Visions in Death (In Death #19)(8)

It was after five A.M. when Eve crept into the bedroom. She stripped off as she crossed to the bed, letting clothes lay where they fell, then crawled naked into bed.

She hadn't made a sound, had barely shifted the mattress, but Roarke's arm circled her waist, and drew her back against him.

"Didn't mean to wake you up. I'm going to catch a couple hours. Peabody's bunked in her favorite guest room."

"Turn it off, then." His lips brushed her hair. "Just sleep."

"Two hours," she murmured. And turned it off.

Her next, not quite coherent thought was: Coffee.

She could smell it. The seductive scent climbed into her sleeping brain like a lover up a flower-strewn trellis. Then she blinked her eyes open, and saw Roarke.

He was invariably up before her, and as usual was already dressed in one of his master-of-the-world suits. But instead of being in the sitting area of the bedroom, as was his habit, scanning the early stock reports and whatever over his breakfast, he was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at her.

"What's up? Something happen? Was there another—?"

"No. Relax." He pressed a hand to her shoulder to hold her down when she started to spring up. "I'm your wake-up call, complete with coffee." He moved the cup into her line of sight.

And watched her eyes glaze over with longing.

" Gimme."

He eased back, handed it over, waited while she took her first, desperate swallow. "You know, darling, if caffeine ever makes it to the illegals list, you're going to have to register as an addict."

"They try to make coffee an illegal, I'll kill them all, and it won't be an issue. How do I rate coffee in bed?"

"I love you."

"Yeah, you do." She took another gulp, grinned. "Sucker."

"That's no way to persuade me to get you a second cup."

"I love you back?"

"That would probably work." He rubbed a thumb along the shadows already dogging her eyes. "You need more than two hours, Lieutenant."

"It's all I can spare. I'll make it up. Eventually. Gonna grab a shower."

She was up, and took what was left of the coffee with her into the bathroom. He heard her call for jets on full, at one-oh-one. And only shook his head at her habit of boiling herself awake every morning.

He'd see that she got some fuel in her, and hopefully wouldn't have to tie her down and force-feed her. He'd just begun to program the AutoChef for breakfast, when he heard the quick padding steps behind him.

"I'd swear there was a chip in your head that signals any time anyone so much as thinks of food." Roarke glanced down at the pudgy cat rubbing hopefully against his leg. "I'll wager you've already been fed in the kitchen."

Galahad purred like an engine and rubbed harder. Ignoring him for the moment, Roarke selected French toast for Eve, something she had a hard time resisting. He added a couple rashers of bacon, knowing his own weakness where the cat was concerned.

Eve came out wearing a short white terry robe. "I'm just going to grab something at Central when..." She sniffed the air, spotted the plate of French toast. "That was low."

"Yes." He patted the seat beside him, then moved the cat when Galahad took him up on the invitation. "Not you. Sit down, Eve. You can spare fifteen minutes for some breakfast."

"Maybe. Besides, I should fill you in on a couple things. Two birds, time efficiency." She sat, poured syrup lavishly over bread.

She took a bite, nudged the cat back as he tried to belly toward her plate, then reached for the fresh coffee Roarke poured. "The victim worked for Luther and Deann Vanderlea."

"Of Vanderlea Antiquities?"

"That's what it said when I ran his data. How well do you know them?"

"I used Vanderlea extensively when furnishing this house, and others. Consulted with his father for most of it, but I know Luther and his wife. I wouldn't call them personal friends, but certainly friendly acquaintances. He's knowledgeable about his business, and very involved in the running of it at this stage. Pleasant enough people, and she's very bright and charming. Are they suspects?"

"Luther was in Madrid at the time of the murder. As far as I can confirm at this point. Wife's not on my list. In fact, unless she's an award-winning actress, she and the victim were as much friends as boss and domestic. More. She took it hard, but stood up to it. I liked her."

"I can tell you, from what I know of Luther, I can't see him raping a woman, much less murdering one and cutting out her eyes."

"He the type who might try to diddle with the maid under his wife's nose?"

"One never knows what a man might try to diddle with under his wife's nose, but it wouldn't be my call where he's concerned, no. They strike me as very happy together. I think they have a young child."

"Girl, age four. Same age as the victim's daughter. Deann Vanderlea's having a very hard morning."

"The victim have a spouse?"

"Ex. Lives in the Caribbean. Abusive history. We'll look at him close."

"Current lover?"

"Not according to Deann. Victim, Elisa Maplewood, purportedly went out, between ten and midnight, to walk the little foo-foo dog. We'll get the exact from building security. Strolled into the park where he grabbed her. Waited—had to be waiting—attacked, raped, strangled, then carted her over to the rocks to lay her out, finish his job. Are the eyes a symbol?" she wondered. "Windows to the soul, an eye for an eye? Or a twisted religious ritual? Maybe just a souvenir."