Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(48)

"You were denied access because I'm working on a private matter. I'm drinking because I wanted a drink." He lifted the glass to his lips again, as if to prove it. "I closed down because what I'm doing has nothing to do with you. Does that clear it up for you, Lieutenant?"

There was a little punch of shock, dead center in her throat. Instinctively, she searched back through the day for something said or done to have caused his anger.

For it was anger, under all that cold wash. Hot and bubbling.

"If you're pissed at me about something, I'd like to know what it is. That way when I kick your ass, we'll both know why."

Get out, was all he could think. Get out and leave me be so I can finish this nightmare. "Not everything I do pertains to you. Not everything I feel revolves around you."

It was a quick and nasty slice in the heart, and she struggled to ignore it. "Look, something's wrong. I can see it." Worried now, she laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbed. And felt the vicious knots of tensed muscles. "If this is about Summerset, I just saw him, and he's his usual irritating self. I know you're upset about what happened to him, but-"

"He's being well seen to, isn't he? I've taken care of it. It might occur to you that I've more on my mind than you, and him, your work, your worries." He shoved away from her to get up, to get away from that supportive hand on his shoulder, to go over to pour another whiskey with the foolish hope that this time it might flood away the sickness inside him.

"Roarke-"

"Goddamn it, Eve, I'm busy here." He snapped it out, and stopped her in her tracks. "Give me some f**king space, will you? I'm not in the mood to chat or for a quick shag or a replay of your day."

Insult and anger lit her face. "Just what the hell are you in the mood for?"

"To be left alone to do what I'm set to do here."

I can't stand having you here, can't stand doing what I'm doing.

"The time I spend diddling about with your work takes away from my own, and I've got to make it up when I choose. As the bloody door was locked, it might've occurred to you that I didn't want to be interrupted. I've a great deal to do, so why don't you be about your own? I've no doubt you've plenty of the dead to keep you occupied for one evening."

"Yeah." She nodded slowly, and the temper in her eyes had faded into astonished hurt. "I've always got the dead. I'll just get the hell out of your way."

She strode for the door, heard the locks whisper open even before she reached it. The instant she was through, it shut and locked tight.

Inside, Roarke stared into the glass, then simply hurled it against the wall so the crystal showered to the floor like lethal tears.

***

She went to work, or tried, started by running all the names she'd been able to get from Hastings. She'd talk to each personally, but she wanted the basic background before she began.

She had Peabody's very detailed report on her foray into the field. The second pop was tidily alibied for Rachel Howard's murder. Eve expected the alibi to hold, but would have Peabody follow up.

She ran more probabilities, checked her notes, set up a board on which she pinned the images of Rachel, the class schedule, a blueprint of the parking lot, an overview of Columbia campus.

And she worried about Roarke.

At midnight, she walked into the bedroom, found it empty. The house computer told her he was where she'd left him.

He was still there when she climbed into bed alone just before one a.m.

She didn't mind a fight. The fact was, sometimes a good fight livened things up. Got the blood moving. And no matter how mad they might get at each other, they were always involved.

This hadn't been a fight. He'd just cut her off, cut her out, watched her with cold blue eyes, the way he might watch a stranger. Or a slightly annoying acquaintance.

She shouldn't have walked out. She told herself as she rolled to find some comfort in the big bed. She should've stayed, made him fight until he'd told her what was wrong.

He'd known exactly the way to get her to go. If he'd fought with her, she'd have waded in. But he'd dismissed her, flicked her away, stunning her so she'd been out the door with her tail between her legs.

Just wait, she thought. Just wait until she got hold of him again.

***

While she lay there, sleepless in the dark, a nineteen-year-old performing arts student named Kenby Sulu was being immortalized.

He stood tall, slim, forever young, his body carefully posed, his lifeless limbs supported by hair-thin wire so that he might look perfect in the dispassionate lens of the camera.

Such light! Such strong light. It coats me. It feeds me. He was brilliant, this clever young man with the dancer's build and the artist's soul. Now he is me. What he was lives forever in me.

I could feel him merge with Rachel, with me. We are more intimate than lovers now. We are one force of life, more than each of us could ever be without the other.

What a gift they have given me. And so I have given them eternity.

There will be no shadows in them.

Only the mad would call this madness. Only the blind will look and not see.

Soon, very soon, I think I can show the world what I've done. But first, more light. I need two more before I share with the world.

But, of course, I must give them a peek.