Born In Death

“I got an A.”

“Knew I could count on you. B-day’s coming, Dallas. Don’t be late. Tandy’s counting on you, too.”

A white stork flew overhead, a white sack swinging from its beak. Eve ducked and cursed.

“There goes another one!” Mavis laughed. “Maybe it’s Tandy’s. Better go after it, better hurry. Could be a COD!”

Eve started off at a jog, glanced back. Mavis was standing on her head, her feet propped on the white wall. “I’m keeping it in the oven until you finish.”

“That can’t be right,” Eve muttered, but chased after the stork.

In a cube built into the wall, Natalie Copperfield was tied to a desk. Her eyes were blackened and bloody and ru

“It won’t add up,” she sobbed. “It won’t come out right. I have to make it right. That’s my job. They killed me for it,” she said to Eve, “but it still has to add up.”

“You have to give me more than that.”

“It’s all right there, all right there in the numbers that won’t add up. Haven’t you found her yet? Haven’t you found her?”

There was a door. Eve yanked at it, then kicked it in when it refused to give way. Inside was a white room, and Tandy, strapped to a labor/delivery chair like the one used as a demo in the birthing class.

Blood stained the sheets, her face was shiny with sweat. Her engorged belly rippled obscenely.

“The baby’s coming,” she panted out. “I can’t stop it.”

“Where’s the doctor? Where’s the midwife?”

“I can’t stop it,” she repeated. “Hurry, hurry.”

Even as Eve ran forward, Tandy vanished.

The floor opened under her feet. As she fell, the babies were crying, the women screaming.

She landed hard, heard and felt the bone snap in her arm. The room was cold, so cold, and washed with a dirty red light.

“No.” Shuddering, she pushed to her hands and knees. “No.”

He was lying in a pool of his own blood, the same blood that dripped from her hands, from the blade of the little knife she still gripped.

And as she watched, her father turned his head, and those dead eyes smiled at her. “It always comes back to the begi

She came out of it on a muffled cry to find herself wrapped in Roarke’s arms.

“Dreaming, that’s all. You’re all right. I’m here.”

“It’s okay.” She drew in his scent to steady herself. “I’m okay. It wasn’t bad.”

“You’re shaking.” He ordered the lights on low, and the fire on so the room glowed softly, and the flames burst into life in the hearth.

“It was just mostly weird. Weird and creepy.”

“Dancing numbers?” He kept his voice light, but held her close and tight. “Flying babies?”

“Not this time.” She ordered herself to relax, just relax against him. “Tangling up my cases,” she said after she told him of the dream. “And ended with the big finish. Bastard always manages to get in there.”

“Lie back down now. Let it go.”

She let him draw her back, let herself curl in. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, or to let it go. “There was this sense of urgency. I had to find Tandy, but even when I did, I couldn’t get to her. And there was Natalie Copperfield, and all I could think was that she deserved better from me. She’s trapped there, with those damn numbers, until I can fix it. Add it up. Make it come out right.”

“No point in telling you you’re spread too thin.”

“No, no point. Sorry.”

“Then let me remind you that you’re not alone in that white room, that white tu

She tilted her head so she could see his face, lifted her hand so she could touch it. “Thank God.”

He kissed her forehead. “Well now, you managed a rousing three hours of sleep. Back on the clock, are we?”

She didn’t argue about eating a decent breakfast first. Instead she programmed a couple of whoppers herself while he dressed.

“And here’s my lovely wife, serving me breakfast on a Sunday morning.”

“You earned it.” She gave the cat a baleful stare as he meandered over from the spot of sunlight where he’d been curled. “You haven’t.” But Galahad sent her such a mournful look, she rolled her eyes, went back to the AutoChef and ordered him up some breakfast kibble and a small side of tuna.

“Played you,” Roarke said as he dug into his eggs.

“Maybe, but it’ll keep him from begging and sneaking while we eat. I’m thinking,” she began.

“As ever.”

“The Italian case, too close to mine for comfort. If they co

“Pregnant, no family to speak of, new city – toward the end of their term.”

“Right. And while I don’t pop out others that match just so, who’s to say there haven’t been others – women who weren’t reported missing. Or others that came through IRCCA that didn’t play out exactly the same way as these two. And if so, it could lean several ways.”

Considering, he cut into the short stack of pancakes he’d drizzled with syrup. “A long way from Rome to New York if you’re talking about someone who stalks women in this situation, abducts them. And Sophia Belego has never been found, leading to the assumption that the abductor then disposes of them.”

“Or disposes of the woman. Babies are a commodity.”

“Black market sales, slavery, illegal adoptions. Yes, a commodity they are.”

She forked up some pancakes, and though they were already swimming in syrup, dunked them in more. Across from her, Roarke actually winced.

“It should make your teeth hurt,” he commented.

“What? Oh, no it’s good.” She popped them into her mouth. “I like the sugar rush. Anyway, could be a psycho, who likes to travel, likes variety. Could be with enough digging I’ll find some strange co

He watched, somewhat fascinated as she swished a slice of bacon through the pool of syrup. His steely-minded cop had the appetite of a five-year-old. “You think the root of it may be there rather than here.”

“It’s a thought. I’m going to let it circle around some while I write it up for Smith in MPU. Maybe she’ll have some thoughts on it. It’s more her area than mine.”

“Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll bring you up to date on my little project.”

“Run it by me now.”

“There’s one of the files that appears to add up, but doesn’t. Not when you peel it apart, shake it out. An outlay and an income that double back on each other, and a separate expense that pulls out of that same income again and gets fu

“Your call.”

“So it was. There are repetitions of that, and subtle variations on it. Could be someone trying to tuck away a bit of the ready, someone hoping to avoid a bit of tax, or a little laundry.”

“How little?”

“I’m not sure yet. Thanks,” he added when she topped off his coffee, then her own. “It’s cleverly done, and I’ll need to peek under a few more covers. But it’s considerable.”

“Ballpark?”

“So far, mid-seven figures, for the time frame I’m working with.”

“Millions then?”

“So it seems.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “Motive enough, I’d think, for two murders.”

“A handful of credits dropped in the gutter’s enough motive for some. But yeah, for this type of thing, motive enough. Why don’t you let me have a look so I can match it with the client?”

“Why don’t you let me finish first?”

“You’re working blind, so I work blind, too?”

“Now, would I be that small and petty?” He considered a moment. “I might be, but in this case, I’d just rather put it all together first. Not as if you’ve nothing to do in the meanwhile.”