Celebrity in Death

18

When he felt her stir beside him, Roarke rew her closer, rubbed her back.

“Ssh,” he said. “Ssh now. Hold on to me and sleep.”

She shivered a little, burrowed closer still.

He’d lit the fire before they’d slipped into bed. Now, only a few hours later, it simmered in the hearth and tossed its gold-washed red light into the room.

Quiet, warm, soothing. It’s what he’d wanted for her in sleep.

Yet she clung, anchored to him against the dreams.

He brushed his lips over her hair, wanting to will the tension in her body away, to erase those images and emotions that gave her so little peace.

With his eyes closed, he continued to stroke her back in light, rhythmic movements designed to lull.

In the dark, curled against him, her body seemed so fragile. It wasn’t, he knew. His Eve was strong, tough and athletic. He’d seen her take a punch—more than once—and execute one. He’d been on the receiving end of her fist, so could attest she packed some power.

He’d tended her wounds, as she had his, and knew she healed well, healed fast. His resilient, hardheaded cop.

But there were parts inside that tough, disciplined body that remained fragile—perhaps always would. And those vulnerable places pulled at him to protect, to comfort, to do anything he could to spare her a bruise or blow.

The vulnerability undid him even as the strength brought him pride. And the whole of her brought him love beyond the measuring of it.

Of all he’d craved in his life, all he’d dreamed of having, all he’d fought to gain by fair means or foul, he’d never imagined having such as she as his own. Never imagined himself the man he’d come to be because she was.

Now he felt her begin to relax again, degree by degree, and hoped she drifted toward that quiet and that warmth where there were no bruises or blows. And he let himself drift with her, wrapped around her like a shield.

So when she lifted her face to his, when he lowered his lips to hers, it was another kind of dreaming, as soft and lovely as the firelight playing on the walls.

His heart poured to hers, a murmured stream of Irish while she melted against him.

She knew some of the words; he’d said them before. But there was more now. He always seemed to have more to give her. Now he gave her tenderness when she hadn’t known she’d needed the tender. He gave her unity when alone hurt.

A touch, a taste, all slow, all easy, as if patience and love were one steady heartbeat.

Worries that had dogged her in sleep broke apart, dissolved so there was only the welcome weight of his body, the lazy stroke of his hands, the stirring taste of him on her tongue.

She flowed along that gentle current of sensation, its lazy rise, its graceful fall. Breathing him, touching as she was touched. As if nothing in the world mattered more than the moment. And nothing existed in the moment but them.

When she opened, he filled. When he filled, she surrounded.

As they moved together in the dance of firelight, the tenderness brought tears to her eyes, a catch of them in her breath.

“I love you.” Overwhelmed, undone, he pressed his face to her shoulder. “A ghra. A ghra mo chroi.”

“Love,” she sighed as she rose to peak, light as a feather on a cloud.

“Love,” she repeated when she lay warm against him. She rested her hand on his cheek. He curled his over her wrist.

She slept, in the quiet and warm.

Roarke slept with her.

When she woke to sunlight, it pleased her to see him in the bedroom sitting area, drinking coffee—the cat sprawled over his lap—while he watched the financial reports whiz by on-screen. And fully dressed in one of his god of the business world suits.

Which meant he’d been up an hour, probably more, and tended to some of his realm.

So not as worried about her.

She glanced at the time, grunted, then rolled out of bed to shower. In the drying tube, she closed her eyes as the warm air swirled around her. Time to get your head in the game, she ordered herself.

Who the hell had a head to get in any game before coffee?

She grabbed the robe on the back of the door, shrugged into it as she strode back into the bedroom and straight to the AutoChef.

She drank half the first cup as though her life depended on it, then turned, studied Roarke again.

“Morning.”

“She speaks.”

“And she’s going to have to do a lot more of it.”

She crossed over to the closet, started to reach for clothes at random.

“Not today,” Roarke said from behind her.

“What? I’m not wearing clothes today?”

“Oh, if only. Today, you take a rare moment to think about clothes.”

“I think about them. They keep me from being arrested for indecent exposure. And if I have to tackle some asshole during the course of the day, it prevents him from thinking I’m a sex fiend.”

