Secrets in Death (In Death 45)
As possibilities came and went, he slept little. And rose early, as always.
He showered and dressed, handled a ’link conference, a holo meeting before dawn. His work energized him as much as sleep, as did his need to involve himself in the details, small and large, of all the arms of all the reaches of what he’d built.
Through wile and guile, through brains and sweat. Through a fierce and focused determination since childhood.
Once money had mattered utmost, because money equaled survival. Then power had joined that ambition, because power brought respect. And with both, a man could adjust his life as he pleased, toss off—at least in appearances—the ragged and violent beginnings.
Then came the building, and the wonder of it, the all but shocking realization that he could truly create. With that, the revelation of simple satisfaction.
Buy, sell, build, own, innovate, expand. Risk and reward. Take what was neglected, make it shine again. Create where a vaccum had once existed. Risk and reward—and yes, even when survival had been assured, some of that risk had involved snaking over and under and across the line of the law.
Habits, particularly enjoyable ones, are hard to break, after all.
But then Eve. Just Eve. Only Eve. Difficult, cynical, troubled, and fascinating Eve had changed him, saved him, completed him. And habits had been as easily broken as a dry twig under a boot.
Even then he’d never seen himself as now. As a man who could and would shuffle his own work, check on hers, contribute to hers. Never imagined that satisfaction.
He read through the results of the auto-search he’d run for her—his cop—considered those results from both sides of the line he straddled now.
The criminal past, the Eve present.
As dawn approached, he continued his habit—checked on her through house security, saw she slept yet, and the cat felt confident enough in her comfort to have left her.
He rose and, diverging from habit, went downstairs.
As he approached the kitchen, he heard Summerset’s voice, the murmur of some early media show under it.
Talking to the cat, Roarke realized. The conversational tone amused him—as he often found himself doing the same, as if expecting the cat to talk back.
“I expect you’ll behave while I’m gone, and keep an eye on the children.”
Roarke paused to take in the scene. Summerset, a baker’s apron over shirtsleeves, was kneading dough while Galahad sat on a counter stool and watched, apparently listening as well.
“I’m leaving it to you,” Summerset continued, his long, thin hands working methodically and with what looked like an easy enjoyment. “You’ll have to see they get a decent meal in them.”
“He’s generally more worried about his own meals.”
Summerset glanced over, eyebrows lifting. “He’ll keep his clever eyes on you nonetheless. Is all well?”
Roarke made a sound of affirmation, wandered in. He rarely came to the kitchen. It, like the rooms beyond, were Summerset’s domain—an arrangement that suited them both.
“You’re about ready to be off, I’d think.”
Summerset continued to knead. “Early tomorrow. I’m entertaining myself by baking and cooking. You and the lieutenant won’t starve while I’m gone. Do you want coffee?”
Shaking his head, Roarke continued to wander, restless. “You and I, we’ve evaded with each other now and again over the years. That’s natural enough, isn’t it?”
Summerset turned the dough into a bowl, covered it with a cloth before walking to the sink to wash his hands. “What’s on your mind, boy?”
“I don’t recall either of us lying outright to the other. Well, not since my beginnings with you when lying was my default. And you saw through that, more than I thought then. Though I may have slipped a few by you.”
“I doubt it.”
Roarke smiled, leaning on the counter as Summerset dried his hands. “Those were the days. And still, after those raw beginnings, after trust and respect and affection, I don’t see either of us lying to the other if a question was asked straight and direct.”
“What’s your question?”
“Did you kill Patrick Roarke?”