Brotherhood in Death

3

She hovered just under the surface of sleep with strange little dreams winding through, braiding together, then fading off like ribbons of smoke.

Despite the misty parade of dreams, more odd than disturbing, she felt warm and secure and content.

So when Roarke shifted away, she edged over, holding on to that warmth, that security, that contentment.

His lips brushed her brow as he started to untangle himself from her.

She said, “Uh-uh.”

“Sleep,” he murmured, and would have lifted her arm away but she tightened her hold.

“Too early. Still dark. Stay.”

“I’ve a holo conference in—”

She just didn’t care, and angling her head found his mouth in the dark.

She wanted not just the arousal, but the intimacy of the quiet, the silky splendor of unity before the world woke and pulled them both back into the bright and the hard.

Just him—she wanted just him—in the big bed under the sky window before dawn crept in cold.

So she drew him with her into the soft and the sweet.

He heard her sigh with the kiss that built a shimmering bridge between night and day, one that poured love into him like liquid gold. And she shifted over him, laying heart to heart, mouth to mouth, body to body.

The long lines of her enchanted him: smooth skin, firm muscle. His hands roamed, slid under the thin shirt she slept in, glided up the lean length. He thought he could be content, his world complete, if a moment just like this spun into forever.

Then she rose up, tugged her shirt up and away, and took him in.

Pleasure leaped, one hot, hard bound, then settled into soft beats, like a pulse, a proof of life. They were shadows in the dark, cocooned in its secrets, bathed in its silence, enspelled by each other. She rocked him, rocked herself, toward bliss with slow, undulating movements that gripped his heart, ruled his body.

He rose up to her, his hands lost in her hair, his mouth locked on hers, and his heart—all its chambers—flooded with love. They took each other now into the slow burn of sensations kindled by that steady flame of love, beat by beat until the pulse was all.

Joined, they rose and they fell together.

Again she sighed, still wound around him, her cheek pressed to his. “Okay,” she said, sighing again. “Okay.”

When he lay back with her, she was limp as melted wax and just as warm. He brushed his hand over her hair, over her cheek, made her smile.

“I think we’ll make it.”

“Didn’t we just?”

Still smiling, she jabbed a finger in his belly. “Not that—though that was really nice. I guess my brain keeps circling around the Miras. You weren’t there with them at the crime scene. It was . . . it’s the way they look at each other, and touch. A couple times I had to look away because it felt like I was intruding. They’ve been married for decades, but when you see them like that . . . like last night? You know why.”

She closed her eyes. “I want that. I never thought I did or could or would, but I want that. I want to be with you for decades and have you still look at me the way he looks at her.”

“You’re the love of my life. And always will be.”

“Maybe you could tell me that in like thirty years.”

“That’s a promise. And now, love of my life, go back to sleep.”

She frowned when he rolled out of bed. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s near to half five now.”

“Some people, who aren’t you, consider that the middle of the night.”

“It’s the middle of the day in Europe, and I’ve a holo conference very shortly.”

While he went to shower, she half dozed, but found her mind wouldn’t shut down again. She barely heard him come out, dress—the man moved like a shadow.

Which probably factored into his success as a thief back in the day.

Alone, she lay another few minutes, then gave it up.

“Lights twenty-five percent.”

When they came on, she nearly jolted. The cat was sprawled at the foot of the bed, giving her the beady eye.

“Christ, you’re as bad as Roarke, skulking around.”

She figured the early morning sex had annoyed the cat, but it had set her up just fine. She programmed coffee, started fueling her brain as she went into the shower.

Since she beat Roarke to the AutoChef, she programmed breakfast for both of them—nothing like waffles on a cold January morning to her mind—and left them under their warming domes while she dressed.

She sat down with coffee, her PPC, and got a jump on her workday.

“Now, here’s a lovely sight on a bitter winter’s day.”

She glanced over, decided he was a pretty good sight himself in his ruler-of-the-business-world suit. “Finished buying Europe already?”

“Not buying today—so far—just a bit of engineering and tech advancing through the R&D stage. And well advancing.”

He sat, poured coffee from the pot on the table, then uncovered the breakfast plates. “Waffles, is it?”

“It should almost always be. I’m having Peabody meet me at the Mira Institute at eight sharp. I want to get a sense of the place, what Edward Mira had going there. We should have time to grab an interview with a couple of his skirts before we have to head back. Trueheart’s getting his shield at oh-ten hundred.”

“I hate to miss that, particularly since you’ll be in uniform.” He watched her drown her waffles in butter and syrup.

