Glory in Death Read online

  “Cicely was a tiger in the courtroom, and I never knew her to miss a detail. Until now.”

  “Why was she there, Commander, in the middle of the night? Prelim autopsy puts time of death at one sixteen. It’s a rough neighborhood—shake-downs, muggings, sex joints. There’s a known chemical trading center a couple of blocks from where she was found.”

  “I don’t know. She was a careful woman, but she was also . . . arrogant.” He smiled a little. “Admirably so. She’d go head to head with the worst this city’s got to offer. But to put herself in deliberate jeopardy . . . I don’t know.”

  “She was trying a case, Fluentes, murder two. Strangulation of a lady friend. His lawyer’s using the passion defense, but word is Towers was going to send him away. I’m checking it out.”

  “Is he on the street or in a cage?”

  “On the street. First violent offense, bail was dead low. Being it was murder, he was required to wear a homing bracelet, but that doesn’t mean diddly if he knew anything about electronics. Would she have met with him?”

  “Absolutely not. It would corrupt her case to meet a defendant out of the courtroom.” Thinking of Cicely, remembering Cicely, Whitney shook his head. “That she’d never risk. But he could have used other means to lure her there.”

  “Like I said, I’m checking it out. She had a dinner appointment last night with George Hammett. Do you know him?”

  “Socially. They saw each other occasionally. Nothing serious, according to my wife. She was always trying to find the perfect man for Cicely.”

  “Commander, it’s best if I ask now, off the record. Were you sexually involved with the victim?”

  A muscle in his cheek jerked, but his eyes stayed level. “No, I wasn’t. We had a friendship, and that friendship was very valuable. In essence, she was family. You wouldn’t understand family, Dallas.”

  “No.” Her voice was flat. “I suppose not.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Whitney rubbed his hands over his face. “That was uncalled for, and unfair. And your question was relevant.” He dropped his hands. “You’ve never lost anyone close to you, have you, Dallas?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “It shreds you to pieces,” he murmured.

  She supposed it would. In the decade she had known Whitney, she had seen him furious, impatient, even coldly cruel. But she had never seen him devastated.

  If that was what being close, and losing, did to a strong man, Eve supposed she was better off as she was. She had no family to lose, and only vague, ugly flashes of her childhood. Her life as it was now had begun when she was eight years old and had been found, battered and abandoned, in Texas. What had happened before that day didn’t matter. She told herself constantly that it didn’t matter. She had made herself into what she was, who she was. For friendship she had precious few she cared enough for, trusted enough in. As for more than friendship, there was Roarke. He had whittled away at her until she’d given him more. Enough more to frighten her at odd moments—frighten her because she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had all.

  If she gave him all, then lost him, would she be in shreds?

  Rather than dwell on it, Eve dosed herself with coffee and the remains of a candy bar she unearthed in her desk. The prospect of lunch was a fantasy right up there with spending a week in the tropics. She sipped and munched while she scanned the final autopsy report on her monitor.

  The time of death remained as issued in the prelim. The cause, a severed jugular and the resulting loss of blood and oxygen. The victim had enjoyed a meal of sea scallops and wild greens, wine, real coffee, and fresh fruit with whipped cream. Ingestion estimated at five hours before death.

  The call had come in quickly. Cicely Towers had been dead only ten minutes before a cab driver, brave or desperate enough to work the neighborhood, had spotted the body and reported it. The first cruiser had arrived three minutes later.

  Her killer had moved fast, Eve mused. Then again, it was easy to fade in a neighborhood like that, to slip into a car, a doorway, a club. There would have been blood; the jugular gushed and sprayed. But the rain would have been an asset, washing it from the murderer’s hands.

  She would have to comb the neighborhood, ask questions that were unlikely to receive any sort of viable answers. Still, bribes often worked where procedure or threats wouldn’t.

  She was studying the police photo of Cicely Towers with her necklace of blood when her ’link beeped.

  “Dallas, Homicide.”

  A face flashed on her screen, young, beaming, and sly. “Lieutenant, what’s the word?”

