Judgment in Death

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Time was running short. Running two critical operations meant every hour was crammed with two hours' work and worry. She left Purgatory in Roarke's perhaps too-competent hands and, switching gears, drove out to Clooney's suburban house.

"Whitney already had Baxter question the wife," Peabody said and earned a steel-tipped stare from Eve.

"I'm following up. Do you have a problem with that, Officer?"

"No, sir. No problem at all."

Time might have been rushing by for Eve, but for Peabody it seemed the next thirty hours were going to crawl like a slug. She decided it best not to mention the surveillance car parked in full view of the single-story ranch house on the postage-stamp lot.

Clooney would spot it, too, if he attempted to get to the house. Maybe that was the point.

Keeping her silence, she followed Eve up the walk, waited at the door.

The woman who opened it might have been pretty in a round, homey way. But at the moment she merely looked exhausted, unhappy, and afraid. Eve identified herself and held up her badge.

"You found him. He's dead."

"No. No, Mrs. Clooney, your husband hasn't been located. May we come in?"

"There's nothing I can tell you that hasn't already been said." But she turned away, shoulders slumped as if they carried a fierce burden, and walked across the tidy little living area.

Chintz and lace. Faded rugs, old, comfortable chairs. An entertainment screen that had seen better days. And, she noted, a statue of The Virgin-mother of Christ-on a table with her serene, compassionate face looking out over the room.

"Mrs. Clooney, I have to ask if your husband's contacted you."

"He hasn't. He wouldn't. It's just as I told the other detective. I think, somehow, there's been a terrible mistake." Absently, she pushed a lock of brown hair, as faded as the rugs, away from her face. "Art hasn't been well, hasn't been himself for a long time. But he wouldn't do the things you're saying he did."

"Why wouldn't he contact you, Mrs. Clooney? You're his wife. This is his home."

"Yes." She sat, as if her legs just couldn't hold her up any longer. "It is. But he stopped seeing that, stopped believing that. He's lost. Lost his way, his hope, his faith. Nothing's been the same to us since Thad died."

"Mrs. Clooney." Eve sat, leaning forward in an attitude that invited trust and confidence. "I want to help him. I want to get him the kind of help he needs. Where would he go?"

"I just don't know. I would have once." She took a tattered tissue from her pocket. "He stopped talking to me, stopped letting me in. At first, when Thad was killed, we clung together, we grieved together. He was the most wonderful young man, our Thad."

She looked toward a photograph, in a frame of polished silver, of a young man in full dress uniform. "We were so proud of him. When we lost him, we held on tight, to each other, to that love and pride. We shared that love and pride with his wife and sweet baby. It helped, having our grandchild close by."

She rose, picked up another photograph. This time Thad posed with a smiling young woman and a round-cheeked infant. "What a lovely family they made."

Her fingers brushed lovingly over the faces before she set the photograph down again, sat.

"Then, a few weeks after we lost Thad, Art began to change, to brood and snap. He wouldn't share with me. He wouldn't go to Mass. We argued, then we stopped even that. Existing in this house," she said, looking around at the familiar, the comforting, as if it all belonged to strangers, "instead of living in it."

"Do you remember, Mrs. Clooney, when that change in your husband began?"

"Oh, nearly four months ago. Doesn't seem like a long time, I suppose, when you think of more than thirty years together. But it felt like forever."

The timing worked, Eve calculated, slid the puzzle piece of the first murder into place.

"Some nights he wouldn't come home at all. And when he did, he slept in Thad's old room. Then he moved out. He told me he was sorry. That he had to set things right before he could be a husband to me again. Nothing I could say could change his mind. And God forgive me, at that point I was so tired, so angry, so empty inside, I didn't care that he was going."

She pressed her lips together, blinked away the tears. "I don't know where he is or what he's done. But I want my husband back. If I knew anything that would make that happen, I'd tell you."

Eve left, canvassed the neighborhood, talked to neighbors, and was given nothing but a picture of puzzled disbelief. Clooney had been a good friend, a loving husband and father, a trusted member of the community.

No one had heard from him-or would admit to it.

"Do you believe them?" Peabody asked as they headed back to the city.

"I believe his wife. She's too afraid and confused to lie. He knows we'd cover the house. Friends and relatives. He's not stupid enough to go to any knowns, but I had to check. We'll go back to Central, run through his data again. Maybe something will click."

But two hours through, and nothing had. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, thought about more coffee, then opened them and saw Mira in the doorway.

"You're overdoing it, Eve."

