Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(36)

She could relate to the bliss.

He’d probably already had a couple of ’link or holo meetings, she mused. Might have bought Saturn for all she knew. But all in all, her biggest interest at the moment involved the fact that he had coffee, and she didn’t.

“Good morning,” he said when she pushed up to sit. “It’s bitter out, and they’re calling for snow—quite a bit of it—starting mid-morning.”

She said, “Ugh,” and stumbled her way to the AutoChef, remembered it wasn’t where it used it be, stared blankly at the carved doors.

“Touch either,” Roarke reminded her.

“Right.” She slapped at one and both popped open, and the interior lights gleamed on. She programmed coffee—all that currently mattered—and waited to down the first heady gulp.

“You’re going to have cat hair all over your million-dollar suit, pretty boy.”

“It’s easy enough to deal with, and it only cost a half million.”

“Ha.” She took the coffee into the bathroom, caffeinated and showered herself awake.

When she came out, wrapped in a red robe she’d never seen before—but it was as soft as a cloud, as warm as a hug—he’d already set up breakfast.

She knew, thanks to his handy weather report, she’d start the day with oatmeal.

At least it came with lots of berries and the crunchy stuff—and he’d added a side of bacon. Which explained why he’d banished the cat. Galahad now sat in front of the fire, industriously washing himself—and sending the human an occasional steely stare.

“It matters,” she said.

“Does it?”

“That the victims are married. It matters. I just need to figure out why.”

“Did you dream?”

“Just slept—and let me add another hot damn on that bed. Three assaults is pattern and purpose and profile. Typical escalation, and the murder comes off as of the moment. That wasn’t planned. Next time it will be.”

“Because there’s no going back, only forward.”

“Yep. Do you have any—trinkets—from back when?”

Walking his fingers down Eve’s arm, Roarke ate some bacon. “Now that’s a loaded question from a cop over breakfast. I did have a few, here and there,” he said with a shrug. “But I passed them on, you could say, when a cop came into my life—as she wouldn’t like it.”

“She wouldn’t have known.”

“I would have. As a former thief, I’d say if your suspect is indeed keeping all his spoils, he’s what you termed him last night. A hoarder. He doesn’t need to liquidate, so it’s not for the money—and a man can have plenty of that and enjoy taking more. Serials often take souvenirs, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but it tends to be something specific to the victim, a memento. This is more … Aladdin’s Cave … He’d need a place, and a private one. The jewelry alone is a serious haul. The dresses—he’s taken a cocktail dress from each vic—though I haven’t confirmed that with the Strazza hit. That’s more a souvenir, but it’s a weird one. A fancy dress, shoes, and an evening bag.”

“Costume.”

Eve poked Roarke’s shoulder. “What I’m thinking. Not for him—different body types, so I don’t think we’re after a cross-dresser—but maybe for a woman or a droid or just one of those dead bodies the stores use to display clothes.”

“Mannequins, darling Eve. Not dead bodies.”

“They look like DBs. Anyway, he’s got a lot of whacked-out layers to him. No pets, no kids, in-home safes, married couples, single-family residences with good security. They’ve got to be surrogates, it’s too specific otherwise.”

“You’ll talk to Mira.”

“Yeah, soon.” She glanced back, frowned.

“Problem?”

“It’s intimidating. The new closet deal.”

“Some would find it efficient and convenient—especially some who don’t care to ponder overlong on what to wear on any given day.”

“Yeah, well.” She rose. “I’m going for it.”

“Good luck.”

It was more a damn room than a closet to her eye. Sure, everything was set up in order, and that helped. All the fancy duds and the fancy stuff that went with them had their own area. She didn’t even have to acknowledge their existence, and sure as hell didn’t intend to use the closet comp to have them sliding forward on their magic rods, or to preview on screen how this sparkly dress went with those ridiculous shoes.

Intimidating, she thought again, and just a little embarrassing.

She stared at the line of jackets. Why did she have so many jackets? If you just had a couple, choosing wasn’t a problem. But there had to be more than a hundred jackets, all arranged in color groups, the blacks leading to the grays, the grays leading to the blues and right down the line.

It could give a person a headache.

“Aim for warmth,” Roarke said as he stepped in.

Plenty of room for him, she thought. Hell, they could throw a party in here. Serve drinks. Hire a band.

He pulled a jacket from the blue section. Navy blue, she observed, no fancy work.

“Now if you used the comp, it would make suggestions on what to pair it with.”