Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

Sinead merely laid a hand on Eve’s arm, shifted to the side. “This boy here—for he’s hardly more, is he? This is the one who did this?”

“Sinead—”

“I know violence and cruelty. It was my own sister, wasn’t it, who was murdered? My twin. And not a day goes by, not a day, I promise you, I don’t think of my Siobhan, and the loss of her. He killed his own parents, they say. His own ma and da.”

“That’s right.”

“And he did that to this young girl.” She touched a finger to Lori Nuccio’s photos—before and after. “And this to a woman who was his teacher. I know of this, as I follow what you do. And it was only one of the reasons why I was so proud today to see you and our Roarke honored. And now …”

“You don’t need to explain.”

Again Sinead touched her arm. “Do you wonder, ever, what makes a person capable of taking a life when there’s no threat to his own or another? What makes them end life, and so often, so very often, with real cruelty, even with pleasure.”

“Every day. Sometimes finding out why matters. Sometimes it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Oh no, I’m thinking it matters always.” Voice and gaze steady, Sinead angled to look at Eve. “And matters to you. How could you face this day after day, year after year unless it mattered? I was so proud today, and thought I could never be prouder of the pair of you. But I am now. Seeing this, I am prouder yet.”

She took a long breath. “You’d have found him, Patrick Roarke, for taking the life of our Siobhan. You’d have found him, and seen him pay for it.”

“I’d have tried.”

“No one ever did, you see, and that was hard and bitter. We needed someone to try.”

On another long, slow breath, she pushed back her gilded red hair. “I can tell you from one who never found that justice, it’s needed. When someone did for him, left him dead in an alley, I was glad of it. But it didn’t close that awful hole inside. Time did some of it, much time, and family. And then Roarke came to my door, and that gave me what I needed after all those years. I thank God for that, and him. But I’m telling you, and hope you already know, what you do, beyond the law of it, is needed.”

“Sinead.” Roarke stepped up, pressed a handkerchief in her hand.

“Ah well.” Sighing now, she dabbed at tears. “The world can be so dark. It’s foolish to deny it, and the Irish know the dark better than some in any case. It reminds us to hold on to the light, every minute we can, and to prize it. You’re a light to me.” She kissed Roarke’s cheeks. “Don’t ever forget it.”

He murmured to her in Irish, made her smile, turn to Eve. “He said I showed him light when he’d expected the dark, but the fact is, we did that for each other. And I’m keeping you from where you’re both needed. Don’t worry about the family. We’ll be fine, even grand, as Summerset’s promised enough food for the army we are. We’ll send up some for you, all right with that?”

“There’s nothing more, really, to do tonight,” Roarke told her, glanced at Eve.

“No, there’s not. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, we’re not going to find him and stop him tonight.”

“Then you will tomorrow, unless you’re after telling me the entire New York City Police and Security Department is wrong about the pair of you.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Then come down for a bit. I find when I’ve a problem I can’t fix or solve, doing something entirely else can help me find the way through. God knows, the family is something entirely else.”

She took them both by the hand.

“And we’ve gifts from Ireland we’re all but dying to give you.”

“All right.” Nothing more to do now, Eve reminded herself, though it stuck in her throat, burned in her gut.

And still, she closed the door to the office and the murder board as she went out.

Joe didn’t come around as soon as Reinhold had anticipated. He’d given his old pal a good hard hit—maybe harder than he should have, considering—but all that power and fury just came boiling out.

Besides, he’d wanted Joe with X’s in his eyes while the droid dumped him in the sleep chair.

He’d already had the droid cover the chair with plastic from one of the big rolls. It was a damn fine chair, mag leather—the real deal—and in a rich man’s chocolate color.

He didn’t want to mess it up.

He figured the sleep chair was just another inspiration. He could work on Joe as he sat, reclined, or laid full out. The multipositions offered so many choices.