It didn’t take him much longer to stroll back out.
“The list is on your comp,” he told her.
“Great. Maybe you’d find it interesting to split the list with me, cull out married couples—first requirement. Married couples in the upper-class strata—second requirement. Married couples with no children—at least, none living at home. Married couples where the wife is a serious looker. And last, single-family residence. He doesn’t do apartment buildings or duplexes. Not yet anyway.”
“I can follow that. Have you considered same-sex couples? It isn’t pattern, as yet, but isn’t it possible he’d target a beautiful woman whatever her orientation?”
She jabbed a finger at him. “Damn good point. I’d put that as a lower probability because I think it’s a mom-and-dad deal, but it’s definitely a possibility. So … don’t discriminate.”
“What does the sign say in your bullpen? ‘No matter your race, creed, sexual orientation, or political affiliation, we protect and serve. Because you could get dead.’”
“Even if you were an asshole. We added an addendum.”
On a half laugh, he jabbed a finger back at her. “Well done.”
“Okay. So all of that, just pushing the married and the money. And the looks.”
“I believe I’ll work in here with you, on your auxiliary. That way we can coordinate more easily.”
“Pull up a chair. You start at the top, I’ll start at the bottom.”
“You should know there are more than eighteen hundred names.” And considering, he tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket.
She huffed out a breath. “They won’t all be married. We’ll backtrack for legal cohabs, put them in another lane. But we’re starting with married.”
Nodding, he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “You should know Mavis and Leonardo are on here, as are the Miras.”
Her sister, she thought. Mavis Freestone stood as her sister in everything but blood. “Mavis lives in an apartment building, and has a kid. Mira’s a looker, but she’s not his type—so far. She’s older than any of his vics thus far. I think he’ll stick to pattern.”
It wasn’t a fast job, and it was mindless, which wasn’t always an advantage. Eve worked split screen, the list on one side as she did quick runs on the names, making a note when she hit one that fit all requirements.
She slogged through a hundred, switched back to coffee.
They worked in near silence, even when Galahad gave up the sleep chair to leap into Roarke’s lap, curl there.
At the halfway point, Roarke sat back. “Let’s take that dinner break before our brains melt.”
“What?” She looked up, distracted, then realized a low-grade headache had already started to brew. A short break wouldn’t hurt as she couldn’t do anything about whatever she put together tonight anyway.
“Sure. Yeah. Good. But maybe—”
He watched her eyes shift to the table by the terrace doors. “A deal’s a deal, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want to eat down in the dining room?”
“I had something else in mind.” He got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet before she found some excuse. He glanced at the cat as he drew Eve to the elevator. “It’s a table for two tonight, my friend. You’ll find your dinner down in the kitchen.”
He tugged her into the elevator, kissed her between the eyes—where he’d already diagnosed that low-grade headache. “Roof terrace,” he ordered.
“Going fancy?”
“I expect the view will be.”
As usual, he was right.
It was like being in a reverse snow globe, Eve thought. Outside the glass dome, in the streams of the exterior lights, the snow fell fast, as if shaken from the sky by an angry hand. Winter winds swirled and tossed it into dramatic sweeps, and through the sweeps, the lights of the city gleamed and sparked. The great park spread in a study of black and white. The streets rayed in stark lines, empty of traffic with only a scatter of emergency vehicles trudging through the thick carpet of snow.
He lit candles on a table already set for two with silver warmers over the plates.
“How’d you manage this?”
“I gave Summerset an ETA.” He poured rich red wine for both, took her hand so they looked out the wide glass together. “We’re lucky, you and I. To be up here, warm and safe, without the worry of keeping that way. I remember being neither as a boy in Dublin when winter hit hard.”
“I don’t think I ever actually felt the snow until I was maybe nine or ten. Even then I sort of remember thinking: It’s cold and wet. What’s everybody so excited about? But from up here it looks pretty spectacular. Nice choice for dinner, ace. Very nice.”
“Let’s see what you think of the meal.”
He lifted the warming lids. Some sort of pasta deal, she noted, which was never wrong in her book. Not spaghetti, but the tube things in sauce with cheese melted all over it.
