Ritual in Death (In Death #27.5)(8)

He stifled a yawn, then focused on her board. “Is that the vic?”

Eve only nodded, said nothing when he came in to study the board. He’d work better and harder, she knew, if he was invested. “That’s f**ked up,” he said. “That’s seriously f**ked up. And that’s gotta be more than one killer.” He slipped the discs into one of the pockets of his pants. “If there’s an image on these, we’ll get it.”

If there were no images, she thought when McNab left, it meant the security had been compromised on site. Knowing how tightly any ship in Roarke’s expansive fleet ran, that would’ve taken some serious magic.

She turned toward her ’link with the idea of tagging Roarke on his way in. And he walked into her office.

“That was quick.”

“I’m in a hurry.” He set a bag on her visitor’s chair. “Where are the discs?”

“I just passed them off to McNab. Wait.” She shot out a hand as he turned. “If the security was breached on site, how could it be done?”

“I don’t know until I see the discs, do I?”

“Be pissed off later. How could it be done?”

He made an obvious effort to settle himself, then walked to her AutoChef to program coffee for himself. “It would have to be through security or electronics, and one of the top levels. Most likely both, working in tandem. No one at that level would consider a bribe of any kind worth their position.”

“Threat, blackmail?”

“Anything’s possible, of course, but doubtful. It would be more to their advantage to come to me with the problem than to circumvent security.”

“I’ll need names anyway.”

He set the coffee aside, took out his PPC. After a moment’s work, he nodded toward her machine. “Now you have them. And if any of my people had a part in what happened to that girl, I want to know when you know.”

He walked out, his barely restrained fury leaving a bolt of energy behind. Eve blew out a breath, and since he’d forgotten his coffee, picked it up and drank it herself.

Four

Though she had no doubt Roarke’s screening process was more stringent than the Pentagon’s, she ran the names he’d given her. She got clean and clear on all. If, she decided, the word from EDD was an on-site screw-up, she’d run their spouses, when applicable, and family members.

But for now she couldn’t put off informing next of kin.

It took, Eve thought when she’d finished, under thirty seconds to shatter the world of two ordinary people, with ordinary lives. More time, she reflected as she turned back to her board, than it had taken to slash Ava Marsterson’s throat, for her brain to process the insult. But not much. Not much more.

She rubbed the heels of her hands over eyes gritty with fatigue, then checked the time. A couple of hours until she could bitch at the lab for any results, or go to the morgue for the same on the victim’s autopsy.

Enough time for a shower to clear her head before nagging EDD. She picked up the bag Roarke had left her.

“Take two hours in the crib,” she ordered Peabody when she stepped back into the bullpen. “I’m going to grab a shower.”

“Okay. I ran the Asant Group from every possible angle. It doesn’t exist.”

“It’s just a cover.”

“Then I tried a search for any occult holidays, or dates of import that coordinate with today—or yesterday now. Nothing.”

“Well, that was good thinking. Worth a shot. It was a damn party, that’s for sure. Maybe they don’t need an occasion. No, no,” Eve corrected herself. “It was too elaborate, planned too far in advance to just be for the hell of it.”

“For the hell of it. Ha-ha. God.” Peabody rubbed her eyes. “I need those two hours down.”

“Take them now. It’s the last you’ll be seeing of the back of your eyelids for a while.”

She headed to the showers. In the locker room she checked the contents of the bag, noted that Roarke hadn’t missed a trick. Underwear, boots, pants, shirt, jacket, weapon harness, her clutch piece, communicator, restraints, spare recorder, PPC, and cash. More than she normally carried on the job. She stuffed it all in her locker, grabbed a towel, then wrapped herself in it once she’d stripped off.

In the miserly shower cube she ordered the water on full at 101 degrees. It came out in a stingy lukewarm trickle, so she closed her eyes and pretended she was home, where the shower sported multiple and generous jets that pummeled the body with glorious heat. Then spun around, soaking wet, when her instincts tingled to see Roarke standing in the narrow opening, hands in pockets.

“If this is the best the NYPSD offers it’s no wonder you’re prone to hour-long showers at home.”

“What’s wrong with you? Close the door. Anybody could walk in here.”

“I locked the door, which you neglected to do.”

“Because cops aren’t prone to sneaking peeks while another cop is in the damn shower. What are you doing?”

“Taking my clothes off so they don’t get wet. That’s the usual procedure.”

“You can’t come in here.” She jabbed a finger at him when he draped his shirt over a bench. “Cut it out. There’s barely room for me. Besides—”