Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(11)

He looked around again, then picked up Eve’s coat. “Let’s lock up, then you can begin to fill me in on the blanks I haven’t filled in myself.”

She put a hand on his arm, then, since they were alone, moved it to his cheek. “I know you’re pissed.”

“Bloody well right I am.”

“It happened in your place,” Eve said, framing his face firmly. “And it happened under my goddamn nose. Believe me when I say I’m as pissed as you are. Justice, yeah, it comes first and last for the victim. But it’s fucking personal for me, too. Under my nose, goddamn it.”

He framed her face in turn, smiled just a little. “So here we are, all pissed off, and likely to give this particular dead woman more of our sweat than she deserved in life.”

“Murder levels that.”

“It does.” He kissed her lightly, then rested his brow on hers. “Aye, it does. So we’ll both do what needs doing until it’s done.”





3

The wind had snarled from bitter to outright mean. On its bitch slap wafted the scents of boiled soy dogs, roasted chestnuts, and frigid humanity.

Eve filled Roarke in, bare bones for now, as they traveled the two blocks to her car.

“I’m amazed she got out of the loo. She must have lost a half liter or more in there,” Roarke said.

Still pissed, Eve thought, and who could blame him? “The doctor who assisted, and DeWinter agreed: Mars was mostly dead when she stumbled into the bar. She bled a damn river on the stairs. They gave her twelve minutes, tops, from the point of attack, but they didn’t see that blood trail. I’m betting half that, or less. And the wound…”

When they reached the car, she rattled off the address, let him take the wheel.

“It wasn’t that severe. Not visibly. A slice.” She demonstrated, swiping a finger over her biceps. “Not especially deep. It’s a damn efficient way to kill. Economic. One quick slice, walk away, and—what I gather—her heart does the rest, just pumps out the blood with every beat.”

Taking out her PPC, she glanced at Roarke. “What do you know, if anything, about Fabio Bellami?”

“A bit. I’ve met him a handful of times. Third—or it may be fourth—generation money. International banking with some tentacles in broadcasting and entertainment. Bellami’s into the entertainment end of things, I believe. Theater primarily. And though he had a reputation as a wastrel in his youth, appears to have steadied up since his marriage.”

“‘Wastrel’?”

Roarke lifted a shoulder. “It fits. Squandering his trust fund, buzzing about the globe and off-planet to clubs and other rich-boy hangouts, and causing enough trouble to require payoffs and restitution. He had a taste for women—often a few at the same time, so the stories go—along with drink and illegals.”

“Sounds like Mars’s type of story line.”

“Would have been but, as I said, he’s left that lifestyle behind. He’s produced a couple of well-received plays, become involved in charitable causes, and appears well married if what I’ve heard is accurate.”

“So, reformed?”

Roarke sent her a genuine smile. “It happens to the worst of us.”

She couldn’t argue with reformation, since she’d married a Dublin street rat and wildly successful thief—former. But she also knew habits were hard to break.

“Maybe he slipped, and she caught wind. Or maybe she was just pressuring him for juice. Either way he didn’t like it. Their waiter was clear on that—and the couple of times I paid attention to them, Bellami didn’t look happy to be there.”

She sat back. “But he was there. Why does a rich, successful, reformed wild child meet with a gossip reporter at a fancy French bar? And why does said gossip reporter frequent said bar—downtown bar, when she lives on Park Avenue, uptown?”

“We have a superior wine list.”

“She went for the Kir Royale. And I bet there are fancy, upscale bars a lot closer to her place, or to Channel Seventy-Five. You probably own them.”

“Maybe one or two. She may have frequented those as well. Mixing it up.”

“Maybe.” She chewed it over while Roarke hunted for parking. Once he’d bagged a space, she got out, studied the area until he joined her on the sidewalk. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Not far from our own.” He took her hand. “You know, there are spare gloves for you in the dash box.”

“I forgot. Why am I wearing six-thousand-dollar boots?”

Brows lifted, Roarke looked down, studied them. “To protect your feet in both a practical and fashionable manner.”

“I could do that for a couple hundred bucks.”

“Debatable. How do you know they’re six-thousand-dollar boots?”

“Because DeWinter said they were.” As they walked, she poked a finger into his arm. “She dinged me on it, and I didn’t have a decent comeback. That’s three large a boot, for God’s sake.”

“I believe your math is correct. I expect they’re comfortable.”

“Yeah, they’re comfortable, but—”

“And sturdy, as you prefer,” he continued smoothly. “I imagine if necessary—as it often is—you could chase a suspect several blocks in those.” He brought the hand he held to his lips. “My cop spends a good portion of her day on her feet, walking these streets and chasing bad guys. I have a fondness for those feet, and consider good boots as essential in your daily pursuits as your weapon.”