"My back's to the wall. I'm sorry, did we have a meeting?"

"No, but I thought you could use my professional opinion on Clooney at this point."

"Yeah, I could." She glanced around, sighed. "This place is a dump. I wouldn't let the cleaning crew in the last few days. Security clearances aren't enough right now."

"Don't worry about it." Mira made herself comfortable with a hip on the side of Eve's desk. "I don't believe he has, or can, change his agenda. He'll still be focused on you, which means he'll stay close."

"He said he wouldn't kill another cop, too. But he sure didn't hesitate to slice that knife into Webster."

"That was impulse rather than calculated. He wanted you, and even then he would have considered it self-defense. You were coming for him. You and a member of Internal Affairs. I believe he's still in the city, still using whatever considerable skill he has to observe and regroup. Wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'd do if I'd decided I had to end something, would die trying." She'd thought it over carefully, in one of her journeys into Clooney's head. "He means to die, doesn't he, Doctor?"

"Yes, I think so. He'll give you until the stated deadline, and if you don't prove yourself to his satisfaction, he'll try to kill you. He may finish this by an attempted assassination of Ricker, then he will, almost certainly, self-terminate. He will not be able to face his wife, his colleagues, his priest. But he will face his son."

"I'm not going to let that happen."

– =O=-***-=O=-

She intended to go straight home. She'd called the hospital to check on Webster and was told there was no change. But, as with Clooney's wife, she had to check for herself.

She strode down the corridor toward ICU, dreading every step. Hating the scent, the sound, the feel of the hospital. When the nurse on duty demanded if she was family, she didn't hesitate. She lied.

And moments later found herself in the narrow cubicle, made smaller by the bed and machines, looking down on Webster's white face.

"Well, this is just dandy, isn't it? Didn't I tell you this was going to piss me off? You know how bad it makes me look for you to be lying here, taking the easy way? Damn it, Webster."

She broke down and laid a hand over his. Cold, she thought. His was too cold. "You think I have time for this? I'm up to my ears in work, and instead of lending a hand, you're just stretched out hiding in a coma. You'd better get up off your ass."

She leaned down, spoke clear and strong into his face. "You hear me, you bastard? You'd better get up off your ass, because I've had too many cops die on my watch just lately. I'm not letting you add to the number. And if you think I'll put a posy on your grave and shed a tear, you are wrong, pal. I'll spit on it."

She squeezed his hand, waited for a response that didn't come. "Jerk," she muttered, with more affection than she'd realized she had for him.

She turned away, came to a skidding halt when she saw Roarke at the door. A thousand thoughts jumbled into her head, and not a single one of them came through clearly.

"I thought you might drop by here."

"I was just…" Her hands found her pockets on the end of a shrug.

"Trying to help a friend," he finished and crossed to her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, touched his lips to her forehead. The gesture was very gentle, very supportive, and very married. "Do you think I begrudge that?"

"I guess not. It's a… the situation is a little weird, that's all."

"Do you want to stay with him awhile longer?"

"No. I said what I came to say." But she glanced back. "When he comes out of this, I'm going to kick his ass just for the hell of it."

"I'll hold your coat." Roarke slipped an arm around her. "Let's go home, Lieutenant. We have a busy day tomorrow."

– =O=-***-=O=-

It was busy and went by too quickly. From her station in Security Control, she was able to watch any and every section of the club on-screen.

She argued about the lights-too dim-but he hadn't changed them. She sniped about the music-too loud-but he'd gone his own way there, as well. Now she saw she'd missed one more angle to hassle him over.

The crowd.

She hadn't anticipated the number of people who'd pour in, jam in, elbow in for the club's reopening. She went on slow burn, realizing that Roarke would have anticipated it.

"We don't have enough cops," she said to Feeney. "He hasn't been open an hour, and they're packed in like he's offering free drinks and group sex to every second customer."

"Might be he is. He's got a way with drumming up business. We're okay, Dallas. This security setup'll handle it. Look there, we got a joker in sector two, table six, spiking his lady's drink. A little Exotica'd be my guess."

"Let Roarke's security handle that kind of thing." She rested a hand on Feeney's shoulder as they both watched the screen. "I don't want police interference in the routine." And she wanted to see just how good his security was.

Damn good, she decided, when within thirty seconds a large man in a black suit strolled up to the table in question, confiscated the drink, and lifted the offender out of his chair in one smooth move.

"Slick and quiet," Feeney commented. "That's the way to keep things steady."

