Brotherhood in Death Page 4

  “You can bet I will.”

  Eve brooded on their way uptown, then turned to Roarke.

  “Selling furniture, wanting to sell the house. Some people are just greedy, but maybe you can take a good look at his finances. It could be gambling debts, blackmail over an affair. Maybe he doesn’t just want to sell. Maybe he needs to sell.”

  “Permission to wiggle my fingers in someone else’s finances is always delightful. Permission in this case, a veritable treat.”

  “You really don’t like him.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Could he force Mr. Mira to sell?”

  Smoothly, Roarke maneuvered around a mini, fishtailing on the slick streets. “I don’t know the particulars, but if they own equal shares, I think it would be a considerable battle. Dennis could buy Edward out.”

  “Sure, if he has ten million lying around gathering dust.”

  “Ten million doesn’t gather dust, it—if used well—makes more millions. We could easily lend him what he’d need. Family,” Roarke added when Eve stared at him.

  She took his hand. “I really was going to do the dinner thing. And I was thinking about a swim with pool sex, and maybe a vid.”

  He gave her a slow, easy grin. “All that?”

  “I was working out the details. I’m really sorry I didn’t get a chance to pull it off.”

  “We’re young yet.”

  —

  Roarke pulled the DLE to the curb in front of a gleaming silver building. Eve smirked when the doorman, who looked like a formal polar bear in white livery with gold braiding, hustled through the icy rain to scowl at them.

  “You own this place?”

  “No. Why don’t we go in, see if we want to.”

  “I get to intimidate the doorman,” she said before they got out. “Do not bribe him.”

  “And spoil your fun? What do you take me for?”

  She got out, planted her feet as the doorman curled his lip.

  “You can’t park that heap here.”

  “I just did.”

  “Now you’re just going to move it. This space is reserved for pickups, drop-offs. For cabs, limos, and vehicles that aren’t an embarrassment to the vehicle industry.”

  She flipped out her badge. “This is an official NYPSD vehicle, and it works for me. It stays where I put it.”

  “Look, look, I’m all in support for the boys—and girls—in blue, but I can’t have junkers like that sitting out here.”

  “Don’t judge a book by its title.”

  “What?”

  “Cover,” Roarke supplied. “It’s cover, darling.”

  “Whatever. It stays . . .” She scanned his name tag. “Eugene. Have you seen Senator Mira tonight?”

  “No, haven’t seen him and I’ve been on the door since four. Look, look, pull that thing around the corner, into the garage. I’ll buzz ’em, and you won’t have to pay.”

  “Some might consider that attempting to bribe a police officer. I’m going to let it pass. How about Mrs. Mira?”

  “Her social secretary left about twenty minutes ago, so as far as I know Mrs. Mira’s up there. What’s the beef here?”

  “I’m going to have one with you if you don’t clear us up to the Mira apartment, and now. It’s been a long day, pal, and now I’m wet and cold. I can make your life a living hell should I choose to do so.”

  “Cops,” he mumbled under his breath and lumbered back to the doors. He stomped over to the lobby comp.

  “Mrs. Mira or one of her people have to clear you. They bought a private elevator, and if I try to send you up without clearance, that trips an alarm. And it’s my job. You can make my life a living hell, but, sister, you’ve got nothing on my wife. I lose my job, she’ll make me wish I was in hell.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Sister—and let them know the NYPSD needs to speak with Mrs. Mira.”

  He tapped something on the screen, then put on an earpiece for privacy. “Yo, Hank, it’s Eugene on the door. I got the NYPSD down here needing to speak with the boss. Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s next. Got it.”

  He turned to Eve. “Need to scan that for verification, and Mrs. Mira’s security is informing her you want to come up.”

  “Scan away.”

  Once he verified, he went back to the screen and Hank. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified. All right. Security wants to know what you want to talk to Mrs. Mira about.”

  “I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Mira, in order to respect her privacy.”

  “She said— Okay, you heard her. I got it.”

  He turned away from the screen to gesture to the last elevator in a line of three. “That’s the private. I’m going to send you straight up. Security will meet you.”

  “Dandy.” Eve strolled to the elevator with Roarke, waited for the doors to open.

  They did so with barely a whisper. The car had soft gold walls, a bench padded with royal blue on each side, and a small table holding a vase of white roses on the back wall.

  “Who does that?” Eve wondered. “Who puts flowers in an elevator?”

  Roarke continued to work on his PPC. “They purchased the entire top floor—that’s four units and terraces—eight years ago.”

  “The whole top floor.”

  “Indeed they did, to the tune of twelve-point-three million. You did say to have a go at their finances.”

  “I figured that for when we’re home.”

  “The anticipation was too much for my fragile willpower. Oh, the car has ears and eyes as well, but I took the liberty of jamming both when we got in.”

  “You do keep busy.”

  “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

  “Why? They’re idle when you’re sleeping—does he set up shop then? Are we all supposed to stay awake using our hands so the devil doesn’t make stuff? What if you broke your hand? Is he doing his workshop thing while you’re waiting to have it fixed?”

