Betrayal in Death

"Yeah, could be he did. We got the murder on disc, Dallas. All of it."

"Where are you set up? I want to – " She broke off, remembering Roarke. She made some sound that might have been frustration, might have been pity, or a combination of both. "I'll look at it at Central. Can you set us up in a conference room? I got something to take care of before I head in."

"Yeah, he's outside." Feeney shifted his feet, rattled the bag of nuts, stuffed it in his pocket. "I don't like to poke my nose in."

"I know. I like that about you, Feeney."

"Yeah, well. I just want to say, he's going to be feeling some weight. Got to. You can tell him he shouldn't, but it won't matter. After a bit, he's going to find his mad. Probably be pretty hot at first, then he's the type to chill it down. Seems to me that's not such a bad thing all around. We might be able to use Roarke in a cold temper."

"You're a regular philosopher today, Feeney."

"I'm just saying, is all. Maybe you're thinking it'd be better to keep him out of the loop." He nodded, seeing those exact thoughts mirrored in her eyes. "That would be from the gut, and not the head. You use your head you're going to figure out sometimes the target's the best weapon. You can try to stand in front of this particular target, Dallas, but this one'll knock you out of the way anyhow."

"Is this your roundabout way of suggesting I bring him in on this? Officially?"

"It's your case. Maybe I'm saying you should think about using all the resources available. That's all I'm saying."

Deciding that was more than enough, Feeney gave a little shrug and left her alone.

She started out, selecting uniforms to do a neighborhood canvass and knock on doors. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Roarke. He leaned against the rear fender of a sharp-looking sedan. Watching me, she thought. Waiting. But there was nothing of patience in the stance.

"Give me a minute here," Eve murmured to Peabody, then crossed to him.

"I thought you were going to use the limo and driver."

"I was. Have been. I didn't choose to wait for them when I got the call about Jonah."

"Who informed you?"

"I have sources. Are we going into Interview, Lieutenant?" When she said nothing, he swore softly, viciously, under his breath. "Sorry."

"Do yourself a favor and go home for a while. Kick something down in the gym."

He nearly smiled. "That's your way."

"It usually works."

"I need to go into the office. I have a meeting. Will you be informing next of kin?"

"Yes."

He looked away from her, toward the lovely little brownstone. And thought about what had been done inside. "I want to talk to his family myself."

"I'll make sure you're contacted after the official notification."

His eyes shifted back to hers. Feeney had been right, she thought. He was carrying the weight, but he was also finding his mad. She could see both in his eyes.

"Tell me what you know of this, Eve. Don't make me go around you for it."

"I'm going into Central. After notification of next of kin and my prelim report, I will, together with my team, study and analyze all available evidence. Meanwhile, the ME and the lab will do their jobs. Dr. Mira is working up a profile. Other leads, which I'm not prepared to stand here outside a crime scene and talk about, are being actively pursued. While all this is going on, I'm fending off an FBI takeover attempt and will no doubt be ordered to release a statement to the media."

"What leads?"

He would, she thought, latch onto that one statement. "I said I'm not prepared to discuss them at this time. Give me some space here. Give me time to think. I'm not as good as you are at balancing worry over somebody I love and the work."

"Then I'll answer that with something that should sound very familiar to you as it's forever coming out of your mouth. I can take care of myself."

She expected to feel anger, resentment, or at the least, impatience. Instead, there was only concern. He, a man who rarely lost control, was on the edge of rage. And mired in grief.

She did something she had never done in public, never done while on the job with other cops looking on. She put her arms around him, drew him close, and held him with her cheek pressed gently to his.

"I'm sorry." She murmured it, wishing she knew more of the art of comforting. "I'm so damn sorry."

The rage that had been spitting into his throat, the burn scorching the rim of his heart eased. He closed his eyes and let himself lean.

Through all the other miseries in his life there'd been no one to offer him the simple soothing of understanding. It swamped him, washed away the worst edge of grief, and left him steadier for it.

"I can't get a handle on it," he said quietly. "And I can't see through the murk of it to any answers."

"You will." She eased back, skimmed her fingers through his hair. "Try to put it aside for a little while, and you will."

"I need you with me tonight."

"I'll be with you tonight."

He took her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles. And let her go. "Thanks."

She waited until he'd gotten into his car, until he'd pulled away from the curb. She was tempted to send a black-and-white out to follow him back to midtown. But he'd make a tail, and be just a

Instead, she let him go as well.

When she turned around, she noted a number of cops get very busy looking in other directions. She refused to waste time being embarrassed. She signaled to Peabody.

"Let's get to work."

In his midtown base, Roarke rode the private elevator to his suite of offices. He could feel the anger building inside of him again. He couldn't permit it, not until he had time alone, time to find an outlet.

He knew how to strap it down. It was a hard-learned skill that had kept him alive during the bad years, and the building years. A skill that had helped him create what he had now, and who he was now.

And what was he now? he wondered as he ordered the elevator to stop so he could have another moment to find a grip on that fine skill. A man who could buy whatever he chose to buy so he could fill his world with all the things he'd once starved for.

Beauty, decency, comfort, style.

A man who could command what he chose to command so that he would never, by God never again, feel helpless. Power. The power to amuse himself, to challenge himself, to indulge himself.

One who reigned over what some called an empire and had countless people dependent on him for their livelihoods. Livelihoods. Lives.

Now two had lost theirs.

There was nothing he could do to change it, to fix it. Nothing he could do but hunt down the one who had done it, and the one who had paid for it to be done. And balance the scales.

Rage, he thought, clouded the mind. He would keep his clear, and see it through.

He ordered the elevator to resume, and when he stepped off his eyes were grim but cool. His receptionist popped up from her console immediately, but still wasn't quite quick enough to ward off Mick, who strolled over from the waiting area.

"Well now, boyo, it's a hell of a place you've got here, isn't it?"

"It does me. Hold my calls for a bit, would you?" Roarke ordered the receptionist. "Unless it's from my wife. Come on back, Mick."

"That I will. I'm hoping for the grand tour, though from the size of this place of yours that might take the next several weeks."

"You'll have to make due with my office for now. I'm between meetings."

"Busy boy." As he followed Roarke down a glass breezeway snaking over Manhattan and through a wide art-filled corridor, he looked around, his eyes bright and sca