Brotherhood in Death

10

At her desk, she brought up her incomings, found Peabody’s verification of all alibis, right down the line. Considering, she decided rather than starting with MacKensie, she’d do a run on Downing’s alibi.

Lydia Su.

Make that Dr. Lydia Su, Eve discovered. Biophysicist, on staff at Lotem Institute of Science and Technology, New York. Age thirty-three, single. Asian—Korean and Chinese. One sib, a sister, four years younger—a linguist, Eve noted, living in London. Parents married thirty-five years—a nice run, in Eve’s opinion. Father a neurosurgeon, mother also a scientist. Nanotech.

So, Eve thought, highly motivated, highly intelligent, highly educated family.

Well-educated in Lydia Su’s case, Eve read, at Yale.

“Interesting. Isn’t that interesting?”

But then a lot of really smart people, rich people, motivated people went to Yale.

Still . . .

Following the line, she toggled back to check where Charity Downing had studied art. NYU, she noted, not Yale.

It nagged at her enough to have her checking the education data on every name on the list.

No other Yale connection.

Until she scraped off a few more layers.

Coincidence equals bollocks, she thought and, shoving up from her desk, strode into Roarke’s office.

“I believe your instincts on your victim’s children are on target,” he began. Then glanced up, saw her face. “And you have something.”

“Yale.”

“An honorable and prestigious institution.”

“The vic went there.”

“Yes, I recall. It would have been nearly a half century ago.”

“That’s a long time, but I have two connections to Yale through my sidepiece list. Downing’s alibi did her undergraduate work there—she’s a biophysicist, whatever the hell that is. Mixed race Asian, from a smart, successful family.”

“I have to mention that a considerable number of people from smart, successful families have attended Yale in the past half century.”

“Yeah, and another one of them’s Carlee MacKensie. Partial scholarship, did one semester and dropped out.”

“Which also happens quite a bit, but—” He sat back. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that with all the universities out there, you’d cross the same one three times in such a small group.”

“A numbers geek like you could probably run the odds, but let’s just say interesting for now. I went a little deeper.”

She eased a hip onto his workstation. “All that crap about your permanent record’s pretty serious. Her grades were stellar.” Eve held a hand, palm down, over her head. “She’d had two short stories published in literary venues before she turned twenty. And after two months into Yale, the grades?” Eve dropped her hand. “Totally tanked it. And, yeah, that happens, too. She managed, over the next five years, to get a degree from an online college, and she’s eked out a living freelancing. But no more high-class literary venues.”

Considering, Roarke picked up the bottle of water on his desk, gestured with it. “Devil’s advocate must point out, this also happens far too often—that early peak and fall. And she would have attended Yale, however briefly, some four decades after your victim.”

“Maybe, but coincidence is bollocks, and it’s more bollocks it doesn’t pertain. Another big scoop of bollocks that one name on the list has another Yale attendee as her alibi. And how does an artist who works in a SoHo gallery get to be pals with a scientist who’s on staff in a fancy uptown R&D center? Where’s the common ground?”

He offered her the water, got a head shake, drank some himself. “Some might ask the same about you and Mavis.”

“She was on the grift. I arrested her. Cop, criminal, common ground.” She held up two fingers as she spoke, tapped them together. Then pointed them at him. “Just like you and me, ace.”

“I feel obliged to point out you never arrested me—nor did any other cop.”

“Being slick doesn’t negate the common ground. Is it thin?” She swiveled to face him more directly. “I’ll give you it’s thin, but it’s there. Add on the fact that the vic went through sidepieces like Feeney goes through candied almonds, and those odds of paths crossing. Maybe you show Su’s ID shot to your people at the hotel. Maybe she’s another of his affairs. I link that, not so thin.”

“I can do that.”

“Can’t see the motive, not yet. These women chose to have sex with him. He didn’t hold a stunner to their throats. Every single one stated it was consensual, and I’m betting any others I turn up will say the same. Not a single one of them showed or expressed any genuine affection for him, so thwarted passion doesn’t click. And if any of them worked as partners, and that’s going to slide in when I figure it all out, jealousy doesn’t play.

“‘Justice is served,’” she murmured. “For what? What crime, what sin, what wrong? That’s the motive. So it’s back to the vic.”

