Holiday in Death Page 3

  Gently now, Eve laid a hand on his arm. He was shaking badly, and the hands on the glass had balled into fists and were pounding in short, light beats. "Just nod if you can identify her as Marianna Hawley."

  He nodded. Then he began to weep.

  "Peabody, find us an empty office. Get him some water." Even as Eve spoke, she found herself engulfed by him, his arms coming around her, his face pressed into her shoulder. His body bowed down to her by the weight of his grief.

  She let him hang on, signaling the tech behind the glass to raise the privacy shield.

  "Come on, Jerry, come with me now." She kept a supporting arm around him, thinking she'd rather face a stunner on full than a grieving survivor. There was no help for those left behind. No magic, no cure. But she murmured to him as she led him down the tiled hall to the doorway where Peabody stood.

  "We can use this one," Peabody said quietly. "I'll get the water."

  "Let's sit down." After helping him to a chair, Eve pulled the handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit coat and pressed it into his hand. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, as she always did. And felt the inadequacy of it, as she always did.

  "Marianna. Who would hurt Marianna? Why?"

  "It's my job to find out. I will find out."

  Something in the way she said it had him looking over at her. His eyes were red and desolate. With an obvious effort he drew in a deep breath. "I -- She was so special." He groped in his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "I was going to give this to her tonight. I'd planned to wait until Christmas Eve -- Marianna loved Christmas -- but I couldn't. I just couldn't wait."

  His hands trembled as he opened the box to show Eve the bright flash of diamond on the engagement ring. "I was going to ask her to marry me tonight. She would have said yes. We loved each other. Was it. . ." Carefully he closed the box again, slipped it back in his pocket. "Was it a robbery?"

  "We don't think so. How long have you known her?"

  "Six months, almost seven." He stared at Peabody as she came in and held out a cup of water. "Thank you." He took it, but didn't drink. "The happiest six months of my life."

  "How did you meet?"

  "Through Personally Yours. It's a dating service."

  "You use a dating service?" This from Peabody with more than a little surprise.

  He hunched his shoulders, sighed. "It was an impulse. I spend most of my time on work and wasn't getting out much. I was divorced a couple years ago, and I guess it made me nervous with women. Anyway, none of the women I met... Nothing clicked. I saw an ad on screen one night, and I thought, what the hell. Couldn't hurt."

  He did drink now, one small sip that had his throat working visibly as he swallowed. "Marianna was the third of the first five matches. I went out with the first two -- drinks, just drinks. There was nothing there. But when I met Marianna, everything was there."

  He closed his eyes, struggled for composure. "She's so ... wonderful. So much energy, enthusiasm. She loved her job, her apartment, she got a kick out of her theater group. She does community theater sometimes."

  Eve noted the way he switched back and forth, past and present tense. His mind was trying to accustom itself to what was, but it wasn't quite ready yet.

  "You started dating," she prompted.

  "Yes. We'd agreed to meet for drinks. Just drinks -- to scope each other out. We ended up going to dinner, then going for coffee. Talking for hours. Neither one of us saw anyone else after that night. It was just it, for both of us."

  "She felt the same way?"

  "Yeah. We took it slow. A few dinners, the theater. We both love the theater. We started spending Saturday afternoons together. A matinee, a museum, or just a walk. We went back to her hometown so I could meet her family. The Fourth of July. I took her to meet mine. My mother made dinner."

  His eyes unfocused as he stared at something only he could see.

  "She wasn't seeing anyone else during this period?"

  "No. We'd made a commitment."

  "Do you know if anyone was bothering her -- an old boyfriend, a former lover? Her ex-husband?"

  "No, I'm sure she would have told me. We talked all the time. We told each other everything." His eyes cleared, the brown hardening like crystal. "Why do you ask that? Was she -- Marianna .. . Did he ... Oh God." On his knee his hand balled into a fist. "He raped her first, didn't he? The fucking bastard raped her. I should have been with her." He heaved the cup across the room, sending water splashing as he lurched to his feet. "I should have been with her. It would never have happened if I'd been with her."

