“The note claims she decided to off herself because she was guilty over events that took place last night. But she already had the drug in her possession. Why? And how? You established time of death at oh-four-hundred this morning, so she got her payoff and the guilts awful close, then the means to self-terminate just happen to be in her possession. It’s way too pat, if you follow me.”
She paused, and when Darcia nodded a go-ahead, pulled in a breath and kept going. “Added to that, it doesn’t follow that she would rig her apartment door to an explosive, or set another in the surveillance area to destroy the security disks of the building. Added to that,” Peabody continued, obviously enjoying herself now, “Roarke’s profile is directly opposed to hiring out hits, especially since Dallas popped the guy, which is one of the things he admires about her. So when you add that all up, it makes that note bogus, and this unattended death becomes a probable homicide.”
“Peabody.” Eve dabbed an imaginary tear from her eye. “You do me proud.”
Darcia looked from one to the other. Her temper was still on the raw side, which she could admit colored her logic. Or had. “Perhaps, Officer Peabody, you could now explain how person or persons unknown gained access to this unit and persuaded this trained security expert to take termination drugs without her struggling.”
“Well…”
“I’ll take over now.” Eve patted her shoulder. “You don’t want to blow your streak. Person or persons unknown were admitted to the unit by the victim. Most likely to pay her off or to give her the next stage of instructions. The termination drugs were probably mixed into the wine. P
erson or persons unknown waited for her to slip into the first stage of the coma, at which time she was carried in here, laid out nice and pretty. The note was generated, the stage set. When it was determined that victim was dead, the explosives were rigged, and person or persons unknown went on their merry way.”
“She sort of sees it,” Peabody added helpfully. “Not like a psychic or anything. She just walks it through with the killer. Really mag.”
“Okay, Peabody. She was a tool,” Eve continued. “No more, no less. The same as Weeks was a tool. She probably joined the force to honor her father, and he used that, just as he’s using Roarke’s father to get to him. They don’t mean anything to him as people, as flesh and blood. They’re just steps and stages in his twenty-three-year war.”
“Maybe not tools, then,” Darcia countered, “but soldiers. To some generals they are just as dispensable. Excuse us, Officer Peabody, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sir.”
“I want an apology.” She saw Eve wince, and smiled. “Yes, I know it’ll hurt, so I want one. Not for pursuing a line of investigation, and so on. For not trusting me.”
“I’ve known you less than twenty-four hours,” Eve began, then winced again. “All right, shit. I apologize for not trusting you. And I’ll go one better. For not respecting your authority.”
“Accepted. I’m going to have the body taken to the ME, as a probable homicide. Your aide is very well trained.”
“She’s good,” Eve agreed, since Peabody wasn’t around to hear and get bigheaded about it. “And getting better.”
“I missed the date, the significance, and I shouldn’t have. I believe I would have seen these things once my annoyance with you had ebbed a bit, but that’s beside the point. Now, I need to question Roarke regarding his conversation with the commander this morning, and regarding his association with Zita Vinter. To keep my official records clean, you are not included in this interview. I would appreciate it, however, if you’d remain and lead my team through the examination of the crime scene.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll keep this as brief as I can, as I imagine both you and Roarke would like to go back and get out of those damp, dirty clothes.” She tugged the sleeve of Eve’s jacket as she passed. “That used to be very attractive.”
“She was easier on me than I’d’ve been on her,” Eve admitted as she rolled the stiffness out of her shoulders. She’d hit the floor under Roarke harder than she’d realized and figured she should take a look at the bruises.
After a long, hot shower.
Since Roarke’s response to her statement was little more than a grunt as they rode up to their suite, she took his measure. He could use some cleaning up himself, she thought. He’d ditched the ruined jacket, and the shirt beneath it had taken a beating.
She wondered if her face was as dirty as his.
“As soon as we clean up,” she began as she stepped out of the elevator and into the parlor. And that was as far as she got before she was pressed up against the elevator doors with his mouth ravaging hers.
Half her brain seemed to slide out through her ears. “Whoa. What?”
“Another few seconds.” With his hands gripping her shoulders and his eyes hot, he looked down at her. “We wouldn’t be here.”
“We are here.”
“That’s right.” He jerked the jacket halfway down her arms, savaged her neck. “That’s damn right. Now let’s prove it.” He stripped the jacket away, ripped her shirt at the shoulder. “I want my hands on you. Yours on me.”
They already were. She tugged and tore at his ruined shirt, and because her hands were busy, used her teeth on him.
Less than a foot inside the room, they dragged each other to the floor. She rolled with him, fighting with the rest of his clothes, then arching like a bridge when his mouth clamped over her breast.
Need, deep and primal, gushed through her until she moaned his name. It was always his name. She wanted more. More to give, more to take. Her fingers dug into him—hard muscle, damp flesh. The scent of smoke and death smothered under the scent of him so that it filled her with the fevered mix of love and lust that he brought to her.