her condition, and the cause of it.”
“Congresswoman DeBlass has also been treated for symptoms of depression, paranoia, and stress,” the lawyer continued in the same neutral tone.
“If she has, Senator DeBlass, we’ll find that the roots of it are due to your systematic and continued abuse of her as a child. You were in New York on the night of Sharon DeBlass’s murder,” she said, switching gears smoothly. “Not, as you previously claimed, in East Washington.”
Before the lawyer could block her, she leaned forward, her eyes steady on DeBlass’s face. “Let me tell you how it went down. You took your private shuttle, paying the pilot and the flight engineer to doctor the log. You went to Sharon’s apartment, had sex with her, recorded it for your own purposes. You took a weapon with you, a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson antique. And because she taunted you, because she threatened you, because you couldn’t take the pressure of possible exposure any longer, you shot her. You shot her three times, in the head, in the heart and in the genitalia.”
She kept the words coming fast, kept her face close to his. It pleased her that she could smell his sweat. “The last shot was pretty clever. Messed up any chance for us to verify sexual activity. You ripped her open at the crotch. Maybe it was symbolic, maybe it was self-preservation. Why’d you take the gun with you? Had you planned it? Had you decided to end it once and for all?”
DeBlass’s eyes darted left and right. His breathing grew hard and fast.
“My client does not acknowledge ownership of the weapon in question.”
“Your client’s scum.”
The lawyer puffed up. “Lieutenant Dallas, you’re speaking of a United States Senator.”
“That makes him elected scum. It shocked you, didn’t it, senator? All the blood, the noise, the way the gun jerked in your hand. Maybe you hadn’t really believed you could go through with it. Not when push came to shove and you had to pull the trigger. But once you had, there was no going back. You had to cover it up. She would have ruined you, she never would have let you have peace. She wasn’t like Catherine. Sharon wouldn’t fade into the background and suffer all the shame and the guilt and the fear. She used it against you, so you had to kill her. Then you had to cover your tracks.”
“Lieutenant Dallas—”
She never took her eyes from DeBlass, and ignoring the lawyer’s warning, kept beating at him. “That was exciting, wasn’t it? You could get away with it. You’re a United States senator, the victim’s grandfather. Who would believe it of you? So you arranged her on the bed, indulged yourself, your ego. You could do it again, and why not? The killing had stirred something in you. What better way to hide than to make it seem as if there was some maniac at large?”
She waited while DeBlass reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily. “There was a maniac at large. You printed out the note, slipped it under her. And you dressed, calmer now, but excited. You set the ’link to call the cops at two fifty-five. You needed enough time to go down and fix the security tapes. Then you got back on your shuttle, flew back to East Washington, and waited to play the outraged grandfather.”
Through it all, DeBlass said nothing. But a muscle jerked in his cheek and his eyes couldn’t find a place to land.
“That’s a fascinating story, lieutenant,” the lawyer said. “But it remains that—a story. A supposition. A desperate attempt by the police department to fight their way out of a difficult situation with the media and the people of New York. And, of course, it’s perfect timing that such ridiculous and damaging accusation should be levied against the senator just as his Morals Bill is coming up for debate.”
“How did you pick the other two? How did you select Lola Starr and Georgie Castle? Have you already picked the fourth, the fifth, the sixth? Do you think you could have stopped there? Could you have stopped when it made you feel so powerful, so invincible, so righteous?”
DeBlass wasn’t red now. He was gray, and his breathing was harsh and choppy. When he reached for a glass again, his hand jerked and sent it rolling to the floor.
“This interview is over.” The lawyer stood, helped DeBlass to his feet. “My client’s health is precarious. He requires medical attention immediately.”
“Your client’s a murderer. He’ll get plenty of medical attention in a penal colony, for the rest of his life.” She pressed a button. When the doors of the interrogation room opened, a uniform stepped in. “Call the MTs,” she ordered. “The senator’s feeling a little stressed. It’s going to get worse,” she warned, turning back to DeBlass. “I haven’t even gotten started.”
Two hours later, after filing reports and meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Eve fought her way through traffic. She had read a good portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diaries. It was something she needed to set aside for now, the pictures of a twisted man and how he had turned a young girl into a woman almost as unbalanced as he.
Because she knew it could have been, all too easily, her story. Choices were there to be taken, she thought, brooding. Sharon’s had killed her.
She wanted to blow off some steam, go over the events step by step with someone who would listen, appreciate, support. Someone who, for a little while, would stand between her and the ghosts of what was. And what could have been.
She headed for Roarke’s.
When the call came through on her car ’link, she prayed it wasn’t a summons back to duty. “Dallas.”