  "Where were you, Jerry?"

  "What?"

  "Where were you last night, between nine-thirty and midnight?"

  "You think I -- " He stopped himself, holding up a hand, closing his eyes. Three times he inhaled, exhaled. Then he opened his eyes again, and they remained clear. "It's all right. You need to make sure it wasn't me so you can find him. It's all right. It's for her."

  "That's right." And studying him Eve felt a new well of pity. "It's for her."

  "I was home, my apartment. I did some work, made some calls, did a little Christmas shopping via computer. I reconfirmed the dinner reservations for tonight because I was nervous. I wanted -- " He cleared his throat. "I wanted it to be perfect. Then I called my mother." He lifted his hands, rubbed them hard over his face. "I had to tell somebody. She was thrilled, excited. She was crazy about Marianna. I think that was about ten-thirty. You can check my 'link records, my computer, anything you need to do."

  "Okay, Jerry."

  "Have you -- Her family, do they know?"

  "Yes, I spoke with her parents."

  "I need to call them. They'll want her to come home." His eyes filled again, and he continued to look at Eve as tears streamed down his cheeks. "I'll take her back home."

  "I'll see that she's released as soon as possible. Is there someone we can call for you?"

  "No. I need to go tell my parents. I need to go." He turned toward the door, and spoke without looking back. "You find who did this. You find who hurt her."

  "I will. Jerry, one last thing."

  He rubbed his face dry and turned back. "What is it?"

  "Did Marianna have a tattoo?"

  He laughed, a short, harsh sound that seemed to scrape out of his throat. "Marianna? No. She was old-fashioned, wouldn't even go for temporaries."

  "You're sure of that."

  "We were lovers, Lieutenant. We were in love. I knew her body, I knew her mind and her heart."

  "Okay. Thank you." She waited until he'd gone out, until the door clicked quietly closed behind him. "Impressions, Peabody?"

  "Guy's heart's ripped right out of his chest."

  "Agreed. But people often kill the ones they love. Even with 'link records, his alibi's going to be shaky."

  "He doesn't look a thing like Santa Claus."

  Eve smiled a little. "I guarantee the person who killed her won't either. Otherwise he wouldn't have been so happy to pose for the camera. Padding, change the eye color, makeup, beard, and wig. Any damn body can look like Santa."

  But for now, she had to go with the gut. "It's not him. Let's check out where she worked, find her friends and enemies."

  * * *

  Friends, Eve thought later, Marianna appeared to have in volume. Enemies, she seemed to have none.

  The picture that was being painted was one of a happy, outgoing woman who liked her work, was close to her family but enjoyed the pace and excitement of the city.

  She had a tightly knit group of female friends, a weakness for shopping, a deep love of theater, and according to all sources had been in an exclusive and happy relationship with Jeremy Vandoren.

  She was dancing on air.

  Everyone who knew her loved her.

  She had an open, trusting heart.

  As she drove home, Eve let the statements made by friends and associates play back in her mind. No one found fault with Marianna. Not once had she heard one of those sly
, often self-congratulatory remarks the living made of the dead.

  But there was someone who thought differently, someone who had killed her with calculation, with care, and, if the look in those eyes was any indication, with a kind of glee.

  My True Love.

  Yes, someone had loved her enough to kill her. Eve knew that kind of love existed, bred, festered. She'd been the recipient of that hot and twisted emotion. And survived it, she reminded herself and engaged her 'link.

  "Got the tox report on Hawley yet, Dickie?"

  The long-suffering and homely face of the chief lab tech filled the screen. "You know how things get clogged up here during the holidays. People whacking people right and left, technicians putzing around with Christmas and Hanukkah shit instead of doing their jobs."

  "Yeah, my heart's bleeding for you. I want the tox report."

  "I want a vacation." But muttering, he shifted and began to call something up on his computer. "She was tranq'd. Over-the-counter stuff, pretty mild. Given her weight, the dosage wouldn't have done much more than make her stupid for ten, fifteen minutes."