“Both excellent purposes for wardrobe. Another is presentation. You’re going to be presenting your case—and yourself—to your commander and others.”

“Which is cop work.” She may have been barefoot, but she prepared to dig in her heels. “I’m not fancying up for cop work.”

“There is, Lieutenant, considerable area between indecent exposure/ sex fiend and fancying up. Such as …”

He selected fitted trousers in chocolate brown with a kind of nubby finish, matched them with a three-button jacket in deep, strong blue, then managed to add an Oxford-style shirt with stripes that picked up both tones.

“A clean, confident presentation of someone who’s in charge and prepared to get down to the business at hand.”

“All that?”

“Wear your new boots.” He passed her the clothes. “They’ll work well with that, and with the coat as well.”

“What new boots?” Her eyebrows drew together as he took them off a shelf. “And where did they come from?”

“The boot elves, I assume.”

“The boot elves are going to be pissed when they’re dinged and scuffed inside a week.”

“Oh, I think they’re more tolerant than that.”

“Those elves keep this up I’m going to need a bigger closet.”

But she dressed as advised, then sat to pull on the boots while Roarke programmed breakfast for two.

They slid on like—as Peabody might say—butter. “Okay.” She stood, took some strides. “They’re great. Sturdy—I could definitely kick some teeth in with these.”

“The elves had that as top priority.”

“Huh.” She did a quick squat and rise then paddled her heels. “But they’re not stiff or heavy, so they could handle a serious foot-chase.”

“Second priority. I’ll pass your satisfaction on to the elves.” He set two plates of waffles on the table, gave Galahad a cool, warning stare, then looked Eve up and down. “You look confident, streamlined, and absolutely capable of kicking in those teeth.”

“I like the last part the best.”

“Only one of the myriad reasons I love you.”

She sat, and when he joined her, she laid a hand over his. “I feel confident and streamlined. I woke up that way because you were with me last night, because you loved me. And because you were sitting here this morning, doing what you always do instead of worrying about me.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop worrying about me worrying?”

“It’s moving that way. We probably just need to have a good fight over something, finish it off. A good fight can work like a good orgasm, and clear things out.”

“Well now, I’m longing for a good fight. We’ll have to schedule one in.”

“Better, I think, when they’re more … organic.”

“Organic orgasm through temper.” He laughed as he passed her the syrup he knew she’d pour on in a flood. “I’m filled with anticipation.”

“Remember that when I piss you off next time.”

She drowned her waffles in syrup.

Within thirty, primed by waffles, Eve checked her ’link. “Everybody’s a go for the briefing. I’m going in early, make sure everything’s set up the way I want it.”

“Good luck. I should have some time this afternoon, either to deal with that fight we need to have or give Feeney some help.”

“Maybe we can work in both.” She gave him a quick kiss before heading for the door.

“Look after my cop,” he called after her. “Just you try licking off that plate, boy-o,” she heard him say to the cat, “and see what happens.”

It made her grin all the way downstairs.

She didn’t have as much luck with traffic as she had the day before, but used the time in snags and snarls to work out her approach.

She wanted a warrant to search Steinburger’s residence, his office, his vehicle—and one to dump all his electronics on Feeney and EDD.

Odds of getting them were slim, she knew. She could—she damn well would—convince everyone in the briefing that Steinburger had been killing people who annoyed him, got in his way, or just posed a serious inconvenience, for forty years.

And yet the pesky issue of probable cause would remain.

Still, she’d push for it, and if—most likely when—she got shut down, she’d push for one to monitor his ’links and comps.

And she wanted that in place before she talked to his ex-wives—the surviving ones—his boat pal, former college roommates, Buster Pearlman’s widow. Before she had another round with the Hollywood set.

A lot of people were going to feel the heel of her new boots on their necks before she was done.

She pulled into her slot in Central’s garage. She rode up in an elevator that stopped to let cops on, let cops off. And wished she’d opted for the glides when an undercover detective she recognized stepped in hauling a midget.

The midget boasted a shaved head covered with tats and showed gaps in his teeth in a feral snarl. That bald head might have only reached McGreedy’s waist, but its owner looked mean as a rattler.

Both of them smelled, strongly and distinctly, of shit.