"I don't like it. I don't like the whole deal. Too much can go wrong."

"Nothing's going to go wrong. You just got the heebie-jeebies."

"The what?"

"Ants in your pants, nervous twitters."

"Damn it, Feeney, I've never twittered in my life."

"Doing it now," he said solemnly. But there was a chuckle in his tone. "The man can handle himself, Dallas. Nobody better."

"Yeah, maybe that's what worries me." On-screen, she picked Roarke out easily, watched him move through the crowd as if his biggest concern was the cut of his suit.

And she was two floors up, and breaking a sweat.

Because she was two floors up, she admitted. She'd have felt better, been cooler, if she'd been down in the action. Like Peabody, she thought, idling at the bar in plain clothes.

"Peabody, you read?"

At the bar, Peabody gave a barely perceptible nod as Eve's voice hummed in her ear.

"That better be a soft drink you're guzzling."

Then came the smirk.

For some reason, it made Eve feel better.

The buzzer sounded at the door. With one hand on her weapon, she stepped over, checked the security screen. Disengaging locks, she opened it.

"Martinez, you're away from your station."

"There's time. Can I have a minute? I didn't have the chance to say it before," she continued, lowering her voice. "And if things go the way we want, there won't be time after. I want to thank you for bringing me in on this."

"You earned it."

"You better believe it. But you didn't have to bring me in. You ever need a favor from me or my squad, you'll have it."

"Acknowledged and appreciated."

"Thought you'd like to know the word on Roth, too. She's getting slapped on record. They're sending in an evaluator, and she's going to be required to submit to counseling. She gets a six-month probationary period before they decide if she keeps her command."

It was a hard knock for a woman like Roth, Eve mused. But… "Could've been a lot worse for her."

"Yeah. Some were betting she'd just toss in and resign. But no way. She'll tough it out."

"Yeah, I think she will. Now, if we've finished our gossip session, get back to your station."

Martinez flashed a grin. "Yes, sir."

Eve secured the door again and returned to the screens. She started to sit, to settle, then tensed. "God. Why didn't I think of it? That's Mavis. Mavis and Leonardo." Going with the gut, or the heart, she switched to Roarke's channel.

"Mavis just walked in. She and Leonardo are moving through section five. Get rid of them. Make them go home."

"I'll take care of them," was his murmured response, and all she could do was stand by helplessly.

"Roarke!" Mavis gave a squeal of delight, and launched herself, decked out in swirl of blue feathers over a gold body paint job, into his arms. "The place is mag! Even more mag than before! Where's Dallas? Isn't she here for the big night?"

"She's working."

"Oh, bum-time. Well, we'll keep you company. Listen to that band! They're incendiary. Can't wait to dance."

"You'll have a better view from the second level."

"Lots of action down here."

"There, too." He'd never get them out, not without an explanation. But he could calm Eve's nerves by moving them as far away as possible. "Rue?" He signaled his manager. "These are friends of mine. Get them the best table on the second level. Their tab's on the house."

"That's gracious of you." Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. "And unnecessary."

"It's my pleasure. I've got some business to see to shortly. When it's done, I'll come up and join you for a drink."

"Aw, you're so sweet. We'll see you upstairs later."

When he was sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. "Keep an eye on them. Make certain they're tucked up until this is played out."

"Don't worry," he replied.

Onstage, the dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric blue mist crawled over the floor.

Prowling around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.

Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.

He hadn't come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.

They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying mini-scanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.

They would find only what he'd elected to have them find.

Ignoring them, he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.

"Okay," Eve said from her station. "Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge, everyone to move into first position. Let's do this right."

And where before she'd sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. "Feeney, give me a weapons check. I want to know who's carrying and how many."

"Already coming through."

And so, she thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.

"It's been awhile," Roarke said.

Ricker's lips curved, just at the corners. "Quite a long while." He looked away from Roarke just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. "Impressive," he said with the slightest hint of boredom. "But a strip club is still a strip club, however it's trimmed."

"And business is still business."

"I'd heard you've had a little trouble with yours."

"Nothing that hasn't been dealt with."

"Really? You lost a few of your clients last year."

"I did some… restructuring."

"Ah yes. A wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife."

"Leave my wife out of it."

"Difficult, if not impossible." It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of tension in Roarke's voice. There'd been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn't have shown. "But we can discuss just what you're willing to trade for that kind of consideration."

As with an effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. "We'll use my booth. I'll buy you a drink."

As he started to turn, one of Ricker's guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man's thumb, and jerked it backward.

