Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“Yes.” He stood very still for a moment. “You believe the man I call partner may be in some way involved with these deaths?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I will give you whatever you require. Do whatever can be done. A moment.” He moved to his desk, gave his unit several commands in what Eve took to be Japanese.

“When would Kirkendall expect to hear from you again, to receive a report or a payment?”

“Not until December, and the last quarter of this year.”

“Do you ever contact him otherwise? With a question, a problem?”

“It’s not usual, but there has been the occasion.”

“Maybe we can work with that. I’d like to send someone from our E-Division in to do a scan on your unit, on any unit you might have used to send communication to Kirkendall.”

“Only this one, and you may send an officer. Or you may take it with you. I apologize that this will take a few moments. I have ordered all communications and transmissions since the beginning of the partnership.”

“No problem.” He was upset, Eve thought. Holding it in, but struggling with the emotion of realizing he may have done business, years of business, with a murderer. His cooperation could very well lead them to close the case.

“Master Lu.” She spoke with respect and his eyes lifted toward her. “It takes more than skill—even the level of yours—it takes more than training and discipline to go undefeated, to accomplish what you have without once falling to an opponent. How did you do it?”

“Training, yes, skill developed through that training and through discipline—both physical and mental. Spiritual, if you will. And with that, instinct. Anticipation of the opponent and a belief that you can, indeed must, prevail.”

Now he smiled, quickly, charmingly. “And I like to win.”

“Yeah.” Eve grinned back at him. “Me, too.”

15

THE SHUTTLE TRIP TO PHILADELPHIA PLAYED hell with Roarke’s schedule. He’d just have to put in some long hours, perhaps make a few out-of-town trips, to make up for it. It couldn’t be helped.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—discuss Nixie’s situation, her custody, her life, via ’link or holo. In any case, he wanted a face-to-face with Leesa Corday, a personal meeting that would give him a sense of her rather than just straight background data.

His name had cleared the way, gotten him an immediate appointment with her. He imagined she thought he was considering putting her and her firm on retainer. That could be arranged.

It would be simple enough for him to throw some of his business her way as support for Nixie. Money had its uses, after all.

The firm had a strong reputation—he’d checked on that, as well. And while the nature of his business was unknown, he was given what he recognized as the VIP treatment as he was met in the black and silver lobby by Corday’s assistant, whisked across the marble floor, and into a private elevator.

The assistant—young, male, in a conservative gray suit—offered him coffee, tea, beverages of any nature. Roarke imagined he’d been primed to arrange to have a trio of LCs deliver it—and anything else—should it be requested.

It was the sort of brown-nosing that irritated him.

Corday’s office level was done in strong reds and frothy creams. Lots of translucent automatic doors and a single massive workstation manned by five more assistants.

He was shown through a set of doors into what he recognized as one of the power centers. Corday hadn’t yet climbed to the corner office, but she was next in line.

And waiting for him, standing—strategic position—behind her L-shaped black desk, the city’s skyline behind her.

Her ID photo had been a good one, reflective of the woman. He knew her to be thirty-eight. He knew where she had her hair styled and where she’d bought the black pinstriped suit she was wearing.

He knew she’d be financially able to hire good child care providers, to afford good schools. And if she needed a bit of incentive, he would offer to set up a trust fund for Nixie’s care and education.

He was willing to negotiate.

She had an attractive, soft-featured face, which she sharpened with enhancements—discreet ones. Her hair was a quiet brown worn short, with a kind of triangle at the nape.

The suit showed off a good body as she came around the desk to offer her hand and a welcoming smile. “Mr. Roarke. I hope your trip in was uneventful.”