So did Galahad, who began a stealthy inch-by-inch bellying forward until Roarke cocked an eyebrow at him. The cat rolled onto his back, batting busily at the air.

“I’ll be stripping off the uniform as soon as the ceremony’s over.”

“I really hate to miss that.”

“Ha ha. We’ll hit the rest of the skirts, then talk to his offspring. Maybe they’ll have more to say than his wife.”

“I assume you’ve already checked, and he hasn’t shown up. Alive or dead.”

“Not so far. I’ll check in again later with Missing Persons, and have Peabody keep up a running check with hospitals. Got a BOLO on him, and an alert.”

She stuffed in more waffles, and thought if every day started off with sex and waffles, people would maybe be less inclined to kill each other.

Or maybe not.

“If he shows up dead, I’ll get tagged,” she added. “Meanwhile, I’m having the locals check his other residences, just in case. I expect the lab to confirm the elephant this morning.”

“That’s not a phrase you hear often.”

“Heavy object used to whack Mr. Mira. Fancy elephant statue. I dreamed it came to life and started rampaging through that brownstone. It’s only about this big.” She stopped eating long enough to hold up her hands. “But still, elephant.”

“There are times I envy the creativity of your dream life.”

“I think I stunned it before it got out and tore up the neighborhood, but it’s vague, and it sort of rolled into another one.”

“The elephant rolled into another elephant?”

“No, the dream—well, sort of the elephant. I had it in Interview. You know like: You’re looking at attempted murder, Mr. Phant, but if you cooperate I can see about dealing that down to simple assault.”

He laughed hard enough to have Galahad making another try for waffles. Roarke just waved the cat away. “Is it a wonder I adore you? ‘Mr. Phant.’”

“Yeah, it seems funny now, but I was pretty serious. I think the damn elephant’s the only tangible thing I’ve got here, and it was nothing more than handy. It doesn’t apply.”

“It was used to hurt someone who matters a great deal to you.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m going to try to swing by there sometime today, depending on how things go.” Since they were there, she plucked a fat blackberry out of the little bowl, frowned. “Am I supposed to take something? Like, I don’t know, flowers or something?”

“I wouldn’t think it’s necessary, but flowers or a small token? Never wrong.”

“Okay, well, we’ll see how it goes.” She polished off the waffles. “I’m going to review a couple things, check in with Mira, and get going.”

“Let me know if the senator shows up, one way or the other, would you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be seeing Nadine later today,” he said when Eve rose to strap on her weapon harness, toss a jacket over it. “She’s got where she wants to be down to a warehouse space prime for conversion and a triplex on the Upper West Side.”

“Triplex—a penthouse kind of thing, slick building, fully secured, lots of amenities?”

“It is, yes.”

“Tell her to take the triplex. She might think a warehouse is frosty, and how she can renovate it, make it slick and sleek, but the process would make her crazy. Plus, when? She’s got her gigs at Channel Seventy-five, the book thing, blah blah.”

She glanced back at him. “Both of them yours?”

“They are—she eliminated several other locations and properties, then asked me to suggest two of mine. And asked if I’d take her through both today. She’s been having nightmares and wants to get out of her apartment.”

“Told her not to open the damn door,” Eve muttered. “Triplex, done.” She walked back, leaned over, and kissed him. “Later.”

He tugged her back for another kiss. “Take care of my cop.”

“I gotta, since you’ve got something to tell me about thirty years from now. Triplex,” she repeated as she started out. “Tell her to stop fucking around and do it.”

—

She’d assumed she’d left in plenty of time—even early—but traffic snarled and stalled the entire way. She reached the Chrysler Building, wondering why more people didn’t work from home and leave the streets to those who really needed them. She hunted up parking, then traveled two blocks on foot.

Roarke had been correct about the bitter morning. The sky was a bowl of hard, pale blue, and the air was just as hard and pale. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat, searching for warmth, and found gloves.

New gloves, with some sort of lining that felt like a warm cloud. It wouldn’t take her long to lose them, she thought, but for the moment, they were welcome.

She started to tag Peabody to get an ETA, then spotted her partner at the crosswalk.

There was no mistaking that pink coat in a sea of blacks, grays, and dark blues. Add the multicolored hat on the short flip of dark hair, the mile of scarf—in bleeding blues today—and she could’ve spotted Peabody six blocks off.

She waited while her partner joined the river surge across the street.

“How’s Mr. Mira?” Peabody asked immediately. “Did you check this morning?”

“Not yet. I don’t want to bother them if they’re sleeping.”