“The women on your list wouldn’t have been born when Edward Mira was at Yale.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that. But a big-deal guy from a big-deal school? Don’t they go back for stuff? For ceremonies or guest lectures, for important events. Maybe I can place him there when either Su or MacKensie were there. That would thicken things up. Thanks,” she said as she rose.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were Satan’s mouthpiece.”

“Devil’s advocate.”

“That is the same thing.”

She went back, nailed down the exact times Su and MacKensie attended Yale, then tried to wade through archived articles on alumni events, on appearances at the university by Edward Mira.

After a frustrating hour, she decided she’d need to contact whoever might be in charge of those kinds of records.

She got more coffee, a slice of cold pizza that went down just fine now, then sat to search for any connection between any of the women on the list.

Salons, banks, fitness centers, clubs, committees, doctors, churches, hobbies.

Nothing lined up, but she did uncover the fact that Carlee MacKensie had been in therapy with a Dr. Natalie Paulson from 2058 to early 2060. Su entered therapy in 2055, and stopped her sessions with Dr. Kim Ping four years later. And Downing hooked with a Felicia Fairburn for a six-week stretch in 2059. Fairburn billed herself as a body-mind-spirit therapist.

And Satan’s mouthpiece would say, rightfully, that scores of people went to shrinks.

But she’d look into it.

Yale. Shrinks. Edward Mira. Three lines that crossed for a percentage of the names.

Then there were negative connections.

No violent criminal on any. No sign of addictions that would lead to incarceration or a big dent in finances. At least no signs of current addictions. People went to shrinks to help them with drinking or illegals problems, with gambling problems, with sex problems (too much, not enough). Hell, people went to shrinks to help them figure out what to eat for breakfast, but still . . .

What if?

She started poking, picking at layers, tugging lines that led to another angle or dead ends.

Then she sat back, drummed her fingers on her thigh.

Interesting, wasn’t it interesting that Carlee MacKensie moved back home after dropping out of Yale, moved out again within six months and into what was nothing more than a glorified flop with one Marlee Davis—who, yes, indeed had herself a very long, colorful sheet peppered with illegals busts, soliciting sex without a license, petty thievery, and assault.

Now, what was a nice, bright girl from New Rochelle doing palling around with an habitual small-time loser from Alphabet City (currently doing a nickel in the Tombs for yet another assault bust)?

Eve followed the line, found a pattern in the fabric of Carlee’s life. Wrote up a theory, questions, shot them to Mira with a copy for Peabody.

Then began to pick and scratch at Lydia Su.

By the time she’d switched to Charity Downing, she’d grabbed a second slice of cold pizza and indulged a craving for Pepsi.

She glanced up when Roarke came in.

“I see you’re onto something that’s boosted your appetite and put a cop’s smile on your face.”

“Carlee MacKensie. Smart, talented—go back and dig and you’ll find cheery little articles on her from a young age. Won various writing contests, some with cash prizes. Wrote her high school blog, did her stint of community service as a peer tutor, and volunteered with Teens for Literacy. Pretty much aced her way into Yale, with a partial scholarship. Solid, middle-class family, nice little house in the ’burbs. And check this. Computer, Image 1-C, on screen.”

Acknowledged.

The image flashed on, a pretty blonde in a bold red dress, hip to hip with a pretty guy in a black suit, bold red tie.

“Lovely young things.”

“Yeah, she’s got the looks. That’s her senior prom picture—the guy, according to her mother’s archived We Connect feed—”

“One moment.” He held up a finger. “You actually managed to access archived data from a now-defunct social media site?”

“I can do stuff. When I have to.”

“I may need to sit down, as my astonishment weighs heavy.”

“Bite me.”

“Darling, I fully intend to at the first opportunity.”

“I dug for it, and what I found was mother-type pride data on her kid. Pictures like this, which show she was a pretty young thing, with a pretty young boyfriend—also bright, went on to Harvard. And about seven months after this picture was taken, she’s all but flunked out of Yale and living back home.”

“All right. She’s pretty, and she didn’t realize her potential.”

“More. A couple months after moving home, she’s moving out, and into a flop on Avenue A with a skank. The word fits. Long sheet, even then, for illegals possession, for selling Bounce to an undercover, for soliciting sex—no license. Where’d they hook up? Where’s the common ground?”

“The pretty young thing was using.”

