by J. D. Robb
He was ill-mannered, ill-tempered, surly, and sarcastic.
Roarke liked him very much.
“You worked here when Allegany was associated with J. Forrester.”
“Hah.” Stiles took out a pipe he hadn’t filled in fifteen years and chewed on the stem. “I’ve worked here since you were still sucking your thumb and drooling on your chin.”
“Fortunately I grew out of both distressing habits. The partnership had to do with a particular project.”
“Sexual dysfunction. People didn’t worry about sex so much, they’d get more done.”
“But what would be the point?” Roarke lifted a box filled with what appeared to be a decade’s worth of periodical discs, set it on the floor.
“Married now, aren’t you? Sex goes out the window.”
Roarke thought of Eve rising over him in the dark. “Is that what happened to it?”
The amusement in the tone had Stiles snorting out what might have been a laugh.
“In any case,” Roarke continued, “I need information about the partnership, the project, and the players.”
“I look like a fucking data bank to you?”
Roarke ignored the question. More, he ignored the delivery, something he wouldn’t have done for many. “I’ve already accessed considerable data, but the personal touch is helpful. Theodore McNamara.”
“Asshole.”
“As I believe that’s your affectionate term for nearly everyone in your acquaintance, and out of it, perhaps you could be more specific.”
“More interested in profit than the results. In glory than the big picture. Administrate you to death and back again just for the enjoyment of proving who was pushing the buttons. Wanted a name for himself. He was top dog around here then, and he made sure we all knew it by pissing on everyone as often as possible. Courted the media like a publicity whore.”
“I take it you didn’t get together for a quick beer after a hard day over the petri dish.”
“Couldn’t stand the son of a bitch. Can’t knock his professional skills. There’s a brilliant mind in that puffed up prima donna.”
He sucked on his pipe a little, thinking. “He hand-selected most of the teams. Brought his doormat of a daughter in on it. What the hell was her name . . . Hah, who gives a shit? Good brain, worked like a dog, and had nothing to say for herself.”
“Can I assume from this the project was primarily McNamara’s baby?”
“He made the majority of decisions, made the blueprints for the direction the work took. It was a corporate project, but McNamara was the figurehead, spokesperson, main son of a bitch in charge. There was a lot of money riding on the deal. Corporate money, private investors. Sex sells. We had some luck in a couple areas.”
“Considerable.”
“Guaranteeing a man he can still get a boner when he’s a hundred and two and letting a woman keep her biological clock ticking past the half-century mark.” Stiles shook his head. “Money and media from that bumped things up. The less snappy stuff we accomplished—infertility aids without the risks of multiple births—wasn’t as newsworthy. The brass was looking for more, and McNamara put on the pressure for us to give them more. We were working with dangerous elements, unstable ones. Tempting ones. The costs rose, and experiments were pushed too fast to make up the margin. Bad chemistry. Side effects, unsanctioned use. Recreational, too. Lawsuits started piling up, and they shut the project down.”
“And McNamara?”
“Managed to stay out of the stink.” Stiles’s mouth turned down in disgust. “He knew what was going on. Nothing ever got by him.”
“What about staff? Anyone you remember who had a particular affection for recreational use?”
“Do I look like a weasel?” Stiles barked.
“Actually . . . ah, you meant metaphorically, not literally.”
“Give it another fifty years, you won’t look so pretty either.”
“Just one more thing to look forward to. Stiles.” Roarke switched gears, sobered, leaned forward. “This is hardly gossip. Two women murdered, one in a coma. If there’s a possibility the source springs back to that project—”
“What women? What murders?”
Roarke nearly sighed. How could he have forgotten who he was talking to? “Get out of the lab occasionally, Stiles.”
“Why? There are people out there. Nothing fucks things up faster than people.”
“There’s a person or persons out there right now drugging women with the very chemicals you and this lab experimented in. Drugging them to death.”
“Not bloody likely. Do you know how much it would take to induce death? The cost of the elements involved?”
“I have that data, thank you. The cost in this case doesn’t seem to be an issue.”
“Hell of a lot of money, even if he’s cooking it himself.”
“What would it take to cook it himself?”
Stiles thought for a moment. “Good lab, diagnostic and equation units, first-class chemist. Air-seal lock for holding during stabilization process. Has to be privately funded, black market. Any accredited lab or center was working on this, I’d know about it.”
“Put your ear to the ground,” Roarke told him, “and see if you hear about anything that’s not accredited.” His pocket-link beeped. “Excuse me.”
He engaged privacy mode, flipped on the earpiece. “Roarke.”
Eve hated cooling her heels. She particularly hated it in a space where she was considered as much Roarke’s wife, maybe more, than a badge. The Palace was one of those spaces.
She hated it only slightly less after being escorted to Roarke’s hotel office where she could interview the waiter who’d served Moniqua and her attacker.
She preferred her visit to Rikers where the facilities were spare, the staff snarly, and the inmates vicious. Even if her interview with Gunn had been a dead end, it had been in more comfortable surroundings.