“Jesus, McGreedy.” One of the cops stepped as far to the side as the car would allow. “You sleep in the sewer?”

“Chased this fucker into one. Caught you, too, didn’t I, you fucking little fucker. Fucker bit my ankle. I got midget teeth marks in my ankle.”

Even as he said it, his prisoner issued a sharp kick to the wounded ankle, another to the shin, and let out a kind of war cry as he leaped, fast and nimble as a spider, on the back of the uniformed cop ahead of him in the car.

Amid the chaos, and the unbelievable stench, Eve considered. Two cops were currently trying to haul the crazy little bastard off while he yanked hair, kicked feet, sank teeth.

She decided on a different approach. She drew her weapon, and keeping a careful distance, leaned forward, pressed it to the crazy little bastard’s head.

“Want a taste of this?”

He swung around, bared his gapped teeth, and she calculated he intended to use the uniform as a springboard into her face.

“I’ll drop you like a stone,” she warned. “No, like a pebble. An ugly, smelly pebble. Then I’ll personally drop-kick your ass into a cage.”

“I got him, Lieutenant.” Panting, snarling, sweating, McGreedy ripped his prisoner off the uniform, shoved him facedown on the floor of the car. “Fucker.”

“Officer?”

“Shit. Shit. Bingly, Lieutenant.”

“Officer Bingly, as you’re already due for a shower and a change of uniform, why don’t you assist Detective McGreedy in securing his little fucker and hauling same into detox?”

“Yes, sir. Shit.”

“It ain’t roses,” McGreedy agreed.

“Hold him back, would you?” Eve requested, and hopped off the elevator.

Never a dull moment, she thought as she took a cautious sniff of herself just in case.

She bypassed her office for the conference room where she re-created her case boards, loaded data into a computer.

By the time she was finished, she expected Peabody to clock in. Deciding she wanted another hit of decent coffee before things got rolling, she secured the conference room and started to her office.

She spotted Marlo—despite the long, sun-streaked brunette wig and oversized sunshades—coming off the glides.

“Dallas.”

“Not working today?”

“I’m not due in hair and makeup until nine, so I thought I’d take a chance you’d be in, and have a few minutes.”

“I’m in, and a few minutes is all I’ve got.” Eve nodded as Peabody and McNab came up the next glide. “Hang on a minute,” she told Marlo.

“Is that Marlo?” Peabody asked.

“Yeah, I’m going to talk to her. The two of you can head right into the conference room. I’ve got boards set up. Study, ponder, prepare to discuss. What’s in the box?”

“Doughnuts.” McNab grinned at her. “We figured, hey, cops, breakfast time, briefing. It’s the necessary ingredient.”

“It couldn’t hurt. I won’t be long.”

Eve considered the fact her murder board stood in her office, and deciding it might be an advantage, led Marlo in.

“Thanks for …” Marlo trailed off, her gaze on the board. “God, that’s stark. And really, really disconcerting to see my own face up there, those of people I know and care about. Can I sit down?”

“Sure.” As she did, Eve rested a hip on the corner of her desk. Her mind went, unfortunately, to the idea of how many asses had sat on her candy in the last couple of days.

“You know, I thought I’d gotten so tough, prepping for this part. I’ve always kept in shape, but Christ, I trained for this. Physically, I mean. And, I thought, mentally. But I learned, fast, I’m not half as tough as I thought. I can work. I can put myself there, but as soon as I step out of you and into me? I’m just Marlo Durn, and I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“There’s no way around the fact one of us …” Her gaze went to the board again. “One of us killed K.T. There’s no way around it. And I know you believe whoever did that killed the man she hired to spy on Matthew and me. So I’m scared because I’m working with someone who could do that.”

“Did Asner approach you, Marlo, or Matthew about compensation in exchange for the recording?”

“No.” She stared at his photo on the board. “I’ve never seen him before. He was in the loft, in our bedroom. And now he’s dead.”

“Has anyone approached you?”

“No. I’d tell you. It’s way beyond the invasion of privacy, the embarrassment. Even the anger over it. I wanted to come here, see you, ask you if you’re any closer to finding out who. And I know you probably can’t tell me, but I hate being this way. Hate being scared, hate wondering about these people I care about. Hate locking my trailer door, even when I’m inside.”