“Yeah, but if he has a concussion—”

“Mira will haul him to the hospital if he needs it. He looked okay yesterday by the time I sent them home.”

“I hate that somebody hurt him.”

“They could’ve done worse—be glad they didn’t.”

She turned toward the entrance of the grand Deco building.

“I never put it together he was related to Senator Mira. I mean, could they be less alike?”

Eve frowned as she pushed through the door. “You know Edward Mira?”

“Yes. I mean, not personally. Politically. Free-Ager,” Peabody reminded her. “I pretty much disagree with everything he’s for, but . . .”

Peabody trailed off, gaping and neck-craning like a tourist. “I’ve never been in here. It’s abso mag!”

“Stop gawking.” Eve added an elbow jab. “Be a fricking cop.”

It impressed, sure, with its three-story entrance, the golden-red marble walls, the glow of the golden floors and palatial pillars.

But cops didn’t gawk.

Eve left Peabody trailing behind her—likely still gawking—and approached one of the info screens.

Welcome. Please state your desired destination.

“The Mira Institute.”

The image of the iconic building on screen morphed into the logo for the Institute.

The Mira Institute occupies floors thirty and thirty-one, with its main lobby on floor thirty. Please state the party or department you wish to visit, and you will be directed.

“The main lobby works.”

Please see the guard at the security station for screening and admittance. Enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

Even as Eve turned, two uniformed guards stepped in front of her.

“Keep your hands visible. You need to come with us.”

Already been screened, she thought, and their weapons had alerted security.

“We’re NYPSD. I’m going to reach for my badge. Got that?”

She kept her moves slow just in case one of them had a jumpy stunner finger, took out her badge.

The man she showed it to took it, ran it with a pocket scanner. “Lieutenant,” he said, handing it back. “We’ll need to see yours, too,” he added to Peabody.

Once satisfied, he nodded and his companion stepped away, murmured into a lapel mic.

“You’re clear. Take the east bank of elevators to thirty. I’ll alert them. Otherwise, you’ll be stopped when you get off. They have secondary security on thirty.”

“Appreciate it.”

They crossed the lobby, joined a small, chatty group getting on the elevator. She smelled coffee in someone’s go-cup, so sweet it nearly made her teeth ache, and someone else’s overly floral perfume. Two women chirped like mynah birds about hitting the inventory sales downtown on their lunch break, while some guy in a Russian cossack hat droned on into his pocket ’link about a nine o’clock staff meeting.

Eve decided if she was forced to always work in an office, she’d just jump out the nearest window and be done with it.

The mynah birds got off on twenty. Coffee-flavored sugar on twenty-three. Drenched in flowers glided off on spike-heeled boots and a swish of black coat on twenty-seven.

They got off on thirty with the droner.

Reception centered around an S-shaped counter backed by a floor-to-ceiling logo in sober and serious block letters. The waiting area faced the wide window, tinted to cut the glare. Black gel sofas ranged alongside a trio of gold scoop chairs with controls in their wide backs for music, refreshment, privacy settings, and communication. A life-size portrait of Edward Mira peered down righteously from the far wall.

A woman manned the first wide curve of the counter. She wore a black suit with thin silver piping and triangular shoulders sharp enough to slice bread. She worked busily at a muscular computer, but paused to flash a welcoming smile.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Security notified me of your arrival. How can I help you today?”

“We need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“Of what?”

Eve pointed at the enormous logo. “Of this.”

“I’m afraid Senator Mira isn’t in. If you’d tell me the nature of your visit, I should be able to direct you to the appropriate party.”

“The second in command.”

The faintest flicker of annoyance ran through the polite mask. “Perhaps Ms. MacDonald or Mr. Book could assist you. If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll see if either are available.”

“They’ll want to be.” Rather than moving to the waiting area, Eve simply stood where she was.

“One moment.”

The woman tapped a control on the arm of her chair. It glided along the S, stopped at the far curve. She tapped her earpiece, turned one of her lethally clad shoulders.

“It feels like nobody here knows the founder’s missing.”

Eve glanced toward the portrait. “The detective on the missing angle’s started the ball rolling. I’d say it hasn’t rolled this far yet.”

“But wouldn’t his wife—”

“You had to be there,” Eve said as the receptionist glided back.

“Ms. MacDonald will see you. If you’ll just take the elevator to three-one, someone will escort you to her office.”

Eve stepped in, requested the floor. Then shook her head when Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I ran the top dogs last night. MacDonald, Tressa, forty-three. Divorce times two. One offspring, male. Law degree, Harvard with a side of poli-sci. Clerked for Judge Mira back in the day, served as his chief of staff during the senator years.”

