Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(8)

They inched their way along, staggered up the stone steps to the apron. “Coffee,” Eve said weakly, then stumbled off to fetch two thick terry robes.

When she came back, carrying one and bundled into the other, Roarke had already programmed the AutoChef for two cups, black. The sun was staining the curved glass at the end of the enclosure a pale gold.

“Hungry?”

She sipped the coffee, hummed as the rich caffeine kicked. “Starving. But I want a shower.”

“Upstairs then.”

Back in the master suite, Eve carried her coffee into the shower. When Roarke stepped into the criss-crossing sprays with her, she narrowed her eyes. “Lower the water temp and die,” she warned.

“Cold water opens the pores, gets the juices flowing.”

“You’ve already taken care of that.” She set the coffee on a ledge and soaped up in the steam.

She got out first, and as she stepped into the drying tube, shook her head as Roarke ordered the water to drop by ten degrees. Even the thought of it made her shiver.

She knew he was waiting for her to tell him about the case that had kept her out the night before and was taking her back on her day off. She appreciated that he waited for her to settle in the sitting area of the suite, a second cup of coffee in her hand and a plate loaded with a ham and cheese omelette waiting to be devoured.

“I really am sorry about not showing up for the deal last night.”

Roarke sampled his own buttermilk pancakes. “Am I going to have to apologize every time I’m called away on business that affects our personal plans?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and shook her head. “No. The thing is I was headed out the door — I hadn’t forgotten — and this call came in. Jammed transmission. We couldn’t track.”

“The NYPSD has pitiful equipment.”

“Not that pitiful,” she muttered. “This guy’s a real pro. You might have had a tough time with it.”

“Now, that’s insulting.”

She had to smirk. “Well, you might get a chance at him. Since he tagged me personally, I wouldn’t put it past him to contact me here.”

Roarke set his fork aside, picked up his coffee, both gestures casual though his entire body had gone to alert. “Personally?”

“Yeah, he wanted me. Hit me with some religious mission crap first. Basically, he’s doing the Lord’s work and the Big Guy wants to play with riddles.” She ran the transmission through for him, watching his eyes narrow, sharpen. Roarke was quick, she reflected as she saw his mouth go grim.

“You checked the Luxury Towers.”

“That’s right, penthouse floor. He’d left part of the victim in the living area. The rest of him was in the bedroom.”

She pushed her plate aside and rose, raking a hand through her hair as she paced. “It was as bad as I’ve ever seen, Roarke, vicious. Because it was calculated to be ugly, not because it was uncontrolled. Most of the work was precise, like surgery. Prelim from the ME indicates the victim was kept alive and aware during most of the mutilation. He’d been pumped up with illegals — enough to keep him conscious without taking the edge off the pain. And believe me, the pain must have been unspeakable. He’d been disemboweled.”

“Christ Jesus.” Roarke blew out a breath. “An ancient punishment for political or religious crimes. A slow and hideous death.”

“And a goddamn messy one,” she put in. “His feet had been severed — one hand gone at the wrist. He was still alive when his right eye was cut out. That was the only piece of him we didn’t recover at the scene.”

“Lovely.” Though he considered his stomach a strong one, Roarke lost his taste for breakfast. Rising, he went to the closet. “An eye for an eye.”

“That’s a revenge thing, right? From some play.”

“The Bible, darling. The lord of all plays.” He chose casual pleated trousers from the revolving rack.

“Back to God again. Okay, the game’s revenge. Maybe it’s religious, maybe it’s just personal. We may zero in on motive when we finish running the victim. I’ve got a media blackout at least until I contact his family.”

Roarke hitched up the trousers, reached for a simple white linen shirt. “Children?”

“Yeah, three.”

“You have a miserable job, Lieutenant.”

“That’s why I love it.” But she rubbed her hands over her face. “His wife and kids are in Ireland, we think. I need to track them down today.”

“In Ireland?”

“Hmm. Yeah, seems the victim was one of your former countrymen. I don’t suppose you knew a Thomas X. Brennen, did you?” Her half smile faded when she saw Roarke’s eyes go dark and flat. “You did know him. I never figured it.”

“Early forties?” Roarke asked without inflection. “About five-ten, sandy hair?”

“Sounds like. He was into communications and entertainment.”

“Tommy Brennen.” With the shirt still in his hand, Roarke sat on the arm of a chair. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me that he was a friend.”

“He wasn’t.” Roarke shook his head to clear away the memories. “At least not in more than a decade. I knew him in Dublin. He was running computer scams while I was grifting. We crossed paths a few times, did a little business, drank a few pints. About twelve years ago, Tommy hooked up with a young woman of good family. Lace curtain Irish. He fell hard and decided to go straight. All the way straight,” Roarke added with a crooked grin. “And he severed ties with the less… desirable elements of his youth. I knew he had a base here in New York, but we stayed out of each other’s way. I believe his wife knows nothing of his past endeavors.”