And the smell added more warmth and some spice to the air.
Reminded her stomach it wanted food.
“Looks great. What is it?”
“Baked penne, I believe.” No point in mentioning the spinach.
They ate it with a colorful little salad, a baguette to be torn apart and dipped into herbed oil. And more wine.
“Whatever it is,” Eve said between bites, “it’s pretty good. You snuck spinach in it.”
“I didn’t personally prepare it,” he reminded her.
“Ha. Still, it works. Will you keep your HQ shut down tomorrow?”
“I’ve advised anyone who isn’t essential to work from home, arranged for some to house on-site tonight. If you need to go into Central or into the field, take one of the all-terrains. Your vehicle can likely handle this, but you’ll be better off in an A-T.”
“Yeah. I might end up doing some of the interviews from here by ’link, possibly holo. I want a face-to-face with the bartender, so I may push for that, and I want another with Daphne. The more she sees me, I think, the more she’ll open up. Anyway, I’ll need to get into Central at some point. I’m the boss.”
“That you are.”
“You, too. You’ll take an A-T?”
“I will.”
“How many do we have?”
“More than enough,” he said, and smiled. “How many couples have you noted out of your portion of the list?”
“Six that meet all. That’s out of nearly two hundred and fifty people. A couple more that skim the margins. How about you?”
“Nine, that’s out of about three hundred. So we’ve made some progress.”
She told herself it didn’t matter he’d cleared through more than she had. It wasn’t a competition. Exactly. “So that’s fifteen, plus two marginal. Even if we triple that before we’re finished, it’s a workable number.”
“And how will you work it?”
“Talk to all of them. Cross-check any who use the caterer, have used the hospital, the rental company. Even any who socialize with any of the other vics. Look for a connection, put them on alert. Maybe one of them has had an incident—something. A thwarted break-in, an altercation, or the female will have had an encounter with someone who made her uncomfortable. I think the Patricks were the first, but that doesn’t mean this guy hasn’t practiced. Maybe he did the Peeping Tom deal, or broke into a house or two, stole a cocktail dress. Maybe he just got pushy with a female. Something.”
She shrugged. “It’s fishing.”
“You tend to catch what you fish for. One of my nine is a same-sex couple.”
“One of mine, too. I might have dismissed that.”
“I doubt it, once you dug in.” Lifting his wine, Roarke studied her over the rim. “You realize we fit his pattern, you and I.”
Eve shook her head. “I’m not his type. He goes for the killer looks, leaning or nailing glam.”
When Roarke raised his eyebrows, she shook her head again, ate more pasta. “You’ve got a blind spot.”
“I’d say the blind spot is yours. In any case, he’d never—however skilled—get through the security.”
“Jamie Lingstrom did once,” Eve reminded him. “A teenage kid.”
“A remarkably talented kid,” Roarke added, thinking of Feeney’s godchild. “And he didn’t get through, as the alarms alerted us, and we dragged his talented young ass inside. Plus I’ve added to security since—and asked Jamie to try to circumvent it.”
“I didn’t know you had him try another break-in.”
“Because it failed. Twice. He’s determined to conquer it. If and when he does, I’ll use that to add more layers.” Reading her face, he sat back with his wine. “I didn’t mention us and the pattern to give you ideas about being bait. It wouldn’t work for one thing. He’d be stupid to try for a cop, especially you. Or to try to get into this house. I expect he’s too careful for that sort of challenge.”
“He’s too much of a coward,” Eve corrected. “But a trap … not us, not here. If he considered trying for us, he’d want weeks of planning—and he’d want Summerset out. When does Summerset go on his winter vacation deal?”
“I thought it was marked with glittering stars and dancing fairies on your calendar. Soon.”
“Just wouldn’t work. But if I can refine the list, try to suss out who he might be targeting, I might be able to talk a couple into letting us bait the hook. Gonna think about that.”
“Let’s think about that later, top off our wine, and drink it on the sofa there, watching the snow fall. That’s a fine way to round out the dinner break.”
“Can’t argue with it.”
She settled down with him, actually put her feet on the table in front of them.
“I believe you’re relaxing, Lieutenant.”
