Divided in Death (In Death #18)(29)

But he'd stayed calm, he'd stayed cool. Silent as a shadow, he thought with some pride, as he'd waited for her to come into the room.

Had he grinned when she'd marched to the bed, spewing temper? Maybe he had, but it hadn't affected his performance.

One quick spray of the anesthetic, and she'd been out.

He'd added a few touches there. Genius, really. Dragging her into the bath to get her fingerprint on the sink, smearing a bit of blood on her shirt. And he thought the knife stabbed into the mattress spoke for itself.

It was so Reva, after all.

He'd left the front door ajar, just as planned, when he left. She should've been out long enough for security to find her on the routine check. All right, all right, maybe that had been a small miscalculation. He hadn't sprayed enough, or he'd wasted a little time with the extra touches.

But even that shouldn't matter. She was charged. Blair Bissel and Felicity Kade were dead, and she was the only suspect.

He should've been away by now. His accounts bursting with fresh money. Instead, he was a marked man.

He had to get away. He had to protect himself.

He wasn't even safe here. Not completely safe. But he could fix that. He could fix that, he realized, and sat up as the clouds of fear and self-pity began to clear. And solve some of the financial squeeze at the same time.

Then he'd deal with the rest.

A little more time to think, and he'd deal with it all.

Steadier, he rose to pour more whiskey, and to plan his next steps.

6

Eve was alone when she woke, and a quick check showed her she'd slept a half hour longer than she'd intended.

Too groggy to curse, she crawled out of bed, stumbled to the AutoChef, and got coffee. She carried it with her to the shower, called for water on full at a hundred and one, then glugged down caffeine while the hot water pounded on her.

She was halfway through with the oversized mug when she realized she was still wearing her underwear.

Now she did curse. After downing the rest of the coffee, she peeled off the tank and panties and tossed them into a sopping heap in the corner of the shower.

Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both connected to the art world. Possible connection to techno-terrorists. Super computer worm. Security compromised in several areas. Preplanned frame on security expert in charge of developing extermination program and shield.

What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the plate. No one was indispensable.

She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn't like any of the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy once you chipped off the shine?

Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her life in a cage, what did it accomplish?

She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when Roarke walked into the bedroom.

"Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people and frame an employee?" she asked.

"There are all kinds of people in the world."

"Yeah, that's what's wrong with the world. There are people in it. But there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don't think you're it."

"Darling, I'm shattered. I was so sure I was it for you."

"But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more specifically Securecomp. We'll have to play with that some. But first I want a closer look at the victims."

"I started the runs for you. I was up," he said when she frowned at him. "Now that we both are, I'm thinking seriously about food."

"You'll have to have it in my office."

"Naturally."

"You're pretty agreeable."

"No, actually, just hungry."

Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. "You can have a look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer, data on screen one."

"Any sealeds?"

"No. At least none that show."

"What do you mean, none that show?"

"Just that it's all very, very tidy. See for yourself."

She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.

Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB... March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass, divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.

Occupation: sculptor.

Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York.

"Serenity Lane." Eve shook her head as she chewed. "What twink comes up with that stuff?"

"I imagine you'd prefer Kick-Ass Drive."

"Who wouldn't?"

Because he'd gone deep, she was treated to educational history from Bissel's formal play group at age three right through his two years abroad at an art school in Paris.

She read through his medical-the broken tibia at age twelve, the standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and so on. He'd had some face and body work-ass, chin, nose.

He'd been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one million, eight hundred thousand and some change.

There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile.