Born in Death (In Death 23)

Roarke lifted a shoulder. “Binding her hands and feet tightly enough to leave those bruises. That’s anger, I’d think. The burns, bottoms of her feet. There’s a meanness there. And it’s cowardly to strangle her when she was bound—same with the male victim. And the use of the stunner. It just strikes me.”

“Struck me the same. But you missed one. He got some kick out of it. No point seeing their faces when he killed them otherwise. Makes it intimate. Not sexual, but intimate. And he pulled the tape off their mouths before he killed them. Took that extra step. It’s powerful to watch the life go out, to see it and hear it while you cause it. Could’ve done it a lot of other ways, but this method?”

Her eyes flattened as she looked at the pictures she’d tacked up. “You feel it, your muscles, your hands. You hear the chokes, the gasps the tape would’ve muffled. Yeah, there’s temper here, but the power’s bigger.”

She settled into work, unsurprised when the cat padded out after Roarke—who would no doubt be more attentive than she would for the next couple of hours.

She studied the data Peabody had sent to her unit. Copperfield’s neighbors were low on the list, in her opinion. Why bother with a new lock when your potential problem could just make a grab at you in the hallway, in the elevator?

As for Byson’s, they didn’t fit for her either. The source was Copperfield, not her fiancé.

International accounts, Eve thought. That had been Copperfield’s bailiwick. Smuggling was always popular. A glossy client fronting illegals, arms, people smuggling?

She replayed the conversations between the two victims, watched faces, tuned in to voices. Upset, she concluded, some shock, excitement, but not horror or real fear.

Wouldn’t there have been if what they’d found had involved loss of life?

It said white-collar crime to her. High-dollar, white-collar, and at least to their knowledge, nonviolent.

A thought occurred that had her getting up, walking to the door between her office and Roarke’s. But his was empty. Even as she frowned, he spoke from behind her.

“Looking for me?”

“Jesus, you make less noise than the damn cat.”

“Tubs of lard aren’t particularly stealthy. Come to bed.”

“I just wanted to—”

“Twenty hours is enough.” Once again, he took her arm. “Did your warrant come through?”

“About a half hour ago. I’m just going to—”

“Get back to it in the morning.”

“Okay, okay.” She agreed because if he could drag her off without her blocking the move, fatigue was slowing her reaction time. “I was just wondering, as a mogul and all, how many layers does one of your minions have to go through to get to you?”

“It would depend on the minion and the reason he or she wanted to get through to me.”

“But whatever, whoever, there’d be the Caro layer, right?” she asked, referring to his admin.

“Yes, in all probability.”

“Even if the minion made up a bullshit reason, Caro would know there was an appointment, a meeting.”

“Certainly.”

“And each one of those top guys at the firm would have a Caro.”

“There’s only one Caro, and she’s mine. But again, yes, they’d have an admin, and I’d assume an efficient one.”

In the bedroom, she pulled off her boots, then began to undress in a haze that told her whatever she’d had left had dropped out when she’d walked away from the work.

“Going there bright and early,” she mumbled. “Get my hands on those damn files. Asshole lawyers cost me a damn day. Like to kick their asses.”

“That’s right, darling.”

“I heard that smirk.”