Vengeance in Death

CHAPTER FOUR

"I need you to think, Maureen. I need you to be calm and clear."

Huddled in a neatly patched chair in her own little room above the Green Shamrock, Maureen wet her lips. "I'm not going to go to jail or be deported?"

"You're not in any kind of trouble. I promise you." Eve edged forward in her chair. "Help me out here, Maureen, help Shawn out, and I'll pull some strings and get you real papers. You won't have to worry about Immigration ever again."

"I don't want anything to happen to Shawn, truly I don't. He was never anything but nice to me." Her eyes darted over to where Peabody stood by the door. "I'm a little nervous, you see. Cops make me a little nervous."

"Peabody's a pussycat. Aren't you, Peabody?"

"Tame as a tabby, Lieutenant."

"Help us out here now, and think back. When did you last see Shawn?"

"I'm thinking it must have been last evening when I went off my shift. You see, as a rule, Shawn comes on midday like. I'm on from eleven – that's when we open – until eight. I have two thirty-minute breaks. Shawn he works through till half ten most nights. Then he comes back on at one and works the after-hours – "

She shut up like a clam in seawater.

"Maureen," Eve began with straining patience. "I'm not worried about the after-hours business. It's no concern of mine if the bar stays open past its licensing limit."

"Well, we do a bit of after-hours business now and again." She began to wring her hands. "I'll be fired for sure if the boss finds I've told a cop such a thing."

"Not if he doesn't get any heat from it. Now you saw Shawn last night, before you went off shift at eight."

"I did, yes. When I finished up, he was behind the bar and he said something like, 'Maureen, me darling, don't you be letting that young buck steal any of my kisses.' "

At Eve's lifted brow, Maureen flushed. "Oh, he didn't mean anything by it, Lieutenant. He was just joking like. Shawn, he's was forty years old or more, and there isn't anything like that between us. I have a sort of young man. I mean…" She fumbled again, looked nervously at the silent Peabody. "He is a man, a young man, and I'm seeing him lately. We're getting to know each other, and Shawn, he knew I had a date last night, so he was just teasing me."

"All right, so you saw Shawn when you left at eight. Then – "

"Oh wait!" Maureen threw up her hands. "I saw him again. I'd forgotten. Well, not 'saw' so much. I heard him when I got in from seeing Mike – my young man – that is, the young man I'm seeing lately. I heard Shawn talking when I came in, you see."

She beamed, pleased as a pup who'd done its master's bidding.

"Who was he talking to?"

"I don't know. You see, I have to pass his room to get to the steps to come up to mine. It would have been right about midnight, and Shawn would have been on his break before the after-hours shift. The building's old, you see, so the walls and doors aren't really thick or soundproofed well. So I heard him and another man talking in Shawn's room."

"Did you hear what they said?''

"Not really. I was just passing, but I remember being glad that Shawn sounded happy. He was laughing and he said something about something being a fine idea and he'd be there for certain."

"Are you sure he was talking to a man?"

Maureen furrowed her brow. "It was more an impression. I didn't hear the words from the other, just a rumble of voice. But deep, like a man's. I didn't hear more than that because I came up here to get ready for bed. But I know it was Shawn talking. It was his laugh. He has a big laugh, does Shawn."

"Okay, who covers the tables after your shift?"

"Oh, that's Sinead. She comes on at six and we work the two hours together, then she handles the tables alone until closing. Sinead Duggin, and she lives only a couple blocks over on Eighty-third, I think. And the barkeep who works the busy time with Shawn is a droid. The boss, he only uses the droid for the busy times. They're costly to maintain."

"All right, Maureen, have you noticed anyone new coming into the bar over the last week or two, striking up a conversation with Shawn?"

"We get new people in from time to time, and some come back. Some of them talk and some don't. Most will talk a bit to Shawn because he makes a friendly drink, you see. But I don't recall anybody in particular."

"Okay, you can go on back to work. I may have to talk to you again. If you remember anything, anything at all, or anyone, you'll get in touch with me."

"I will, yes. But Shawn can't have done anything really wrong, Lieutenant," she added as she rose. "He's not a bad sort, just a bit foolish."