“Bet your fine Irish ass. No record of it, but an eighteen-year-old girl doesn’t jump from New Rochelle and proud mom to Alphabet City and the skank unless the skank was her connection. A few months later, she’s back home again.”

“Which is likely why she’s still alive or not in prison.”

“Skank’s in year three of five for agg assault. MacKensie lived back home for two years, and during that time did her own stint. Two three-month stints at Inner Peace. I had to dig, way down, as it’s billed as a lifestyle enhancement center, not rehab. Guess who else did some time at Inner Peace?”

“My money and the look in your eyes say either Su or Downing.”

“Su. Not at the same time, which is annoying, but they both went to Yale, both went to this lifestyle deal. Su took a sabbatical, three years ago, and did the lifestyle enhancement deal. Prior to that, I’ve got her in this program—this study on insomnia. And, what a coincidence! Charity Downing also took part in a program—again, not at the same time—on insomnia.”

“That’s too many connections even for a devil’s advocate.” Because it was the only thing there, Roarke picked the tube of Pepsi, took a swig. “It’s gone warm.”

“Still does the job. Here’s how I see it.”

She rose, gestured to the board as she paced. “These three women had some previous encounter with the victim. Sexual. That encounter was disturbing enough or intense enough to send MacKensie into a sharp downward spiral. The probability is each of them sought help for, we’ll say side effects of that encounter at some point. And through that, the three of them come together.”

Eve interlinked her fingers. “Two of the three hook up with the vic again. I don’t guess you had time to check with hotel security on Su.”

“I did, in fact. I can tell you she doesn’t show up on any feed through the hotel in the last eighteen months.”

“Not surprised. Pretty sure she’s gay.” When he lifted his eyebrows, she shrugged. “Not because she didn’t show on the feed. Because I’ve got some photos of her, too. Big-deal science award ceremony—her date’s female. A White House dinner deal—female date. Then there’s her interview in this big-deal science journal where she says she’s gay, that leans me in that direction.”

She circled the board again. “These three women know each other, they knew Edward Mira, and my gut says they conspired together and killed him. Considering the nature of the torture, I’d say it’s serious payback. It’s payback for sexual assault, molestation, or rape because three women don’t come together to torture and kill because they had a fling with a married man.”

Shifting, Roarke studied the photos of Edward Mira. The soberly handsome statesman—and the murder victim.

“You believe a former United States senator was a serial rapist?”

“Yeah, I do.” Eve heaved out a breath. “Yeah, I fucking do. That’s how it lays out for me. Proving it? That’s a whole different ball of string.”

“Wax, but never mind that. Eve, trying to prove it is going to take you into very dangerous waters.”

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

“You are that,” he agreed. “But it’s also going to bring you personal pain.”

“I can’t let that get in the way. You know that.”

“I do.” He set the tube aside, went to her. “I love you.”

She shifted. “Yeah, same goes.”

He cupped her face in his hands, kept his eyes on hers. “I love you.”

Her heart stuttered, so she cupped his face in turn. “I love you, and what you’re telling me is we’ll get through this.”

“I am.”

“Even if you end up pouring a soother down my throat.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Firmly, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’ll do what has to be done, and so will I.”

“I could be wrong. It may turn out I’m completely out of orbit on this angle, but it’s what I see.”

“And the way you’ve gone through the steps, it’s what I see. There will be more of them. If you’re right, and he forced or coerced these three, there will be more.”

“Yeah, there will be more. Yale students, or women who he encountered somehow through that connection when they were college age. There’s a three-year span between when MacKensie was at Yale, and when Downing was at NYU. Five between MacKensie and Su at Yale. So there will be others. But I’m not seeing those others—not yet anyway—on my list. His daughter . . .”

“I don’t believe so.” At least, Roarke thought, he could give her that peace of mind. “I don’t think you need to go there. I looked into her, and her brother, and there’s no sign of that.”

“I got all the way to lieutenant of the NYPSD, and nobody saw any signs.”

Now he brushed a hand over her short cap of hair. “Do you really believe Mira saw nothing, saw no signs?”

She needed to move, so she stuffed her hands in her pockets while she prowled the office. “No, you’re right. She probably saw plenty way before I got to the point I could talk to her about it. Still—”

“You didn’t have her when it was happening to you. You had no one. Gwendolyn Sykes did. She had her brother, she had the Miras. Everything I turned up on them reads they had a rigid, unloving childhood, leaned on and were embraced by Charlotte and Dennis as often as possible. And they’ve made strong and happy lives. Mira would have seen the signs, Eve.”