“I’ll have Jamal brought up to you the moment he arrives.” The ruthlessly sleek lounge hostess gestured when the elevator doors opened. “If there’s anything else I, or any of the Palace staff, can do to aid in your investigation, you’ve only to ask.”
It required both a thumbprint and a code to unlock the office, and this required enlisting the help of the executive office manager.
Security was never taken for granted in a Roarke Industries holding.
“In the meantime”—the hostess smiled warmly—“may I offer you any refreshment?”
“A sparkling mango.” Peabody leaped in with the request before Eve could throw up the wall against such niceties. She met Eve’s dour look. “I’m kind of thirsty.”
“Of course.” The hostess glided over to the carved cupboard that held the refreshment center and programmed the AutoChef. “And for you, Lieutenant?”
“Just the waiter.”
“He’s due in very shortly.” She offered Peabody the mango in a tall, fluted glass. “If there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’ll give you your privacy.”
She stepped out, closing the doors discreetly behind her.
“These are really good.” Peabody savored each swallow. “You should go for one.”
“We’re not here to slurp down fancy drinks.” Eve wandered the room. Despite the cutting-edge equipment, it was more luxury apartment than office. “I want the waiter’s statement before I hit Dr. McNamara. Stop guzzling that and check on Moniqua Cline’s condition.”
“I can do both.”
While she did, Eve contacted Feeney. “Give me something.”
“You been to Rikers already?”
“Come and gone. Gunn and I passed a few pleasantries during which he suggested I perform various sexual acts on myself that, however inventive, are either anatomically impossible or illegal.”
“Same old Gunn,” Feeney said, with some affection.
“Otherwise, he was a washout. He was pissed off enough to find out somebody was out there making money in his area for me to b
elieve he doesn’t know a damn thing. So give me something.”
“I told you it was gonna take time.”
“Time’s passing. One of them may have a date tonight.”
“Dallas, you know how much crap’s passed through this unit? It’s a public rental for Christ’s sake. I can’t just reach in and pluck a single user out like a frigging rabbit out of a hat.”
“You’ve got Cline’s unit. Can’t you run the crosscheck?”
“Do I look like this is my first day on the job? He didn’t play with her on this one. Not that I can find. You want me to explain what the hell I’m doing here, or you want me to do it?”
“Do it.” She started to cut off, caught herself. “Sorry,” she added, then cut off.
“No change,” Peabody told her. “She’s still critical and comatose.”
The door opened. Eve told herself she shouldn’t have been the least surprised to see Roarke walk in.
“What are you doing here?”
“I believe this is my office.” He glanced around. “Yes, I’m sure it is. Jamal, this is Lieutenant Dallas and Officer Peabody. They’re going to ask you some questions, and require your full cooperation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Relax, Jamal,” Eve told him. “You’re not in any trouble.”
“No. This is about the woman in the coma. I saw a bulletin, and wondered if I should go to the police station or to work.” He glanced at Roarke.
“The surroundings are a bit more comfortable here,” Roarke said easily.
“So you say,” Eve muttered under her breath.
“Sit down, Jamal,” Roarke invited. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
“Would you mind,” Eve interrupted, “if I conducted this interview?”
“Not at all.” Roarke walked over, took a seat behind his desk. “And no, I’m not leaving. Jamal’s entitled to have a representative present.”
“I would like to help.” Jamal sat, his back arrow-straight, and folded his hands neatly on his lap. “Even if I hadn’t been instructed to give full cooperation, I would want to help. It’s my duty.”
“Well, that’s a refreshing attitude, Jamal. I’m going to record this. Peabody?”
“Yes, sir. Record on.”
“Interview with Jamal Jabar, regarding the attempted murder of Moniqua Cline. Casefile H-78932C. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, conducting the interview. Also present Peabody, Officer Delia, as aide and Roarke as subject Jabar’s chosen representative. Jamal, you’re employed as waitstaff in The Royal Bar of the Roarke Palace Hotel. Correct?”
“Yes. I’ve been serving here for three years.”
“And last night, in that capacity, you served a couple in station five of your section.”
“I served four couples at that station during my shift.”
Eve took out the stills, held them up. “Do you recognize these people?”
“I do. They were in my section last night, at station five. They had a bottle of Dom Perignon ’56, beluga caviar with full accompaniments. The gentleman arrived at just before nine o’clock and was very specific in what we wished to be served, and how.”
“He arrived first.”
“Oh yes, nearly thirty minutes before the lady. But he instructed me to bring the champagne right away, and to open the bottle. He wished to pour himself. The caviar was to be served after she arrived.”
“Did he have a bag, black leather, long strap, with him?”
“He did. He didn’t wish to check it. He kept it on the booth beside him. He made one call on his ’link. I assumed it was to the lady as he was waiting so long for her. But he didn’t seem impatient, and when I stopped by to make certain he was comfortable and inquired if his guest was late, he told me she was not.”
“When did he pour the champagne?”
