Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(10)

She struggled back a laugh and nearly managed a glare. “Shut up,” she muttered, and shoved her hands in her pockets and she strode away.

He watched her, waited until she’d disappeared at the stairs. Cautious, he turned to the security monitor and ordered view. The laughter was gone from his eyes as he watched her jog down the steps, snag the jacket Summerset had laid back over the newel post for her.

“You’re forgetting an umbrella,” he murmured, and sighed when she walked into the thin drizzle unprotected.

He hadn’t told her everything. How could he? How could he be certain it was relevant, in any case? He needed more before he risked tangling the woman he loved in the ugliness of his own past, his own sins.

He left his office, heading for the communications room that was both expansive and illegal. Laying his palm on the security screen, he identified himself then entered. Here, the equipment was unregistered and any activity would be undetected by the all-seeing eye of CompuGuard. He needed specifics in order to plan his next step, and sitting in the deep U of a sleek black control center, he began.

Invading the system of NYPSD was child’s play for him. He sent a silent apology to his wife as he accessed her files, dipped into the medical examiner’s office.

“Crime scene video on screen one,” Roarke ordered, easing back. “Autopsy report, screen two, primary investigating officer’s report, screen three.”

The horror of what had been done to Brennen swam on screen, made Roarke’s eyes go cold and flat. There was little left of the young man he’d known a lifetime before in Dublin. He read Eve’s clipped and formal report without emotion, studied the complex terms of the preliminary report from the ME.

“Copy to file Brennen, code Roarke, password my voiceprint only. Off screen.”

Turning, he reached for his in-house tele-link. “Summerset, come up please.”

“On my way.”

Roarke rose, moved to the window. The past could come back to haunt, he knew. Most often it remained in some ghostly corner waiting to strike. Had it slipped out to strike Tommy Brennen? he wondered. Or was it just bad luck, bad timing?

The door slid open and Summerset, bony in black, stepped through. “Is there a problem?”

“Thomas Brennen.”

Summerset’s thin lips frowned, then his eyes cleared into what was nearly a smile. “Ah yes, an eager young hacker with a love of rebel songs and Guinness.”

“He’s been murdered.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Here in New York,” Roarke continued. “Eve is primary.” Roarke watched Summerset’s mouth set and flatten. “He was tortured, kept alive for the pain. Disemboweled.”

It took a moment, but Summerset’s already pale face whitened a shade more. “Coincidence.”

“Maybe, hopefully.” Roarke indulged himself by taking a slim cigarette from a japanned case, lighting it. “Whoever did it called my wife personally, wanted her involved.”

“She’s a cop,” Summerset said with a lifetime of disdain in his voice.

“She’s my wife,” Roarke returned, the edge in his voice scalpel sharp. “If it turns out it isn’t coincidence, I’ll tell her everything.”

“You can’t risk that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder — even justifiable murder.”

“That’ll be up to her, won’t it?” Roarke took a long drag, sat on the edge of the console. “I won’t have her working blind, Summerset. I won’t put her in that position. Not for myself, not for you.” The grief slipped back into his eyes as he looked down at the flame at the tip of the cigarette. “Not for memories. You need to be prepared.”

“It’s not me who’ll pay if the law means more to her than you. You did what needed to be done, what had to be done, what should have been done.”

“And so will Eve,” Roarke said mildly. “Before we project, we need to reconstruct. How much do you remember about that time, and who was involved?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing.”

Roarke studied Summerset’s stiff jaw, hard eyes and nodded. “That’s what I was counting on. Let’s get to work then.”

The lights on the console twinkled like stars. He loved to look at them. It didn’t matter that the room was small, and windowless, not when he had the hum of the machine, the light of those stars to guide him.

He was ready to move on to the next one, ready to begin the next round. The young boy who still lived inside him reveled in the competition. The man who had formed out of that boy prepared for the holy work.

His tools were carefully set out. He opened the vial of water blessed by a bishop and sprinkled it reverently over the laser, the knives, the hammer, the nails. The instruments of divine vengeance, the tools of retribution. Behind them was a statue of the Virgin, carved in white marble to symbolize her purity. Her arms were spread in benediction, her face beautiful and serene in acceptance.

He bent, kissed the white marble feet.

For a moment he thought he saw the gleam of blood on his hand, and that hand shook.

But no, his hand was clean and white. He had washed the blood of his enemy away. The mark of Cain stained the others, but not him. He was the lamb of God after all.

He would meet with another enemy soon, very soon, and he had to be strong to bait, to trap, to wear the mask of friendship.