Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(61)

Pacing, she read the data on each name. “See this one? Joseph Dudley, good old Joe. Great-uncle to our current Dudley. Joe gets tossed out of Harvard, drops out of Princeton, gets a couple knocks for drunk and disorderly. Then he joins the regular Army as a grunt. He’s the only private, regular Army of the bunch, and he’s the closest relation. Not a cousin six times removed or whatever it is. But the great-granddaddy’s brother.”

“He served during the Korean War,” Roarke added. “Earned a Purple Heart.”

“I bet he had a bayonet. I bet you my ass he did.”

“I already have your ass, or intend to.”

“Cute. I raise that bet with Joe bringing that bayonet home as a memento, where it ended up being passed down to Winnie.”

“Difficult to prove.”

“We’ll see about that, but even if I can’t, it’s another strong probable. We’re loaded with them.”

“By the way, they didn’t attend the same schools. But the fiancée and the ex-wife—the cousins—both attended Smith—as did a female cousin of Dudley’s at the same time.”

“Okay, so they go back. They go back, ran in the same pack, at least in their twenties. And they’re still running in the same pack. Both had marriages that failed. Neither had offspring, and both remain unmarried and unpartnered. Lots of common ground. Like minds? Competitive.”

She blew out a breath. “Murderous, that’s a different matter. Look at the fiancée. She’s married now, married for eleven years, two kids. Lives in Greenwich, that makes it easy. Worked as a psychologist until the first kid. Professional mother status until last year.”

“The youngest would have started school.”

“She’s the one I want to talk to first. Tomorrow. They’re not going to hold off the next round too long. Not too long.”

She sat, went back to work.





13



EVE WOKE IN THE QUIET, IN THE STILLNESS, and for an instant thought the waking a dream. But she knew the arms around her, the legs tangled with hers. She knew the scent of him, and drifted into it as her mind waded through the thinning fog of sleep.

She barely remembered going to bed. He’d carried her, as he often did when she conked out over her work. Reams of data, she thought, and nothing solid in that fluid stream to push the investigation beyond theory.

She’d run it all again, picked at it and through it, re-angled it. Connections to connections always meant something, so they’d conduct more interviews.

Swim in the stream long enough, she told herself, you’d rap up against something solid.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

She opened her eyes, looked at Roarke. It was rare to wake with him on a workday as he habitually rose well before she did. She often thought he conducted more business in the hours just before and after dawn than most did in a full day.

Did they live their work or work their lives? And boy, her brain wasn’t ready to tackle that kind of question at this hour. Better just to know whichever it was—or maybe it was both—they did okay with it.

In the normal course of things, by the time she got up he’d be checking the stock and other financial reports on-screen, drinking coffee, fully dressed in one of his six million perfectly fitted suits.

And why did men wear suits? she wondered. How and why had it worked out so men wore suits and women wore dresses, unless you were talking about trannies? Who decided these things? And how come everybody just went along so guys said, “Sure, I’ll wear suits and tie a colorful noose around my neck,” and women said, “No problem, I’ll wear this thing that leaves my legs bare, then stick these shoes with stilts on the back on my feet”?

That was something to think about, she decided. But some other time because right now it was nice to wake this way, all warm and soft and naked together, as they had on vacation.

“Still too loud,” he murmured. “Mute your brain.”

It made her smile, the slurry voice, the before-coffee irritability. That was usually her job. She tried to judge the time by the soft gray light sliding through the sky window, tried to calculate how much sleep they’d managed to catch.

He opened his eyes. Like a blue bolt of lightning, she thought, in the soft gray.

“Not going to shut up, are you then?”

The hell with the time, she decided. If he was still in bed, it was pretty damn early.

“I guess I could think about something else.” She stroked a hand down his flank. Watching his eyes as she glided it up again between their tangled legs. “Since you’re up anyway. It’s funny, isn’t it, how a guy’s dick wakes up before he does. Why is that?”

“It doesn’t like to miss an opportunity. Such as now,” he added when she guided him inside her.

“Nice.” She sighed, and when she began to move, it was just as slow and easy.

Soft, sweet—this aspect of his cop, his warrior never failed to dazzle him. His mind and body woke to her, roused to her in a long, quiet rise while day took its first breath in the sky above them.

Her whiskey-colored eyes intoxicated, but more, in them was the light he’d yearned for all of his life. She was his daybreak, his sunrise after the long, hard shadows of night.

Wanting more, needing more, he shifted to bring her under him, pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. And with the taste broke his fast with her.