[In Death 16] - Portrait in Death Page 15

  The first level was basic. Her date and place of birth, her parents and siblings, her husband and children. Her work record. It jibed with what she’d told him, but he’d expected that.

  A good con required a good foundation, didn’t it? Who knew that better than he did?

  She had to be lying. Had to be, because if she wasn’t . . .

  Pain and panic crashed in his gut. He bore down, stared at the data on-screen. She had to be lying, and that was that. He only had to find the first chink, and the rest of her fanciful story would crumble.

  As the layers peeled away, he studied her medical records, her financials, and those of her family. With a deadly calm he stripped away her privacy, and that of everyone connected to her.

  It took him a full hour and he found nothing that sent up a flag.

  He got more coffee, settled himself again, then spoke the command he’d hoped to avoid.

  “Run search on Siobhan Brody, born County Clare, Ireland, between 2003 and 2006.”

  WORKING . . . THIRTY-THREE FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME.

  “Subject is proported to be one of twins.”

  WORKING . . . FOUR FEMALES BORN DURING THAT TIME PERIOD UNDER THIS NAME WHO WERE ONE OF TWINS.

  Now his palms were damp. He was stalling, and knew it. Taking too many steps to find a single answer. “Subject is one of twin girls, sibling Sinead.”

  WORKING . . . MATCH FOUND, SEARCHING . . .

  “Display most recent image of subject while searching. Wall Screen One.”

  DISPLAYING. I.D. IMAGE SIOBHAN BRODY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2023.

  She shimmered onto the screen, filled it with her young, pretty face, her shy smile. Her hair was bright, bold red, drawn smoothly back from her head, her eyes a soft, soft green, her skin all roses and milk.

  Younger, Roarke thought as his gut twisted, a year or two younger than the picture he’d seen in Moira O’Bannion’s office. And without that deep sadness, without the wear and the bruises. But the same girl. The same.

  BRODY, SIOBHAN, BORN TULLA, COUNTY CLARE, IRELAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 2005. PARENTS COLIN BRODY AND PATRICIA CARNEY BRODY, FARMERS. SIBLINGS EDWARD BRODY, FERGUS BRODY, SINEAD BRODY, TWIN. EDUCATED AT MOTHER OF MERCY THROUGH GRADE TWELVE. NO FURTHER EDUCATION. EMPLOYMENT, FAMILY BUSINESS. ADDITIONAL EMPLOYMENT CARNEY’S PUB, TULLA, 2022 THROUGH 2023. THE WHITE HORSE, DUBLIN, NOVEMBER 2023 THROUGH OCTOBER 2024.

  He stared at the screen image. “Additional data requested. Marriage, children, current status.”

  NO MARRIAGE ON RECORD, NO LEGAL COHABITATION ON RECORD, NO CHILD ON RECORD. CURRENT STATUS UNKNOWN. THERE IS NO DATA ON BRODY, SIOBHAN, AFTER OCTOBER 2024.

  A line of icy sweat trailed down the center of his back. No record. Dropped off the face, he thought.

  “Criminal investigations relating to, medical records, financials, known associates. Something for fuck’s sake.”

  WORKING . . .

  There was more, he told himself as he rose. And this time he went for whiskey. There was always more. He’d find it.

  Eve walked in the door only two hours over shift. She told herself she was pleased Summerset wasn’t in the foyer waiting to hassle her, and the only reason she headed back to his quarters was for the chance to hassle him.

  She found him in his living area, propped in his chair with some sort of long-hair piano music playing while he paged through a thick, leather-bound book she imagined came from Roarke’s personal library.

  Galahad, perched on the arm of the chair, blinked at her.

  “Where’s the warden?” Eve asked.

  “Taking a brisk walk around the estate, while I enjoy some much-deserved solitude.” Though he pretended reluctance, he marked and closed the book, prepared to be entertained. “You’re quite late this evening.”

  “I don’t live by the clock.”

  “Despite my temporary difficulties, I still run this household, and require some notification of your schedule. You were expected more than an hour ago.”

