Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(22)

“I don’t feel pale.” She wasn’t sure what she felt. All she could be certain of was that the man she loved, a man she’d taught herself to trust, knew something. And he wasn’t telling her. “You said you hadn’t had any contact with Brennen or Conroy. Any contact, Roarke? Not even through a liaison?”

He angled his head. This wasn’t the track he’d expected. “No, I haven’t. Tommy because he preferred to sever ties, and Shawn because…” He looked down at his hands, spread his fingers, closed them. “I didn’t bother to keep in touch. I’m sorry for that.”

“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice sharp and keen. “Look me in the face, damn it.” He did, rising now so their gazes were nearly level. “I believe you.” She whirled away from him as she said it. “And I don’t know if it’s because it’s the truth, or because I need it to be.”

He felt the nick of her distrust at the edge of his heart. “I can’t help you with that. Would you prefer to do this in Interview?”

“I’d prefer not to do it at all. And don’t climb on your golden horse with me, Roarke. Don’t you even start.”

He opened the japanned box on his desk, carefully selected a cigarette. “That would be ‘high horse,’ Lieutenant.”

She clenched her fists, prayed for control, and turned back. “What was Summerset doing at the Luxury Towers on the day of Thomas Brennen’s murder?”

For perhaps the first time since she’d met him, she saw Roarke completely staggered. The hand that had just flicked on a silver lighter froze in midair. His just beginning to be annoyed blue eyes went blank. He shook his head once, as if to clear it, then carefully set down both the lighter and the unlit cigarette.

“What?” was all he managed.

“You didn’t know.” Her limbs went limp with it. It wasn’t always possible to read him, she knew. He was too controlled, too clever, too skilled. But there was no mistaking the simple shock on his face. “You weren’t prepared for that. You had no idea at all.” She took a step closer. “What were you prepared for? What did you expect me to ask you?”

“Let’s just stick with the initial question.” Outwardly his recovery was smooth and quick. His stomach muscles, though, were tightening into oily knots. “You believe Summerset visited Tommy on the day of the murder. That’s just not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because he would have told me.”

“He tells you everything, does he?” She jammed her hands in her pockets, took a fast, impatient turn around the room. “How well did he know Brennen?”

“Not well at all. Why do you think he was there that day?”

“Because I have the security discs.” She stood still now, facing him with the desk between. “I have Summerset in the lobby of the Luxury Towers at noon. I have him getting into an elevator. I don’t have him coming back out. The ME puts Brennen’s time of death at four-fifty p.m. But the initial injury, the amputation of the hand, is clocked at between twelve-fifteen and twelve-thirty p.m.”

Because he needed something to do with his hands, Roarke walked over, poured a brandy. He stood for a moment, swirling it. “He may irritate you, Eve. You may find him… unpleasant.” He only arched his brows when Eve snorted. “But you can’t seriously believe Summerset is capable of murder, of spending a number of hours torturing another human being.” Roarke lifted the snifter, sipped. “I can tell you, without a single doubt, that he isn’t capable of it, and never has been.”

She wouldn’t be swayed by sentiment. “Then where was your man, Roarke, from noon to five p.m. on the date in question?”

“You’d do better to ask him.” He reached up, pressed a button on a monitor without glancing at it. “Summerset, would you come up to my office, please? My wife has a question for you.”

“Very well.”

“I’ve known the man since I was a boy,” Roarke said to Eve. “I’ve told you most of it, trusted you with that. Now I’m trusting you with him.”

She felt a fist squeeze around her heart. “I can’t let this be personal. You can’t ask that of me.”

“You can’t let it be anything else. Because that’s exactly what it is. Personal,” he continued, walking to her. “Intimate.” With fingertips only, he skimmed her cheek. “Mine.”

He dropped his hand as the door opened.

Summerset stepped inside. His silver hair was perfectly groomed, his black suit ruthlessly pressed, his shoes shone with a mirror gleam.

“Lieutenant,” he said, as if the word was ever so slightly distasteful to his palette. “Can I help you?”

“Why were you at the Luxury Towers yesterday at noon?”

He stared at her, through her, and his mouth thinned to a line sharp as a blade. “That is certainly none of your business.”

“Wrong, it’s exactly my business. Why did you go see Thomas Brennen?”

“Thomas Brennen? I haven’t seen Thomas Brennen since we left Ireland.”

“Then what were you doing at the Luxury Towers?”

“I fail to see what one has to do with the other. My free time is…” He trailed off, and his eyes darted to Roarke, went wide. “Is that where — Tommy lived at the Luxury Towers?”