“You’re right. You’re right.” Though she’d have to ask, directly at some point. “That’s something anyway. It’s going to be rough enough on the Miras.”

“We’ll be there for them. Whatever they need from us. Now it’s late, and you’ll need to reinterview with all this in mind tomorrow. And considering how this may go, we could both use the sleep while we can get it.”

“You hardly sleep anyway.” She continued to prowl. “I don’t want you worrying about me before there’s even anything to worry about. I can deal with what was, Roarke, just like I can deal with . . .” She stopped at the desk, ran her hand over it. “What was.”

She had dealt with it, she reminded herself. And didn’t need replications of what she’d once had, not when she knew and cherished what she had now.

She sent him a speculative look. “Do you really want to get rid of this desk?”

“That will be up to you.”

She shook her head, waved that off. “No, I’m asking you. Do you want to get rid of it?”

“For reasons of aesthetics, efficiency—Christ, yes. It’s a bloody, miserable excuse for a workstation.”

“Huh. You’re seriously soft on me to leave it sitting here for nearly three years, offending your aesthetics and efficiency levels. Its days are probably numbered, so . . . we should send it off with a bang.”

She boosted up to sit on it, sent him a slow smile. “Come on over here, pal, and bang the hell out of me on my bloody, miserable excuse of a workstation.”

He let out a half laugh. “I never know what odd path that mind of yours might take. But it never disappoints.”

It wasn’t about the ridiculous desk, he thought—though knowing her, that could be part of it. But it was to show both of them she could take whatever ugliness would come her way. She’d face the nightmares, the fears, the brutal memories to do the job she’d sworn to do.

So he went to her. Though the glint in her eyes dared and demanded, he cupped her face again. And thinking of the nightmares, the fears, the memories, laid his lips gently on hers.

To cherish.

In response she took two fistfuls of his hair, yanked him to her, hard. “Uh-uh. This is desk sex. That means it might hurt a little.” So saying, she bit him.

Then she shoved him back, deliberately rough, so she could pull off her sweatshirt. “Give me what you have.”

“What I have?”

“Yeah. And more.”

“And when you say you can’t take it, remember what you asked for.”

“Oh, I can take it. Let’s see if you can when—”

He slid a hand between her legs, pressed, and the rest of the words died in a gasp. Before she could draw the next breath, his free hand clamped on the back of her neck, holding her in place while his mouth ravaged hers.

Now he used his teeth, left her breathless and churning on that erotic edge just this side of pain. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him hard and tight against her, rocking, rocking against the hand driving her mad.

“Inside me. You should be inside me.”

“Not yet, no. I’ve more than that,” he reminded her and caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Light pinches, relentless friction drove her straight over the edge.

Her legs tightened around him like a vise as she came, but he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Even as she moaned out her release, he shot her up again.

Her own breath burned her lungs as she stumbled along that edgy, dangerous line of pleasure. She dragged at his suit jacket with hands that trembled with outrageous needs.

“Take it off, take it off.”

Desperate, she tore at his shirt, sent buttons flying. Then at last her hands found skin. Hot, firm, hers. Now her arms wrapped around him, her fingers digging into flesh, her nails scraping, biting.

“Now. God. Now.”

But he said, “More,” and sent her flying.

Something thudded to the floor when he pushed her back on the desk. Her flailing hands sent disc files tumbling.

Then he was feasting on her breasts even as his hands drew the cotton pants over her hips. She struggled to reach his belt, to unhook it, to find him. To take him.

He left her quivering to glide his tongue down her body, to take it over her, into her.

The world was heat and glory, and needs newly incited the moment they were met, hungers keenly sharpened the instant they were sated.

She gripped his hips, said his name, only his name, saw his eyes, a wild and wicked blue with what they made each other.

And at last, at last, he plunged into her. Hard and fast, whipping them both past all borders of control. She met him madness for madness, greed for greed until the world dropped away.

She wondered her heart didn’t break through her ribs. Its crazed beat rang in her ears as aftershocks—for that had been an earthquake of sex—shook her body.

They sprawled over the desk like barely conscious survivors of a cataclysm, and she gave a passing thought to the desk.

How bad could it be if it could support all that weight?