  "Long enough," Eve murmured.

  "Indications are a pressure injection, upper right arm. Likely felt like she'd just downed a half dozen Zombies. Results: dizziness, disorientation, possibly temporary loss of consciousness, and muscular weakness."

  "Okay. Any semen?"

  "Nope, not one little soldier. He condomized or her BC killed them. We still need to check on that. Body was sprayed with disinfectant. Traces of it in her vagina, too, which would have killed off some of the warriors. We got nothing off her. Oh -- one more. The cosmetics used on her don't match what she had in her place. We're not finished with them yet, but prelim indicates they're all natural ingredients, meaning high dollar. Odds are he brought them with him."

  "Get me brand names as soon as you can. It's a good lead. Nice job, Dickie."

  "Yeah, yeah. Happy fucking holidays."

  "Same to you, Dickhead," she muttered after she logged off. And rolling some of the tension out of her shoulders, she headed through the iron gates toward home.

  She could see the lights in the windows beaming through the winter dark -- tall windows, arched windows in towers and turrets -- and the long sweep of the main floor.

  Home, she thought. It had become hers because of the man who owned it. The man who loved her. The man who'd put his ring on her finger -- as Jeremy had wanted to do with Marianna.

  She turned her wedding band with her thumb as she parked her car in front of the main entrance.

  She'd been everything, Jerry had said. Even a year before she wouldn't have understood that. Now she did.

  She sat where she was a moment, dragged both hands through her already disordered cap of hair. The man's grief had wormed its way into her. That was a mistake; it wouldn't help and could possibly hinder the investigation. She needed to put it aside, to block out of her mind the devastation of emotion she'd felt from him when he'd all but collapsed in her arms.

  Love didn't always win, she reminded herself. But justice could, if she was good enough.

  She got out of her car, left it where it was, and started up the steps to the front door. The minute she was inside, she peeled out of her leather jacket and dropped it carelessly over the elegant newel post banking the curve of stairs.

  Summerset slipped out of the shadows and stood, tall, bony, eyes dark and disapproving in a pale face. "Lieutenant."

  "Leave my vehicle exactly where it is," she told him and swung toward the stairs.

  He sniffed, an audible sucking of air through his nose. "You have several messages."

  "They can wait." She kept climbing and began to fantasize about a hot shower, a glass of wine, and a ten-minute nap.

  He called after her, but she'd already stopped listening. "Bite me," she said absently, then opened the door to the bedroom.

  Everything inside her that had wilted, bloomed.

  Roarke stood in front of the closet, stripped to the waist, his beautiful back muscles rippling subtly as he reached in for a fresh shirt. He turned his head, and the full power of that face struck her. The poet's mouth curved, the rich blue eyes smiled as he shook back his glorious mane of thick black hair.

  "Hello, Lieutenant."

  "I didn't think you'd be back for a couple of hours anyway."

  He laid the shirt aside. She hadn't been sleeping well, he thought. He could see the fatigue, the shadows. "I made good time."

  "Yeah, you did." Then she was going to him, moving fast, almost too fast to see the quick light of surprise, the deepening of pleasure in his eyes. His arms were open for her when she got there.

  She drew in his scent, deeply, ran her hands up his back, firmly, then turned her face into his hair and sighed, once.

  "You did miss me," he murmured.

  "Just hold on for a minute, okay?"

  "As long as you like."

  Her body fit with his; somehow it simply fit like one piece of a puzzle inter-linking with another. She thought of the way Jeremy Vandoren had showed her the ring, the glinting promise of it.

  "I love you." It was a shock to feel the raw tears in her throat, an effort to swallow them back. "I'm sorry I don't tell you often enough."

  He'd heard the tears. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, to rub gently at the tension he felt knotted there. "What is it, Eve?"

  "Not now." Steadier, she drew back, framed his face with her hands. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad you're home." Her lips curved as she leaned in and slanted them over his.

