Delusion in Death (In Death 35)

“We walked out, okay, Shel? Okay, it was stupid.” He appealed to everyone in the room. “I did think it was funny—the girl was pretty drunk—and I confess—right, I confessed, Shel, it was a little flattering. But it was funny because you were there. I didn’t do anything either. I love you, right? Didn’t I tell you? When we went out and you told me I could suck it, and—well, and all the rest, didn’t I come after you, Shel? Didn’t I chase you for three freaking blocks to apologize. And to tell you I love you. I mean it hit me right there on Carmine Street. I love Shelby.”

“Oh, Rocky.” Temper died off into a gooey smile.

“Where did you go when you left the bar?” Eve asked.

“Here.” The gooey smile stayed in place. “We came back here.”

“I take it you’ve remained in. Haven’t watched any screen, used your ’links.”

“We’ve been kind of busy.” Rocky’s smile matched Shelby’s goo for goo. “Listen, if there’s a fine or something, I’ll pay it.”

“There’s no fine. I th

ink you should sit down,” Eve told them. Because what she had to tell them would wipe that happy goo off their faces.

Nothing, she thought, putting her PPC and Peabody’s notification report away as they drove through the gates. Nothing from those left behind but grief and confusion. She studied the house as they approached. All those warm, welcoming lights, she thought, in all those big windows. Roarke’s fortress, a towering edifice of stone, style, and security.

Home. Too many people wouldn’t go home tonight.

“Too late for interviews,” she murmured, “after the Rocky and Shelby show.”

“It entertained. A bit of comic relief after a bloody horrible day.”

“Maybe—okay definitely—and it had to be done. But it ate up the clock. Not enough time for interviewing friends and coworkers tonight.”

“How much time do you think you have?”

She didn’t misunderstand him. “I can’t say, and that’s the bitch. I’m hoping we have a week, two is better. But if I were him—them—her—I’d hit within a couple days. Keep us running, get the city in full panic mode. Isn’t that the point? Panic, fear, violence, death. I wouldn’t wait very long. I have to think.”

She got out of the car, grateful for the jacket as the clear, hard sky had sucked up all the warmth of the day. Shorter days now, she mused.

Longer, darker nights.

“I have things to see to.” Roarke took her hand, and finding it chilled, rubbed his lips over it. “I’ll speak with Feeney once I’ve dealt with them.”

When they stepped inside, the scarecrow in black, Roarke’s man about everything and her domestic ass pain, waited in the wide foyer. At his feet, the fat cat sat. Then Galahad padded over, wound between her legs, then Roarke’s, then back again.

“I’ve heard the media reports,” Summerset began without preamble. Eve waited for the clever insult, and could only frown as he continued without one. “They aren’t detailed of course, as yet, but that many deaths in one place—contained in one place, and one you own,” he said to Roarke, “is disturbing.”

“We’re disturbed,” Eve responded and turned for the stairs.

Summerset kept his gaze on Roarke. “Were you the target?”

“No.”

“The lieutenant disagrees.”

Now she had Summerset’s eyes on her, and Roarke’s. And in Roarke’s she clearly read the warning. “I don’t disagree. I’d say very unlikely.”

“Don’t placate me. Either of you.”

“This wasn’t about me.” Roarke raked his fingers through his hair, a sure sign of agitation. “Eve says very unlikely only because she’s a cop, isn’t she? And she considers every possibility, however remote.”

“How did they die? I’ll know soon enough in any case,” Summerset reminded Eve. “The reports are starting to speculate about poison, or a chemical agent, a virus. Anonymous sources claim the bar looked like a battleground littered with corpses.”

“Shit” was all Eve said.

“It was all of that.” Roarke rounded on Eve as she cursed again. “Don’t be stupid. He will know soon enough, just as he said. And he’s bloody well entitled to know.”