“Hey, kid.” It was Feeney’s tired face on-screen. “I just watched the interrogation discs. Good job.”
“Didn’t get as far as I’d like, fencing with the damn lawyer. I’m going to break him, Feeney. I swear it.”
“Yeah, my money’s on you. But, ah, I got to tell you something that’s not goin
g to go down well. DeBlass had a little heart blip.”
“Christ, he’s not going to code out on us?”
“No. No, they medicated him. Some talk about getting him a new one next week.”
“Good.” She blew out a stream of breath. “I want him to live a long time—behind bars.”
“We’ve got a strong case. The prosecutor’s ready to canonize you, but in the meantime, he’s sprung.”
She hit the brakes. A volley of testy horn blasts behind her had her whipping over to the edge of Tenth and blocking the turning lane. “What the hell do you mean, he’s sprung?”
Feeney winced, as much in empathy as reaction. “Released on his own recognizance. U.S. senator, lifetime of patriotic duty, salt of the earth, dinky heart—and a judge in his pocket.”
“Fuck that.” She pulled her hair until the pain equaled her frustration. “We got him on murder, three counts. Prosecutor said she was going for no bail.”
“She got shot down. DeBlass’s lawyer made a speech that would have wrung tears from a stone and had a corpse saluting the flag. DeBlass is back in East Washington by now, under doctor’s orders to rest. He got a thirty-six-hour hold on further interrogation.”
“Shit.” She punched the wheel with the heel of her hand. “It’s not going to make any difference,” she said grimly. “He can play the ill elder statesman, he can do a tap dance at the fucking Lincoln Memorial, I’ve got him.”
“Commander’s worried that the time lag will give DeBlass an opportunity to pool his resources. He wants you back working with the prosecutor, going over everything we’ve got by oh eight hundred tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there. Feeney, he’s not going to slip out of this noose.”
“Just make sure you’ve got the knot nice and tight, kid. See you at eight.”
“Yeah.” Steaming, she swung back into traffic. She considered going home, burying herself in the chain of evidence. But she was five minutes from Roarke’s. Eve opted to use him as a sounding board.
She could count on him to play devil’s advocate if she needed it, to point out flaws. And, she admitted, to calm her down so that she could think without all these violent emotions getting in the way. She couldn’t afford those emotions, couldn’t afford to let Catherine’s face pop into her head, as it had time and time again. The shame and the fear and the guilt.
It was impossibly hard to separate it. She knew she wanted DeBlass to pay every bit as much for Catherine as for the three dead women.
She was cleared through Roarke’s gate, drove quickly up the sloped driveway. Her pulse began to thud as she raced up the steps. Idiot, she told herself. Like some hormonal plagued teenager. But she was smiling when Summerset opened the door.
“I need to see Roarke,” she said, brushing by him.
“I’m sorry, lieutenant. Roarke isn’t at home.”
“Oh.” The sense of deflation made her feel ridiculous. “Where is he?”
Summerset’s face pokered up. “I believe he’s in a meeting. He was forced to cancel an important trip to Europe, and was therefore compelled to work late.”
“Right.” The cat pranced down the steps and immediately began twining himself through Eve’s legs. She picked him up, stroked his underbelly. “When do you expect him?”
“Roarke’s time is his business, lieutenant. I don’t presume to expect him.”
“Look, pal, I haven’t been twisting Roarke’s arm to get him to spend his valuable time with me. So why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and tell me why you act like I’m some sort of embarrassing rodent whenever I show up.”
Shock turned Summerset’s face paper white. “I am not comfortable with crude manners, Lieutenant Dallas. Obviously, you are.”
“They fit me like old slippers.”
“Indeed.” Summerset drew himself up. “Roarke is a man of taste, of style, of influence. He has the ear of presidents and kings. He has escorted women of unimpeachable breeding and pedigree.”
“And I’ve got lousy breeding and no pedigree.” She would have laughed if the barb hadn’t stuck so close to the heart. “It seems even a man like Roarke can find the occasional mongrel appealing. Tell him I took the cat,” she added and walked out.
It helped to tell herself Summerset was an insufferable snob. And the cat’s silent interest as she vented on the drive home was curiously smoothing. She didn’t need some tight-assed butler’s approval. As if in agreement, the cat walked over onto her lap and began to knead her thighs.
She winced a little as his claws nipped through her trousers, but didn’t move him aside. “I guess we’ve got to come up with a name for you. Never had a pet before,” she murmured. “I don’t know what Georgie called you, but we’ll start fresh. Don’t worry, we won’t go for anything wimpy like Fluffy.”
