Interlude in Death (In Death 12.50)

“Dr. Mira here, she’s got the same deal. You’d be able to double-team her.” Eve glanced toward Mira, who was sipping white wine.

“She was shocked and shaken,” Mira began. “First, she’ll verify the information about the death of her godchild. When she does, grief will tangle with the shock.”

“So, she’ll be even more vulnerable to the right questions presented in the right style.”

“You’re a cold one, Dallas,” Darcia said. “I like that about you. I’d be very agreeable to interviewing Belle Skinner with Dr. Mira, if that suits the doctor.”

“I’m happy to help. I imagine you intend to talk to Skinner again, Eve.”

“With the chief’s permission.”

“Don’t start being polite now,” Darcia told her. “You’ll ruin your image. He won’t want to talk to you,” she went on. “Whatever his feelings toward you were before, my impression is—after his keynote—he’s wrapped you and Roarke together. He hates you both.”

“He brought us up at his keynote?”

“Not by name, but by intimation. His inspiring, rather cheerleader-type speech took a turn at the midway point. He went into a tangent on cops who go bad, who forget their primary duties in favor of personal comforts and gains. Gestures, body language…” Darcia shrugged. “It was clear he was talking about this place—luxury palaces built on blood and greed, I believe he said—and you. Bedfellows of the wicked. He got very worked up about it, almost evangelical. While there were some who appeared enthusiastic and supportive of that particular line of thought, it seemed to me the bulk of the attendees were uncomfortable—embarrassed or angry.”

“He wants to use his keynote to take slaps at me and Roarke, it doesn’t worry me.” But Eve noticed Peabody staring down into her glass. “Peabody?”

“I think he’s sick.” She spoke quietly, finally lifted her gaze. “Physically, mentally. I don’t think he’s real stable. It was hard to watch it happen this morning. He started out sort of, well, eloquent, then it just deteriorated into this rant. I’ve admired him all my life. It was hard to watch,” she repeated. “A lot of the cops who were there stiffened up. You could almost feel layers of respect peeling away. He talked about the murder some, how a young, promising man had become a victim of petty and soulless revenge. How a killer could hide behind a badge instead of being brought to justice by one.”

“Pretty pointed,” Eve decided.

“A lot of the terrestrial cops walked out then.”

“So he’s probably a little shaky now himself. I’ll take him,” Eve said. “Peabody, you track down Feeney, see what other details you can dig out on the two victims and anyone else on-site who’s connected with the bust in Atlanta. That fly with you, Chief Angelo?”

Darcia polished off her wine. “It does.”

Eve detoured back to the suite first. She wanted a few more details before questioning Skinner again. She never doubted Roarke had already found them.

He was on the ’link when she got there, talking to his head of hotel security. Restless, Eve wandered out onto the terrace and let her mind shuffle the facts, the evidence, the lines of possibilities.

Two dead. Both victims’ fathers martyred cops. And those connected to Roarke’s father and to Skinner. Murdered in a world of Roarke’s making, on a site filled with police officials. It was so neat, it was almost poetic.

A setup from the beginning? It wasn’t a crime of impulse but something craftily, coldly planned. Weeks and Vinter had both been sacrifices, pawns placed and disgarded for the greater game. A chess game, all right, she decided. Black king against white, and her gut told her Skinner wouldn’t be satisfied with a checkmate.

He wanted blood.

She turned as Roarke stepped out. “In the end, destroying you won’t be enough. He’s setting you up, step by step, for execution. A lot of weapons on this site. He keeps the pressure on, piles up the circumstantial so there’s enough appearance that you might have ordered these hits. All he needs is one soldier willing to take the fall. I’m betting Hayes for that one. Skinner doesn’t have much time to pull it off.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Roarke agreed. “I got into his medical records. A year ago he was diagnosed with a rare disorder. It’s complicated, but the best I can interpret, it sort of nibbles away at the brain.”

“Treatment?”

“Yes, there are some procedures. He’s had two—quietly, at a private facility in Zurich. It slowed the process, but in his case…He’s had complications. A strain on the heart and lungs. Another attempt at correction would kill him. He was given a year. He has, perhaps, three months of that left. And of that three months, two at the outside where he’ll continue to be mobile and lucid. He’s made arrangements for self-termination.”

“That’s rough.” Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. There was more—she could see it in Roarke’s eyes. Something about the way he watched her now. “It plays into the rest. This one event’s been stuck in his gut for decades. He wants to clear his books before he checks out. Whatever’s eating at his brain has probably made him more unstable, more fanatic and less worried about the niceties. He needs to see you go down before he does. What else? What is it?”

“I went down several more layers in his case file on the bust. His follow-ups, his notes. He believed he’d tracked my father before he’d slipped out of the country again. Skinner used some connections. It was believed that my father headed west

and spent a few days among some nefarious associates. In Texas. In Dallas, Eve.”

Her stomach clenched, and her heart tripped for several beats. “It’s a big place. It doesn’t mean…”

“The timing’s right.” He walked to her, ran his hands up and down her arms as if to warm them. “Your father and mine, petty criminals searching for the big score. You were found in that Dallas alley only a few days after Skinner lost my father’s trail again.”

“You’re saying they knew each other, your father and mine.”