“That’s a lot without notes.”

“I figure the senator did her along the way, and she deserves a close look.”

If the entrance to thirty had been slickly professional, the thirty-first floor hit palatial.

Yeah, Eve thought, this was top-dog territory with its thick red rugs over white marble. Three people worked at the single curve of red counter, and lush potted trees flanked the window wall. Seating ran to slate-gray leather arranged in conversational groupings. Currently the gigantic wall screen split to show six of the twenty-four/seven media broadcasts.

It wouldn’t be long, Eve thought, before those broadcasts included stories on former Senator Mira—alive or dead.

As they started for the counter, a beefy man with a neck thick as a boar’s came through double, frosted doors.

He looked like a brawler wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Aiden Bannion, Ms. MacDonald’s admin. I’ll take you to her office.”

She’d never seen anyone who looked less like an admin, but followed him through the doors and into an open office area where workstations were separated by willpower rather than structure.

She smelled coffee and someone’s take-out breakfast while voices clashed, ’links jangled, keyboards clattered.

If you took away the fancy floors and colors, the fashionable wardrobe and footwear, it wasn’t much different from her own bullpen.

They wound through, past offices with doors firmly closed, and to the corner office with the double doors signaling its rank.

As these were open, he stepped straight in.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

“Thanks, Aiden—two seconds.” She tapped her earpiece. “I’m back. If you take care of your end on that, I’ll take care of mine. By end of day. That’s great. We’ll talk later. Bye now.”

She rose as she signed off, a small, slender woman in a soft gray suit with a little frill of white over the cleavage. She wore her hair, flaming, fiery red, in curls that spilled to her shoulders.

She came around the desk, assessing Eve with dark green eyes.

“Tressa MacDonald.” She held out a hand, shook Eve’s, then Peabody’s with a brisk, firm grip. “Someone’s hurt or worse. I know who you are,” she explained in a voice as brisk and firm as her handshake. “I know your reputation. You’re Homicide. If someone’s dead, would you tell me quickly?”

“There’s been no homicide or death I know of at this time.”

Tressa let out a short breath. “All right, that’s a relief. Please, sit. Can I offer you coffee? Aiden’s assistant makes a killer latte.”

“I’d love one,” Peabody said before Eve could deny them both.

“That’s two lattes. Lieutenant?”

“Just coffee. Straight coffee. Black.”

“Thanks, Aiden.” Tressa gestured to her sitting area, taking the sofa in nearly the same shade as her eyes while Eve and Peabody sat in deep blue chairs. “What’s this about?”

“Yesterday at approximately five P.M. Edward Mira was assaulted—”

“What?” Tressa’s spine snapped straight. “Where is he? How seriously was he hurt?”

“I can’t tell you because he’s missing.”

“What do you mean ‘missing’? I don’t—” She stopped herself, shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know better. One second.” She looked away, drew a breath, then another, slower. “Please, tell me what you know.”

“Were you aware that Senator Mira had an appointment yesterday with a real estate agent regarding the sale of a property he owns with his cousin Dennis Mira?”

“No.” She rubbed two fingers over the space between her eyes. “No, I wasn’t aware.”

“Do you know the name of the Realtor he worked with?”

“He’d worked with Silas Greenbaum—Greenbaum Realty—until recently.”

“Until recently?”

“Yes.” She glanced over as Aiden brought in the coffee, with a dish of thin cookies, on a tray. “Thanks, Aiden. Do you know what Realtor the senator was using?”

“No, I don’t, not since he severed ties with Greenbaum.”

“Check with Liddy, would you? See who he had an appointment with regarding the Spring Street property yesterday.”

“Of course.”

“And close the door please, Aiden. You believe whoever he met assaulted him?”

“He was assaulted in the house. His cousin Dennis Mira entered the property, followed the sound of voices to the study. He saw Edward Mira, injured, started in to assist him, and was himself attacked from behind.”

“Dennis?” Her fingers lifted to the white frill at her bodice. “Is he all right?”

“You know Dennis Mira?”

“Yes, very well. You can’t possibly think he had anything to do . . . Of course you don’t.” Now she pushed at her hair. “You work with his wife, you know him. And from everything I know about you, the two of you, you’re not idiots, so you know Dennis would never hurt anyone. I’m sorry to keep interrupting. I can’t sit.”

She rose, began to pace. “I’ll handle it better on my feet.”

