Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(31)

“Since you do, I’ll leave you to it, and finish up a few things.” He walked over, opened the doors to her little balcony. “Then we’ll have a meal.”

He stood there a moment in the open doorway with the light streaming in and a gentle breeze, a warm one, playing with all that black silk hair. Stood there, she thought, all tall and lean in his perfect suit, one hand in his pocket.

On her button, she realized. He carried that damn button like a magic charm.

Then he turned, and those wildly blue eyes met hers. His lips—those gorgeously sculpted lips—curved.

“What?”

“I would’ve busted you,” she said. “Or worked my ass off trying. I think I’d’ve busted you in the end. But, damn it, I’d have fallen for you. I’d have fallen for you, and busted you anyway. And you’d have really screwed up my life.”

“If you’d have busted me—and there we strongly disagree—I believe my life would’ve been considerably more screwed. Especially since I’d have fallen for you as well.”

He walked back to her, ran his hands down her arms, back to her shoulders. “Isn’t it a lovely twist of fate we met at a time neither of us had to put our considerable skills to that test?”

“You were a murder suspect when we met.”

He shook his head, ran a finger down the dent in her chin. “You knew better. You have those considerable skills and knew better.”

“Yeah, I did. I could fall for a thief, but not a cold-blooded murderer. Which is why you’d have screwed up my life when I busted you on all the other stuff.”

He smiled, gave her a light kiss. “Not a chance, Lieutenant,” he said as he walked away.

Chance, she thought. Probably. Maybe fifty-fifty. If she’d made it her mission in life.

But she’d made catching killers her mission in life. So she walked to her command center, opened operations, and picked up the mission where she’d left off.





7





She wrote up the interviews with the bartender and Mike, with Liza, updated her home copy of her murder book. Programmed coffee, set up her board with the addition of Anna Hobe, the timeline.

Since the lab hadn’t come through, she put her boots on her command center, studied her board, and drank the coffee.

No like crimes, she thought. That didn’t mean he hadn’t grabbed someone at some other time, experimented …

Didn’t fit. Just didn’t. Too exact, too precise.

The tat, the piercings, the clothes, the message.

But …

“Maybe he killed the mother,” Eve said when Roarke came back in. “Maybe he snapped, killed the mother, disposed of that body. Now he’s trying to replace her.”

“That’s a cheerful thought.” Like her, he studied the board. “There’s a slight resemblance between Elder and Hobe, but you have to look for it. It’s really more the type. Pretty blondes, early twenties, and, from the height and weight listed here, the same basic body type.”

“We have another, a stripper, missing. I gave her to Detective Norman, but I don’t see it. She’s got three times the tits and more ass.”

“I imagine she’d be grateful for the T&A for more than professional reasons if she knew.”

“She used to be an LC, but failed the screening. She had a habit, maybe still does. Elder and Hobe come clean there. I think he wants clean. Bad Mommies are addicts, right? Wouldn’t he see it like that? I don’t know, but that’s how I see it. Still, I want to find her.”

She stared at the hole in her desk unit. “Nothing from the lab. Maybe I’ll tag Harvo, give her a poke.”

“Lieutenant, she’s bound to be home or out with friends at this point in the evening. Possibly enjoying a good meal. It’s time we did the same.”

He strolled into the kitchen. The cat, who’d sprawled over Eve’s sleep chair, perked up, leaped off, strolled—very nonchalantly—after Roarke.

She listened with half an ear as Roarke informed the cat he knew bloody well he’d already had his evening meal. And being a trained investigator, deduced Roarke would cave and give Galahad a handful of cat treats anyway.

He carried in two domed plates, walked over to set them on the table by the window.

“He had to get the makeup from somewhere,” she said as Roarke walked back to select a bottle of wine from the wall cabinet. “It was, you know, the full shot.” Eve waved a hand in front of her face.

“So I can see from the crime scene photo. And heavy-handed at that.”

“Yeah. The clothes are probably vintage. Lab has to confirm, but if everyone says they’re way out of date, that’s likely. How long does makeup last?”

He popped a cork. “I have no idea, but doubt half a century or so.”

She shot a finger at him as she rose to circle the board. “That’s what I think. Maybe he snaps, kills the mother. Snaps bigger, and hatches this insane idea of replacing her.”

“Wouldn’t she, following your current line, be—or have been—in the neighborhood of eighty?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t want that mom. He wants the one he remembers from when he was a kid.” Absently, she took the wineglass he offered. “The one who took care of him, made sure he ate, had clothes, all that. Or if she was abusive or messed up, his idealized version. The mother he wanted. And wants.”