Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(15)

It wasn’t the other side of the world, as Peabody had put it, from Spanish Harlem to home. But it was another world. Roarke’s world, with its graceful iron gates, its green lawns, shady trees, with its huge stone house as distant as a castle from the bodegas and street vendors.

All that stood behind those iron gates was another world from everything she’d known until she’d met him. Until he’d changed so much, and accepted all the rest.

She left her car out front, then strode to the door, and into what had become hers.

She expected Summerset—Roarke’s man of every-thing and resident pain in her ass—to be standing like some black plague in the wide sweeping foyer. She expected the fat cat, Galahad, poised to greet her. But she hadn’t expected Roarke to be with them, the perfectly cut stone gray suit over his tall, rangy body, his miracle-of-the-gods face relaxed, and his briefcase still in his hand.

“Well, hello, Lieutenant.” Those brilliantly blue eyes warmed—instant welcome. “Aren’t we a timely pair?”

He walked toward her and wham! there it was. There it always was, that immediate, staggering lift of her heart. He cupped her chin, skimmed his thumb down its shallow dent, and brushed that gorgeous mouth over hers.

So simple, so married. So miraculous.

“Hi. How about a walk.” Without taking her eyes off his, she tugged his briefcase from his hand, held it out toward Summerset. “It’s nice out.”

“All right.” He took her hand.

When she got to the door, Eve looked down at the cat who’d followed and continued to rub against her legs. “Want to go?” she asked him, opening the door. He scrambled back to Summerset as if she’d asked him to jump off a cliff into a fiery inferno.

“Outside means the possibility of a trip to the vet,” Roarke said in that voice that hinted of the misted"1eof the hills and green fields of Ireland. “A trip to the vet means the possibility of a pressure syringe.”

Outside, she chose a direction, wandered aimlessly. “I thought you were somewhere else today. Like Mongolia.”

“Minnesota.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A continent or so.” His thumb rubbed absently over her wedding ring. “I was, and was able to finish earlier than scheduled. And now I can take a walk with my wife on a pretty evening in May.”

She angled her head to watch him while they walked. “Did you buy Mongolia?”

“Minnesota.”

“Either.”

“No. Did you want it?”

She laughed. “I can’t think why I would.” Content, she tipped her head to his shoulder for a moment, drew in his scent while they wound through a small grove of trees. “I caught a new case today. Vic was doing this Catholic funeral mass and bought it with poisoned Communion wine.”

“That’s yours?”

She watched the evening breeze dance through the black silk of his hair. “You heard about it?”

“I pay attention to New York crime, even in the wilds of Mongolia.”

“Minnesota.”

“You were listening. That was East Harlem. Spanish Harlem. I’d think they’d assign a murder cop from that sector, with some ties to the parish perhaps.”

“Probably didn’t to ensure more objectivity. In any case, it’s mine.” They came out of the trees, strolled across a long roll of green. “And it’s a mess. It’s also prime media bait, or will be if I’m right.”

Roarke cocked a brow. “You know who killed him?”

“No. But I’m pretty damn sure the dead guy in Morris’s house isn’t a priest. Isn’t Miguel Flores. And a whole bunch of people are going to be really pissed off about that.”

“Your victim was posing as a priest? Why?”

“Don’t know. Yet.”

Roarke stopped, turned to face her. “If you don’t know why, how do you know it was a pose?”

“He had a tat removed, and a couple of old knife wounds.”

He shot her a look caught between amusement and disbelief. “Well now, Eve, some of the priests I’ve bumped into over the years could drink both of us under the table and take on a roomful of brawlers, at the same time.”

“There’s more,” she said, and began to walk again as she told him.

When she got to the part with the bishop’s assistant, Roarke stopped dead in his tracks. “You swore at a priest?”

“I guess. It’s hard to be pissed off and lob threats without swearing. And he was being a dick.”

“You went up against the Holy MotherChurch?”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why is it a mother?” When he cocked his head, smiled, she sneered. “Not that kind of mother. I mean, if the church is she, how come all the priests are men?”

“Excellent question.” He gave her a playful poke. “Don’t look at me.”

“Aren’t you kind of Catholic?”

The faintest hint of unease shifted into his eyes. “I don’t know that I am.”

“But your family is. Your mother was. She probably did the water sprinkling thing. The baptizing.”

“I don’t know that . . .” It seemed to strike him, and not comfortably. He dragged a hand through all that dark hair. “Well, Christ, is that something I have to worry about now? In any case, after today, if you get to hell first, be sure to be saving me a seat.”