“Are you afraid of anyone in particular?”

Marlo shook her head. “Matthew’s handling it better, and so’s Andi. Julian’s worse than I am. He’s a wreck. Connie was supposed to fly to Paris to shoot some ads. Their daughter was going to meet her so they’d have a few days over there together. She rescheduled because she doesn’t want to leave Roundtree. I know that’s not really important in the bigger sense, but—”

“It’s hard to reorder your life, even in the short-term. It’s hard to wonder if someone you know isn’t someone you know at all.”

“Yes.” Marlo closed her eyes. “God, yes. Can you tell me anything? Anything at all.”

“We’re having a major briefing on the investigation and some new angles this morning.”

“That’s good then.” Marlo let out a breath. “That’s good.”

And that would get around, Eve thought. She wondered what Stein-burger would think when he heard.

“There’s a minor detail I meant to check out,” Eve continued. “You’d probably know, save me some steps.”

“Anything.”

“Does anyone besides Harris smoke? Herbals, or otherwise?”

“Oh.” Marlo slumped a little. “I do. A little. Occasionally. Not herbals. Tobacco, and I know, I know, I know. Bad for me, painfully expensive. And you have to hide like a thief. I’ve cut them out almost completely because of that, and more—might as well be honest—because Matthew dislikes it so much. He insists I can get the same effect with yoga breathing, which only proves he’s never smoked anything.”

“So he objects?”

“Disapproves. Worries. I tried to switch to herbals as he’s not as rabid about those, but hell. It’s not the same.”

“Anyone else? Smoke or object to it?”

“Andi will bum a drag now and then, either from me or off an herbal. A lot of the crew sneak off for an herbal during breaks. Roundtree designated an area for them, though the studio wouldn’t approve. And Joel pitched a fit.”

Inside, Eve smiled. “Did he?”

“He’s the smoking gestapo.” She straightened again, rolled her eyes dramatically. “I swear, he can tell if you’ve had a single puff an hour before from a half mile away.” She made sniffing sounds, lowered her brows, roughened her voice, and did a dead-on mimic of Steinburger. “Who’s been smoking! I won’t be exposed to it. Preston! Valerie! Get this place aired out, right now!” She made hacking noises, covered her mouth with her forearm. “Somebody get me a lozenge and some spring water!”

Then she laughed, sat back. “I swear, his eyes start watering if somebody so much as thinks about smoking. He and K.T. were at it on that all the time. They’d … Oh, I didn’t mean. It’s not like he’d kill somebody over it. He just can’t stand it, and his eyes do get red.”

“Understood.” Eve smiled. “We know Harris smoked herbals on the roof, inside the dome. DNA. From what you’ve said it doesn’t seem likely she got them from someone else at the party.”

“She wouldn’t ask, believe me. Or share.”

“Then that covers that. Just a minor detail, as I said. I’ve got to get to the briefing, Marlo.”

“Okay. Thanks. Really.” She rose, took Eve’s hand. “It’s probably stupid, but I feel better just talking to you.”

“Glad I could help. I’ll walk you out.”

“You probably think it’s silly,” Marlo said and tugged on her wig. “Wigs and shades and oversized coats.”

“I think I’d hate it if I couldn’t walk down the street, buy a soy dog, take a stroll, grab a slice without having people staring at me, pushing at me, taking pictures of me.”

“It’s part of the package.”

“Everybody’s got a package. You don’t have to like all of it.”

“Matthew and I are talking about going public. What the studio wants, it just doesn’t seem important now. Two people are dead. That’s what’s important, so … And you know what else?” She pulled off the wig, shaking out her short hair as she stuffed it in her bag. “God! That feels better. Screw it. I’m Marlo Durn.”

She shot Eve the megastar smile and strolled toward the glide.

Armed with the additional data, Eve strode to the conference room. Inside, McNab stuffed the last of a doughnut into his mouth.

Peabody turned from the board, goggled. “Holy shit, Dallas.”

“Convinced?”

“Are you kidding? The pattern’s there. Right there. He kills people.”

“Not quite a habit,” McNab put in, “more than a hobby. Or maybe there are others, people who didn’t have a connection to him. In between he kills complete strangers.”