  Roarke contemplated the pale gold ceiling. “Such a simple, if moralistic, phrase now thoroughly destroyed.”

  “I keep busy, too.” Pleased with herself, she strode off when the doors whispered open.

  A big, built black guy, who looked as if he should grace the cover of some men’s fashion mag, stepped forward in the wide entrance foyer. There were more white roses, more benches, subdued lighting—and double doors, firmly closed.

  “Lieutenant, sir,” he said to them with a faint British accent. “I’ll need to stow and secure your weapons as well as any electronic devices before I let you in to see Mrs. Mira.”

  “Not a single, solitary chance in hell.”

  “Then I’m afraid, without a warrant, this is as far as you go.”

  “All right. I’ll assume Mrs. Mira isn’t concerned about her husband being attacked and possibly kidnapped this evening. Any change there, she can contact me at Central tomorrow. I’m going off duty. Let’s go eat spaghetti,” she said to Roarke and turned back to the elevator.

  “Just a minute. Are you claiming Mr. Mira’s been attacked?”

  “With meatballs,” Eve added. “And a nice glass of wine.”

  “Sounds absolutely perfect to me. In front of the fire?” Roarke added. “It’s a night for a fire in the hearth.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas!”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Has Senator Mira been injured?”

  “Look, Hank, I’m here to speak with Mandy Mira on official police business. She either agrees to the access or she doesn’t. Stop wasting my time.”

  “Please wait here. I need a minute.”

  “That’s what you’ve got. Sixty seconds. From right now.” She lifted her arm, deliberately consulting her wrist unit as Hank opened the doors, slipped inside.

  Then she drew a deep
breath. “Why are people so bitchy to cops?”

  “I can’t imagine, but now I actively crave spaghetti.”

  “We’ll get there.” She turned around as the doors opened again on the thirty second mark.

  “If you’ll come in, Mrs. Mira will be right with you.”

  “Fine. She’s got about twenty-five seconds left.”

  “Lieutenant,” he began, looking relieved when he was interrupted by the quick click of heels.

  Mandy Mira was a tall, impressive-looking woman with a statuesque figure and a gilded swing of hair. It fascinated Eve that one side stopped at the ear while the other curved at her chin.

  Eyes, coldly blue under a sweep of deep brown eyebrows, managed to convey annoyance and boredom.

  “What is this nonsense? I’m not accustomed to having the police at my door, and don’t appreciate you using some wild fabrication of an attack to worm your way in.”

  “Have you spoken to your husband in the last couple hours, Mrs. Mira?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Okay, sorry for the worming in.” Eve turned to go.

  “I demand to know what this is about!”

  “This is about investigating a reported attack on Edward Mira and the fact that he subsequently went missing.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then you can contact him right now, prove that, and we’ll be out of your hair with sincere apologies for the interruption to your evening.”

  “Hank!” She actually snapped her fingers. “Contact Senator Mira.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve attempted to do so, on all numbers. I can’t reach him.”

  “Give me that thing.” She snatched Hank’s ’link out of his hand, strode off with it on sky-high, sky-blue heels.

  “Wow, she must be a joy to work for,” Eve commented.

  She stuck her hands in her pockets, took a measure of the living space.

  A lot of chilly blues, selected, Eve deduced, because they matched Mandy Mira’s eyes. And everything slick and sleek and shiny.

  Just as well they hadn’t been asked to sit, as every chair looked like an ass-bruiser.

  Another huge display of white roses sitting on a glossy white piano—and white drapes framing the wall of glass leading to a terrace. By the time she’d gotten to the portrait of the senator and his wife over the unlit fireplace, Mandy’s outrage shot back at her.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re paid to know. If you want to continue to be paid, you’ll contact Senator Mira now. Is that understood?”

  She stormed back, shoved the ’link at Hank. “The senator is currently incommunicado, which should be no concern of yours. However, I want an explanation. Why are you here, suggesting something has happened to him?”

  “Are you aware your husband had an appointment today with a Realtor regarding his grandfather’s home?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you have the name and contact of said Realtor?”

  “I have no interest whatsoever in that property or its disposition.”

  “I take that as a no. Your husband’s cousin Dennis Mira—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Mandy waved that away as if it were a vaguely unpleasant odor. “If Dennis contacted you, he’s wasted your time as well as mine. He’s a foolish and befuddled little man, and one strangely attached to that property. I’d say he arranged all this to complicate the sale, but that’s far too much complex thinking for Dennis.”

  Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s arm, squeezed lightly. He spoke before she could so she only imagined—vividly—plowing her fist into Mandy Mira’s face.

  “Dennis Mira was assaulted seconds after he tried to rush to the aid of your injured husband. If you’d stop interrupting,” Roarke continued in a tone cold enough to freeze the balls Eve imagined Mandy sported under her white silk lounging pants, “the lieutenant could give you the details.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Roarke, and at the moment, Lieutenant Dallas’s civilian consultant.”