“For a minute.” Since she was, she leaned into him. “It’s taken me a while.”
“To?”
“To get used to being here, living here, having this. You built it all over years. I dropped into it. It’s taken a while to adjust. To relax. I wonder if it was the same with Daphne. She comes from solid middle—edging toward upper middle—class, had a job, and was building it into a career. Rich doctor comes along, pays attention. I imagine he was charming at the start of it all. She’s dazzled. Big, important house, probably fancy dates, expensive gifts, and I’ll bet on a romantic proposal. The whole swooping off the feet.”
“Sweeping.”
“Nobody in their right mind sweeps feet.”
“But they’d swoop feet?”
He had her there. “Anyway, she’s dazzled, swooped and swept and married inside a few months.”
Amused, he tapped the diamond she wore on a chain around her neck when she tugged it out from under her shirt. “I worked up to giving you expensive gifts.”
“You sent me coffee, real coffee, right off. Nailed that in one.”
“I did, yes. And still, I don’t believe you were ever dazzled, swooped, or swept.”
“More appalled, I guess, but I got over it.” As they sat, shoulder to shoulder, the snow and the city it fell on providing a breathtaking view, she turned her head to look at him.
Another breathtaking view, she thought.
“I might’ve been slightly swooped.”
“And I, darling Eve, a bit appalled—a cop, after all—but completely swept.”
She gave him a little shoulder bump. “But the thing? You and me? Experienced cynics and ass-kickers. Daphne’s young, relatively inexperienced, has—by all accounts—a soft sort of nature. He plays on that, chips away at her self-esteem, begins to limit her activities and interests, starts distancing her from friends and family. It’s how it works.”
“Claims to cherish,” Roarke said, “even as he diminishes.”
“You got it. He probably didn’t seriously smack her around until he’d accomplished most of that. Then he’d apologize, lost his temper. Forgive me. But—here’s a key—but you, little lady, did, said something or behaved in such a way to make me lose control. So it turns, it becomes her fault he clocked her.”
She sipped more wine. “It really doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”
“It has to do with those echoes you spoke of. Did he apologize when he first hit you?”
She didn’t have to ask who. Richard Troy. And, yes, the echoes grew louder, grew longer with every step she took into the investigation.
“I honestly don’t remember the first time he hit me. Couldn’t say whether it’s buried or blurred, or if I was just too young to retain it. But I remember how he sometimes brought me something, some toy. He’d say things like I had to be good, had to do as I was told—always—so he wouldn’t have to punish me. Then he’d take it away or break it because—he said—I’d done something wrong.”
Idly, Eve rubbed a hand on Roarke’s leg. “Did Patrick Roarke do that with you?”
“He didn’t, no. No toys or rewards. Neglect was his style, followed by beatings. Perhaps a grunt of approval now and then on a day I’d had particularly good luck with picking pockets or lifting locks. It’s crueler, I think, the reward and punish than the neglect. What sort of toys did he bring you?”
“The only one I clearly remember, probably because I really liked it, was this little music box thing with this ballet girl inside who’d twirl around when you opened it. Sometimes if I couldn’t sleep, I’d open it up, listen to it, watch the girl. Sort of, I guess, imagine being happy enough to twirl around. And one night he came in, raging, busted it to pieces, whaled on me pretty good.”
And because he could see it so well, the young, trapped girl dreaming, then brutalized, it broke his heart. Simply shattered it.
Eve drank again. “Reward and punish. Praise and denigrate. It’s how it works. Daphne’s not a child, but she’s got that softness so she’d have been a pretty easy mark. She’s not me, but I understand her. And I should get back to her.”
“Another minute,” he replied gently.
Because she’d made him sad, Eve realized. Because she’d put the image of that scared and helpless little girl in his mind.
So she leaned in a little more. “We got an early enough start on things, so maybe if we plow through it, we can watch a vid. I feel like something fun, where the good guys and bad guys are over the top, and lots of things blow up.”
“I think it’s time to introduce you to The Avengers.”
“Who are they? What are they avenging?”
“Your vid and graphic novel education is pitiful, darling. They’re classics.” Smiling, he turned his head to brush his lips to hers.
