by J. D. Robb
“For nearly sixteen years?”
“She could’ve done it for twice that. But you know what happened? His father died. I gotta look at that.” She tucked it into a handy corner of her mind. “And I need to check with Charles, but I’ll lay you odds her first session with Charles was only weeks after the old man went under and Tommy inherited. Boy, the stakes just went way up. ‘Look at all this, and it could all be mine. How can I have it, and get out of this frigging suit.’ It’s gotta be itching some, and he’s only got a decade on her. He could live another fifty, sixty years. It’s just too much. Anyway, she’s earned it. God knows, she’s earned it. Divorce won’t do. She could work it, sure she could work it so it was all his fault, like she did the first husband.”
“But as that’s already been done, it wouldn’t do to repeat herself.”
“You got it,” she said, pleased. “And the payoff wouldn’t be enough in a divorce. Not anymore, not with all the years she’s put in. If he’d just die, she could be the shattered widow, the widow who picks up the pieces of her life and goes on. Why can’t he just die, why can’t he have a fatal accident, why…What if?”
“She wouldn’t be the first to hook herself to wealthy then grow weary of the price,” Roarke commented. “Or the first to kill over it. But the method in this case seems particularly vindictive.”
“Had to be. Terrible accident, but more, one brought on by his own weakness, his own disloyalty to her. The worse he looks, the brighter her halo. And, I think, once she saw a way out, that suit got tighter and tighter until it was cutting off her blood supply. Whose fault is that?”
“Why his, of course.”
“Oh yeah. He had to pay for that, for all the years she wore it, all the years she played the game.” As she sat in the fragrant air of the limo, Eve could all but feel Ava’s rage. “She hated him at the end. Whatever she felt at the start, or during, at the end she hated him.”
“And the killing itself was so intimate, and so ugly,” Roarke said, “because of the hate behind it.”
“Bull’s-eye.”
“If it played out the way you think, she still has an obstacle. There’s Ben.”
“I bet she’s got plans for Ben. She can bide her time. Unless he gets in a serious relationship, starts thinking marriage. She’d have to move faster then. Or she might consider setting it up soon. An overdose would be best. Pills, too many pills. He couldn’t take the grief, couldn’t take the pressure of stepping into his uncle’s shoes. Opts out. There’s a risk there, but if I close this case with her in the clear, as she expects, she might take it.”
“Do you intend to warn him?”
“He’s clear for now. Case is open, and she needs more time.” Calculating it, Eve tapped her fingers on her thighs. “She needs time to lean on him, to turn to him. To present the image that he’s her support now, all she has left of Tommy now. She plans, and she considers contingencies. She needs public displays of their mutual grief and dependence to establish the foundation.”
“I can’t say I knew Thomas Anders well, but I would have said he was a good judge of character.”
“Love clouds things.”
“It does, yes.” Roarke danced his fingers over the ends of her hair.
She shifted to face him. “You never asked yourself, not even once, if I made a play for you because of the money?”
“You didn’t make a play for me. I made the play.”
“That could’ve been my play.” She smiled at him. “And you fell heedlessly into my wiles.”
“Where I landed very comfortably. The only suits you wear, darling Eve, are the ones in your closet. And then they’re worn reluctantly.” He laid his hand, palm down, between her breasts. “I know your heart, a ghrá.” And drew the chain she wore under her shirt. On it winked a diamond and the metal of a saint, gifts from him. “Do you remember when I gave you this?”
He swung the chain lightly so the diamond flashed and burned.
“Sure.”
“You weren’t just horrified and confused, you were terrified. Fearless Lieutenant Eve Dallas, terrified by a piece of compressed carbon and what it represented.”
“Love wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in my what-if. Not then.”
“Yet, when you finally came to me, you wore it.” The diamond sparked between them. “And you wear it still. Hidden most of the time to preserve your odd cop sensibilities, but worn just there, against your heart.” He slid it under her shirt again. “It was you, Lieutenant, who fell into my guile, after I gave you a bloody good shove.”
