Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(26)

“They talk, wonder.”

She circled again. “She wouldn’t meet marks there. That’s stupid. You don’t want to meet them anywhere that’s tied to you. She’s got the swank digs, so she doesn’t need more swank digs. She needs someplace to keep secrets. Secrets, that’s her thing. She needs a place to keep her own, away from where she lets people in.

“We’ll find it.” Eve turned back to the board, staring at Larinda’s glossy, perfect ID shot again. “We’ll find it.”

“It’s unlikely her killer knew of it.” Roarke opted for a brandy. “Or why not find a way to kill her while she was there, where her body wouldn’t be discovered for days or longer?”

“If he knew about it, had any brains, he’d have found a way to get into it and find something there to leverage against her. But we find it, we might find something that leads to whoever killed her.” She rubbed her eyes. “And it’s too soon, even with the lean heavy, to absolutely conclude it’s rent or mortgage.”

“We can lean while I put all this on auto. We’ll likely have more data by morning. You need to set it down, get some sleep.”

Not set it down so much as let it cook, she thought.





6

It started to cook, at least simmer, as they started to the bedroom.

“Gossip wasn’t only the way she made her living, right? It was also what propelled her into celebrity circles. Arguably that’s what made her a kind of celebrity. But, from my really brief interaction with her, it seems to me digging it up—not just covering the shine, the glossy stuff—uncovering the dirt was her main deal. And not just professionally. She enjoyed mining for secrets.”

“And it paid her,” Roarke pointed out, “under and over the table.”

“Right.”

Eve got another little jolt walking into the bedroom—the reconfigured, remodeled, redecorated bedroom. With that big, elaborate bed.

She didn’t generally go for the elaborate, and couldn’t figure out why that bed, those massive turned posts, the fancy head-and footboards carved with Celtic symbols, so appealed to her.

But it did.

She took off her jacket, tossed it over a chair while her mind flipped back to Mars.

“She was good at it, personally and professionally, over and under the table. That takes contacts, ways in and under and through. A kind of network.”

“I’d agree with that.” Roarke sat to remove his shoes while she unhooked her weapon harness. “The sort you pay in cash or in favors—likely both. A good reason to have a nice stack of cash available—but not a cool million.”

“And contacts who were also marks. Find me some dirt, and I’ll keep yours under the bed.”

“Rug. Under the rug,” Roarke corrected with a smile, “but the same concept.”

“Lots of enemies, so was she stupid enough not to take standard precautions?” Eve unstrapped her clutch piece, stowed it with her primary weapon. “The old: If anything happens to me, the file I have on you—in a secure location—will be made public. But that line only holds until somebody cracks, can’t take the pressure anymore, can’t bear the expense, handle the guilt. A mark who cracked, high probability, but not the only probability,” she said as Roarke switched on the fire.

A low simmer of flames, a golden wave of warmth.

“Someone whose secret she exposed. A career, a reputation, a relationship damaged.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of tapping Nadine there. She’d have a handle on that angle, or could get one. And I doubt they much liked each other.”

“Our Nadine,” Roarke said as he stripped off his shirt, “is a reporter with standards and ethics. Ambition and pursuit of a story are key elements, but so are those standards and ethics. Mars, I would say even without what we’ve learned, was the polar opposite.”

“It also helps they work at the same station. Nadine will know who to talk to, and who I need to talk to. That’s on my list for tomorrow. But there are other probabilities for the pool of potential killers.”

“Which is already deep.”

Eve let out a sound of cynical amusement. “It ain’t no wading pool, pal. Marks that refused to be marks. She couldn’t have hit the target every time. Nobody’s that good, nobody’s that lucky. She had to miss a certain percentage of the time—and even a miss makes an enemy. She misses, keeps digging, and the mark says enough of that shit, sister.”

“Well then.” He watched her grab a sleep shirt, thought it a shame to cover that long, lean body. “If that’s a line of thinking, I should tell you she shot and missed with me.”

He continued to watch as the material floated down. Then abruptly, she yanked and her head popped out.

“What? What? She tried to shake you down? When? Christ.”

“About three years ago, shortly before our wedding.”

She just gaped at him. “And you’re just telling me?”

“Darling Eve, if I told you about everyone who tried, in various ways, to shake me down, milk me, exploit some dubious connection, or issue threats—veiled or overt—we’d talk of little else.”

He sent her an easy smile. “Do you tell me about everyone who threatens to make you pay, in one way or the other, for doing your job?”