Too much weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.

"Do that again, and I'll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you." His eyes went back to Ricker's. "And you know it."

"I'm glad to see at least that much hasn't changed." Ricker gestured his man back. "But you can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions."

"Have one of the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn't satisfy, fuck yourself. It's my place now."

A muscle in Ricker's cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he nodded. "I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as you say, it's your place. For the moment."

"All right," Eve said. "They're moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system's going to override their scan."

"It overrode mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled." He swiveled toward a secondary monitor. "Look, see, their sweep's coming up clean, getting just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we'll settle us down for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation."

"Peabody," Eve said, reading off the weapons scan. "Your man is left end of the bar, mixed race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He's armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?"

At Peabody's nod, she continued. "Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range, but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered. Martinez, your man is…"

– =O=-***-=O=-

"Your droid squad stays out of the booth," Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. "I don't talk business with an audience."

"My thoughts exactly." Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut behind him.

He had what he wanted now, what he'd planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up Ricker's left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome face.

"Hell of a view," he commented as the dancers spun onstage. "You always did have a taste for women. A weakness for them."

"True enough. As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife."

"Did I?" Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he'd been itching for. So very long. "How careless of me. Does she know we're having this conversation, or does she let you keep your balls now and then?"

Roarke took out his cigarettes, tapping one on the table as he met Ricker's sneer. An inner struggle showed on his face and made Ricker laugh. Then Roarke turned to the menu. "Whiskey," he ordered, lifted a brow.

"The same, for old times' sake."

"Two whiskeys. Jameson's. Doubles, and straight up." Then he sat back, lighted the cigarette. "And I'll say this straight up, and that's for old times' sake as well. My marriage stays out of your reach."

Roarke's voice took on an edge; then he paused as if to control it. "You've tried for my wife, and she's tossed what you've sent at her back at you."

"She's been lucky." But Ricker's mouth was tight as he reached for one of the glasses of amber liquid that came through the serving slot. "Luck eventually breaks."

Roarke's hand shot out. As if he caught himself at the last moment, he drew it back, glancing out toward the guard who had moved closer, whose own hand had drifted under his coat.

"What do you want in trade for a guarantee of her safety?"

"Ah." Pleased, Ricker sat back again. "That's a reasonable question. But why, I wonder, should you think I'd offer a reasonable answer to it?"

"I'll make it worth your while," Roarke said quickly. Too quickly for pride or business sense.

"That will take some doing." Thrilled, already desperate to push, he leaned forward. "You see, I find I enjoy hurting your wife."

"Listen-"

"No, you'll listen. You'll shut that arrogant mouth of yours as I should have shut it for you years ago, and you'll listen. Do you understand?"

"The man must have a death wish."

Roarke heard Feeney's voice clearly enough, appreciated the truth of his observation. He fisted both hands on the table, let his breath in and out audibly. "Yes, I understand. Just give me some terms, damn it. We're businessmen. Tell me what you want."

"Please."

Christ, you miserable prick, Roarke thought. Carefully, he cleared his throat, picked up his whiskey. Drank. "Please. Tell me what you want."

"Better. Much better. A number of years ago, you rashly severed our association, and did so in a manner that cost me one point two million in cash and merchandise and twice that in reputation and goodwill. So, to start, I'll take ten million, in U.S. dollars."

"And what, precisely, will that ten million buy me?"

"Precisely, Roarke? Your wife's life. Transfer that amount to an account I'll give you by midnight tonight, or I will initiate the contract on her that I have pending."

"You need to give me a little time to-"

"Midnight, or I terminate her."

"Even you should hesitate before contracting on a cop, and such a high-profile one."

"I owe you a great deal more than one cop. Your choice. Keep the money, lose the woman." He ran the saber points of his nails over the side of the glass in a nasty, shrieking sound. "It's not negotiable."

"That's enough right there," Eve murmured. "It's enough to put him away."

"He'll get more." Feeney shifted in his seat. "He's just warming up."

"She's worth ten million to me, but…" Roarke lifted his glass, sipped slowly now, as if calculating. "I believe we forge a truer trust in this matter by adding to the arrangement. I'm interested in more than a single deal. I have some funds I'd prefer to invest in a manner that doesn't require government scrutiny."

"Tired of being an upstanding citizen?"

"In a word? Yes." He shrugged, glanced around, and let his gaze linger just a moment too long on the dancer grinding out her routine on the other side of the dome.

And in doing so, he felt Ricker's amusement.