  Those cold eyes narrowed. “Of course. Yes, of course. I know who you are—both of you. Riffraff. And here, no doubt, at the instigation of Dennis and Charlotte Mira. You can go back and tell them I’m not interested in their pitiful ploys, and my husband will do whatever he chooses to do with that ridiculous old house and everything in it. If you come here again trying to stir up trouble, I’ll have something to say about it to the governor—and we’ll see how long Charlotte continues her embarrassing association with the police. Hank, put these people out. Now.”

  Eve leaned forward, just a little. “You can kiss my ass.”

  Color flooded Mandy’s face. “How dare you. You can be sure I’ll contact your superior and report your behavior.”

  “That would be Whitney, Commander Jack. Cop Central.” Eve took out her badge. “Make a note of the name and number. I cleaned up some of your husband’s blood in that ridiculous old house today—you think about that. You think about that and the fact that you can’t find him. And you remember Dennis Mira ended up unconscious on the floor, shedding some of his own blood because he tried to help. And you—”

  “Eve,” Roarke murmured.

  “No, bullshit, not done. And you think about the fact a cop came to your door to inform you, to gather information in the investigation of your husband’s whereabouts, and you stonewalled. As a cop I’m now looking right at you, right straight at you as my chief suspect.

  “You got anything hiding in your closets, sister? I guarantee I’ll find it.”

  Astonished outrage stripped Mandy Mira’s face of color. “Get them out. Get them out of my house.”

  She stalked off as Eve turned back to the entrance foyer.

  Hank closed the doors behind them.

  “Lieutenant? Sir? I want to apologize for—”

  “You got your job, I’ve got mine.”

  “Are you certain Senator Mira was injured, and is missing?”

  “Yes.” The change in tone had her glancing back at him. “Do you know who he was set to meet at the brownstone today?”

  “I don’t, but I’ll try to find out. I do know he was due home more than an hour ago. I should be home myself, but Mrs. Mira insisted I stay until he got home.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “It’s not unusual. If I find out anything that can help, I’ll contact you at Central. Just FYI—she will contact the governor and your commanding officer.”

  “She can contact God as far as I’m concerned.”

  When the elevator doors shut, Roarke slid his hand down to take hers. He could all but feel the rage vibrating off her skin.

  “I’ll be Riff,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll be Riff, which leaves you with Raff.”

  He saw the momentary confusion on her face, then the quick glint—a reluctant humor—in her eyes. “Why do you get Riff? Because it’s first?”

  “Because I like the sound of it. I think it suits me. You’re more a Raff, definitely. My Raff.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Raff.”

  “As you like.”

  “You’re trying to calm me down so I don’t bust up the elevator.”

  “It’s a by-product of calming myself. I don’t often have an urge to strike a woman—it’s just against my nature. But I had a powerful one up there.”

  “When I mentally punched her, blood exploded out of her nose.”

  “Well then, that will have to do us both. And yet . . .” He brought her fingers to his lips. “We’ll go home and work into all hours trying to find the breathtakingly rude bitch’s husband.”

  “He has to be a dick. Nobody would stay married to that unless he was a dick. But yeah, we’ll work on it.”

  He kept her hand in his as they crossed the lobby. “Maybe h
e faked an abduction to escape her.”

  “It would be hard to blame him, except he’s a dick.”

  She contacted Mira as Roarke drove home, let her know she’d notified Mandy Mira.

  “How did she take it?”

  “She claims it’s bullshit you and Mr. Mira cooked up, insulted me, Roarke, both of you, and intends to contact the governor and Whitney to report me. I told her to kiss my ass.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Hey, no. I don’t want you to—”

  “I’ll take care of it, Eve. I insist. Expect an apology.”

  “I don’t want her to—”

  “Don’t argue with me on this.”

  Eve started to do just that, but saw the fatigue, the strain. “Okay, fine. How’s Mr. Mira?”

  “He’s all right. No worrying symptoms. I’ll keep an eye on him tonight, but I truly believe he’s fine. Worried about Edward, of course.”

  “Let him know we’re working on it, and I’ll be in touch if and when.”

  She clicked off before Mira could thank her again, and considered investigative approaches as they turned through the gates, and toward home.

  Lights gleamed welcome in the dozens and dozens of windows, glowing against the dignified stone, even in the fanciful turrets.

  She considered coming home to such a wonder after an endless day her personal miracle.

  They got out opposite sides of the car, circled around.

  “How long did it take you to design the house—the whole elegant fortress with a touch of castle?”

  “Oh, I spent years building it in my head as a boy. Every time I went to bed hungry or bruised, it got bigger.”

  Since his childhood had been as much a nightmare as her own, it surprised her he’d restrained himself to just huge.

  “I pulled it in a bit,” he said, taking her hand again as they approached the door. “Eliminated the guard towers, the moat, and accepted that the catapults of my fancy had no practical purpose.”

  “I don’t know. Catapults would be pretty frosty.”

  When they stepped inside, she saw the first thing she’d have loaded into one: Roarke’s majordomo.

  Summerset stood in his habitual black suit—the living corpse who haunted the house. The fat cat gave one of Summerset’s bony legs a rub, then jogged over to twine through Eve’s, Roarke’s, in a kind of pudgy feline ballet.