Delusion in Death (In Death 35)

He still wore the suit he’d put on that morning in their bedroom: solid, business black, a perfect fit to his long, lean body. The thick, black mane of his hair skimmed above the professional shoulders, slightly mussed, as if the wind had danced through it.

Where Morris’s face was interesting, oddly sexy, Roarke’s was—Roarke’s. Impossibly gorgeous, carved by the strong hand of some clever god and perfected by eyes of bold and brilliant blue.

The two men stood together, and for an instant while it all stood still, she saw that same shock and pity cross Roarke’s face, followed by a quick, deadly rage.

Those eyes met hers, and he said, “Lieutenant.” Even with the rage simmering under the word, the Irish sang through.

She moved to him, not to greet, not to block the view—impossible in any case, and he’d seen more than his share of horror in his life. But she was the officer in charge, and this was no place for civilians or husbands.

“You can’t be here.”

“I can,” he corrected. “It’s mine.”

She should’ve figured it. The man owned most of the world, and half the universe it lived in. Saying nothing, Eve turned a hard stare on Peabody.

“Sorry. I forgot to tell you I hit on Roarke when I scanned for the owner.”

“I’ll need to talk to you, but I need Morris first. You can wait outside.”

The rage on his face had gone cold and hard. “I won’t be waiting outside.”

She understood, and wished she didn’t. In the two and a half years they’d been together, he’d made her understand more than was always comfortable for a cop. She fought back the urge to touch him—so damned unprofessional—and lowered her voice.

“Listen, this is a fucking mess.”

“I can see that for myself well enough.”

“I need you to stay out of the way.”

“Then I will.” Obviously he didn’t see touching as unprofessional as he took her hand a moment, squeezed it despite the blood. “But I won’t wait outside while you wade through this nightmare inside a place I own.”

“Wait.” She turned to Morris. “I’ve … labeled the DBs numerically, the ones we’ve ID’d and examined. Can you start with One, and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve got more men coming in, any minute now. We’ll have more hands and eyes to work the scene and the vics.”

“Then I’ll get started.”

“I’m going to turn you over to Peabody,” she said to Roarke. “You can walk her through security until EDD’s on scene.”

“I can tell you there are no cams in here. People stop in for a drink in a place like this, they aren’t comfortable with cams.”

No, he thought, they want to relax, perhaps share a private moment with someone. They don’t want to be recorded. They don’t expect to die a bloody death.

“We have the standard on the entrance,” he continued, “and standard again for security once the place is closed. But you won’t have anything for inside, nothing that would show you what happened here or how.”

Since she hadn’t spotted any interior cams, she’d suspected as much, but rubbed her eyes to clear her head again. “We need a list of employees, and a schedule.”

“I’ve got it. When I got the tag, I put that together.” He looked around again, trying to understand what couldn’t be imagined, to accept what shouldn’t be real.

“I’ve only had the place a few months, but didn’t make much in the way of changes. It runs—ran—smooth as far as I know. But I’

ll know more before it’s done.”

“All right. Give what you have to Peabody. I need to work with Morris.”

“Eve.” Again, he took her hand, and this time when he looked in her eyes there was more sorrow than rage. “Give me an assignment, for God’s sake. Set me at something to do. I don’t know these people any more than you, even those who worked for me, but I have to do something.”