Strangers In Death

“No, indeed.” He carried her up to the bed, laid her down. As he started to unbutton her jeans, she sat up, patted his hand away.

“I can do it. You get ideas.”

“Yet somehow I can resist them when my wife’s all but comatose. Heroic of me.”

She smiled sleepily as she wiggled out of the jeans. “Better not forget that, ’cause I’m sleeping naked.” She tossed aside the sweatshirt, then climbed under the fluffy duvet. “Go

“There’s that hammer again.” He slid in beside her, draped an arm around her waist. “Pick it up tomorrow, Lieutenant. Time to lay the tools down for the night.”

“Bet she sleeps like a baby. I bet she…Shit!” She flopped over in bed so quickly, Roarke had to shoot down a hand to catch her knee.

“Mind the jewels, then.”

“He had traces of over-the-counter sleep aid in him.”

“A lot of people take sleep aids routinely. In fact, on nights such as this it’s a wonder I don’t.”

“Didn’t think about them overmuch as the trace matched with what he had in his bathroom. Just a standard. But I asked Ben and the house manager, and neither of them can confirm he was a routine user. So what if she planted them there? What if she found a way to get some into him that night.”

“When she was in St. Lucia.”

“He took vitamins-a whole buncha vitamins regularly. He had this, ah…crap, my brain-”

“Is begging you to turn it off.”

“It has to wait. He had this weekly dispenser deal. You fill up each day’s dose, so you don’t have to open a bunch of bottles or try to remember if you took the E and not the C-whatever. She could’ve pulled a switch.”

“So he fell asleep at his desk that morning, or while putting on the third green.”

“He took them at night.” She smiled in the dark. “He took them at night because he thought that helped them absorb better. That’s in my notes somewhere.”

“All right, then, she switched pills. How would you prove it, and what would you do with it should you?”

“Just another piece to poke at. I don’t remember seeing any sleep aids in her bathroom, in her night table. But she said she might take a soother, or take an aid now and then.”

“She was traveling,” he reminded her. “She might have taken them with her.”

“Yeah, I’m going to check on that. And what if-”

“Eve?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember that hammer I said I’d fetch you in the morning?”

She frowned in the dark. “Sort of.”

“Don’t make me get it now and knock you out with it.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go to sleep.”

She frowned in the dark for another minute, but her eyes began to droop. She felt his arm go around her again, drawing her in, then the muffled thud as Galahad pounced onto the foot of the bed.

As the cat arranged himself over her feet, she dropped into sleep.

15

IN SLEEP, SHE ARRANGED THEM. THOMAS ANDERS at the center with the others fa

But no. She shifted restlessly in sleep. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the sun, he wasn’t the center. Not to her. He was only the vehicle, he was only the means.

Expendable, when the time was right. Steady, reliable, not very spectacular, predictable Tommy.

Left with a nice chunk of change. Dirk Bronson lounged in a deck chair behind Ava, sipping a frothy drink. Not a backward glance.

Seed money. The kickoff. The flashy lead-off batter.

Change the lineup.

In the dream, the ball field was summer green and rich brown, the white bases gleaming like marble plates. The players took that field in uniforms black as death. Brigit crouching behind the plate-catcher to Ava’s pitcher-Sasha fussing with her hair at short, Edmond at first, Li

Short a man, Eve thought. They’re short a man at center field.

I’m always the center. Ava smiled, wound up, and winged a high, fast curve. At the plate, Tommy checked his swing.

Ball one.

The crowd, in their black mourning clothes, applauded politely. Nice call, ump. Eve glanced back, sca

Ava, set, glanced over her shoulder toward third. The pitch missed, low and outside. Ball two.

Ava took a bow, for the crowd, for the field. I can keep this up for years. Slow ball, fast ball, curve ball, slider. It’s not a strike until I’m ready to throw one.

She threw again, high and inside, brushing Tommy back from the plate.

Ball three.

There were mutters from the dugout, restrained hoots from the crowd. As Brigit jogged up to the mound, Ben called over to Eve, We’re playing on the wrong team. Can’t you call the game? Can’t you call it before it’s too late?

Not without more evidence, Whitney said from the dugout. No cause. You need probable cause. There are rules.

Roarke shook his head. Far too many rules, don’t you think? After all, murder doesn’t play by the rules.

Brigit jogged back, gave Tommy a pat on the cheek, then turned to Eve. She’s going to the bullpen. She needs some relief. You have to admit, it’s all a little boring this way, and she’d put in a great deal of time.

I can’t stop it, Eve thought. I can only call them as I see them.

A shadow crossed the field, an indistinct form gliding over the summer grass. No, I can’t stop it, Eve thought again. It had to play out. I can only make the call after the pitch.

I’m sorry, she said to Tommy, there’s nothing I can do.

Oh well. He smiled kindly at her. It’s just a game, isn’t it?

Not anymore, Eve thought as the shadow merged with Ava, as they set, checked, wound up together. Fast ball, dead over the plate.

He lay on the rich brown dirt, the marblelike plate his headstone, and his eyes staring up at the clear blue of the sky.

On the mound, Ava laughed gaily, and took another bow for the now weeping crowd. And he’s out! Want to see the instant replay?

It might’ve been a weird dream, maybe a stupid dream, Eve thought, but she rearranged her murder board in her home office the next morning.

Take a new look, she told herself. Look with fresh eyes.

Roarke came in behind her, studied the board with his hand on her shoulder. “Making patterns?”

“It’s that damn dream.” She’d told him about it when she’d dressed. “See, she’s got her infield-the people she trusts most because she’s seen to it they trust her, or have that co

“And she doesn’t throw strikes.”

“Exactly. No, no, not the first i

“But she struck them out, or let them get on base, then picked them off. No score, no memorable stats.”

“Yeah.” She glanced back at him. “For an Irish guy you get baseball pretty well.”

“And still you benched me in the dugout. No batter on deck, either.”