Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(63)

“There was a model there, an assistant, the hair and —”

“No, who fits your parameters who knows that?”

“I can’t say. It went in my report. A cop kicks a civilian in the balls, she has to write it down, and she’d better have a good reason for it. One of the people who witnessed it may have told someone else.”

“Eve. What are the chances one of them told someone who is somehow connected to someone who witnessed or talked about Ledo clocking you with a pool cue?”

“Zero.” She shoved out of the car. “It’s someone who could access my reports. I know that.”

She would have stormed straight into the house, but Roarke grabbed her, pulled her in, held even when she tried to push away.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, and why would you be?” Despite the wind, he eased her back, looked into her face in the festive lights that shone around the house. “How many females between thirty and forty have access to your reports?”

“Probably a handful. A couple handfuls, but —”

“People talk.”

“And cops are people,” she agreed. “A story over a brew, a laugh in the locker room. Some snot in IAB doing some digging. Hell, techs talk, the civilian support talk. For all I know… Maintenance. The cleaning crews. Any of them could get into my office, my files, if they had some e-skills and wanted to. I don’t have the same comp I used during the Barrow mess – and they’re supposed to wipe them clean. But —”

“But,” Roarke agreed. “It’s a bit late to lock the barn door, but you should have Feeney or McNab put a block and wall on your machine, one that takes more than basic skills to break down. Or I’ll do it for you myself.”

“I’ll probably end up locking myself out,” she muttered.

Laughing, he turned her toward the house. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I need to see if we’ve got something solid from the word search.”

“Then we will.”

While Eve worked into the night, worked through it until Roarke simply carried her, half sleeping, to bed, the killer paced.

No mistakes, no mistakes, no accidents. What had happened? Unpredictable. The unpredictable could and did happen.

But it shouldn’t! It shouldn’t when you’ve done everything right. When you’d studied and planned and practiced.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

It should have been easy, should have been right. It should have been done.

Third time was supposed to be the charm!

Where had the woman come from? The model. The star. Oh, the face was immediately recognizable – one to be coveted and admired. Admired for nothing more than fortunate DNA.

Who could have known someone like Matilda would be with an ugly man – inside and out – like Hastings?

No accounting for taste. No accounting for sense.

Hands shaking now, shaking now in the solitude, in the quiet.

Did Eve tremble in the quiet?

Of course not! So the trembling must stop. The work must continue.

To soothe there were candles to be lighted, and their glow illuminated the wall. The wall covered with photographs, drawings, clippings of Eve. Always watching, always vigilant.

In the room stood a board – like Eve’s. Exactly like Eve’s.

Many faces there, so many. Two looked out with a thick red X across their faces.

Hastings should have looked through that thick red X tonight.

One day he would, yes, he would, and he’d suffer first. Because tonight had been a humiliation. Failure scarred. Failure burned.

But no matter, he’d have his day with justice. For now, there were others.

There were so many others.

And maybe it was time to be more bold. To make a bigger statement.

But first there was an apology to write. Sitting, the killer poured out regret and shame – and fury – in the words written to Eve.

13

Eve woke a little after five, groggy, blurry from dreams, and not surprised to find herself alone in bed. She lay in the dark, wishing for another hour’s sleep, knowing it wouldn’t come – and wondering, not for the first time, how Roarke managed on so little shut-eye.

She shoved herself up, staggered to the AutoChef to clear her brain and boost her flagging system with coffee. And reminded herself she wouldn’t have to visit the morgue that morning.

Coffee and a live witness – two live witnesses – made for a good start to the day.

To give her spirit a boost along with her system and brain, she turned on the bedroom Christmas tree – it would be gone for another year in just a few days, so why not enjoy those pretty, cheerful lights? For more warmth, more light, she started the fire.

She still had moments of amazement, and thought she always would, that she had this place, this home where she could enjoy the warmth and snap of a fire on a cold winter morning.

All because someone extraordinary loved her.

By the time she’d grabbed clothes from the closet, programmed her second cup of coffee of the morning, Roarke strolled in, the cat prancing at his heels.

He was already dressed in a king-of-the-business-world suit – black with faint, needle-thin silver stripes, black shirt, a tie that picked up the stripes.

He looked rested, awake, and gorgeous – and she only felt a small twinge of resentment.