"I'm considering changing my home base, doing some traveling. I'm looking for some new business ventures. Something with some juice."

"And you're coming to me? You would dare to come to me, as if we're equals? You'll have to crawl before I throw you a scrap."

"Then this conversation is pointless." Roarke shrugged again, but made it jerky, drained his glass.

"You used to be so cocky, so cold. Now look at you. She's sucked you dry. Gone soft, haven't you? Forgotten what it's like to give orders that change lives. That end them. I could end yours now with a snap of my finger." Ricker's eyes gleamed as he leaned close, whispered. "Maybe I will, for old times' sake."

It was brutally hard not to smash that leering face with his fist and take out the guard with his hand under his coat. "Then you won't get your ten million or anything else from me. Maybe you have a right to be angry with the way I backed out on you before."

"Backed out? Backed out?" He pounded his fist on the table, shouting so that at the control station, Feeney's ears rang. "You betrayed me, stole from me. You threw my generosity back in my face. I should have killed you for it. Perhaps I still will."

"You want payback, Ricker, for what I did, or didn't do, I'm willing to pay. I'm willing. I know what you're capable of. I respect that."

For effect, Roarke added a slight tremor to his hand as he ordered a second round. "I've still got sources and resources. We can be an asset to each other. My connection to the NYPSD is valuable in itself."

Ricker let out a short laugh. His chest was hurting from the pounding of his heart. He didn't want another whiskey. He wanted his beautiful pink drink. But he would finish first. Finish Roarke first. "I don't need your cop, you pathetic fool. I've got a whole damn squad in my pocket."

"Not like her." Roarke edged forward, eager to deal. "I want her out, but until I convince her, she can be useful. Very useful to you."

"She's barely useful to you. Rumor is you and she are having some marital difficulties."

"Just some bumps. They'll pass. The ten million will help that," Roarke said as he took the second round of drinks. "It takes the pressure off. And I'll get her to resign before much longer. I'm working on it."

"Why? As you said, a police connection's useful."

"I want a wife, not a bloody cop. I prefer having my woman available at my convenience, not running around all hours of the day and night investigating cases." Scowling now, he drank deeply. "A man's entitled to that, isn't he? If I want a cop, I'll buy one. I don't have to marry one."

It was better, Ricker calculated. Even better than he'd expected. He'd have Roarke's money, his humiliation, and his obligation. And he could hold all of them until he killed him. "I can arrange it for you."

"Arrange what?"

"Her resignation. I'll have her out in a month's time."

"In return for?"

"This place. I want it back. And there's a little matter of a shipment I'm expecting. The client I anticipated for it hasn't proved financially solvent. Take it off my hands for, we'll say, another ten million, turn the deed to this club over to one of my subsidiaries, and we'll have a deal."

"What's the merchandise?"

"Pharmaceuticals."

"You know I don't have the contacts to deal in illegals."

"Don't tell me what you do or don't have." Ricker's voice spiked, all but cracked. "Who do you think you are to turn your nose up at me." He lunged over the table, grabbed Roarke by the collar. "I want what I want!"

"He's unstable. We need to move in." She was already striding out of the room when Feeney called out.

"Hold on! Let it play out."

"I can't stay up here."

"I'm not turning up my nose," Roarke said quickly, nervously. "I haven't developed the sources for illegals distribution."

"That's your problem. Your problem. You'll do what I say, all that I say, or get nothing. Take the deal or the consequences."

"Let me think, for God's sake. Pull your men back. Let's not have any trouble in here."

"Fine, that's fine. No trouble."

Well, he's mad, Roarke thought. Stark and raving. The rumors of Ricker's instability hadn't touched on the reality.

"Twenty million's a lot of money. But I'm willing to risk it to get what I want. And to… pay the debt I owe you. But I need to know how you'd work her out of the department without it coming back on me."

It was Ricker's breathing that was audible now, but he didn't hear it. He picked up his whiskey, and his hand trembled, but he didn't see it. All he saw was the fulfillment of a long-cherished wish.

"I can ruin her career inside of a week. Yes, in no time at all. Strings to be pulled. The case she's working on now… she annoys me. She insulted me. Laughed at me."

"She'll apologize." Roarke all but crooned it. "I'll see to it."

"Yes, she'll have to do that. Have to apologize. I won't tolerate anyone laughing at me. Especially a woman."

He had to be pushed, Roarke thought. Gently and quickly. "She will. You have the controls. You have the power."