“I might be lying on murder files. That’s just not right. It’s so disrespectful.”

“You’re not.” His face was buried between her breasts. “They fell over. Maybe off. We’ll sort it out. Christ Jesus, I can’t find my breath.”

“If you do, see if mine’s with it.”

He lifted his head, looked at her with eyes that managed to be wild and wicked, and a bit sleepy all at once. And she managed to lift her hand and brush the hair back from his face.

“So . . . was that all you’ve got?”

How, given their position and current state, he got his hand under her to pinch her ass—hard enough to make her yelp—was a wonder.

“Just asking. I may have seen God. She may have been smiling.”

“Well, she made us to fit together, didn’t she?”

“We do.”

“So we do.” He laid a kiss between her breasts, winced a little as he eased back to stand. “I believe it did hurt a little.”

She laughed, then hissed as she sat up. “Yeah, maybe. We did knock over murder files,” she noted. “And the coffeepot—but that was empty. Mostly. Can’t you wear less clothes? I ripped the shirt—the buttons off anyway. It probably cost more than the damn desk.”

“If I’d known desk sex was on tonight’s agenda, I’d have worn less.”

“If I go with the command center, there could be regular command center sex. Dress appropriately.”

Laughing, he picked up his shirt—a soft slate gray with just a hint of blue—examined it. “Well now, it’s done for, I suppose, and a small price to pay.”

She took it, put it on. Subtly breathed him in. “We have to pick this stuff up. I can’t pick up murder files naked.”

“Apparently I can,” he said, and helped her pick them up, gather up the clothes they’d discarded. “You can organize it all in the morning.”

“I guess. Maybe we should put that desk in some sort of display. With a plaque.”

“‘Dallas and Roarke Banged Here’?”

“No—though we could make a secret plaque for that. Just something like: ‘It Served Us Well.’”

“You’re oddly sentimental over a desk.”

“I am now. I need my pants.”

“Why? We’re going straight to the bedroom.”

“And Summerset could be lurking somewhere between here and there.”

“I can promise you he’s tucked into his own quarters by now.”

“Maybe he’s in his coffin, maybe he’s not, but I’m not walking to the bedroom in nothing but your torn shirt.”

“We’ll take the elevator,” Roarke said, solving the problem by calling for it. “So, what was it you asked for? All I had. And more?”

“You pulled it off.”

“Not yet. That was all I had.” He pulled the bundle of clothes out of her hand, dropped them. “This is more.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

He just pushed her back against the elevator wall, and took her there. Fast and fierce.

When he was done, and very satisfied with himself, she started to slide bonelessly down the wall.

He plucked her up, restarted the elevator. Then carried her to the bed when the doors opened.

“You know what they say.” He wrapped an arm around her. “Mind what you wish for.”

“I didn’t mind.” But her voice was blurry as she slid toward blissful, exhausted, thoroughly used-up sleep.

Then she popped right up again. “Jesus cross-eyed Christ, the clothes! They’re still in the elevator.”

“They can be sorted out in the morning.”

“He’ll see! All those sex-tangled clothes. Get them back!”

“The elevator’s still there if it worries you.”

She leaped up, all but dived in to grab the clothes when the doors opened. Near to shuddering with relief, she dropped them in a heap on a chair.

She crawled back into bed, sighed, and slept in seconds.

Apparently, Roarke thought, sex-tangled clothes were acceptable when sorted out from a bedroom chair.

What a marvel her mind was, he decided, and slipped into sleep after her.

—

The dream gripped her with sharp, digging claws. Even knowing it for what it was, she couldn’t break free of it. It held fast, dragged her down.

Into the study in the Spring Street brownstone.

Edward Mira sat in the desk chair dressed in one of his senatorial suits, his glossy black hair swept back from his stony face.

“I’m dead.”

“I’m aware.”

“Yet you make my murderers my victims.”

“The way I see it, you did that. Did you rape them, Senator Mira?”

Leaning forward, he banged his fist on the desk. “I’m dead. Your responsibility is to me. But you’d smear my reputation, destroy my legacy? This is how you stand for the dead?”

“I’ll do my job. I’ll do my best to identify and apprehend the person or persons who killed you, even if doing that smears your rep.”

“Your best?” He sneered at her. “Your best to paint me as a monster so those who took my life are coddled and stroked.”