“I didn’t notice precisely, but when it was nearly nine-thirty, the glasses were full. She arrived shortly after that. And I realized—thought I realized why he had come so early if indeed she was timely. I assumed he’d been nervous as this was a first date.”
“How did you know it was a first date?”
“I would have guessed because there was an excitement, and a slight formality between them at the beginning. But I was sure of it as I heard her say how happy she was to finally meet him face-to-face.”
“What did they talk about?”
Jamal turned toward Roarke. “We’re not supposed to listen to the guests’ conversations.”
“You got ears. Hearing isn’t the same as listening.”
“No, it isn’t.” Jamal’s face registered his appreciation for her distinction. “When I served the caviar, they were speaking of art and literature, the way people do as they look for a comfortable spot to settle with each other. He was very attentive, but gentlemanly. At the beginning.”
“But that changed.”
“You could say they became very . . . at ease with each other very quickly. They touched, kissed in a way that indicated intimacy, or the willingness for it. If you understand me, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I follow you.”
“When I cleared the caviar, it was the lady who paid. This seemed distasteful to me as he had been the one to order.” He looked a little sheepish. “But she gave me a very generous tip. They lingered over the wine. She became, it seemed to me, quite aggressive. At one point . . .” He shifted in his chair, relinked his fingers. “I saw her hand under the table. And, well, in his trousers. As this is against restaurant policy, I debated reporting it to my supervisor. But then she got up and went into the ladies’ lounge. When she returned, they left.”
“Had you ever seen either of them before last night?”
“I don’t remember her, but we see so many people. The Royal Bar is a city landmark, after all. But I remember him.”
Eve’s head came up, just an inch. “How?”
“He’s been in my section before, that same station. Only a week ago, perhaps a little more. With another man. He didn’t look the same, but it was him. Last night, his hair was lighter and longer. His face different somehow. I can’t really say.”
“But you recognized him?”
“His ring. I’d admired it before. My wife is a jeweler, so I tend to notice a good piece when I see it. It’s a wide band with alternating ribbons of white and yellow gold with a square stone. A ruby with a dragon’s head carved into it. Very distinctive. His companion had one as well, but with a sapphire. I thought at the time they were mates, and these their wedding rings.”
“This man last night had on the ruby ring.”
“Yes. I nearly remarked on it, but as he looked so different I assumed he didn’t wish to be recognized. And he indicated, quite clearly, he didn’t wish to speak with his server.”
Eve got to her feet, circled the room. “Tell me about the time you saw him before. Him, and the other man.”
“I only remember it was about a week ago. I don’t remember which evening. But I think it was early in my shift. Near seven o’clock. They had wine and hors d’oeuvres.” He smiled thinly. “And didn’t tip well.”
“How did they pay?”
“Cash.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I didn’t hear very much. They seemed to be arguing, but good-naturedly, over which of them would start the game. They were in very high spirits. And it amused me when I was taking an order from station six that the gentlemen in five were flipping a coin.”
Bryna Bankhead, Eve thought, had died on the flip of a coin. “I need you to work with an imaging tech, Jamal.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to describe him very well.”
“Let us worry about that. We appreciate your cooperation. You’ve been a really big help. Someone will contact you about the imaging.”
“All right.” He glanced at Roarke, got the nod of approval, and rose. “I hope whatever I’ve told you helps you stop him from hurting anyone else.”
“Jamal.” Roarke got to his feet. “I’ll speak to your supervisor. You’ll be paid for whatever time you need to take off to assist the police. Any lost time won’t affect your benefits or salary.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We run the ring,” Eve snapped the minute the doors closed behind Jamal. “Every jewelry store in New York that does custom work. Order an imaging tech, priority one.”
“On it,” Peabody replied.
“Lieutenant?” Roarke’s voice stopped her before she’d taken two steps toward the door.
“What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Central, to review the security discs. See if I can spot the rings.”
“You can do that here. And on this equipment, a great deal faster. Computer, replay security disc, Royal Bar, June six, twenty-two forty-five.”
Working . . . Display selection?
“Wait a minute? You’ve got visual security on the lounge?”
“I believe in being thorough.”
She cursed under her breath. “You could’ve mentioned it.”
“Seeing it’s so much more effective. Wall screen one.”
The lounge spilled onto the screen, all opulence and color. The elegant sat at tables or glided on the dance floor while those who served them moved with seamless efficiency from table to booth, from booth to what she assumed was the kitchen.
The images sped up as Roarke manually ordered fast-forward.
“He should be coming along any . . . Ah.” He stopped the progress, froze the screen.
Eve stepped closer, concentrating on his hands. “Can’t see the ring from this angle. Play it forward.” She waited, watched him speak briefly to the evening hostess. Watched him being led to his reserved booth. His hands were under the table and out of view when Jamal stepped up to greet him.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Eve urged. “Scratch your nose or something.”
Jamal returned with the bottle of champagne, the flutes. Completed the setup. But when he offered to pour the wine, he was impatiently waved away.