“Classic what?”
“Superheroes who band together to save the world.”
“Do they kick ass doing it?”
“Is there any other way?”
Now she smiled. “I’m in for that.” And kissed him back.
Decided she could absolutely take a minute—or two—and added some punch to the kiss.
He set his wine aside so he could slide his arms around her.
No sadness, she thought, no harsh images. Now only heat and pleasure for both of them.
She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, gave it a sharp little nip before she swung her leg over, straddled his lap. Then, easing back, studying his face, she drained the rest of her wine.
“Should probably work off the alcohol.”
She bowed back, lean and agile, set her empty glass beside his. Then flowed up, fast, latched her mouth to his, gripped his face with her hands as she plundered.
She rocked him to the core. She always could. That aggressive mouth lit lust’s short fuse so he hardened like steel under her, so the hands digging into her hips shot up to close over her breasts.
“This time it’s you wearing too many clothes.” His fingers flicked open the buttons of her vest.
“We’ll work around them because this has to be fast.” She used her teeth on the side of his throat. “Hard and fast. Got me?”
“I’ve got you, and I’ll be keeping you.”
He dealt with her shirt, managed to tug the tank out of her waistband despite the weapon harness. And found it acutely arousing to possess her breasts with her weapon still strapped to her side.
He had a dangerous woman in his hands, and yes, he’d keep her.
She rocked against him, tormenting them both, and as if starved for the taste, ravaged his mouth.
Candlelight and snowfall provided a romantic backdrop, a soft contrast to the greedy lust they spurred in each other. New York gleamed, a frozen city through the glass, as she dragged at his belt.
“Fast and hard,” she reminded him, her breath already tearing as she struggled to help him yank her trousers down past her knees.
She didn’t wait, but took him in, muffled her own moan against his mouth.
She rode him like a stallion, spurred into a mad gallop that left him no choice but to race with her.
The world blurred. There was no world but her and that strong, glorious body, those wild, pistoning hips. She came like lightning, a snap and flash that bolted through him like a current.
Melting from it, she dropped her head on his shoulder. “Just need to catch my breath.”
“You’ll find it later.”
Half mad, he dragged her jacket down her arms, trapping them, shoving her back to open her more. Now he rode.
She couldn’t free her arms, couldn’t grab hold. Couldn’t stop as the fresh orgasm built fast and brutal over the first.
“Roarke. I can’t.”
“Take. Just take.”
He watched her, all but drowned in her. The crisp, professional clothes disheveled from his hands, the weapon at her side as much a part of her as a limb.
Her face warmed by sex and the candlelight and alive with the crazed pleasure they brought each other.
And he watched as those eyes, those sharp and cynical cop’s eyes, went blind from it.
He dragged her back, wrapped tight around her. Let himself break.
She shuddered against him, quaking aftershocks. Then, fighting for breath, went lax.
“There you are.” He pressed his face to the curve of her neck, simply overwhelmed by her. “Relaxed again.”
“That was more than a minute.”
“Time well spent. I adore you beyond reason, Eve.”
“Who needs reason? But I guess we’ll remember at some point to get naked first.”
She eased back, laid a hand on his cheek. “I have to get back to it.”
“So we will.”
“I think I’m going to stop off, change clothes. Might as well get the comfort on.”
“Another fine idea.”
She swung off him, hitched up her trousers. “Was it hard? Not that,” she said when he laughed, “because, obviously. I mean adjusting to me. The cop thing.”
“Shockingly easy.”
She shook her head as he rose, took her hand. “I never can figure it.”
“Who needs reason?” he reminded her.
She changed into flannel pants, an ancient hooded sweatshirt, and thick socks. She noted Roarke’s choice wasn’t so different from hers, but he somehow looked stylishly casual while she knew she just looked sloppy.
In her office she programmed coffee while Roarke strolled into the kitchen. He came out with two slabs of chocolate cake.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I just popped off to the cake factory.” He set the dessert plates down on her command center. “Your AutoChef, Lieutenant.”
“I had chocolate cake?” She took a bite, made a sound not dissimilar from one she’d made during sex. “I had really amazing chocolate cake?”
