Chaos in Death (In Death #33.5)(21)

“He put moves on you.”

“He puts them on every female he finds attractive or believes can enhance his career. But Ari’s the gold ring.”

“How’d he react when you brushed him off?”

“Like it was my loss. He has a temper, but I’ve never seen anything to indicate he’s capable of murder or real violence. He’s rude and demanding, but from what I’ve heard, very good in therapy.”

“And if Arianna cut him off—from the Center?”

“He has money of his own, and should have a lot of contacts. But it would be humiliating, and he wouldn’t take it well. That’s just opinion, Dallas. I have as little to do with him as possible.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Not much help.”

“You confirmed and elaborated on Mira’s opinion on the killer’s face. You gave me a few more details on two of my suspects, and meeting you here gave me another wit who tells me the killer went up to Jane before heading toward Eighth. That’s pretty good over one drink.”

When they left, Roarke took her hand as she walked. “You did very well, managing nearly a half an hour on non-work-related topics after your interview with Louise.”

“I can talk about other stuff.”

“You can, yes, but I know it’s not easy when you’re steeped in a case.”

“The bar waitress was a stroke of luck. Heading toward Eighth. If it’s either of the doctors, he’s probably got a vehicle near there. If it’s Dickerson, he goes one crosstown block to home. Gupta, north on Eighth for a block and a half to home. Nobody at Slice or Get Straight lives in that direction—and they don’t fit anyway, but it’s another negative on that group.

“Where’s your car?” she asked when they reached the crime scene.

“I had it picked up so I could drive home with my adoring wife.”

“Good. You drive.” She took out her notebook, added the new information, new thoughts on the way home.

Roarke left her to it until she began to mutter.

“Is anybody really that good, the way everybody describes Rosenthall?”

“Some people have fewer shadows than others, fewer dark places. Others have more.”

“And illegals speak to those dark places, make more noise so they spread. Everyone on this list connects to illegals. Lost someone to them, works with them, lives with them. The killer’s a user—has to be. I don’t have enough on any of them to require a drug test. Yet. But if I asked each of them, and they’re clean, why wouldn’t they cooperate?”

“General principles,” he said as he drove through the gates of home. “But certainly worth a shot.”

“I’ll give it one tomorrow. Plus a scientist should be able to create an elaborate disguise.”

She chewed on it as they walked inside where Summerset and the cat waited in the foyer.

“A monumental day,” Summerset announced. “Home together, in a timely fashion, and unbloodied. Applause.”

“If he actually applauded, the bones in his skeletal hands would break and crumble to dust.”

Roarke just shook his head as Eve started upstairs. “The two of you really have to stop this love affair. I’m a jealous man. We’ll get dinner in the lieutenant’s office,” Roarke added to Summerset.

“I’m shocked beyond speech.”

“If only,” Eve muttered.

“But before.” Roarke took her hand again, turned her toward the bedroom. “Let’s deal with that arm.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re starting to favor it.”

“It’s just a little sore.”

“Which means it’s time for some of the physical therapy and treatment. Don’t be such a baby.”

She jabbed him with a finger. “You just want to get my shirt off.”

“Always a bonus. Peel it off, Lieutenant.” To make her smile, he leered. “And take your time.”

So okay, it twinged a little when she took off her jacket, her weapon harness. Get it over with, she thought, and began the stretching exercises, working her range of motion as Roarke ditched his jacket and tie.

Her shoulder gave a couple of clicks as she stretched, punched out.

“It’s coming along.”

“So I see. Try to avoid actually punching someone for a few more days,” he suggested as he got the topical cream from a drawer. He rolled up his sleeves as he crossed to her, then started to unhook her trousers.

“I knew it. All you think about is getting in my pants.”

“With every breath I take. But for now, I just want a look at that hip. It was the worst of the cuts. Nearly healed,” he murmured, tracing a fingertip along the edges where McQueen’s knife had sliced. “Mira does good work.”

“We’ve both had worse.”

His eyes lifted to hers, held, and said a great deal. So she leaned into him a little, touched her lips to his.

“I’m okay.”

“Nearly. Lose the tank and sit down. I’ll finish you up.”

She did as he asked, thinking he needed the tending as much as, maybe more than, she. Then his hands—he had magic hands—smoothed the cream over the ache, and she closed her eyes.