Treachery in Death (In Death 32)

“Yes,” Roarke answered. “It would be interesting to program.”

“I’ve been playing with it—in my head,” Feeney said as he filled a plate. “It’ll come down to catching the waves.”

For the next ten minutes they discussed options, alternatives, possibilities.

“Morning, all.” Webster strolled in, looking relaxed and a little sleepy-eyed. “Man, I could use some fuel, and that looks prime.”

“I imagine you could use it,” Roarke said smoothly when Webster hit the buffet, and couldn’t help enjoying Webster’s lazy grin. “How was the play?”

“Unforgettable.”

“Darcia goes back soon.”

“Couple more days. I’ve got some time coming.” Webster scooped eggs onto his plate, spoke casually. “I’m going to check out this off-planet resort of yours personally.”

“You couldn’t have a better guide than the chief of police.”

Mira and Whitney came in together. Whitney scanned the room, then focused on Roarke. “She’s not back yet?”

“No. She asked me to begin the briefing if she was delayed. You can take the floor if you prefer.”

“No, we’ll follow Dallas’s line.” He poured coffee but skipped the food.

“You look tired, Charlotte,” Roarke said to Mira.

“I am a little. Long night.”

“Have some food. Get your energy up.”

“I don’t think that will help. It’s clear my colleague’s involved in this. A man I’ve worked with, a man I trusted.”

“I’m sorry.” Roarke touched a hand to her shoulder. “It’s a deeper kind of treachery, isn’t it, when there’s trust?”

“When I think how many police officers have trusted him with their secrets, their fears, their feelings, yes, it’s a very deep kind of treachery. All of this is, isn’t it?” She looked at the board. “On the deepest level. Doctor to patient, cop to cop, to the public, daughter to father.”

“You’ll stop it, all of you. Treachery only thrives in the dark. You’ll bring it into the light.”

“It weighs on him.” Mira glanced toward Whitney as he took a seat, alone with his coffee. “On all of us, but it’s his command. And what this small and, yes, treacherous, percentage of all the good men and women who work and risk and fight every single day has done to diminish that work, that risk, that fight, it weighs heavy.”

She walked over to take a seat beside Whitney.

And so, Roarke thought, he couldn’t put it off any longer.

He moved to the front of the room. “The lieutenant’s been delayed.”

“Dallas isn’t here?” Webster interrupted. “Where the hell is she?”

“At the scene, or hopefully on her way back from the scene, where Garnet was murdered.”

“Garnet? What the—” Webster broke off, and the relaxed body, the sleepy eyes vanished. “When the hell did this happen, and why wasn’t I apprised? She can’t investigate Garnet’s murder. Commander—”

“If you’d take your seat.” Roarke handled the outburst as he would at any meeting he conducted. Coolly. “You’ll be thoroughly briefed on this matter, and all others pertaining to these investigations. The lieutenant isn’t assigned to this last murder, but consulting with the officers who are—at their request.

“Now, as I have the floor, we’ll begin with some progress I made regarding the finances of three of the subjects. Data one on-screen,” he ordered, and the image of Garnet’s passport, with photo, came on.

“As you see, this is Detective William Garnet, aka Garnet Jacoby. Though they’re both dead now, it’s of interest that Garnet, under this assumed name, has amassed over thirty-five million dollars in cash, stocks, bonds, and property. He has quite a lovely home in the Canary Islands. Had, that is. Data two with image, on-screen.”

“How did you dig this out?” Webster asked him. “You never tagged me for a filter.”