"Foolish," Eve mused, turning the token in her fingers as Maureen hurried out. "And unlucky. Let's get a uniform to stake out the bar just in case we're wrong and Shawn's been out all day wheeling a deal or making love to a woman. We'll go see if Sinead Duggin is any more observant than Maureen."

"The riddle guy, he said you had until tomorrow morning."

Eve rose, tucking the token away. "I think we can safely assume he cheats."

Sinead Duggin lighted a skinny silver cigarette, narrowed hard green eyes, and blew jasmine-scented smoke in Eve's face. "I don't like talking to cops."

"I don't like talking to assholes," Eve said mildly, "but I spend half my life doing it. Here or at Cop Central, Sinead. Up to you."

Sinead shrugged thin shoulders, the movement nudging apart the poppy-strewn robe she wore. Absently she tugged it tight and, turning, padded barefoot into her cramped one-room apartment.

It wasn't cramped with furniture. There was the Murphy bed, open and unmade, that she'd crawled out of when Eve had battered at the door. Two small chairs, two narrow tables. But every surface, window sills included, was jammed with things.

Obviously, Sinead liked things. Colorful things. Bowls and plates and statues of fuzzy little dogs and cats. The tassels of the two floor lamps were heavy with dust. Scatter rugs were piled like jigsaw puzzles over the floor. Sinead sat cross-legged on the bed, hefted up an enormous glass ashtray that would have made a fine blunt instrument, and yawned hugely.

"So?"

"I'm looking for Shawn Conroy. When did you see him last?"

"Last night. I work nights." She scratched the instep of her left foot. "I sleep days."

"Who did he talk to? Did you see him with anyone in particular?''

"Just the usual. People come in looking for a bottle or a glass. Shawn and I oblige them. It's honest work."

Eve dumped a week's worth of clothes off a chair and sat. "Peabody, open those blinds. Let's get some light in here."

"Oh, Jesus." Sinead covered her eyes, hissing when the blinds zipped up and sun shot in. "That stuff'll kill ya." Then she let out a long sigh. "Look, cop, Shawn's a drunk right enough. But if that's the worst you can say about a body, it's a fine life after all."

"He went back to his room on his break. Who went with him?"

"I didn't see anyone go with him. I was working. I tend my business. Why do you care?" Her eyes cleared slowly as she lowered her hand. "Why do you care?" she repeated. "Something happen to Shawn?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Well, he was right as rain last night, I can tell you that. Cheerful enough. Said something about an outside gig in the offing. Money heading his way."

"What kind of gig?"

"Private parties, classy stuff. Shawn had a yen for classy stuff." Sinead tapped out her cigarette then immediately lighted another. "He came back from his break grinning like a cat with a bowl full of canaries. Said he'd put in a word for me if I was interested."

"A word where, with who?"

"I wasn't paying attention. Shawn's always talking big. He was going to be tending bar, serving the finest wines and such at a party for some high flyer."

"Give me a name, Sinead. He was bragging, full of himself. What name did he drop?"

"Well, hell." Irritated, but caught up, Sinead rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "An old mate, he said. Someone from Dublin who'd made it big. Roarke," she said, jabbing with the smoldering cigarette. "Of course. That's why I thought it was just Shawn bullshitting as usual. What would a man like Roarke be wanting with the likes of Shawn?''

It took all Eve's control not to leap up from the chair. "He said he'd talked to Roarke?"

"Christ, my mind's not awake." She yawned again when an airbus with a faulty exhaust farted outside the window. "No, I think he said… yeah, he was saying how Roarke sent his man to do the deal. And the pay was fine. He'd be out of the Shamrock and into the high life before long. Take me along for the ride if I wanted. Shawn and me, we bumped together a few times when the mood struck. Nothing serious."

"What time did you close up the Shamrock?" As Sinead's gaze slid away, Eve ground her teeth. "I don't give a shit about the after-hours license. I need the time you last saw Shawn, and where he went."

"It was about four this morning, and he said he was going to bed. He was to meet the man himself today and needed to look presentable."

"He's playing with me." Eve slammed into her vehicle, rapped a fist against the wheel. "That's what the bastard's doing, playing with me. Throwing Roarke's name into the mix. Goddamn it."

She held up a hand before Peabody could speak, then simply stood staring out the window. She knew what she had to do. There was no choice for any of them. She snatched up the car 'link and called home.