  Eve didn’t swear, though she wanted to. Her opinion of reporters wasn’t terribly high, but C. J. Morse was on the lowest end of her scale. “You don’t want to hear the word I’ve got for you, Morse.”

  His round face split with a smile. “Come on, Dallas, the public’s right to know. Remember?”

  “I’ve got nothing for you.”

  “Nothing? You want me to go on air saying that Lieutenant Eve Dallas, the finest of New York’s finest, has come up empty in the investigation of the murder of one of the city’s most respected, most prominent, and most visible public figures? I could do that, Dallas,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I could, but it wouldn’t look good for you.”

  “And you figure that matters to me.” Her smile was thin and laser sharp, and her finger hovered over the disconnect. “You figure wrong.”

  “Maybe not to you personally, but it would reflect on the department.” His girlishly long lashes fluttered. “On Commander Whitney for pulling strings to put you on as primary. And there’s the backwash on Roarke.”

  Her finger twitched, then curled into her palm. “Cicely Towers’s murder is a priority with the department, with Commander Whitney, and with me.”

  “I’ll quote you.”

  Fucking little bastard. “And my work with the department has nothing to do with Roarke.”

  “Hey, brown-eyes, anything that touches you, touches Roarke now, and vice versa. And you know, the fact that your man had business dealings with the recently deceased, her ex-husband, and her current escort ties it up real pretty.”

  Her hands balled into fists of frustration. “Roarke has a lot of business dealings with a lot of people. I didn’t know you were back on the gossip beat, C. J.”

  That wiped the smarmy little smile off his face. There was nothing C. J. Morse hated more than being reminded of his roots in gossip and society news. Especially now that he’d wormed his way onto the police beat. “I’ve got contacts, Dallas.”

  “Yeah, you’ve also got a pimple in the middle of your forehead. I’d have that taken care of.” With that cheap but satisfying shot, Eve cut him off.

  Springing up, she paced the small square of her office, jamming her hands into her pockets, pulling them out again. Goddamn it, why did Roarke’s name have to come up in connection with the case? Just how closely was he involved with Towers’s business dealings and her associates?

  Eve dropped into her chair again and scowled at the reports on her desk. She’d have to find out, and quickly.

  At least this time, with this murder, she knew he had an alibi. At the time Cicely Towers was having her throat slashed, Roarke had been fucking the hell out of the investigating officer.

  chapter two

  Eve would have preferred to have gone back to the apartment she continued to keep despite the fact that she spent most nights at Roarke’s. There, she could have brooded, thought, slept, and walked herself back through the last day of Cicely Towers’s life. Instead, she headed for Roarke’s.

  She was tired enough to give up the controls and let the auto program maneuver the car through late-evening traffic. Food was the first thing she needed, Eve decided. And if she could steal ten minutes to clear her mind, so much the better.

  Spring had decided to come out and play, prettily. It tempted her to open the windows, ignore the sounds of bustling traffic,
the hum of maxibuses, the griping of pedestrians, the overhead swish of air traffic.

  To avoid the echoing bellow of the guides from the tourist blimps, she veered over toward Tenth. A shot through midtown and a quick zip up Park would have been quicker, but she would have been treated to the droning recitation of New York’s attractions, the history and tradition of Broadway, the brilliance of museums, the variety of shops—and the plug for the blimp’s own gift emporium.

  As the blimp route skimmed over her apartment, she’d heard the spiel countless times. She didn’t care to hear about the convenience of the people glides that connected the sparkling fashion shops from Fifth to Madison or the Empire State Building’s newest sky walk.

  A minor traffic snag at Fifty-second had her pondering a billboard where a stunning man and a stunning woman exchanged a passionate kiss, sweetened, they claimed each time they came up for air, by Mountain Stream Breath Freshener.

  Their vehicles jammed flank to flank, a couple of cabbies shouted inventive insults at each other. A maxibus overflowing with passengers laid on its horn, adding an ear-stinging screech that had pedestrians on rampways and sidewalks shaking their heads or their fists.