"That's right. Of course. I do. If I let her live, as a favor to you, I'll take a fee for moving her off the case and out of the department. Misinformation, skewed data in the right computer. It works."

Roarke rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. "The cops who've been killed. For Christ's sake, Ricker, you're behind that?"

"And there'll be more before it's done. It amuses me."

"I don't want any part in cop killing. They'll bury you."

"Don't be ridiculous. They'll never touch me. I didn't kill anyone. I simply put the idea in the right head, the weapon in the most vulnerable hand. Just a game. You remember how fond I am of games? And how I enjoy winning them."

"Yes, I remember. No one did it better. How did you pull this off?"

"Arrangements, Roarke. I enjoy arrangements and watching how the pieces fall into place."

"I sleep with a woman in the department, and I can't get that close." Roarke's voice filled with admiration. "I underestimated you. It must have taken years to set up."

"Months. Only a few months. It's simply a matter of selecting the right target. A young cop, too stiff-necked to play the game. Eliminating him is simple enough, but the beauty is how it can be connected, how it can be expanded upon by planting the seeds in the heart of the grieving father. Then I simply sit back and watch a once-dedicated cop kill. Again and again. And it costs me nothing."

"Brilliant," Roarke murmured.

"Yes, and satisfying. Best, I can do it again, any time I like. Murder by proxy. No one's safe, certainly not you. Transfer the money, and until the wind changes, I'll protect you. And your wife."

"That was twenty million?"

"For the moment."

"A bargain," Roarke said quietly, brought the hand he'd slipped under the table, under his jacket back into view. And the gun with it. "But I find the idea of doing business with you turns my stomach. Oh, tell your man to hold, or it'll give me great pleasure to use this. Recognize it, Ricker? It's one of the banned weapons you trafficked in, years back. I have quite a collection of twentieth-century handguns-and a collector's license. They leave a horrible nasty hole in a man. This one's a nine-millimeter Glock and will blow your face right off the skull."

The shock of having a weapon aimed at him robbed Ricker of speech. It had been years, a lifetime, since anyone had dared. "You've lost your mind."

"No, indeed. Mine's sound enough." He slapped a hand on Ricker's wrist, twisted viciously until the laser scalpel fit into his own palm. "You always had a weakness for sharp things."

"You'll die painfully for this. Painfully. Do you think you'll walk out of this place breathing?"

"Certainly. Ah, there's my wife now. Lovely, isn't she? And by the sound of things through the scanner your inferior sweepers missed, it appears your team of fools is even now being rounded up and moved along."

He waited while Ricker focused beyond him, through the dome, and saw for himself.

"One of us has lost his touch, Ricker, and it appears to be you. I set you up, and it was child's play."

"For a cop." Eyes wild, Ricker leaped to his feet. "You rolled on me for a cop."

"I'd have done it for a mongrel dog, given half the chance. Ah, please, try for it," Roarke murmured. "And make my life worth living."

"Enough. Roarke, back off." Eve opened the door to the booth, slid her police issue into Ricker's ribs.

"You're dead. You're both dead." He whirled, backhanded Eve as he leaped. She took the blow and dropped him.

"Tell me you had it on full."

"He's stunned, that's all." She wiped the blood from her mouth with her sleeve and ignored the scramble of people who rushed away from the trouble. Onstage, the strippers continued to dance.

Roarke handed her a handkerchief, then reached down, lifting Ricker's head off the floor by his throat.

"Don't-"

"Keep back," he snapped as Eve crouched to hold him off. "You'll bloody well keep back till I've finished this."

"If you kill him, it's been for nothing."

He stared at her face, and all the strength, the purpose, all the danger he hadn't shown to Ricker leaped out of them. "It would be for everything, but I don't mean to kill him." To prove it, he handed her the Glock.

But he kept the scalpel and, holding its keen point to the pulse in Ricker's throat, imagined. "You can hear me, can't you, Ricker? You can hear me well enough. I'm the one who took you down, and you'll remember it while you're pacing the box they'll put you in. You'll think of it every day with what's left of your mind."

"Kill you," Ricker choked out, but he couldn't so much as lift his hand.

"Well, you haven't managed that as yet, have you? But you're welcome to try again. Listen to me now, and carefully. Touch her, put your hand on what's mine again, and I'll follow you to hell and peel the skin from your bones. I'll feed you your own eyes. I take an oath on it. Remember what I was, and you'll know I'll do it. And worse."

He straightened again, his body rigid. "Get someone to drag him out of here. This is my place."