“Possible. But it strikes me as more likely his killing is, to him, just part of doing business. Sometimes you fire, sometimes you dissolve a partnership. Sometimes you kill.”

“It’s almost sicker that way.” Peabody looked back to the board. “If he profiled like a true serial, we could at least say he’s compelled. But it’s not compulsive when you go years between. It’s—”

“Convenience.”

“Sicker. And to think I was so juiced because he talked to me about the cameo, and how they’d play me up.”

“We’ll get him, She-Body.”

“Now I want a damn doughnut.”

“Got your cream-filled with sugar glaze right here.” McNab pulled it out of the box for her.

She took the first enormous bite as Whitney came in.

“Commander,” Eve began. “Thank you for making the time.”

“You made it sound urgent. Are those doughnuts?”

Peabody, unable to speak with a mouth full of cream, nodded.

“Detectives Peabody and McNab thought they were called for,” Eve told him.

“When aren’t they?” Whitney selected a jelly, topped with sprinkles. But the board caught his eye before he could sample. In silence he studied the data, the pattern.

“Nine?”

“Yes, sir. It’s possible there are more, but these dates, times, circumstances I can verify. I’m expecting Doctor Mira, Captain Feeney, APA Reo, and would like to brief everyone on the data and my conclusions at once.”

“Yes. Kyung will join us here at oh-nine-hundred. I can bump that time if you need more.”

“Hopefully not.”

Whitney shook his head. “This is a shit storm.”

A lot of that going around, Eve thought.

She stayed out of the way as Feeney came in, reacted enthusiastically to the doughnuts, then stood munching one as he studied the board. Mira and Reo came in together, and Eve heard a snippet of their continued conversation about a shoe sale.

Eve waited as each caught the board, as Mira accepted the cup of tea Peabody brought her. As she sat, sipped, studied.

Eve judged the timing, then walked up to the board, faced the room.

“The data, my gut, and a probability of seventy-three-point-eight say that Joel Steinburger killed the nine individuals on these boards. Motives may be murky as yet, but beginning with Bryson Kane, when the victim and the suspect were twenty and twenty-one respectively, the suspect had received a warning of imminent academic suspension due to spotty attendance and failing grades. While records show the suspect’s attendance did not significantly improve, he went from near suspension to honors list in a four-week period.”

“You figure he cheated,” Feeney commented.

“I do. I figure he paid the victim, who was a straight honors student, to write his papers, crib any tests or exams. I believe the victim either wanted to stop or asked for more money. They argued, and the suspect pushed him down the stairs. The suspect’s grades dipped sharply for the three weeks after his roommate’s death. This was put down to natural emotional upheaval at the time. I call bullshit. His grades dipped because he killed his source. He had to find another.”

“How do you prove it?” Reo asked her.

“By analyzing financial data from that period. By interviewing the other roommates, instructors, students.

“Second victim,” she continued. “His fiancée’s wealthy, influential great-grandfather, and the suspect’s boss. At his death, the great-granddaughter—who married the suspect—came into a considerable inheritance. And from the pattern that emerges here, the suspect has a fondness for women.”

“A cheat’s a cheat,” Feeney commented. “He cheats on the girlfriend, Granddaddy finds out, tells him to blow.”

“That’s the one I like,” Eve agreed. “The suspect ends up with a wealthy wife, a solid position at the studio, and the potential to become heir apparent.

“Victim three,” Eve said and worked her way down.

She juggled data and theories, answered questions, reasserted time lines.

“Considering the length of time we’re dealing with,” Reo began, “it would take a miracle to access all the data. The financial records, travel, wit statements. Much less locate and interview all parties involved. Then we have to jog, and trust those memories and impressions.”

“So he keeps getting away with it, because he scatters his kills, changes his method. Nine people—maybe more—are dead because Joel Steinburger wanted them that way. Because he wanted money or sex or fame or a reputation he’d never earned. They’re dead because he wanted the easy way to the red carpet, the media spotlight, the power chamber of a glamorous industry. And he wanted all the benefits that go with it. The money again, the sex, the envy of others.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Dallas. But you’ve got pattern—a logical pattern, a convincing one. You don’t have evidence.”

