“No, Jesus.” Rather than embarrass, as it had coming from Feeney, the question irked coming from Roarke. “Who’s the cop here?”
“You are. You’re my cop. You’re standing for her, that’s your job. But I stand for you, and you’re the target here. The murder was a gift to you. As brutal and bloody as a cat dropping a dead mouse at your feet.”
Scowling, Eve looked down at Galahad.
“Not this cat,” Roarke said. “It’s that feral, Eve. You’re the target,” he repeated, “and sooner or later the feral will turn on you. I’ll change, and you’ll bring me up to date.”
“I’m not going to turn down the help, you’re too good at it. And I could use another set of eyes, another viewpoint. But if you’re going to be pissed about it —”
“Pissed?”
Rising, he pulled off the tie, the jacket. She felt another quick pang when she watched him carefully remove the little lapel pin she’d had made for him for Christmas.
Her wedding flowers – white petunias in mother-of-pearl.
“Why would I be pissed just because some murderous bastard’s got a crush on my wife?”
“Could be a murderous bitch,” Eve said evenly. “And your wife’s a murder cop.”
“Doesn’t make her less mine, does it? The bastard – or bitch, if you prefer – claims to have given you justice. Now tell me how you spent your day.”
“How I —” She got to her feet. “How the hell do you think I spent my day? Doing interviews, following leads, consulting, writing reports. Doing my damn job.”
“Exactly.” He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, his socks – as outwardly cool as she was hot. “But to the killer’s mind, he did the job for you. Justice was served. You’re demeaning the gift, Lieutenant, and no one enjoys having their gift go unappreciated.”
“So, what, I should’ve said thanks?”
“You could have passed the investigation on – of course you didn’t, and couldn’t, being you.” He walked into his enormous closet as he spoke. “I imagine the killer’s quite torn. On one hand, you’re doing exactly what he purports to admire about you, and on the other, he wants your gratitude for the gift.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s torn. I’m doing my job.”
“And by doing it, you’ll eventually twist the crush into rage or despair. I’d think either could be deadly.” Roarke stepped back out wearing jeans and a black sweater. “On some level you know that, and you’re already wondering how you can turn it quicker. Because until you do, and the rage or despair turns on you alone, someone else stands to be the next gift.”
“How the hell do you know what he thinks, feels, wants?” she demanded.
“He’s infatuated with you. And so am I.”
The anger dripped away into a kind of grief. “He’s killing for me, Roarke. It makes me sick inside.”
“He – or she – is killing for himself.” Roarke came back to her, framed her face with his hands. “You’re an excuse. And you’ll do better work when you fully accept that, and put all the blame – every bloody bit of it, Eve – where it belongs.”
He kissed her again. “Now, we’ll go into your office, and you can tell me all of it.”
5
Roarke programmed spaghetti and meatballs, a particular favorite of hers, so it would be a comfort. He poured them both a generous glass of Chianti.
“You’ll work better for it,” he told her when she simply stood in the middle of her home office, staring at the murder board she’d barely begun to set up. “Eat, and tell me from the beginning. A fresh eye,” he reminded her. “And viewpoint.”
“Okay.” She let out a breath. “Okay.” She joined him at the little table by the window. “I want to say, first off, I forgot about this deal tonight. I just forgot it. I don’t know that I’d have remembered if this had been… well, a more usual case. I don’t know if I would’ve remembered.”
“I was a bit busy myself today.” Watching her, he drank some wine. “I hadn’t given this evening a thought until Caro reminded me late this afternoon. Maybe what you need, Lieutenant, is an admin of your own.”
“The last thing I want is somebody telling me about stuff when I’m trying to do other stuff. And the department can’t afford sticking me with a keeper if I wanted one.”
She poked at a meatball. “Don’t say Caro or a Caro-like substitute could send me reminders. I’d want to rip their lungs out and play a tune with them within two days.”
“It takes years of practice and dedication to play a proper tune on the lungs.”
“Maybe, but I’d be up for it. It’s a charity thing, right, this thing tonight? They were probably counting on you and your big buckets of dough.”
“The ticket price covers at least a bucket or two, and we’ll make a donation.”
“I should do it.” Guilty, annoyed by the guilt, she poked at another meatball, decided maybe pasta first. “You could tell me how much and where it goes, and I should do it.”
“Easy enough. I was thinking in the neighborhood of five million.”
She swallowed – hard – the spaghetti she’d wound around her fork. “I don’t have that big a bucket, or spend much time in that neighborhood. You make it.”