Obsession in Death(107)

In the deep, dreaming dark, in the last hours of a year that had brought blood and death, and joy and comfort, she embraced what fate had given her. And the man who’d changed everything.

For a moment she held there, on that gilded curve of quiet bliss, of knowing, of belonging, with her arms around him, with her face pressed to the curve of his throat.

“I love you, Roarke. I love you.”

The words spilled into the center of his heart, glowed there like a candle. Luminous. He gave them back to her, in Irish, in the language of that heart. And slipped inside her, coming home.

She turned her head until her lips found his. She slid her hands up until their fingers linked.

She rose with him, a welcome; fell with him, a yielding. Soft and sweet, the words spoken. Slow and loving, the rhythm set.

Here was peace in a bloody, brutal world both knew too well. And celebration of two souls, lost, then found.



In the predawn dark, she rose, showered, dressed. While Roarke dealt with his rescheduled ’link conference, she checked the overnight results. In the hours she’d slept, the computer had spat out a few more names.

She studied the faces, the data, asked herself if any of them sparked a memory. Someone she’d seen, in passing. Someone who crossed her path, performed some function.

She disagreed with the computer on one or two. Complexion too dark, too light, a hair too young. But she couldn’t risk tossing any of them out of the mix, not yet.

Laboriously, frustratingly, she programmed the two alternate searches, ordering one without the sector factored in, ordering another after she’d clipped two blocks off the grid.

Though she worried it pressed her technological luck, she added another task, and started probability runs on the current results.

Too early to check in with anyone, she decided, as the cat bumped his head against her ankle.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Time for breakfast.”

She started to go into the office kitchen, changed her mind.

Some routines were worth preserving, she decided, and with the cat jogging at her heel, went back to the bedroom.

She couldn’t know how long Prague would take, but considering the soother, the rescheduling, she’d bet her ass Roarke figured to top off his personal brand of care and nurturing with oatmeal.

“Pig meat,” she murmured, frowning at the bedroom AutoChef. “Definitely pig meat. Not one of his full Irish deals. One of those omelet things. What’s it…” She scrolled through the omelet choices. “Yeah, yeah, Spanish omelet. Why is it Spanish? Why isn’t it French or Italian? Who knows, who cares? Okay!”

With a half laugh as Galahad bumped and meowed – the sound like a curse – she got his kibble first. Since she’d made him wait, she boosted it with a saucer of milk.

She programmed breakfast for two – and just in time as Roarke came in before she’d quite finished.

“All good in Prague?”

“All very good in Prague. And here you are, the dutiful wife, making breakfast.”

“Here I am, the hungry cop, making breakfast. Why is it a Spanish omelet?”

“Is that what we’re having?”

“Yeah, but why? It could be an Irish omelet because it’s got potatoes.”

“I have no idea why, but it looks good.” He tugged her down with him. “Thanks.”

“I wasn’t sure how long you’d be in – where is Prague? Czech Republic?”

“You get an A in Geography this morning.”

“Geography’s part of the deal.” She picked up a slice of bacon. “It’s just a hunch about the UNSUB living in my old area.”

“A logical hunch.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m going to go by that bar and grill when it opens, take the images in. But I’m running alternate searches now, tossing out the geography on one, closing it in a few blocks on another.”

“That explains the cursing.”

“I’m pretty tired of programming.” And in fact she’d already earned a low-grade headache from the morning session. “I don’t know how you geeks deal with it.”

“Hence the term ‘geek,’ a club you don’t belong to.”

“Fine by me. I’ve been looking over the pictures of potentials. I feel like a wit going through mug shots, and that’s a club I’d like to resign from really soon. Nobody pops for me, particularly.”

“Clearly it’s no one you know well or work with on a regular basis.”

“Agreed. But I had another thought. She showed some hair when she went for Nadine, so I’d say wig’s most likely because why show her own?”

Roarke nodded as he ate. “That would be careless, and she hasn’t been.”

“What we see of her shows her complexion is darker than Hastings said – and I don’t think he was wrong. He’s too tuned in to features, faces. So she could have lightened it for that, or darkened it for Nadine.”

“Or it’s neither because she could have worn subtle disguises throughout.”

“Yeah, exactly. So no matter what we’ve got, even when you work some magic and clean up the better look we got last night, it may not end up giving up a solid match.”

“As a charter member of the club of geek, I have to tell you the searches are set very broadly. It’s why you’ve got so many matches in the relatively small geographic area we put in, and why there’s so many variables in those matches.”