She pulled into her garage, parked, saw the yellow light blipping on the wall of her spot. A warning that her payment on the space was overdue. If it went red, the barricade would engage and she’d be screwed.
She swore a little, more from habit than heat. She hadn’t had time to pay bills, damn it, and now realized she could face an evening of catching up playing the credit juggle with her bank account.
Hauling the cat under her arm, she walked to the elevator. “Fred, maybe.” She tilted her head, stared into his unreadable two-toned eyes. “No, you don’t look like Fred. Jesus, you must weigh twenty pounds.” Shifting her bag, she stepped into the car. “We’ll give the name some thought, Tubbo.”
The minute she set him down inside the apartment, he darted for the kitchen. Taking her responsibilities as pet owner seriously, and deciding it was one way to postpone crunching figures, Eve followed and came up with a saucer of milk and some leftover Chinese that smelled slightly off.
The cat apparently had no delicacies when it came to food, and attacked the meal with gusto.
She watched him a moment, letting her mind drift. She’d wanted Roarke. Needed him. That was something else she’d have to give some thought to.
She didn’t know how seriously to take the fact that he claimed to be in love with her. Love meant different things to different people. It had never been a part of her life.
She poured herself a half glass of wine, then merely frowned into it.
She felt something for him, certainly. Something new, and uncomfortably strong. Still, it was best to let things coast as they were. Decisions made quickly were almost always regretted quickly.
Why the hell hadn’t he been home?
She set the untouched wine aside, dragged a hand through her hair. That was the biggest problem with getting used to someone, she thought. You were lonely when they weren’t there.
She had work to do, she reminded herself. A case to close, a little Russian roulette with her credit status. Maybe she’d indulge in a long, hot bath, letting some of the stress steam away before prepping for her morning meeting with the prosecutor.
She left the cat gulping sweet and sour and went to the bedroom. Instincts, sluggish after a long day and personal questions, kicked in a moment too late.
Her hand was on her weapon before she fully registered the move. But it dropped away slowly as she stared into the long barrel of the revolver.
Colt, she thought. Forty-five. The kind that tamed the American west, six bullets at a time.
“This isn’t going to help your boss’s case, Rockman.”
“I disagree.” He stepped from behind the door, kept the gun pointed at her heart. “Take your weapon out slowly, lieutenant, and drop it.”
She kept her eyes on his. The laser was fast, but it wouldn’t be faster than a cocked .45. At this range, the hole it would put in her would make a nasty impression. She dropped her weapon.
“Kick it toward me. Ah!” He smiled pleasantly as her hand slid toward her pocket. “And the communicator. I prefer keeping this between you and me. Good,” he said when her unit hit the floor.
“Some people might find your loyalty to the senator admirable, Rock
man. I find it stupid. Lying to give him an alibi is one thing. Threatening a police officer is another.”
“You’re a remarkably bright woman, lieutenant. Still, you make remarkably foolish mistakes. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. I’d like you to remove your jacket.”
She kept her moves slow, her eyes on his. When the jacket was off one shoulder, she engaged the recorder in its pocket. “If holding me at gunpoint isn’t due to loyalty to Senator DeBlass, Rockman, what is it?”
“It’s a matter of self-preservation and great pleasure. I’d hoped for the opportunity to kill you, lieutenant, but didn’t see clearly how to work it into the plan.”
“What plan is that?”
“Why don’t you sit down? The side of the bed. Take off your shoes and we’ll chat.”
“My shoes?”
“Yes, please. This gives me my first, and I’m sure only opportunity to discuss what I’ve managed to accomplish. Your shoes?”
She sat, choosing the side of the bed nearest her ’link. “You’ve been working with DeBlass through it all, haven’t you?”
“You want to ruin him. He could have been president, and eventually the Chair of the World Federation of Nations. The tide’s swinging, and he could have swept it along and sat in the Oval Office. Beyond.”
“With you at his side.”
“Of course. And with me at his side, we would have taken the country, then the world, in a new direction. The right direction. One of strong morals, strong defense.”
She took her time, letting one shoe drop before unstrapping the other. “Defense—like your old pals in SafeNet?”
His smile was hard, his eyes bright. “This country has been run by diplomats for too long. Our generals discuss and negotiate rather than command. With my help, DeBlass would have changed that. But you were determined to bring him down, and me with him. There’s no chance for the presidency now.”
“He’s a murderer, a child abuser—”
“A statesman,” Rockman interrupted. “You’ll never bring him to trial.”
“He’ll be brought to trial, and he’ll be convicted. Killing me won’t stop it.”
