“One woman, one single woman, and they can’t deal with her? Can’t deal with her? I promise you, promise you, they will be dealt with.”
He kicked what was left of Marta’s head out of his way. The air stank with the stench of fried circuits. Calmer, as he always was after an . . . episode, he walked to the bar, filled a glass with his favored pink liquid that was sweetened rum with a heavy lacing of barbiturates.
“One dead, you say?” His voice was mild now, as were his eyes as he glanced toward Canarde. He might have said, “Two for dinner?” for all the inflection in the tone.
“Yes. Yawly. Ines and Murdock are being treated for injuries. Riggs has been booked and has followed my instructions as to his story. He’ll stick to it. He’s an intelligent man.”
“He’s a fool, like the rest of them. I want them disposed of.”
Prepared for this directive, Canarde stepped forward. “That may be prudent with Ines and Murdock. I believe, however, that if you act on Riggs when he proves himself to be loyal, it will seriously damage your organization’s morale.”
Ricker sipped, and his silver eyes slithered over Canarde’s face. “Why would you be under the impression I’m the least bit concerned with morale?”
“You should be,” Canarde said, knowing he risked a great deal. “By demonstrating goodwill, even lenience, to an employee under these circumstances—as you showed instant discipline to Lewis under different circumstances—you send a clear message to those who work for you. And,” he added, “Riggs can always be handled after a period of time has passed.”
Ricker continued to drink, continued to calm. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.” His smile was quick and almost terrifyingly brilliant. “Thank you. I’m afraid I let the matter of this annoying cop influence my better judgment. Some things are worth waiting for.”
He thought of Roarke. He’d waited there. Years now. And hadn’t he found just the right place to strike?
But it was harder to wait, harder to see clearly, when he could almost taste the blood.
“Assure Mr. Riggs that his loyalty is appreciated and will be rewarded.”
He started toward the window-wall, saw the droid debris scattered over the floor. For a moment he was blank, for another simply puzzled. Then, dismissing it from his mind, he walked around it, slid open the glass, and stepped out on the deck overlooking his lawns.
“I spent a lifetime building what I have, and will one day pass it all to my son. A man needs a legacy to pass on to his son.” He was mellowing now, his tone turning dreamy. “But I have a number of goals to reach before that time comes. And one I intend to achieve very soon is to crush Roarke. To have him on his knees. I will accomplish that, Canarde. Make no mistake.”
He sipped his bright drink and looked out over the grounds, a man satisfied and still vital. “I’ll accomplish that,” he said again, “and have his cop begging for mercy.”
chapter sixteen
In the sealed room of Roarke’s private office, the equipment was state of the art, expansive, and unregistered. The wide, searching eye of CompuGuard was blind to it. Nothing generated on it or scanned from it could be detected by any outside factor.
And in the hands of a man with Roarke’s talents, there were no data that could not, eventually, be unearthed.
Despite the fact that besides Roarke, only Eve and Summerset had ever been through the secured doors, and the purpose of the area was business, it was a handsome room with generous privacy-screened win
dows and a floor of beautiful tile.
She’d often thought the glossy U-shaped control deck resembled the bridge of a particularly well-designed spacecraft. And when he was behind those controls, Roarke was very much captain of the ship.
Here, she would bend the rules. Or let Roarke bend them for her.
“Roth first,” Eve began. “Her story is her husband’s been bleeding out her financial accounts, setting up a nest egg for himself and his on-the-side piece. Roth, Captain Eileen. Her address is—”
“That isn’t necessary.”
He enjoyed this type of work nearly as much as he enjoyed the annoyed look on Eve’s face when he easily danced through the blocks and obstacles even the brains and talents in EDD couldn’t budge. He put the data on a wall screen rather than commanding the computer to read it off.
“Not a very impressive nest egg,” he commented. “But enough, one supposes, to set himself and his on-the-side piece up cozily enough. He’s an unemployed writer. Some women are attracted to the struggling artist type. All those pale, Byronic moods.”
“Is that so?” Eve said in a voice dry as dust.
“Indeed. In my experience. She isn’t his first,” he added, shooting more data to a second screen. “He has two marriages and three cohabitations under his belt, and repeats this pattern of tapping into his partner’s financial resources toward the end of the run.”
“You’d think she’d be too smart for that kind of con. Christ, she’s a cop.”
“Love,” Roarke said, “is blind.”