Judgment in Death (In Death 11)

“That’s gracious of you.” Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. “And unnecessary.”

“It’s my pleasure. I’ve got some business to see to shortly. When it’s done, I’ll come up and join you for a drink.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet. We’ll see you upstairs later.”

When he was sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. “Keep an eye on them. Make certain they’re tucked up until this is played out.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied.

Onstage, the dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric blue mist crawled over the floor.

Prowling around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.

Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.

He hadn’t come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.

They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying miniscanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.

They would find only what he’d elected to have them find.

Ignoring them, he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.

“Okay,” Eve said from her station. “Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge, everyone to move into first position. Let’s do this right.”

And where before she’d sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. “Feeney, give me a weapons check. I want to know who’s carrying and how many.”

“Already coming through.”

And so, she thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.

“It’s been awhile,” Roarke said.

Ricker’s lips curved, just at the corners. “Quite a long while.” He looked away from Roarke just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. “Impressive,” he said with the slightest hint of boredom. “But a strip club is still a strip club, however it’s trimmed.”

“And business is still business.”

“I’d heard you’ve had a little trouble with yours.”

“Nothing that hasn’t been dealt with.”

“Really? You lost a few of your clients last year.”

“I did some . . . restructuring.”

“Ah yes. A wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife.”

“Leave my wife out of it.”

“Difficult, if not impossible.” It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of tension in Roarke’s voice. There’d been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn’t have shown. “But we can discuss just what you’re willing to trade for that kind of consideration.”

As with an effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. “We’ll use my booth. I’ll buy you a drink.”

As he started to turn, one of Ricker’s guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man’s thumb, and jerked it backward.

Too much weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.

“Do that again, and I’ll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you.” His eyes went back to Ricker’s. “And you know it.”