“I guess we both took a fall.” She glanced out the window as the limo drew to a curb behind other limos—the somber glamour of death. “Too bad Anders didn’t have a better landing with his.”
Photographs of Anders stood throughout the elegant double parlor. He swung a golf club or a bat, hiked a football or returned a tennis volley among the meadow of flowers on display. Sunflowers, with their deep velvet brown eyes, dominated.
“His favorite,” Ben told them. “Uncle Tommy used to say if he ever retired he’d buy a little farm somewhere and grow nothing but sunflowers.”
“Did he have plans for that?” Eve asked. “For retiring?”
“Not really. But he did make some noises about finding a place outside the city, taking long weekends. As long as there was a golf course handy. He was sort of toying with the idea of building a farmhouse by the sports camp upstate. A real country home, where he and Ava would eventually retire. He’d have his sunflowers, get out of the city a little more until then, and have full use of the camp facilities. Said he’d have to put in a spa for Ava, to get her to go along with it.”
He smiled with grief raw in his eyes. “Anyway, he loved sunflowers. He was loved, too. We’re having simultaneous memorials, all over the world. Right now, all over the world people are…Sorry, excuse me a minute.”
He turned toward the door. Eve wondered if he’d make it out before breaking down. And she saw Leopold cross the room quickly, and laying a hand on Ben’s shoulder, walk out with him.
Love, Eve thought, in sorrow and selflessness.
Then she turned to study the widow who sat pale of cheek, damp of eye in a blue velvet chair surrounded by flowers and people eager to console her. Once again, her hair was coiled at the back of her neck to show off fine bones, sharply defined features. Her widow’s weeds were unrelieved black, perfectly cut to showcase her statuesque build. She wore diamonds, exquisitely, at her ears, her wrists.
“Careful,” Roarke murmured, “the way you’re aimed at her, the hair on the back of her neck will stand up in a minute.”
Not such a bad idea, Eve thought. “Let’s go offer our condolences.”
Tommy had drawn a crowd, Eve thought as she moved through it. That would please the widow, that good PR the media would run with. As she approached, Ava lifted her gaze, glimmering with suppressed tears, and bracing a hand on the arm of her chair as if she needed the support, rose.
“Lieutenant. How kind of you to come. And Roarke. Tommy would be so pleased you took this time.”
“He was a good man.” Roarke took Ava’s offered hand. “He’ll be missed.”
“Yes, he was, and he will be. Have you…have you met my friend, my dear friend Brigit Plowder?”
“I believe we have. It’s nice to meet you again, Mrs. Plowder, even under such difficult circumstances.”
“Sasha will be devastated you remembered me and not her.” Brigit smiled at Roarke, a warm hostess to a guest. “Would you sign the mourner’s book? It’s an old-fashioned custom we thought Tommy would appreciate.” She gestured to the narrow podium beside her, and the gilt-edged white book open on it.
“Of course.” Roarke took up the gold pen to sign.
“You should have some wine.” As if confused or mildly ill, Ava touched her fingers to her temple. “We’re serving wine. Tommy so enjoyed a party. He wouldn’t want all these tears. You should have some wine.”
“I’m on duty
.” And for a moment, for just an instant, Eve stared into Ava’s eyes and let her see. I know you. I know what you are.
In Ava’s, behind that sheen of tears, flashed surprise. And for only a moment, for just an instant, heat flared with it. Then she swayed against her friend. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I feel…”
“Sit now.” Brigit eased Ava into the chair, stroked her cheek. “Sit back, Ava. You’re taking on too much.”
“How can it ever be enough? How can I…Where’s Ben? Where’s Ben?” A single tear spilled out of each brilliant eye. “I need Ben.”
“I’ll fetch him for you.” Roarke glanced at Eve, then made his way through the crowd of mourners.
“He’ll be right along,” Brigit soothed. “Ben will be right along. We’ll take you upstairs, sweetheart. You need some quiet. It’s too warm in here, too close, with so many people. It’s all too much.”