  A traffic hovercraft dipped low, blasted out the standard order to proceed or be cited. Traffic inched uptown, full of noise and temper.

  The city changed as she moved from its core to its edges, where the wealthy and the privileged made their homes. Wider, cleaner streets, the sweep of trees from the islands of parks. Here the vehicles quieted to a whoosh of movement, and those who walked did so in tailored outfits and fine shoes.

  She passed a dog walker who handled a brace of elegant gold hounds with the steady aplomb of a seasoned droid.

  When she came to the gates of Roarke’s estate, her car idled until the program cleared her through. His trees were blooming. White blossoms flowed along with pink, accented by deep, rich reds and blues, all carpeted by a long sweep of emerald grass.

  The house itself towered up into the deepening sky, glass sparkling in the late sun, the stone grand and gray. It had been months since she had first seen it, yet she had never grown used to the grandeur, the sumptuousness, the simple, unadulterated wealth. She had yet to stop asking herself what she was doing here—here, with him.

  She left her car at the base of the granite steps and climbed them. She wouldn’t knock. That was pride, and it was ornery. Roarke’s butler despised her and didn’t trouble to hide it.

  As expected, Summerset appeared in the hall like a puff of black smoke, his silver hair gleaming, a frown of disapproval ready on his long face.

  “Lieutenant.” His eyes scraped her, making her aware that she was wearing the same clothes she’d left in, and they were considerably rumpled. “We were unaware of the time of your return, or indeed, if you intended to return.”

  “Were we?” She shrugged, and because she knew it offended him, peeled off her scarred leather jacket and held it out to his elegant hands. “Is Roarke here?”

  “He is engaged on an interspace transmission.”

  “The Olympus Resort?”

  Summerset’s mouth puckered like a prune. “I don’t inquire as to Roarke’s business.”

  You know exactly what he’s doing and when, she thought, but turned out of the wide, glittery hall toward the curve of the stairs. “I’m going up. I need a bath.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “You can let him know where I am when he’s finished his transmission.”

  She climbed up to the master suite. Like Roarke, she rarely used the elevators. The moment she’d slammed the bedroom door behind her, she began to strip, leaving a trail of boots, jeans, shirt, and underwear in her wake on the way to the bath.

  She ordered the water at 102 degrees Fahrenheit, and as an afterthought tossed in some of the salts Roarke had brought her back from Silas Three. They foamed into sea green froth that smelled of fairy tale woods.

  She all but rolled into the oversized marble tub, all but wept when the heat seeped into her aching bones. Drawing one deep breath, she submerged, held herself down for a count of thirty seconds, and surfaced with a sigh of sheer sensual pleasure. She kept her eyes closed and drifted.

  So he found her.

  Most people would have said she was relaxed. But then, Roarke thought, most people didn’t really know and certainly didn’t understand Eve Dallas. He was more intimate with her, closer to her mind and heart than he had ever been with another. Yet there were still pockets of her he had yet to plumb.

  She was, always, a fascinating learning experience.

  She was naked, dipped to her chin in steamy water and perfumed bubbles. Her face was flushed from the heat, her eyes closed, but she wasn’t relaxed. He could see the tension in the hand that was fisted on the wide ledge of the tub, in the faint frown between her eyes.

  No, Eve was thinking, he mused. And worrying. And planning. He moved quietly, as he had grown up doing in the alleyways of Dublin, along wharves and the stinking streets of cities everywhere. When he sat on the ledge to watch her, she didn’t stir for several minutes. He knew the instant she sensed him beside her.

  Her eyes opened, the golden brown clear and alert as they latched onto his amused blue. As always, just the sight of him gave her a quick inner jolt. His face was like a painting, a depiction in perfect oils of some fallen angel. The sheer beauty of it, framed by all that rich black hair, was forever a surprise to her.

  She cocked a brow, tilted her head. “Pervert.”

  “It’s my tub.” Watching her still, he slid an elegant hand through the bubbles into the water and along the side of her breast. “You’ll boil in there.”