  “You know, this is funny, I see your mouth moving but all I hear is blah, blah, blah. Maybe your little trip damaged your vocal chords. I should ask Nurse Happy Time to check it out.”

  He peeled his lips back in a grin. “You must have had a quiet day. There’s no blood on you for a change.”

  “Day’s not over. I’d better go see if Roarke made it home on schedule, so he doesn’t get scolded.”

  “He’s been back for some time.” And hadn’t come back to visit. “He’s in the private office.”

  Her eyebrows went up, but she shrugged. “I’ve got work. Oh, and so you know, I left my vehicle out front to embarrass you if you have any visitors this evening.”

  When she strolled out, Summerset sat back, satisfied, and listened to Chopin while he scratched Galahad between the ears.

  Eve went directly up to the private office, used the palm plate, gave her name and code.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Baffled, she stared at the locked door, the blinking red light above it. “Well, that’s bull,” she grumbled and gave the door a little kick before trying again.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  On an oath, she yanked out her pocket-link and called Roarke’s personal number. Her brows drew together when his voice slid out, but her screen remained blank.

  Why the hell would he block video?

  “Hey, what’s up? I’m standing outside the door, but my code’s not working.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  When the ’link clicked off, she stared at it. “Sure, ace, I’ll give you a minute.”

  It took a full one, and a bit more, before she heard the security stand down. The light went green.

  When she stepped in, he was seated behind the console. His sleeves were rolled up, a sign to her that he was working one or more of the keyboards manually.

  But his face was as blank as the wall screens.

  The door shut behind her, and locked.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have work.”

  “On the unregistered?”

  Annoyance flickered over his face, and he picked up the heavy crystal glass at his elbow, watching her over the rim, coolly, dispassionately, as he drank. “Yes. On the unregistered.”

  There was no warmth in his voice. No smile of greeting. “Is there a problem?”

  He swirled the liquid in his glass and watched her the way she’d seen him watch an adversary he intended to dispose of. “Why should there be?”

  Baffled, she walked behind the console, but the screens there were also dark and blank. She caught the sharp scents of whiskey and tobacco. The ripple of unease she felt increased. “Because I was denied access, because you’re sitting here drinking, because you closed down whatever you’re working on so I couldn’t see it.”

  “You were denied access because I’m working on a private matter. I’m drinking because I wanted a drink.” He lifted the glass to his lips again, as if to prove it. “I closed down because what I’m doing has nothing to do with you. Does that clear it up for you, Lieutenant?”

  There was a little punch of shock, dead center in her throat. Instinctively, she searched back through the day for something said or done to have caused his anger.

  For it was anger, under all that cold wash. Hot and bubbling.

  “If you’re pissed at me about something, I’d like to know what it is. That way when I kick your ass, we’ll both know why.”

  Get out, was all he could think. Get out and leave me be so I can finish this nightmare. “Not everything I do pertains to you. Not everything I feel revolves around you.”

  It was a quick and nasty slice in the heart, and she struggled to ignore it. “Look, something’s wrong. I can see it.” Worried now, she laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbed. And felt the vicious knots of tensed muscles. “If this is about Summerset, I just saw him, and he’s his usual irritating self. I know you’re upset about what happened to him, but—”

  “He’s being well seen to
, isn’t he? I’ve taken care of it. It might occur to you that I’ve more on my mind than you, and him, your work, your worries.” He shoved away from her to get up, to get away from that supportive hand on his shoulder, to go over to pour another whiskey with the foolish hope that this time it might flood away the sickness inside him.

  “Roarke—”

  “Goddamn it, Eve, I’m busy here.” He snapped it out, and stopped her in her tracks. “Give me some fucking space, will you? I’m not in the mood to chat or for a quick shag or a replay of your day.”

  Insult and anger lit her face. “Just what the hell are you in the mood for?”

  “To be left alone to do what I’m set to do here.”

  I can’t stand having you here, can’t stand doing what I’m doing.