"Roarke residence," Summerset said in smooth tones, then his face went stony. "Lieutenant."

"Put him on," she demanded.

"Roarke is engaged on another call at the moment."

"Put him on, you skinny, frog-faced son of a bitch. Now."

The screen switched to the pale blue holding mode. Twenty seconds later, Roarke was on. "Eve." Though his mouth curved, the smile didn't touch his eyes. "Problem?"

"Do you know a Shawn Conroy?'' She saw it in his face before he answered, just a flicker in those dark blue eyes.

"I did, years ago in Dublin. Why?''

"Have you had any contact with him here in New York?"

"No. I haven't seen or spoken to him in about eight years."

Eve took a calming breath. "Tell me you don't own a bar called the Green Shamrock."

"All right. I don't own a bar called the Green Shamrock." Now he did smile. "Really, Eve, would I own something quite so cliched?"

Relief had the weight dropping out of her stomach. "Guess not. Ever been there?"

"Not that I recall."

"Planning any parties?"

He angled his head. "Not at the moment. Eve, is Shawn dead?"

"I don't know. I need a list of your New York properties."

He blinked. "All?"

"Shit." She pinched her nose, struggling to think clearly. "Start with the private residences, currently, unoccupied."

"That should be simple enough. Five minutes," Roarke promised and ended transmission.

"Why private residences?" Peabody wanted to know.

"Because he wants me to find it. He wants me there. He's moved quickly on this one. Why hassle with a lot of security, cameras, people. You get a private home, empty. You get in, do your work, get out."

She flipped her 'link to transmit when it beeped.

"Only three unoccupied at the moment," Roarke told her. "The first is on Greenpeace Park Drive. Number eighty-two. I'll meet you there."

"Just stay where you are."

"I'll meet you there," he repeated, and broke transmission.

Eve didn't bother swearing at him, but swung the car away from the curb. She beat him there by thirty seconds, not quite enough time for her to bypass the locks with her master code.

The long black coat he wore against the bite of wind flowed like water, snapped like a whip. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and despite her scowl kissed her lightly. "I have the code," he said and plugged it in.

The house was tall and narrow to fit the skinny lot. The ceiling soared. The windows were treated to ensure privacy and block UV rays. At the moment, security bars covered them so that the sunlight shot individual cells onto the polished tile floors.

Eve drew her weapon, gestured Peabody to the left. "You're with me," she told Roarke, and started up the curving flow of the staircase. "We're going to talk about this later."

"Of course we are." And he wouldn't mention, now or then, the illegal nine-millimeter automatic he had in his pocket. Why distress the woman you loved with minor details?

But he kept a hand in that pocket, firm over the grip as he watched her search each room, watched those cool eyes scan corner to corner.

"Why is a place like this empty?" she wanted to know after she'd assured herself it was indeed empty.

"It won't be next week. We're renting it, furnished, primarily on the short term to off-planet businesses who don't care to have their high execs in hotels. We'll furnish staff, droid or human."

"Classy."

"We try." He smiled at Peabody as they descended the stairs. "All clear, Officer?"

"Nothing here except a couple really lucky spiders."

"Spiders?" Lifting a brow, Roarke took out his memo and plugged in a note to contact the exterminators.

"Where's the next place?" Eve asked him.

"It's only a couple of blocks. I'll lead you over."

"You could give me the code and go home."

He brushed a hand over her hair as they stepped outside. "No, I couldn't."

The second home was back off the street, tucked behind now leafless trees. Though houses crowded in on either side, residents had sacrificed their yards for privacy. Trees and shrubs formed a high fence between buildings.

Eve felt her blood begin to stir. Here, she thought, in this quiet, wealthy arena, where the houses were soundproofed and protected from prying eyes, murder would be a private business.

"He'd like this one," she said under her breath. "This would suit him. Decode it," she told Roarke, then gestured for Peabody to move to the right.

Eve shifted in front of Roarke, opened the door herself. That was all it took.

She smelled fresh death.

Shawn Conroy's luck had run out in a gorgeously appointed parlor, just off a small, elegant foyer. His blood stained the wild roses climbing over the antique rug. His arms were stretched wide as if in supplication. His palms had been nailed to the floor.

