Divided in Death (In Death #18)(107)

Stupid to have left them behind in the first place, she thought as the cab drove through the gates of home. Sooner or later the safe would have been discovered, and whatever he'd left behind found.

Then again, it would all have been a kind of mystery, wouldn't it? His body would have been long since cremated, ensuring he'd stay dead. But people would wonder about the safe, its contents.

He might have left behind something that would have hinted at the HSO, at his association. It would make him important, talked about.

Another kind of immortality for the dead man who didn't die.

Yeah. Yeah. That would be right up his alley.

"You want I should wait? Again?"

Eve broke out of her thoughts, stared at the big house with lights gleaming in some of the windows. "No, last stop. You're sprung."

She pulled out a debit card, swiped it over the scanner.

"You telling me you live here?"

She verified the meter charge and decided to cut him a break and give him a decent tip. "So?"

"So then you ain't no cop."

"Surprises me all the time, too."

She went straight in and straight up to her office. She wanted, very much, to go straight to bed. Still playing the evasion game, she bypassed the lab.

She found her team had been busy in her absence. The full report on Quinn Sparrow was filed, and copied. He'd been charged. Peabody's attached personal memo told Eve that there was already political wrangling taking place between the HSO and the NYPSD on who owned him.

She couldn't work up the spit to care who won that battle. Sparrow was done, and that was that.

Reva had left her a list of Bissel's habits, routines, favorite haunts and getaways. Most of those haunts and getaways leaned toward the trendy or exotic.

She would, in the morning, contact local authorities in all the out-of-town and foreign locations Reva listed and ask for their assistance.

But he wasn't out of town, he wasn't in some foreign location.

He was, for now, in New York. Maybe not for much longer, but for now.

She read McNab's report. He'd found nothing under Chloe McCoy and was now pursuing variations and codes based on that name.

What had she died for? What use had she been for him that had made her a victim when that use was over?

A locket, a sculpture, and corrupted data on a cheap desk unit.

She made a note to ask Feeney to have the team focus on McCoy's unit.

She worked late, and she worked alone, soothing herself with the quiet, the routine, with the puzzle until her brain began to fuzz.

After shutting down for the night, she used the elevator. The bedroom was empty. It seemed Roarke knew how to play the evasion game, too.

The cat padded in while she undressed. Grateful for his company, she picked him up, nuzzling as he purred. He curled up beside her in the dark, blinking his bicolored eyes at her.

She didn't expect to sleep. Prepared herself to spend most of the night staring at the dark.

And was out in minutes.

***

He knew the moment she'd passed through the gates in the cab. He knew she'd worked after most of the team had gone to bed. The fact that she hadn't sought him out was a small ache. It seemed he had so many small aches these last days he'd forgotten what it was like without them.

He stood over her now as she sprawled facedown on the bed in exhaustion. She didn't wake. The cat did, enough to stare so those odd eyes gleamed at him in the dark. Roarke couldn't have said why he was sure the stare was accusatory.

"I'd think you'd understand well enough the primal, the instinctive, and be a bit more on my side in this."

But Galahad only continued to stare until Roarke cursed softly and turned away.

He was too restless to sleep, too unsettled to lie beside her knowing there was a great deal more than a fat lump of feline between them.

The knowledge so infuriated, so terrified, that he strode away from her, left her sleeping. He moved through the house where others slept, and accessed entry to the tightly secured room where he kept his unregistered.

He'd given Eve and Reva all of his time. His work was suffering because of it and he would begin to mend that in the morning. But tonight was for himself. Tonight, he was himself, and he would gather the data he wanted on the people, all of them, who'd had a part in Dallas.

In Eve.

"Roarke," he said, his tone was cold as ice. "Open operations."

***

She stirred in the dark, in the dead quiet just before dawn. The whimper sounded in her throat as she tried to turn herself out of the dream. And sweat pooled at the base of her spine as she fell into it.

The room, always the same. Freezing, dirty, and washed with the erratic red light from the sex club across the street. She was small, and very thin. And very hungry. Hungry enough to risk punishment for a bite of cheese. A little mouse, sneaking toward the trap when the brutal cat was away.

Her stomach clenched and knotted-part fear, part anticipation, as she cut the mold off the cheese with the knife. Maybe he wouldn't notice this time. Maybe. She was so cold. She was so hungry. Maybe he wouldn't notice.

She held onto that even when he came in. Richie Troy. Somewhere in her unconscious brain his name echoed, over and over. She knew him now, she knew his name. Nothing, no monster was ever as terrifying if you could name him.

She had a moment of hope. He would be drunk, drunk enough to leave her alone. Drunk enough not to care that she'd disobeyed and gotten food.