Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(97)

“I’ve seen it happen,” Casto added. “In my line, it’s not unusual. People can’t live with the drug, can’t live without it. So they take themselves out with it.”

“No note,” Eve said stubbornly. “No message.”

“She was despondent, Eve. And like you said, desperate.” Casto toyed with his coffee. “If it was an impulse, something she felt she had to do and do quick, she might not have wanted to think long enough to leave a message. Eve, nobody forced her. There’s no sign of violence or struggle on the body. It was self-induced. It may have been an accident, it may have been deliberate. You’re not likely to fully determine which.”

“It doesn’t close the homicides. No way she acted alone.”

Casto exchanged a look with Peabody. “Maybe not. But the fact is that the influence of the drug may explain that she did just that. You can hammer away at Redford and Young for a while. Christ knows, neither one of them should get off clean in this. But you’re going to have to close this thing sooner or later. It’s done.” He set his cup down. “Give yourself a break.”

“Well, this is cozy.” Justin Young stepped up to the table. His eyes, hollow and red-rimmed, fastened on Eve. “Nothing spoils your appetite, does it, you bitch?”

As Casto started to rise, Eve lifted a finger, signaling him down. She shoved pity aside. “Your lawyers manage to spring you, Justin?”

“That’s right, all it took was Jerry dying to push them into granting bail. My lawyer tells me that with these latest developments — that’s just how the f**ker phrased it — with these latest developments, the case is all but closed. Jerry’s a multiple murderer, a drug addict, a dead woman, and I’m all but in the clear. Handy, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Eve said evenly.

“You killed her.” He leaned forward on the table, the slap of his hands rattling cutlery. “You might as well have rammed a knife in her throat. She needed help, understanding, a little compassion. But you kept hacking away at her until she fell to pieces. Now she’s dead. Do you understand that?” Tears began to swim in his eyes. “She’s dead and you get a nice big star next to your name. Bagged yourself a mad killer. But I’ve got news for you, Lieutenant. Jerry never killed anyone. But you did. This isn’t over.” He swept an arm across the table, sending dishes to the floor in a mess of broken crockery and spilled food. “No way in hell is this over.”

She let out a long breath as he walked away. “No, I guess it’s not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

She’d never known a week to move so fast. And she felt brutally alone. Everyone considered the case closed, including the PA’s office and her own commander. Jerry Fitzgerald’s body was reduced to ashes, her final interview logged.

The media went into its usual frenzy. Top level model’s secret life. The killer beneath the perfect face. Quest for immortality leaves a trail of death.

She had other cases, certainly had other obligations, but she spent every free minute reviewing the case, picking through evidence, and trying out new theories until even Peabody told her to give it up.

She tried to juggle the few little details on the wedding Roarke had asked her to see to. But what the hell did she know about caterers, wine selections, and seating charts? In the end, she swallowed her pride and dumped the whole mess on a sneering Summerset.

And was told, in didactic tones, that a wife of a man in Roarke’s position would have to learn basic social skills.

She told him to shove it, and they both went off, well satisfied to do what they did best. Under it all, Eve was almost afraid they were beginning to like each other.

Roarke wandered from his office into Eve’s. And shook his head. They would be married the next day. In less than twenty hours. Was the bride-to-be fussing with her wedding gown, bathing herself in fragrant oils and perfumes, daydreaming about her life to come?

No, she was hunched over her computer, muttering at it, her hair tousled from constant raking with her fingers. There was a stain on her shirt where she’d spilled coffee. A plate holding what might have once been a sandwich had been set on the floor. Even the cat avoided it.

He walked up behind her, saw, as he had expected to see, the Fitzgerald file on screen.

Her tenacity fascinated him, and yes, allured him. He wondered if she had allowed anyone else to see that she suffered over Fitzgerald’s death. If she’d been able, she would have hidden it even from him.

He knew the guilt was there, and the pity. And the duty. All would push her, chain a part of her to the case. It was one of the reasons he loved her, that huge capacity for emotion strapped into a logical, restless mind.

He started to bend down to kiss the crown of her head just as she lifted it. They both swore when her head connected hard with his jaw.

“Christ Jesus.” Torn between amusement and pain, Roarke dabbed at the blood on his lip. “You make romance a dangerous business.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up behind me that way.” Frowning, she rubbed the top of her head. It was just one more spot to throb. “I thought you and Feeney and a few of your hedonistic friends were going out to rape and pillage.”

“A bachelor’s party is not a Viking invasion. I have some time yet before the barbarism begins.” He sat down on the corner of her desk and studied her. “Eve, you need a break from this.”