“I’ll give you a hand with that.” Eve stepped closer. “Why don’t I help you upstairs, Mrs. Anders?”
“I want Ben.” Ava turned her face away to press it against Brigit. “I’ll be stronger if I have Ben. He’s all I have left of Tommy.”
“He’s coming now. He’s coming, Ava.”
Ben rushed through the room, the grief coated over with concern. He bent over Ava like a shield. “I’m here. I just went out for some air. I’m right here.”
“Stay with me, Ben. Please, stay with me, just until we get through this.”
“Let’s take her upstairs.”
“No, Brigit, I shouldn’t leave. I need—”
“Just for a few minutes. Just a few minutes upstairs until you feel better.”
“Yes, you’re right. A few minutes. Ben.”
“Here we are. Take my arm. You’ll have to excuse us, Lieutenant.”
“Sure.”
So the widow, overcome, was led away to her private grief. Pitch-perfect, Eve thought. She could use some air herself, she decided, then spotted Nadine Furst across the room with Roarke.
“Personal or professional?” Eve asked when she joined them.
“Like cops, it’s always both for journalists. But personal leads the way here. I liked him, very much. And Ben.” She glanced toward the doorway, brushing back the sleek sweep of hair as she watched them go. “I was outside with him, having a word, when Roarke came out for him. Poor Ava, she looks so lost.”
“Oh, she knows where she’s going.”
Nadine’s eyes lit and narrowed. “What’s that I hear? You don’t seriously think—” She cut herself off, took a sip of the wine in her hand. “Too many ears in here. Why don’t we step outside?”
“Not ready for a one-on-one.”
“Peabody’s better than I thought,” Nadine said after a moment. “If what’s going on is what I think is going on. She never dropped a crumb. Some pals you are.”
“You be a pal first. Dig up those old interviews you told me about, send them to me.”
“I can do that. What’s in it for me?”
“That’s going to depend.”
“Look, Dallas—”
“Did I mention,” Roarke interrupted, “how strong I found your interview with Peabody last night? You drew the best out of her, effortlessly.”
“Teamwork.” Nadine sulked at both of them. “I hate that.”
“Get me the interviews, Nadine, then I’ll give you what I can when I can. But for now, I’ve had enough of this place. So—shit. It’s Tibble’s wife. Damn it.”
Not ready yet, was all Eve could think as the tall, whip-thin woman aimed toward her. Brutally short, honey brown hair crowned a strong, stunner of a face the shade of the well-steeped Irish tea Roarke occasionally enjoyed. Eve had heard the stories that once upon a time Karla Blaze Tibble made her living—and considerable sensation—as a fashion model. If she’d stalked the runways with the same purpose and panache as she crossed a mourning room, Eve decided, she would’ve been hard to beat.
“Lieutenant.” Her voice was smoky music, her eyes tiger gold.
“Ma’am.”
“Ms. Furst, Roarke, I wonder if you’ll excuse us a moment? I need to speak to the lieutenant in private.”
It might’ve been posed as a request, but there was command in the posture. Karla simply turned, and people parted for her as the Red Sea parted for Moses as she strode to the door.
“Courage.” Though there was amusement in his tone, Roarke gave Eve’s shoulder a supportive squeeze.
“Why do they have to have wives? Why do cops have to have wives? I’ll be back in a minute.” With little choice, Eve followed in Karla’s wake, and joined her on the narrow, third-floor terrace.
With the traffic snarling below, Karla stood with her back to the rail. “As the primary on an open homicide, can you possibly think it’s appropriate for you to speak with a reporter at the victim’s memorial?”
“Excuse me, ma’am, Nadine Furst is also a personal friend.”
“Friendship doesn’t apply. You have a position to uphold.”
Screw this, Eve thought. “Yes, I do—as do you. As the wife of the chief of police, can you possibly think it’s appropriate for you to attend the memorial of the victim of an open homicide case, and speak with individuals who may be on the investigator’s suspect list?”
The fury flashed, a beautiful blaze that kindled in those tiger eyes, on that amazing face. Then it banked down to an irritated simmer. “You have a point. It’s very annoying that you have a point.”
“I can assure you that I haven’t discussed the details of the investigation with Nadine, or any other media contact.”
“Yet.”
“She’s a useful source, and—at my discretion as primary—I may elect to use that source. As she’s no pushover, I may elect to trade information for information.”
“Dirt for dirt.”
“If it’s useful dirt, yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, stop calling me ‘ma’am’ as if I were your third-grade teacher.” She spun around to lean on the rail, facing the street this time. “I’m upset, and it set me off to see you huddled with Nadine Furst.”
“I’d huddle with Jack the Ripper if it aided the investigation. I have a job to do. I understand this is upsetting to you. Your friend’s husband has been murdered. You should understand that finding his murderer and building a case against that individual are my priorities.”
“And I’ve already poked my nose in twice.” Karla lifted her hands off the rail in a gesture Eve interpreted as truce. “I don’t make a habit of that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Ava and I are friendly. We’ve worked closely together on several projects, and I admire her energy, her creative thinking. I liked Tommy Anders very much. He was a generous, unpretentious man, so yes, it’s very difficult to accept he was murdered. And the circumstances of it, the media coverage of it. As the wife of a prominent man, I sympathize with Ava on many levels right now.”
Karla turned around. “As the wife of a prominent man, so should you.”
“As the primary investigator, my sympathies are with the victim.”
“You’re a hardcase, Lieutenant.” Karla shook her head, but the fire had gone out. “Your commander considers you the best of his best. My husband believes you to be brilliant. While I generally stay out of my husband’s business, I pay attention. So I know you have a reputation for getting it done. I suppose it takes a hardcase to get it done. So I’m told you wanted to speak to me about Ava and Tommy.”
“Most specifically about your work with them.”
“You suspect that something within the charity work precipitated Tommy’s murder.”
“I need to cover all areas to conduct a thorough investigation.”
“Which is cop-speak for none of your business.” Karla waved a hand. “I’m not offended. Ava and I worked on a number of projects over the last couple of years. She contacted me initially to ask me to cochair and help coordinate a fashion show. Logical, given my background.”
&nbs
p; “A sports fashion show?”
“No, actually, this was geared toward the mothers of children qualified for the sports camps and associated programs. Affordable daywear, work wear, sportswear, with several of the mothers as models. Participating merchants offered generous discounts, and Anders provided each woman with a thousand-dollar wardrobe allowance. Something fun for them, as most of the emphasis is on the children. We followed up a few months later with a children’s show—school clothes, athletic gear. Both were very successful. Ava was tireless.”
“So I’ve learned.”
“We’ve also implemented other activities. We—or Ava and some of the staff and volunteers—took the mothers to a spa resort while their children were at camp. A kind of retreat where for five days they could relax, be pampered, attend seminars, workshops, have discussion groups. It’s a lovely time.”
“You’ve attended.”
“Yes, once or twice. As a den mother, so to speak. It was very rewarding to see these women who rarely have any time for themselves have an opportunity to focus on their own minds, bodies, spirits.”
“They must have been incredibly grateful for that, and to Ava for providing them with a sample of a lifestyle outside of their own.”
“A break from work, children, responsibilities, yes. Fun was a priority, but also education, networking, a support system. Just as in the one-or two-day retreats held in New York, or other locations throughout the year for the Moms, Too, program. A number of these women are single parents, and as such have little time to socialize, to be anything but a mother.”
Enthusiasm for the program infused Karla’s voice. Her hands moved, energetically conducting her words. “Often when a parent loses herself—or himself—in the day-to-day responsibilities and demands of raising children, they become a less effective, and less loving parent than they might be. Than they want to be. So Ava conceived of Moms, Too.”
“Being together like that, at that kind of retreat or organizing a fashion show, it would be natural, wouldn’t it, for you and Ava to become involved with the participants? Develop relationships.”