“My best to uncover the truth, whatever that means.”

“The truth?” He banged the desk again, but this time with the gavel he held. “I know the truth. I know what you are, what you did. You’re just like them.”

He struck the desk again, and on the explosion of sound they stood in the room in Dallas with the ugly red light flashing.

“No. No.” She backed away as panic coiled up, struck like a snake. “I’m done with this. I don’t come here anymore. It’s finished for me.”

“It’s never finished.” The senator sat, wearing his black robes, at his raised judge’s platform. “Murderer!”

At the next bang of his gavel she saw herself, the terrified girl she’d been, struggling with, pleading with Richard Troy. With her father as he raped her.

She heard her own high-pitched scream, felt the pain in her own arm as the bone snapped when he broke her arm.

Felt the horror and the hope when those small fingers closed around the little knife.

“Guilty!” the senator shouted when the desperate girl plunged the knife into flesh. “Guilty, guilty, guilty.”

Stabbing, over and over and over. The inhuman sounds growling in her throat, and the blood, all the blood washing warm over her hands.

“Blood on your hands. Guilty. Murderer. Just like them.”

“Kill the bitch.” Richard Troy stared at her with glassy eyes as blood bubbled from his lips. “Give her what she deserves.”

With the next strike of the gavel she was back at the crime scene, the noose around her neck. She dragged at the rope with her blood-smeared hands, but it only tightened, tightened as the mechanism hummed the chandelier higher.

“Now,” the senator said, “justice is served.”

“Wake up! Eve, you bloody well wake up and fucking breathe.”

Roarke’s words, his rough shakes finally got through. She sucked in air, still dragging at the dream noose around her throat.

“It’s a dream. A dream. Do you hear me? Come back now.”

“I’m all right. I’m all right.”

“You’re not, but you will be. Look at me.”

She couldn’t stop the shaking, but made herself look into his eyes. Anger, yes, some anger in there, and the kind of desperation she understood too well.

“I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’ll piss me off.” He grabbed the throw from the foot of the bed, wrapped it around her, rubbed her back, her arms while the cat bumped his head against her hip. “You’re cold.”

Then he wrapped his arms around her and rocked. “I swear, you stopped breathing for a moment. Just stopped. You’ll have a soother.”

“I—”

“Don’t argue about it, you’re having one. I’m having a bloody soother myself.”

She said nothing when he got out of bed, but sat, shivering under the cashmere throw, stroking the cat. They’d have tried to wake her, she thought, her husband and her cat, but she’d been in too deep.

Roarke lit the fire first to add more light and warmth to the room, then moved to the AutoChef.

“You need the soother,” he said more calmly. “You haven’t had a nightmare that . . . intense in some time.”

“Soothers all around.” She fought to make her voice sound normal. “Maybe the cat needs one.”

“He’s his own soother.” Roarke brought two glasses back to the bed, handed her one, gave the loyal Galahad a rub. “He’s fine now, though I’ll say he was nearly as shaken as I. Drink that now.”

She gulped some down, sighed. “It’s chocolate.”

“I know my cop.”

That brought the tears up, had her pressing her face to his shoulder. “I couldn’t get out of it. I knew what it was, but I couldn’t get out.”

“You’re safe now.” He kissed the top of her head, dug in for tenderness. “Drink the rest, darling. Drink it up, and tell me.”

She did what he asked, and when she was finished, when he’d set the empty glasses aside, he gathered her close.

“I know it’s not true, what he said—what my subconscious went into. But—”

“There’s no but in this. You were an innocent child defending her life against a monster. These are grown women who killed with calculation.”

Yes, yes, that was the logic. That was reason. But . . . “The motives align. If I’m right, I will smear his reputation.”

“If you’re right, his reputation is a lie. It’s truth you’re after, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. If I’m right . . . you’d come down on their side of it.”

He kissed her cheek, then the other before drawing her down so she could curl into him, find the warmth.

“We have different views on some matters, but as you’re fond of telling me, you’re the one with the badge. You’ll do your job, Lieutenant, as you must. And I’ll help you as I can to find the truth. After that, it’s not in my hands or yours, is it?”

“No.”

The cat curled against the small of her back, sandwiching her in the safe. Tears stung her eyes again, so she closed them. And as the soother did its work, she drifted back to sleep.

Holding her close, Roarke lay awake, listening to her breathe.