“We’ll get it.”

“How close are you to getting him for K.T. Harris and/or Asner?”

“Closer than I was. Closer still when you put them together with the others—when you see the pattern. Get me a warrant to search his residence, his office, his vehicle. Get me one to confiscate and search his electronics.”

“And would you like me to get you a pony while I’m at it?” The Southern in Reo’s voice went to steel. “Where’s the cause? The judge and any decent lawyer, which believe me Steinburger will have a fleet of, will point out that many men in their sixties can be connected to nine deaths over the course of their lives. That only one of these cases was designated homicide, for which the individual charged was convicted. I can get a judge to look at this, to see what you see, what I’m damn well seeing, too. And we still won’t get a search warrant.”

“So that’s it?” Eve shot back. “You don’t even try.”

“Of course I’m going to try. Damn it. I want to put this creepy bastard away for the rest of his life. I’m telling you we’re going to get a big, fat, solid no on a search warrant.”

Eve paced away.

“I’ll talk to your boss,” Whitney told Reo, “and as many judges as it takes. If Doctor Mira will reprofile. If you have some thoughts on this, Doctor Mira.”

“Yes.” It was the first word she’d spoken since entering the room. “I have some thoughts.”

“Before that, as a backup.” Eve turned back. “What about a warrant to monitor his transmissions? An EDD trace on his ’links, his comps. Everything. He’s my primary suspect in two current murders. I can eliminate several of the others present at Harris’s death. I have a partially open dome, evidence the vic was smoking herbals laced with zoner. And a statement that can and will be verified that the suspect has a strong, even passionate aversion to smoke. The dome was closed, and the mechanism faulty. The suspect was unaware of this. When he opened it to clear the smoke, he was unable to close it completely after he killed Harris.”

“I can work with that,” Reo calculated. “I could work a trace. And we’ll work with the prosecutor on the Pearlman suicide. If your contact on that can locate the evidence, the files, we may be able to toggle back now that we have this secondary account. But if you don’t get something off the trace in short order, we’re going to have a tough time keeping it in place when he leaves New York. And the rest.”

Reo turned to the boards again. “I want to believe we can prove it, but realistically, it could take years to put it all together.”

“He’ll kill again.” Mira spoke up now. “He won’t wait years between this time. He’s killed twice in two days. It’s a new kind of power. He murdered Asner with extreme violence, the kind he’s only exhibited, that we see here, one other time. There’s a pattern there as well. His privacy was infringed. He reacted with violence, then took and we assume destroyed all that pertained to him. In this case, Asner isn’t the end of it. If Valerie was paid or compensated to give him an alibi, she’s now a new threat. He’ll need to eliminate her, and I don’t believe he’ll wait. Not years, not months. Weeks perhaps. He’ll need to finish it to feel fully in control again.”

She looked at Eve. “He’s more dangerous now, without that feeling of control. He is organized, so he’ll plan. He’s self-serving and can justify all his actions as necessary. And he is ruthless. Whatever gets in the way of his comfort, his success, his ambition must be eliminated. He’s killed for his own needs for forty years, and has become a powerful, respected, famous, wealthy man. On the one hand, killing is the same for him as it is for a paid assassin.”

“Business,” Eve said.

“Yes. And on the other, it’s intensely, intimately personal. Friends, lovers, former wives. You may find he had a sexual relationship at one time with K.T. Harris. Only twice were his kills not part of his intimate circle.”

“And those he killed with extreme violence.”

“He could let that violent nature out with them. I believe when you interview his ex-wives and any former or current lovers they’ll tell you—if they’re honest—he preferred rough sex, likely with rape role-playing. The violence is there, always. Ending lives gives him a sense of control, and at the same time, the need to end them when threatened controls him.”

“He’s going to be real unhappy when we take away his control and put him in a concrete cage. Get me a warrant,” Eve told Reo. “Whatever you can get.”

After a quick knock, Kyung stepped in. “Do you need me to wait?”

“No.” Eve angled her head. “It’s good timing. If everyone could stay a few minutes more. I’ve got a way I think we can get something on that EDD trace sooner rather than later.”

She jerked a thumb at the box on the conference table. “Have a doughnut,” she invited Kyung.