  “The time I spend diddling about with your work takes away from my own, and I’ve got to make it up when I choose. As the bloody door was locked, it might’ve occurred to you that I didn’t want to be interrupted. I’ve a great deal to do, so why don’t you be about your own? I’ve no doubt you’ve plenty of the dead to keep you occupied for one evening.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded slowly, and the temper in her eyes had faded into astonished hurt. “I’ve always got the dead. I’ll just get the hell out of your way.”

  She strode for the door, heard the locks whisper open even before she reached it. The instant she was through, it shut and locked tight.

  Inside, Roarke stared into the glass, then simply hurled it against the wall so the crystal showered to the floor like lethal tears.

  She went to work, or tried, started by running all the names she’d been able to get from Hastings. She’d talk to each personally, but she wanted the basic background before she began.

  She had Peabody’s very detailed report on her foray into the field. The second pop was tidily alibied for Rachel Howard’s murder. Eve expected the alibi to hold, but would have Peabody follow up.

  She ran more probabilities, checked her notes, set up a board on which she pinned the images of Rachel, the class schedule, a blueprint of the parking lot, an overview of Columbia campus.

  And she worried about Roarke.

  At midnight, she walked into the bedroom, found it empty. The house computer told her he was where she’d left him.

  He was still there when she climbed into bed alone just before one A.M.

  She didn’t mind a fight. The fact was, sometimes a good fight livened things up. Got the blood moving. And no matter how mad they might get at each other, they were always involved.

  This hadn’t been a fight. He’d just cut her off, cut her out, watched her with cold blue eyes, the way he might watch a stranger. Or a slightly annoying acquaintance.

  She shouldn’t have walked out, she told herself as she rolled to find some comfort in the big bed. She should’ve stayed, made him fight until he’d told her what was wrong.

  He’d known exactly the way to get her to go. If he’d fought with her, she’d have waded in. But he’d dismissed her, flicked her away, stunning her so she’d been out the door with her tail between her legs.

  Just wait, she thought. Just wait until she got hold of him again.

  While she lay there, sleepless in the dark, a nineteen-year-old performing arts student named Kenby Sulu was being immortalized.

  He stood tall, slim, forever young, his body carefully posed, his lifeless limbs supported by hair-thin wire so that he might look perfect in the dispassionate lens of the camera.

  Such light! Such strong light. It coats me. It feeds me. He was brilliant, this clever young man with the dancer’s build and the artist’s soul. Now he is me. What he was lives forever in me.

  I could feel him merge with Rachel, with me. We are more intimate than lovers now. We are one force of life, more than each of us could ever be without the other.

  What a gift they have given me. And so I have given them eternity.

  There will be no shadows in them.

  Only the mad would call this madness. Only the blind will look and not see.

  Soon, very soon, I think I can show the world what I’ve done. But first, more light. I need two more before I share with the world.

  But, of course, I must give them a peek.

  When all was done that needed to be done, a note and an image were sent to Nadine Furst, at Channel 75.

  Chapter 10

  The beeping of the bedside ’link shot her out of a nightmare. From dark to dark. Shivering, groping through the panic, she dragged at the tangled sheets.

  “Block video. Oh Jesus, lights, ten percent. Damn it, goddamn it.”

  Eve scrubbed the heels of her hands over her damp cheeks, sucked at air while her heart continued to thunder, and answered the call.

  “Dallas.”

  DISPATCH, DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE.

  She dragged at her hair. “Acknowledged.”

  REPORT IMMEDIATELY, LINCOLN CENTER, ENTRANCE TO METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE. POSSIBLE HOMICIDE.

  “Is the scene secure?”

  AFFIRMATIVE.

  “Notify Peabody, Officer Delia. My ETA, twenty minutes.”

  ACKNOWLEDGED. DISPATCH OUT.

  She rolled out of bed, the empty bed. It was nearly four in the morning, but he hadn’t come to bed. Her skin was clammy from the nightmare, so she gave herself two minutes in the shower, another minute in the swirling heat of the drying tube, and felt almost steady again.

