Naked in Death (In Death #1)(29)

“My beliefs aren’t the issue. Investigating — ” She broke off when his eyes whipped to hers.

“You believe I’m capable of this?” he repeated in an undertone that cut like a blade.

“No, but I have a job to do.”

“Your job sucks.”

She took the photos back, stored them. “From time to time.”

“How do you sleep at night, after looking at something like this?”

She flinched. Though she recovered in a snap, he’d seen it. As intrigued as he was by her instinctive and emotional reaction, he was sorry he’d caused it.

“By knowing I’ll take down the bastard who did it. Get out of my way.”

He stayed where he was, laid a hand on her rigid arm. “A man in my position has to read people quickly and accurately, Eve. I’m reading you as someone close to the edge.”

“I said, get out of my way.”

He rose, but shifting his grip on her arm, pulled her to her feet. He was still in her way. “He’ll do it again,” Roarke said quietly. “And it’s eating at you wondering when and where and who.”

“Don’t analyze me. We’ve got a whole department of shrinks on the payroll for that.”

“Why haven’t you been to see one? You’ve been slipping through loopholes to avoid Testing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He smiled, but there was no amusement in it.

“I have connections, lieutenant. You were due in Testing several days ago, standard department procedure after a justifiable termination, one you executed the night Sharon was killed.”

“Keep out of my business,” she said furiously. “And f**k your connections.”

“What are you afraid of? What are you afraid they’ll find if they get a look inside of that head of yours? That heart of yours?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.” She jerked her arm free, but he merely laid his hand on her cheek. A gesture so unexpected, so gentle, her stomach quivered.

“Let me help you.”

“I — ” Something nearly spilled out, as the photos had. But this time her reflexes kept it tucked away. “I’m handling it.” She turned away. “You can pick up your property anytime after nine A. M. tomorrow.”

“Eve.”

She kept her eyes focused on the doorway, kept walking. “What?”

“I want to see you tonight.”

“No.”

He was tempted — very tempted — to lunge after her. Instead, he stayed where he was. “I can help you with the case.”

Cautious, she stopped, turned back. If he hadn’t been experiencing an uncomfortable twist of sexual frustration, he might have laughed aloud at the combination of suspicion and derision in her eyes.

“How?”

“I know people Sharon knew.” As he spoke, he saw the derision alter to interest. But the suspicion remained. “It doesn’t take a long mental leap to realize you’ll be looking for a connection between Sharon and the girl whose photos you’re carrying. I’ll see if I can find one.”

“Information from a suspect doesn’t carry much weight in an investigation. But,” she added before he could speak, “you can let me know.”

He smiled after all. “Is it any wonder I want you naked, and in bed? I’ll let you know, lieutenant.” And walked back behind his desk. “In the meantime, get some sleep.”

When the door closed behind her, the smile went out of his eyes. For a long moment he sat in silence. Fingering the button he carried in his pocket, he engaged his private, secure line.

He didn’t want this call on his log.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eve stepped up to the peep screen at Charles Monroe’s door and started to announce herself when it slid open. He was in black tie, a cashmere cape swung negligently over his shoulders, offset by the cream of a silk scarf. His smile was every bit as well turned out as his wardrobe.

“Lieutenant Dallas. How lovely to see you again.” His eyes, full of compliments she knew she didn’t deserve, skimmed over her. “And how unfortunate I’m just on my way out.”

“I won’t keep you long.” She stepped forward, he stepped back. “A couple of questions, Mr. Monroe, here, informally, or formally, at the station with your representative or counsel.”

His well shaped brows shot up. “I see. I thought we’d progressed beyond that. Very well, lieutenant, ask away.” He let the door slide shut again. “We’ll keep it informal.”

“Your whereabouts night before last, between the hours of eight and eleven?”

“Night before last?” He slipped a diary out of his pocket, keyed it in. “Ah, yes. I picked up a client at seven-thirty for an eight o’clock curtain at the Grande Theater. They’re doing a reprise of Ibsen — depressing stuff. We sat third row, center. It ended just before eleven, and we had a late supper, catered. Here. I was engaged with her until three A. M.”

His smile flashed as he tucked the diary away again. “Does that clear me?”

“If your client will corroborate.”

The smile faded into a look of pain. “Lieutenant, you’re killing me.”

“Someone’s killing people in your profession,” she snapped back. “Name and number, Mr. Monroe.” She waited until he’d mournfully given the data. “Are you acquainted with a Lola Starr?”