  “I like it hot. I needed it hot.”

  “You’ve had a difficult day.”

  He would know, she thought, struggling not to resent it. He knew everything. She only moved her shoulder as he rose and went to the automated bar built into the tiles. It hummed briefly as it served up two glasses of wine in faceted crystal.

  He came back, sat on the ledge again, and handed her a glass. “You haven’t slept; you haven’t eaten.”

  “It goes with the territory.” The wine tasted like liquid gold.

  “Nonetheless, you worry me, Lieutenant.”

  “You worry too easily.”

  “I love you.”

  It flustered her to hear him say it in that lovely voice that hinted of Irish mists, to know that somehow, incredibly, it was true. Since she had no answer to give him, she frowned into her wine.

  He said nothing until he’d managed to tuck away irritation at her lack of response. “Can you tell me what happened to Cicely Towers?”

  “You knew her,” Eve countered.

  “Not well. A light social acquaintance, some business dealings, mostly through her former husband.” He sipped his wine, watched the steam rise from her bath. “I found her admirable, wise, and dangerous.”

  Eve scooted up until the water lapped at the tops of her breasts. “Dangerous? To you?”

  “Not directly.” His lips curved slightly before he brought the wine to them. “To nefarious practices, to illegalities, small and large, to the criminal mind. She was very like you in that respect. It’s fortunate I’ve mended my ways.”

  Eve wasn’t entirely sure of that, but she let it slide. “Through your business dealings and your light social acquaintance, are you aware of anyone who would have wanted her dead?”

  He sipped again, more deeply. “Is this an interrogation, Lieutenant?”

  It was the smile in his voice that rubbed her wrong. “It can be,” she said shortly.

  “As you like.” He rose, set his glass aside, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting into the swim, so to speak.” He tossed the shirt aside, unhooked his trousers. “If I’m going to be questioned by a naked cop, in my own tub, the least I can do is join her.”

  “Damn it, Roarke, this is murder.”

  He winced as the hot water all but scal
ded him. “You’re telling me.” He faced her across the sea of froth. “What is it in me that is so perverse it thrives on ruffling you? And,” he continued before she could give him her short, pithy opinion, “what is it about you that pulls at me, even when you’re sitting there with an invisible badge pinned to your lovely breast?”

  He skimmed a hand under, along her ankle, her calf, and to the spot on the back of her knee he knew weakened her. “I want you,” he murmured. “Right now.”

  Her hand had gone limp on the stem of her glass before she managed to shift away. “Talk to me about Cicely Towers.”

  Philosophically, Roarke settled back. He had no intention of letting her out of the tub until he was finished, so he could afford patience. “She, her former husband, and George Hammett, were on the board of one of my divisions. Mercury, named after the god of speed. Import-export for the most part. Shipping, deliveries, rapid transports.”

  “I know what Mercury is,” she said testily, dealing with the annoyance of not knowing that, too, was one of his companies.

  “It was a poorly organized and failing business when I acquired it about ten years ago. Marco Angelini, Cicely’s ex, invested, as did she. They were still married at the time, I believe, or just divorced. The termination of their marriage, apparently, was as amicable as such things can be. Hammett was also an investor. I don’t believe he became personally involved with Cicely until some years later.”

  “And this triangle, Angelini, Towers, Hammett, was that amicable, too?”

  “It seemed so.” Idly he tapped a tile. When it flipped open to reveal the hidden panel, he programmed in music. Something low and weepy. “If you’re worried about my end of it, it was business, and successful business at that.”

  “How much smuggling does Mercury do?”

  His grin flashed. “Really, Lieutenant.”

  Water lapped as she sat forward. “Don’t play games with me, Roarke.”

  “Eve, it’s my fondest wish to do just that.”

  She gritted her teeth, kicked at the hand that was sneaking up her leg. “Cicely Towers had a rep for being a no-nonsense prosecutor, dedicated, clean as they come. If she’d discovered any of Mercury’s dealings skirted the law, she’d have gone after you with a vengeance.”