  She dressed quickly in the dim light, strapped on her weapon, pocketed her badge, her field restraints, clipped on her recorder. And was halfway out the bedroom door when she cursed, stalked back, and dug a memo cube out of the drawer of the night stand.

  “I caught a case,” she said into it. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  She thought of a dozen things she wanted to say, but they all seemed pointless. So she left it at that, tossed the memo on the bed, and went to work.

  The police sensors were up, flashing red and yellow. At the curb a couple of black-and-whites nosed together, with their cones circling in cold blue, hot red.

  The great fountain that graced the wide terrace was quiet, and the elegant building behind it dressed in shadows. She’d lived a decade in New York without ever having come to this cathedral of the arts. Until Roarke had taken her inside to the theater, to concerts, even the opera.

  When you were hooked up with a man like Roarke, she thought, your horizons broadened whether you wanted them to or not.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  “Lieutenant.”

  She nodded to the uniform who greeted her and pulled herself back. A cop didn’t have a personal life, or personal worries on a crime scene.

  “What have we got?” She skimmed his tag. “Officer Feeno.”

  “Male, Asian mix, about twenty. DOS. Couple of half-stewed partyers found him in the fountain. Guy pulled the kid out, woman called it in. My partner and I were first to respond and arrived about two minutes after the call. My partner’s got the witnesses stashed over there.”

  He gestured to the steps leading up to the entrance.

  “Keep them wrapped for now. Send my aide through when she arrives.”

  “Yes, sir. Looks like he might’ve fallen in and drowned. Not a mark on him, and the way he’s dressed, he could be an usher for the Met or one of the other theaters in the Center. Thing is,” he continued as he fell into step beside Eve, “he’s about the same age as the recycle bin case. She didn’t have any marks on her either.”

  “We’ll see what we see.”

  There were still little rivulets and pools of wet where the body had been pulled out of the fountain. The air was already warm, but heavy enough with humidity that she imagined the water would take some time to evaporate.

  She set down her field kit, engaged her recorder, and stood over the body.

  Young, she thought on the first quick stir of pity. Twenty at best. Pretty face for a boy. Death had leeched his color, but she imagined his skin had been a smooth and dusky go
ld to go with the ink black hair and brows. Sharp facial bones, long, elegant fingers, a long trim body, mostly leg.

  He was dressed in black—short jacket with a notched collar, straight pants, soft leather shoes. When she crouched, peered close, she could see the faint marks where a name tag had been removed.

  Carefully removed, she thought.

  “Victim is male, Asian, eighteen to twenty. No visible signs of violence. He is fully dressed in what appears to be a uniform.”

  She sealed up, then went through his pockets for ID. She found a wallet that held two debit cards, a student ID, and an employee card from the Lincoln Center.

  “Victim is identified as Sulu, Kenby, age nineteen, Upper East Side residence, currently a registered student at Juilliard and employed by Lincoln Center.”

  She sealed the wallet in evidence, then examined his hands.

  The skin was smooth, the nails short and well-kept. “Come from money, don’t you?” she murmured. “Took care of yourself. Juilliard.” She looked toward the Center. “So it was theater for you. You were working tonight. Part-time job, right? To keep close to the theater, maybe help pay your way.”

  She turned his right hand over, saw the faint red mark from a pressure syringe. “I’m going to find out how he got you, Kenby.”

  She dug into her field kit, barely glancing up when she heard the huffing breaths and rapid clap of cop shoes on pavement.

  “Record on, Peabody. The body’s been moved. Lifted out of the fountain, civilian found him.” As she spoke, she fixed on microgoggles and examined the palm of the right hand more closely.

  “Faint discoloration as is typical from pressure syringe.”

  “Like Howard.”

  “Yeah, like Howard.” She unbuttoned the jacket. “He was carrying an ID, and two debit cards, got a trendy wrist unit.”

  “Not robbery.”

  “No, not robbery.” She parted the jacket.