  Warmth, welcome, and the underlying shimmer of passion that never seemed fully sated. And with it, sheltered in it, she could for a little while push everything outside but this.

  "Were you changing clothes?" she asked against his mouth.

  "I was. Ummm. A little more of that," he murmured and nipped at her bottom lip until she shivered.

  "Well, I think it's a waste of time." To prove it, she slipped her hands between their bodies and unbuttoned his trousers.

  "You're absolutely right." He pressed the release on her shoulder holster and shoved it aside. "I love disarming you, Lieutenant."

  In a quick move that had his brow arching, she twisted and had him pressed against the closet door. "I don't need a weapon to take you, pal."

  "Prove it."

  He was already hard when her hand curled around him. The blue of his eyes deepened with dark, dangerous lights flickering in them.

  "You haven't been wearing your gloves again."

  She smiled, sliding her chilly fingers up and down the length of him. "Is that a complaint?"

  "No, indeed." His breath was clogging. Of all the women he'd known she was the only one who could leave him breathless with so little effort. He skimmed his hands up to cup her breasts, rubbed his thumbs gently over the nipples before unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

  He wanted her under him.

  "Come to bed."

  "What's wrong with here?" She lowered her head, bit his shoulder. "What's wrong with now?"

  "Not a thing." This time he moved fast, hooking a foot behind hers to throw her off balance, then tumbling with her to the floor. "But I've a mind to take you instead of the other way around."

  His mouth clamped on her breast, sucking hard. Words strangled in her throat, images exploded in her brain, and her hips arched to him.

  He knew her, better, he often thought, than she knew herself. She needed heat, the potent flood of it, to drown out whatever was troubling her mind. Heat he could give her, and he would pleasure them both with wave after wave.

  She was thin. The weight she'd lost during her recovery couldn't be spared on her slim frame and had yet to be put back in place. But he knew she didn't want gentle strokes now. So he drove her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, until her breath was ragged and her heart slammed against his seeking mouth and hands.

  She writhed under him, her hands in his hair fisted tight, her breasts bared for him with the long t
ear-shaped diamond he'd once given her resting in the shallow valley between.

  He licked his way down her torso, over ribs, along the firm, flat belly, scraping teeth against the narrow line of hip as she began to buck. He tugged her trousers lower, exposing the soft curls between her thighs.

  When he swept his tongue over her, into her, the orgasm struck like a lightning bolt. Blood pumped under her skin, brought a dew of sweat to the surface. She was half in, half out of the closet, surrounded by the scent of him, trapped in it and glorying.

  She felt his fingers dig into her hips, lifting her, spreading her, taking her. Her own helpless moan echoed as he urged her up again. And flying, there was nothing left inside her but the driving need to mate.

  She reached for him, panting his name as her hands slid off his shoulders, around his back, as her legs lifted to hook around his waist.

  He glided into her, one smooth stroke of homecoming. His body shuddered once as she tightened around him, trapped him as she was trapped. His mouth crushed down on hers, feeding there as her hips began to pump.

  Fast and hard, with their eyes on each other now. Thrust, retreat, and thrust, breathing each other's air. Closer, still closer with the good, solid slap of flesh against flesh.

  She watched his eyes go opaque an instant before he rammed himself home. Her body erupted, shattered beneath his. When he lowered his head, pressed his face to her throat, she once more turned hers into his hair. Once more breathed in his scent.

  "It's good to be home," he murmured.

  * * *

  She had her shower, her glass of wine, then what she considered the ultimate in decadence: dinner in bed with her husband.

  "Tell me about it." He waited until she'd relaxed, until she'd eaten. Now he poured her another glass of wine and watched the shadows come back into her eyes.

  "I don't want to bring my work home."

  "Why not?" He smiled, refilled his own glass. "I do."

  "It's different."

  "Eve." He skimmed a finger over the slight dent in her chin. "We are, both of us, very much defined by what we do for a living. You don't -- you can't leave your work outside the door any more than I can. It's inside you."