Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(76)

“Fuck.” Now she scrubbed her hands over her face. “It could’ve been part of the inspiration.”

“They’d have come to this sooner or later. What I do think is the case, the book, the upcoming vid made him, or them, consider how exciting it might be to become a book or vid. To have their competition, then generate all the interest, the notoriety of a major case.”

“The thrill would last a long time. Might be able to play that, too,” she mused. “Just maybe.”

He pulled into a private underground lot, the sort she, on principle, refused to pay the price for.

“You could’ve found a street spot.”

“Live a little, darling. There’s a place a few blocks from here. It’s a nice evening for a bit of a walk, and I can guarantee the pizza’s excellent.”

He took her hand as they walked outside.

“You own the place.”

“Since my wife tends to live on pizza half the time, it seemed a good idea to have a spot close to home that serves exceptional pie.”

“Hard to argue.”

The bright evening sun brought people out in droves. Strolling tourists hauling shopping bags and gawking up at the buildings and sky traffic. And getting in the way, Eve thought, so the people with somewhere to go weaved, dodged, and kept moving. It was a kind of weird and chaotic ballet, she decided, punctuated by the blare of horns, the chatter of the sidewalk hawkers, the pips and pings of ’links and headsets.

A couple of kids surfed by on airboards, laughing like hyenas. And on the corner, the glide cart vendor broke out in song.

“I guess this was a pretty good idea,” Eve decided.

“It’s cleared your headache—sorry, eye ache.” And he paused, selected a sleeve of flowers in bold red and blue from a sidewalk display. He passed the price to the merchant, handed the flowers to Eve while the cart operator’s voice soared in some Italian aria.

It was a damn nice moment, Eve thought. A damn nice New York moment.

“I guess this makes it a date.”

Roarke laughed, circled her waist, and tugged her in for a showy kiss that had the flower vendor applauding. “Now it’s a date.”

A half block down he showed her to a little sidewalk table outside a bustling pizzeria. She tapped the Reserved sign. “You booked ahead.”

“It pays to be prepared. I also ordered ahead, so they’ll know what to bring us. Now that I’ve told you about my day, you can tell me about yours.”

“It was a little rough.”

“I don’t see any bruises.”

“Not that kind of rough.”

She started with the interview in Greenwich. Before she was done, a waiter brought a bottle of red, another of sparkling water, and an artful tray of antipasto.

“I’d say she made a wise decision, and had a lucky escape.”

“She had this little pocket of fear tucked away, away deep enough I expect she forgot about it for long stretches of time. Then something reminded her, or she just had a bad day and it opened up. But there was something about him, once she got close enough to see it—and I think she’s wired with that shrink circuit—to create that fear.”

“Well, he’s a monster, isn’t he?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your man who abducted women and tortured them to death was a monster. The Icoves with their twisted egos and science were as well. He’s no less of one. He uses his position, which he’s never earned, to intimidate or humiliate or frighten because it makes him feel more important. And now he’s escalated that and kills for sport, for amusement. He’s been handed his wealth and position, and rather than do something with it, or simply coast on it for that matter, he uses it as a weapon and considers the weapon his due, and the killing his right.”

“And again, hard to argue.” She studied the pizza the waiter set between them. “That looks pretty damn great. The second interview was rougher than the first. Are you sure you want to hear about it over dinner?”

“That’s our way, isn’t it?” But he saw something in her eyes. “It can wait if you’d rather.”

“I guess I’d rather not. Wait, I mean.”

So she told him, over pizza, of betrayal and cruelty and rape. It was better, really, to get it out, say it all with the city buzzing around them, with the comfort of food, with his hand reaching over to cover hers in a gesture of absolute understanding.

“You feel a connection to them, especially Patrice Delaughter.”

“Maybe more than I should.”

“No.” He covered her hand again. “Not more than you should.”

“They didn’t have to tell me, neither of them. They chose to. Like Ava chose to tell Patrice what had been done to her when she could’ve just walked away from the whole deal. They did the right thing, and it couldn’t have been easy.”

“For the two who are alive and well and with their families, I think it will be easier now. I think when you’re done, those pockets of fear you spoke of will be empty.”

She drank some wine, and thought: No, fear pockets are never really empty. But she didn’t say it.

“They’re both monsters. Killers aren’t always,” she added. “Some kill, and for terrible and selfish reasons, but they aren’t monsters. The idiot in Ireland was stupid and selfish and ended Holly Curlow’s life because what, she hurt his feelings? Because he was drunk and pissed off? But he’ll never really get over what he did. He’ll replay those moments in his head the rest of his life, because he’s not a monster.”