"Don't touch anything." She gripped Roarke's arm before he could step inside. "You're not to go in. You'll contaminate the scene. You give me your word you won't go in or I'll lock you outside. Peabody and I have to check the rest of the house."

"I won't go in." He turned his head, and his eyes were hot with emotions she couldn't name. "He'll be gone."

"I know. We check the house anyway. Peabody, take the back. I'll do upstairs."

There was nothing and no one, which was what she'd expected. To give herself a moment alone with Roarke, she sent Peabody out to the unit for her field kit.

"He wants it to be personal," she began.

"It is personal. I grew up with Shawn. I knew his family. His younger brother and I were of an age. We chased some of the same girls on the streets of Dublin, and made them sigh in dark alleys. He was a friend. A lifetime ago, but a friend."

"I'm sorry. I was too late."

Roarke only shook his head, and stared hard at the man who'd once been a boy with him. Another lost boy, he thought. Eve turned away, pulled out her communicator. "I have a homicide," she said.

When her hands and boots were clear sealed, she knelt in blood. She could see that death had come slowly, obscenely to Shawn Conroy. His wrists and throat had been slashed, but not deeply, not so that the blood would gush and jet and take him away quickly. He would have bled out slowly, over hours.

He was sliced, neatly, almost surgically from breastbone to crotch, again so that the pain would be hideous, and release would be slow. His right eye was gone. So was his tongue.

Her gauge told her he'd been dead less than two hours.

She had no doubt he'd died struggling to scream.

Eve stood back as the stills and videos of the body and scene were taken. Turning, she picked up the trousers that had been tossed aside. They'd been sliced off him, she noted, but the wallet remained in the back pocket.

"Victim is identified as Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, age forty-one, residence 783 West Seventy-ninth. Contents of wallet are victim's green card and work permit, twelve dollars in credits, three photographs."

She checked the other pocket, found key cards, loose credits in the amount of three dollars and a quarter, a slip of torn paper with the address of the house where he'd died. And an enameled token with a bright green shamrock on one side and a line sketch of a fish on the other.

"Lieutenant?" The field team medic approached. "Are you finished with the body?"

"Yeah, bag him. Tell Dr. Morris I need his personal attention on this one." She slipped the wallet and the pocket contents into an evidence bag as she glanced over at Roarke. He'd said nothing, his face revealed nothing, not even to her.

Automatically, she reached for the solvent to remove the blood and sealant from her hands, then walked to him.

"Have you ever seen one of these before?"

He looked down into the bag that held what Shawn had carried with him, saw the token. "No."

She took one last scan of the scene – the obscenity in the midst of grandeur. Eyes narrowed, she cocked her head and stared thoughtfully at the small, elegant statue on a pedestal with a vase of pastel silk flowers.

A woman, she mused, carved out of white stone and wearing a long gown and veil. Not a bridal suit, but something else. Because it seemed both out of place and vaguely familiar she pointed. "What is that – the little statue there?"

"What?" Distracted, Roarke glanced over. Puzzled, he stepped around a field tech and might have picked it up if Eve hadn't snagged his hand. "The BVM. Odd."

"The what?"

His laugh was short and far from humorous. "Sorry. Catholic shorthand. The Blessed Virgin Mary."

Surprised, she frowned at him. "Are you Catholic?" And shouldn't she have known something like that?

"In another life," he said absently. "Never made it to altar boy. It doesn't belong here," he added. "My decorating firm isn't in the habit of adding religious statues to the rental units."

He studied the lovely and serene face, beautifully carved in white marble. "He put it there, turned it just so."

He could see by the cool look in Eve's eyes that she'd already come to the same conclusion. "His audience," she agreed. "So, what was he, like showing off for her?"

Roarke might not have thought of himself as Catholic or anything else for too many years to count, but it sickened him. "He wanted her to bless his work, I'd say. It comes to the same thing more or less."

Eve was already pulling out an evidence bag. "I think I've seen another just like this – at Brennen's. On the wife's dresser, facing the bed. It didn't seem out of place there, so I didn't really notice. There were those bead things you pray with, holos of the kids, a statue like this, silver-backed hairbrush, comb, a blue glass perfume bottle."

"But you didn't really notice," Roarke murmured. Some cops, he mused, missed nothing.

