Missing in Death (In Death #29.5)(14)

“A memory suppressor would’ve been logical. And may be yet.” He shook his head at her look. “We’ll have some things to check into when we get home. You’ll likely have to follow up with the Grogans?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll find them at the Palace. They’ll be moving there tonight.”

“Your hotel?”

“It seems they’re a bit squeezed into a room at the moment, and it struck me they could use a bit of an upgrade for their troubles. Plus the security’s better there. Considerably.”

“I’m putting a watch on them,” Eve began, then shrugged. “It is better.” She engaged the ’link to update her men on the change. “Let’s go home and start ‘checking into.’ ”

Six

Summerset, Roarke’s man about everything, wasn’t lurking in the grand foyer when Eve walked in. She spied the fat cat, Galahad, perched on the newel post like a furry gargoyle. He blinked his bicolored eyes twice, then leaped down with a thud to saunter over and rub against her legs.

“Where’s Mr. Macabre?” Eve asked as she scratched the cat between the ears.

“Stop.” Roarke didn’t bother to sigh. The pinching and poking between his wife and his surrogate father were not likely to end anytime soon. “Summerset’s setting things up in my private office. We need to use the unregistered equipment,” he continued when she frowned. “Any serious digging on your victim is going to send up flags to certain parties. And there’s more.”

He took her hand to lead her up the steps.

“If I don’t dig into the vic through proper channels, it’s going to look very strange.”

“You have Peabody on that,” he reminded her. “And you can do some of your own, for form. But you won’t find what you’re after through legitimate channels. Set up your runs, on Buckley, the Grogans, the possible causes of this optic smudge. All the things you’d routinely do. Then come up and meet me.”

He lifted her hand to kiss her fingers. “And we’ll do the real excavating. She’s a freelance spy and assassin, Eve, who works for the highest bidder or on a whim. That work would definitely include certain areas of the U.S. government. You won’t get far your way.”

“What’s the ‘more’?” She hated the cloak-and-dagger crap. “You said there’s more?”

But he shook his head. “Start your runs. We’ll go over what I’ve heard, know, suspect.”

Since there was no point in wasting time, Eve walked into her home office to set up the multiple runs and searches. She sent an e-m ail to Dr. Mira, the NYPSD’s top profiler and psychiatrist, to ask about the validity of mass hypnosis. It made her feel foolish, but she wanted a solid opinion from a source she respected.

Before compiling and updating her notes, she checked in with Peabody, and read over all the initial lab and sweepers’ reports. No witnesses had come forward to claim they’d seen anything unusual, including any individual transporting a dead body. Which was too bad, she mused. Also in the too-bad department was the report that the pipes and vents within the crime scene were just too damn small to have served as an escape route.

Solid walls, no windows, one door, she decided. And that meant, however improbably, both killer and victim had exited through the door.

He hadn’t stepped into Peabody’s vortex, hadn’t employed an alien transporter beam or flourished a magic wand. He’d used the damn door. She just had to figure out how.

She made her way to Roarke’s private office, used the palm pad and voice recognition to enter. He sat behind the U-shaped console with the jewel-toned buttons and controls winking over the slick black surface. The privacy screens shielded the windows and let the evening sunlight filter into the room in a pale gold wash. A small table stood by those windows, set with silver domed plates, an open bottle of wine, the sparkle of crystal.

His idea of a working dinner, she mused.

He’d already tied his hair back—serious work mode—and commanded keyboard and touch screens with rapid movements.

“What are you hacking into?” she asked.

“Various agencies. CIA, Homeland Security, Interpol, MI5, Global, EuroCom, and that sort.”

“Is that all?” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I was going to stick with coffee, but now I think I need a drink.”

“Pour me one. And after I get these to auto-search, I’ll tell you a story over dinner.”

She poured two, pleased the wine was red, which lowered the chances of something healthy like fish with steamed vegetables on the plates. She peeked under the silver cover and was instantly cheered. “Hey, lasagna!” Then, on closer study. “What’s this green stuff in there?”

“Good for you.”

“Why is good for you mostly green? Why can’t they make it taste like candy or at least pizza?”

“I’m going to get my R and D right on that. And we’re going to speak of R and D, as it happens. There now.” He sat back, nodded at his screens. “We’ll see what we see.” He rose, crossed to her. Taking up his glass, he tapped it to hers, then smiled. “I think I’ll have another of these,” he decided, and cupped her chin before taking her mouth with his.

“No distracting with wine and lip-l ocks,” she ordered. “I want to get to the bottom of this. The whole thing is . . . irritating.”