“Apparently. Now we both do.”
“Excellent.” And stuffing in a second bite, got back to work.
* * *
It took a couple hours, and more complications than she’d expected. What about the couple who’d been married in April but were divorced as of September? Or the couple who hadn’t been married, but were now, like the Patricks?
She opted for different columns, and quashed the automatic annoyance when Roarke completed his half before she did.
He didn’t interrupt her, simply got himself a brandy, then sat in front of her office fireplace, swirling and sipping and toying with his PPC.
She only had ten left, considered asking him to take half. Found the idea even more annoying, so slogged through on her own.
She swung around. “I’ve got nine more,” she told him. “That includes a married couple who attended, divorced shortly thereafter, and the male’s already remarried. And two couples who weren’t yet married, but now are married. According to the guest list, one of those couples attended with people who were set to but didn’t end up getting married.”
“I had eight, and that included a couple now newly married. It would fit, wouldn’t it, as the Patricks were newly married at the time of the attack?”
“Exactly. So we’ll assume he keeps up. Either because he’s in that circle, or he uses the society and gossip media. Maybe all of that. One on my list is on the edge, age wise, as they’re both into their fifties, and he’s gone younger on the females. But, and this could be a connect, she’s an actress. Mostly theater, but some screen, too. Nothing with On Screen that’s listed.”
“What’s her name?”
Eve swung back to her list. “Gloria Grecian. Do you know her?”
“Of. I’ve seen her perform. Musical comedy.”
“Makes sense. She’s been married to Maurice Cartier, a choreographer, for twelve years. We’ll start making contact with the thirty-odd couples on the list tomorrow.”
She looked toward the window. Had the snow thinned or was that just her own version of cheery optimism? “Nothing much we can do tonight.”
“Are you still in the mood for a vid?”
“Yeah.” She looked at the list, her board, accepted she’d just be turning in circles to keep at it now. “Yeah, I am. What’s it again?”
“I thought we’d dive right in to The Avengers rather than take you through the individual vids establishing the characters.”
“Superheroes.”
“Exactly.” He went to her, took her hand. “Ironman, for instance.”
“Like Cal Ripken, Jr.?”
“Sorry?”
“Ha—got you on one. Cal Ripken, Iron Man Ripken—late-twentieth-century baseball player, Baltimore. Third base, shortstop. Still holds the record for most consecutive games played.”
“You often amaze me,” he said as they started out.
“Well, it’s baseball. Ironman, but not like Ripken.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this porn?”
He laughed. “It isn’t, no.”
“Ironman sounds suspicious to me. What are the others?”
“There’s Thor, the Hulk,” he began.
“Sounds like porn.”
“You’ll see for yourself.”
“I want popcorn,” she decided. “It’ll probably make me sick, but I want it.”
“The way you saturate it with butter and salt, there’s no doubt you’ll be sick.”
“I still want it,” she said, also wanting to find out who the hell Ironman was if it didn’t apply to sports or porn.
* * *
While she stretched out with Roarke—eating popcorn, watching the Hulk smash—a solitary figure walked the snow-covered sidewalks.
He was nearly as entertained at that moment as the woman hunting him.
No one would anticipate he’d perform again so soon, and he loved the idea of surprising the public. It was a perfect night for this opening. The blanketing snowfall, the whizzing wind, the empty streets while the city hunkered down inside their cozy mansions, their chilly cold-water flats, their flops, their gleaming towers.
He did love the city, and in these moments it felt as if it was his alone.
He wore a long black coat with a deep hood, for warmth and protection, and to conceal his face. No point in scaring any innocent bystander he might happen upon.
But the night and the city were his—the blizzard a kind of bonus, providing a wonderful atmosphere—and he saw not another soul.
He’d done his research, of course. He was a professional. He drew out his jammer as he approached the lovely old brownstone. He’d admired it numerous times, its classic lines, its stately veneer.
Naturally he’d been inside as well. He always took a tour of the theater, planned his staging.
The house sat dark, his audience tucked into bed by now.
The five minutes it took him to bypass the alarms and the locks only added to the anticipation.
He opened the door. Death walked into the house, and chuckled softly in its throat.