"Just that it was there. Not that it shouldn't have been. Heavy," she commented as she slipped the statue into the bag. "Looks expensive." She frowned at the markings on the base. "What's this, Italian?"

"Mmm. Made in Rome."

"Maybe we can run it."

Roarke shook his head. "You're going to find that thousands of these were sold in the last year alone. The shops near the Vatican do a bustling business on such things. I have interests in a few myself."

"We'll run it anyway." Taking his arm, she led him outside. It wouldn't help for him to watch the body bagged and readied for transport. "There's nothing for you to do here. I have to go in, file the report, do some work. I'll be home in a few hours."

"I want to talk to his family."

"I can't let you do that. Not yet. Not yet," she repeated when his eyes went narrow and cold. "Give me a few hours. Roarke…" Helplessly she fell back on the standard line. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He surprised her by grabbing her close, pressing his face into her hair and just holding on. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands over his back, patted his rigid shoulders.

"For the first time since I met you," he murmured so she could barely hear, "I wish you weren't a cop."

Then he let her go and walked away.

She stood out in the freshening wind, smelled hints of the winter to come, and bore the miserable weight of guilt and inadequacy.

Roarke was closed in his office when she arrived home. Only the cat greeted her. Galahad twined affectionately between her legs as she shrugged out of her jacket, hitched her bag more securely on her shoulder.

It was just as well she was alone, Eve decided. She still had work. Since she was obviously pathetic at comforting her husband, she'd be a cop. There, at least, she knew her moves.

Galahad came with her, bounding up the steps despite his girth as she headed for the suite of rooms where she often worked and sometimes slept when Roarke was away from home.

She got coffee from the AutoChef, and as much because Galahad looked so hopeful as for her own appetite, ordered up a tuna sandwich. She split it with the cat, who fell on it as if he hadn't eaten in a month, then carried her own to her desk.

She studied the door that connected her office with Roarke's. She had only to knock, she knew. Instead she sat behind her own desk.

She hadn't saved his friend. Hadn't been fast enough or smart enough to prevent death. Nor would she be able to keep Roarke out of the investigation. There would be questions she would have to ask, statements she would have to take.

And the media would know by morning. There was no way to block them out now. She'd already decided to call Nadine Furst, her contact at Channel 75. With Nadine she would get fair coverage. Though Nadine was annoyingly persistent, she was without doubt accurate.

Eve looked at her 'link. She'd arranged for McNab to program her office 'link to transfer transmissions to her home unit for the night. She wanted the bastard to call.

How long would he wait? And when would he be ready to play the next round?

She drank coffee, ordered her mind to clear. Go back to the beginning, she told herself. Replay first round.

She shoved a copy of the initial contact call into her machine, listened to it twice. She had his rhythm, she thought, his tone, his mood. He was arrogant, vain, smart, yes, he was smart and skilled. He was on a holy mission. But conceit was his weak point. Conceit, she mused, and his skewed faith.

She'd need to exploit it.

Revenge, he'd said. An eye for an eye. Revenge was always personal. Both men who were dead had a connection to Roarke. So, logically, did their killer. An old vendetta, perhaps.

Yes, she and Roarke had quite a bit to discuss. He could be a target. The thought of that turned her blood cold, scattered her heartbeat, froze her brain.

She shoved it aside. She couldn't afford to think like a wife, like a lover. More than ever, she needed to be pure cop.

She gave Galahad most of the second half of the sandwich when he came begging, then took out the copies of the security disc for the Luxury Towers.

Step by step, she ordered herself. Every disc, every area covered, no matter how long it took. In the morning she would have Roarke view them as well. He might recognize someone.

She knocked her coffee cup over when she did.

"Stop," she ordered. "Replay from zero-zero-five-six. Jesus Christ. Freeze, enhance section fifteen to twenty-two by thirty percent, shift to slow motion."

She stared as the figure in the trim black suit and flowing overcoat enlarged, as he walked across the sumptuous lobby of the apartment complex. Checked the expensive timepiece on his wrist. Smoothed his hair.

And she watched Summerset step into the elevator and head up.

"Freeze screen," she snapped.

The time at the bottom read twelve p.m., the afternoon on Thomas X. Brennen's murder.

She ran the lobby disc through, fast-forwarding through hour after hour. But she never saw him come back out.