Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“Mr. Mira.”

Roarke nodded. “The unexpected, perhaps some panic. But not enough to rush the beating. Take him elsewhere.”

“That’s the one I like. Shit, what do we do now? Let’s get out of here—take him with us.” She gestured with the breadstick, bit in. “Five gets you ten we find the body within the next twenty-four.”

“I feel, even for us, such a bet would be in poor taste.”

“Yeah.” As she ate, she wondered who’d come up with the concept of a ball of meat, and if they’d been properly compensated. “Anyway, I’m going to approach it as a murder—let Missing Persons handle it as a missing. But if a bod

y turns up, I’ll have a jump on it. It’ll be hard on Mr. Mira, even though he and his cousin weren’t what you’d call friendly.”

“Family’s often a different kettle, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is, and I guess the whole cousin thing can get unwieldy. Still, when you hear McNab or Peabody talk about their cousins—then there’s your whole Irish cousins thing—there’s a lot of ties, a lot of . . . liking. But with this cousin and his fuckhead of a wife, it’s not just a lack of liking or ignoring of ties, it’s . . .”

“Contempt,” Roarke said, and she jabbed her fork at him in agreement.

“That’s the exact word. And anybody who has contempt for somebody like Mr. Mira has to be an asshole.”

“So you are expecting the dead body of an asshole within the next twenty-four.”

She nodded, ate one last bite. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean we don’t do the job. We should add that as like an addendum to the banner the bullpen made. You know, ‘No matter your race, creed, blah blah, we protect and serve, because you could get dead.’ We should put one of those . . .”

She squiggled a shape with a finger in the air, making him smile because he understood her so easily. “Asterisk.”

“Yeah, that thing. And add: ‘Even if you’re an asshole.’”

“Past tense might be more applicable, being Homicide. ‘Even if you were an asshole.’”

“Hmm. Good point. And I’d better get started. You’ll take the financials.”

“With considerable delight.”

They walked out together. “I’m going to send Peabody a report, bring her up to speed. I’ll copy Mira on it. It shook her up. You don’t see her shaken very often, but it really shook her, seeing he’d been hurt.”

“Love makes us vulnerable.”

“He soothed her. He’s got this way. I know he was upset, and he took a hell of a knock, so he was hurt, but he soothed her.”

“And love makes us strong. That’s its wonder.”

“I don’t know if many people are born kind. Like it’s just part of their DNA. I think Mr. Mira was. So I really wish I’d punched the Mandy-Bitch.”

“You have your visual of exploding blood.” Roarke patted her shoulder. “Let that be enough.”

“It’ll have to be.”

They split off, her to her office, Roarke toward his that adjoined it. The cat opted to stick with Eve, and trotted directly to her sleep chair, leaped up, circled, circled, circled, and collapsed as if he’d run a marathon.

She went to her desk first, sat, and saw from her incomings the sweepers had taken her rush-it order to heart.

The blood on the desk chair was Edward Mira’s. Floorboards, Dennis Mira. The only prints in the study, entranceway, doors, belonged to: Dennis and Edward Mira; Sila Robarts; Frankie Trent, Sila’s mother; and Dara Robarts, Sila’s daughter—the housekeepers.

So the suspects sealed up, she concluded. They’d had a plan.

She began to construct a report, with the sweeper’s early results attached. Then deciding it best to also copy her commander, cleaned it up a little. She considered whatever hit she’d take over the “kiss my ass” comment worth it.

With the book already begun with the reports, her notes, she set up her board. Pretty thin so far, she thought, circling in and studying Edward Mira’s ID shot. But still ahead of the game when the body showed up.