Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

She pushed on his family, saw his mother lived in Queens near the sister and the retired Army. Another sister lived in New Jersey—also married with family—and the third currently lived and worked in Italy.

Nothing criminal on any of them. She couldn’t decide if that equaled relief or annoyance.

Then Roarke came back, and she found the annoyance easily.

“He was nervy,” Roarke said as he moved to the cabinet for wine, “and evasive, as he knew your reputation. He was frightened. He knew about the bombing, of course. He works at Econo, as you know.”

Roarke poured wine while she sat and said nothing.

“He never thought the cops would give him more than a cursory glance as he had no connection to the meeting or anyone in it. When you interviewed him this evening, he was shaken. He has a wife and three children, as you also know. He met his wife as William O’Donnell, twelve years ago. After he’d come to New York—before he was . . . retired. He retired after their first child was born—that’s nearly eleven years now. And before they married, he told his wife about Liam and the time he’d spent in prison and the rest. She married him anyway. But they haven’t told the children, you see.”

He looked at her now as he sipped the wine. “And he was afraid you’d push deep enough to see through the identification he’s used all these years, the life he’s built. He was afraid he’d have to leave his family, or decide to uproot them all and run.

“You can contact his sister in Italy. He says if Richie was becoming important, his Colleen would know, and would help you in any way she could. He hopes you wouldn’t need to speak with his brother-in-law, who knows nothing of his life before, as it could cause friction in the family, but he won’t run. He trusts me enough not to, as I told him I trusted you weren’t interested in uprooting three children or punishing him for false papers.

“He’s terrified,” Roarke finished. “But he’s putting the life he’s built in your hands because I asked him to.”

He crossed to her. “So where does that leave us, Lieutenant?”

“You say you understand the job comes first, then you slap at me when it does.”

“And you ask me to work with you when it suits, but yank back when my way of doing the job veers from yours. Even,” he said before she could speak, “if both ways put those who’ve died first and foremost. Pushing at Liam would have eaten up your time and energies—as it already has more than it needed to.”

“Chasing him down if he was part of this would’ve eaten more.”

“True enough, but he’s not. And you’re too good a cop to have looked into his past and thought otherwise. We both know there are ways of doing the job other than pulling a man out of his house and grilling him in the box. And both of us, Eve, skirt our particular lines when we have to, or when the other needs it.”

“It’s easier for you.”

He angled his head. “Do you think so?”

She let out a breath. “I like to think so. I don’t like thinking how many times you’ve compromised or moved your line. It makes the scales too uneven.”

“They’re level enough from where I stand. What I can’t tolerate is thinking your trust in me has limits.”

“It doesn’t. Fuck.” She had to put her head—throbbing again—in her hands. “It wasn’t not trusting you. It was not trusting some guy you acknowledged was a thief—a guy who checked off several boxes—just because you have some fond memories.”

He drank more wine. “If I jiggle my line a bit, we can call that fair enough. But I’d never jeopardize your investigation over fond memories.”

“He was the best shot I had so far. Markin’s another, but I haven’t been able to pin it down. Now this guy is off the list. I’m still checking out his alibi.”

“I’d expect no less. Nor would he. I’ll go make another couple of contacts. And you should drink some water. It’ll help revive the blocker a bit to push back the fresh headache.”

“It’s annoying when you look in my head.”

“I just have to look in your eyes. I know how they look when they’re fighting pain. Drink some water,” he said, and left her.

17

When he judged he’d done all he could for the night, Roarke found Eve asleep at her command center.

Second night running, he thought. She would push herself to exhaustion, carrying the weight of eighteen dead. And no point, he decided, in beating against that wall. That was the woman he loved, no matter how much she could—and did—infuriate him.

He glanced at the work on her screen, noted she’d juggled, yet again, names on her list. From most to least probable.

She’d do better, he knew, when she conducted her face-to-face interviews. She had a master’s skill in reading people, the nuances of tone, gestures, a look in the eyes, a turn of phrase.

Oh, she had her blind spots, he thought, but then he did as well. Still, he didn’t care for it, not one bit, when one of those blind spots centered on him.