Since Eve generally felt the same, she nodded. “When Dennis Mira regained consciousness, the senator was gone. Unless he’s shown up since we came in here, he hasn’t been seen since.”

“Kidnapping? But no demand for ransom? You’ve spoken with Mandy, surely. If there was a ransom demand it would go to her, or come through here.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with her. She wasn’t able to offer any information.”

“He has a house in the Hamptons, and an apartment in East Washington. But you’ve checked.”

“I have.”

After a brief knock, Aiden opened the door. “The senator didn’t give Liddy a name, just told her he had an outside appointment. A four-thirty with a new Realtor. He left shortly after four. Vinnie drove him to the Spring Street property. The senator told him not to wait, he had transportation from there. Liddy doesn’t have any information about a new Realtor.”

“Thank you, Aiden. Would you tell Wyatt to put aside whatever he’s doing and come in here?”

“Right away.”

When he left, Tressa squared her shoulders, came back to sit, picked up her latte. “You’ll need to know where I was yesterday. Four-thirty?”

“Let’s make it from four to six P.M.”

“I was in meetings here until about a quarter to five. Wyatt, Aiden, and several others can verify. I had drinks scheduled for five with Marcella Candine at Bistro on Lex. We were there until shortly after six. I took a cab from there to my mother’s. It was my sister’s birthday, and we had a dinner party. Family dinner.”

Wyatt Book didn’t knock. He simply strode in, an imposing man twenty years Tressa’s senior with a shock of hair in an improbable inky black. His crisp suit mirrored the color, as did his eyes. They flicked off Tressa, zeroed in on Eve.

“What’s this about?”

“Edward’s missing.”

“‘Missing’? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Have you seen or spoken with him since yesterday afternoon?” Eve asked.

“No, but that hardly means he’s missing, and he certainly won’t appreciate having the police hound him or blather gossip to the media.”

Eve started to rise, but Tressa beat her to it. “Wyatt, sit down, be quiet for a minute. Edward was attacked in his grandfather’s brownstone, and now he’s missing.”

“‘Attacked’? Absurd. Where was Vinnie?”

“Edward dismissed him. He went there to meet someone, supposedly a new Realtor. Dennis Mira was also attacked.”

“Ha.” The mild concern faded into mild amusement. “The two of them probably finally took swings at each other.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous and absurd.”

“For God’s sake.” Irritation flashed over his face as he pulled out his ’link. “I’m sending a nine-one-one to his private number, which he won’t appreciate, either. But it will stop this malarkey.” But he frowned. “It’s not going through, even to v-mail.”

“Which tells me whoever has him is smart enough to destroy his ’link,” Eve put in. “Who’s the new Realtor?”

“I have no idea, and that’s more malarkey. He’ll go back to Silas once they both cool down.”

“They had an altercation?”

“Edward fired him a couple weeks ago because Silas refused to list or show the property.”

“Which Silas can’t do,” Tressa continued, “as Edward doesn’t own the property outright.”

“I’m aware. Does Senator Mira have any enemies?”

Wyatt let out a derisive snort, plopped down on the couch. “Whose coffee is this?”

“Go ahead,” Eve told him. “I haven’t touched it.”

“He’s a lawyer who became a judge who became a senator.” Wyatt gulped down coffee. “He made an enemy every time he woke up in the morning.”

“There have been threats,” Tressa said more frankly. “As long as I’ve known him. Anything serious was investigated. But that’s certainly eased off since he retired from Congress.”

“Anyone stick out?” Eve waited a beat. “Any of the women he’s been involved with? Someone he severed ties with there, or a spouse who didn’t appreciate the relationship.”

“I stay out of Edward’s personal life,” Tressa said coolly, but Wyatt leaned forward.

“We can’t have any talk of extramarital affairs and dalliances leaked to the media.”

“I’m not interested in gossip, Mr. Book. I’m interested in finding Senator Mira. Investigating his personal life is part of the job, nothing more or less.”

“I’m warning you—”

“You want to be careful about warning me when it comes to doing my job. Who’s he seeing now?”

“She’s an artist.” Tressa stopped Wyatt’s protest with a hot look. “Finding Edward’s more important than pretenses. She’s young. I don’t know her name. I really do try to stay out of it. Aiden can find out.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got that one already. And, surprise, there’s been no media bulletin. Detective Hanson will follow up.” Eve got to her feet. “He’s leading the missing persons investigation. If you have any more information, you can contact him or me.”

“Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

“Find out the name of the Realtor,” Eve suggested. “Thanks for your time.”