Promises in Death (In Death 28)

“I wouldn’t mind, actually. Why don’t I get it? I know where everything is.”

When she went out to the kitchen, he followed as far as the living room and crouched in front of the droid kitten. He activated it, then stepped away to carry boxes and protective wrap to a chair.

He began, meticulously, to wrap the pale green glass vase she’d used for the roses he’d sent her. And the kitten mewed, as programmed. It stretched its silky white body as Cleo came back with the coffee.

“Thanks.” He kept his hands full—coffee, wrapping—while the kitten wound through Cleo’s legs.

“She loved this thing.” Cleo looked down as the kitten gave a plaintive meow and stared up at her with adoring eyes. “She just loved it. Will you keep it?”

“I suppose I will. I haven’t thought that far yet.”

Cleo laughed a little as the kitten continued to rub, meow, stare. “Do droids get lonely? You’d swear it’s desperate for a little attention.”

“It’s programmed for companionship, so . . .”

“Yeah. Okay, okay.” Cleo set down the coffee, bent down.

Morris continued to wrap even as he held his breath.

“It is kind of sweet if you go for this sort of thing. And she did. She bought it little toys, and the cat bed.” Cleo picked up the kitten. Gave it a stroke. Cursed.

“Don’t tell me it scratched you.” Morris put aside the wrapping to go to her.

“No, but something did.” Cleo held up her hand, and blood welled in a shallow cut on her index finger. “Something on the collar.”

“Damn rhinestones.” His own blood pumped hot, but his tone, his touch were both easy as he took Cleo’s wounded hand. “It’s not deep, but we’ll clean it up.”

“It’s nothing. A scratch.”

“You should wash and protect it.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed at the blood. “She’ll have what you need in the bathroom. Doctor’s orders,” he said.

“Can’t argue with that. I’ll be right back.”

He folded the cloth, tucked it into an evidence bag. He removed the collar from the droid, studied—just for a moment—the faint smear of blood on the glittery stones he’d sharpened himself. And he bagged it as well.

Then he picked up the kitten, nuzzled it. “Yes, you’ll come home with me. You won’t be alone.”

When Cleo came back in, he was sitting in one of Ammy’s living room chairs. “All right?” he asked.

“Good as new.” She held up her finger with the clear strip on the tip. “Where’s the cat?”

“I turned it to sleep mode.” He gestured absently toward the ball of white on its pillow. “Cleo, I want to thank you again for all you’ve done today. It’s been more help than you know. But I have to stop, for now. I think I’ve done all I can do in one day.”

“It’s a lot.” She walked over, laid a hand on his shoulder.

He wanted to surge out of the chair, close his own hands around her throat and ask his single question. What did you feel when you killed her?

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow, help you with the rest?”

“Can I contact you? I’m just not sure.”

“Absolutely. Anytime, Morris. I mean it. Anything you need.”

He waited until she’d gone before he balled his hands into fists, kept them balled and tried to envision all his rage inside them. When his communicator beeped twice—McNab’s all-clear—he rose. He walked over to pick up the sleeping kitten, its pillow, its toys.

He took them and nothing else from the home of the woman he loved. But the blood of her murderer.

In the interview room, Eve faced Alex across the table. “You want me to believe your father never told you that you have a half sib?”