Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(65)

She shrugged. “It’s fishing.”

“You tend to catch what you fish for. One of my nine is a same-sex couple.”

“One of mine, too. I might have dismissed that.”

“I doubt it, once you dug in.” Lifting his wine, Roarke studied her over the rim. “You realize we fit his pattern, you and I.”

Eve shook her head. “I’m not his type. He goes for the killer looks, leaning or nailing glam.”

When Roarke raised his eyebrows, she shook her head again, ate more pasta. “You’ve got a blind spot.”

“I’d say the blind spot is yours. In any case, he’d never—however skilled—get through the security.”

“Jamie Lingstrom did once,” Eve reminded him. “A teenage kid.”

“A remarkably talented kid,” Roarke added, thinking of Feeney’s godchild. “And he didn’t get through, as the alarms alerted us, and we dragged his talented young ass inside. Plus I’ve added to security since—and asked Jamie to try to circumvent it.”

“I didn’t know you had him try another break-in.”

“Because it failed. Twice. He’s determined to conquer it. If and when he does, I’ll use that to add more layers.” Reading her face, he sat back with his wine. “I didn’t mention us and the pattern to give you ideas about being bait. It wouldn’t work for one thing. He’d be stupid to try for a cop, especially you. Or to try to get into this house. I expect he’s too careful for that sort of challenge.”

“He’s too much of a coward,” Eve corrected. “But a trap … not us, not here. If he considered trying for us, he’d want weeks of planning—and he’d want Summerset out. When does Summerset go on his winter vacation deal?”

“I thought it was marked with glittering stars and dancing fairies on your calendar. Soon.”

“Just wouldn’t work. But if I can refine the list, try to suss out who he might be targeting, I might be able to talk a couple into letting us bait the hook. Gonna think about that.”

“Let’s think about that later, top off our wine, and drink it on the sofa there, watching the snow fall. That’s a fine way to round out the dinner break.”

“Can’t argue with it.”

She settled down with him, actually put her feet on the table in front of them.

“I believe you’re relaxing, Lieutenant.”

“For a minute.” Since she was, she leaned into him. “It’s taken me a while.”

“To?”

“To get used to being here, living here, having this. You built it all over years. I dropped into it. It’s taken a while to adjust. To relax. I wonder if it was the same with Daphne. She comes from solid middle—edging toward upper middle—class, had a job, and was building it into a career. Rich doctor comes along, pays attention. I imagine he was charming at the start of it all. She’s dazzled. Big, important house, probably fancy dates, expensive gifts, and I’ll bet on a romantic proposal. The whole swooping off the feet.”

“Sweeping.”

“Nobody in their right mind sweeps feet.”

“But they’d swoop feet?”

He had her there. “Anyway, she’s dazzled, swooped and swept and married inside a few months.”

Amused, he tapped the diamond she wore on a chain around her neck when she tugged it out from under her shirt. “I worked up to giving you expensive gifts.”

“You sent me coffee, real coffee, right off. Nailed that in one.”

“I did, yes. And still, I don’t believe you were ever dazzled, swooped, or swept.”

“More appalled, I guess, but I got over it.” As they sat, shoulder to shoulder, the snow and the city it fell on providing a breathtaking view, she turned her head to look at him.

Another breathtaking view, she thought.

“I might’ve been slightly swooped.”

“And I, darling Eve, a bit appalled—a cop, after all—but completely swept.”

She gave him a little shoulder bump. “But the thing? You and me? Experienced cynics and ass-kickers. Daphne’s young, relatively inexperienced, has—by all accounts—a soft sort of nature. He plays on that, chips away at her self-esteem, begins to limit her activities and interests, starts distancing her from friends and family. It’s how it works.”

“Claims to cherish,” Roarke said, “even as he diminishes.”

“You got it. He probably didn’t seriously smack her around until he’d accomplished most of that. Then he’d apologize, lost his temper. Forgive me. But—here’s a key—but you, little lady, did, said something or behaved in such a way to make me lose control. So it turns, it becomes her fault he clocked her.”

She sipped more wine. “It really doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

“It has to do with those echoes you spoke of. Did he apologize when he first hit you?”

She didn’t have to ask who. Richard Troy. And, yes, the echoes grew louder, grew longer with every step she took into the investigation.

“I honestly don’t remember the first time he hit me. Couldn’t say whether it’s buried or blurred, or if I was just too young to retain it. But I remember how he sometimes brought me something, some toy. He’d say things like I had to be good, had to do as I was told—always—so he wouldn’t have to punish me. Then he’d take it away or break it because—he said—I’d done something wrong.”