Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(29)

An hour later she was circling her board.

Nothing, she thought. If there were hidden pockets, they were expertly concealed. Inga's life had been so utterly normal it was bordering on boring. She worked, she shopped, she took two vacations a year--one with the family she worked for, and the other, at least for the last five years, with a couple of other women to the same relaxation spa in upstate New York.

She'd check with, and on, the other women, but nothing had popped out on them when she'd run their data.

The ex lived in Chicago, had remarried, and had one offspring, male. He was a drone for a restaurant supply company, and had made no on-record trips to New York in over seven years.

The idea that the housekeeper had heard or seen something dire while buying plums or cleaning supplies just seemed ludicrous.

But life was full of the ludicrous that ended in bloody murder.

She acknowledged Roarke when he came in. “Nothing jingles my bell on this one.” She nodded toward the screen. “Still a lot of legwork to do to cover the bases, but I think she's going down as innocent bystander.”

“Feeney and I are of the same opinion regarding the bypass equipment. It could have been homemade by someone expert in the field, with access to prime materials. If it was purchased, it had to come from military, police, or security sources. Or black market. It's not something you'd find in your local electronics store.”

“Doesn't narrow the field much, but it jibes.”

“Let's shut it down for the night.”

“Nothing much more I can do.” She ordered her machine to save, file, close. “I'm going to start here tomorrow, then leave Baxter and Trueheart on wit duty.”

“I'll take it to some of my R&D people tomorrow, see if anybody in my brain trust comes up with something more specific on the security system.”

“None of the vies had any military or security training--or as far as I've found, any connections thereto.” She pushed it around in her head as they walked toward their bedroom. “I can't find any link with organized crime, with paramilitary. As far as my data shows, they didn't gamble, fool around, were not overly political. The closest to an obsession I can get is the woman's devotion to nutrition.”

“Maybe something had come into their possession, even by accident, that had to be reclaimed.”

“Then if you're so damn good at B&E, you go in when the house is empty and you take it. You don't go in, kill everybody. The only thing taken from the house was lives. The Swishers are dead because someone wanted them dead.”

“Agreed. What do you say we have a glass of wine and relax for a bit?”

She nearly refused. She could just think, let it all wind around in her head awhile. Pace and let it play until something jiggled loose, or she was too damn fried to do anything but pass out for a few hours.

Their lives would never be like the Swishers'. She didn't want them to be, didn't think she could handle trying to navigate something quite that straightforward. But they did have a life. And lives deserved attention.

“I'd say you've got a pretty good idea. I've got to let it simmer.” She tapped the back of her head. “Since boiling it up front isn't doing the job.”

“How about this for a better idea?” He shifted so they faced each other and a dip of his head had his teeth closing lightly over her jaw.

“Getting me naked is your usual idea.”

“But with variation, and that's the key.”

It made her laugh. “Sooner or later even you have to run out of variations.”

“Now there's a challenge. Why don't we take that wine down to the pool, have a little water sport?”

“I'd say your ideas get better and--” She broke off, and sprinted when she heard Nixie scream.

6

SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHICH ROOM, SO COULD ONLY race toward the sounds of a child screaming. At a turn in the corridor, Roarke passed her. She kicked in so together they shot through an open door.

The bedroom was washed by soft light. The bed was a four-poster with a mountain of pillows and a lacy white spread. Someone-- Summerset, she imagined--had placed yellow flowers, cheerful and bright, on a table by the window. As she bolted in, Eve nearly tripped over the cat, who was either in retreat or on guard.

In the middle of the sumptuous bed, the little girl sat, her arms lifted and crossed over her face as she shrieked as if someone was whaling on her with a hammer.

Roarke reached Nixie first. Later Eve would think it was because he was used to dealing with a female in the grip of nightmares, while she was simply used to having them.

He plucked Nixie straight up and into his arms, holding her, stroking her, and saying her name even when she struggled and slapped at him.

Eve had yet to speak or decide what best to do, when the elevator on the far wall whizzed open, and Summerset strode out.

“Natural,” he said. “Expected.”

“Mommy.” Exhausted from the fight, Nixie let her head drop on Roarke's shoulder. “I want my mommy.”

“I know, yes, I know. I'm sorry.”

Eve saw him turn his head to brush his lips over Nixie's hair. That, too, seemed natural. Expected.

“They're coming to get me. They're coming to kill me.”

“They're not. It was a dream.” Roarke sat, Nixie curled in his lap. “A very bad dream. But you're safe here, as you can see. With me, and the lieutenant and Summerset.”