Portrait In Death

She gathered her things and prepared to accomplish at least one of the items on her to-do list. She'd go home and kick Roarke's ass.

The prospect didn't put a spring in her step, but she'd stalled long enough. But as she approached the elevator, she spotted Dr. Mira coming toward her.

"I thought I'd catch you."

"Just," Eve said. "We can go back to my office."

"No, no, you're on your way home, I'd like to do the same. Why don't we walk and talk. Do you mind taking the glides?"

"That's fine. You're done with Hastings?"

"Yes. Fascinating man."

Mira smiled as they stepped on one of the down glides. She managed to look fresh as morning even after a long day. Her suit was cream colored and spotless. Eve couldn't figure out how anyone could wear something that close to white in New York, particularly in or around Central and not have it go gray in an hour. Her hair, the tone and texture of rich sable, was fluffed around her face. She wore pearls.

One of the top profilers in the country, and she wore pearls to work, Eve thought. And smelled faintly, freshly floral-like the tea she liked to drink.

She stepped off the first glide in her neat, feminine pumps, then stepped on the next.

"Irascible," Mira continued. "Contentious, irritable, amusing. And brutally honest."

"So he's clear?"

"In my opinion-and I believe in yours before you sent him to me."

"I figure he might throw somebody off a roof in a tantrum, but he's not the type to sit down and plan cold-bloodedly, or execute in the same fashion."

"No, he's not. He could use some anger therapy, but it would probably be lost on him. I rather like him."

"So do I."

"Your killer has Hastings's arrogance, or its kin, but lacks his confidence, and his spontaneity. And while Hastings is more than content to be alone, the killer is lonely. He needs his images as much for companionship as for art."

"The people in them become his companions?"

"In a way. He's absorbing them-their youth and energy, and by the absorption who they are, who they know. Their friends, their families. He's taking their life force."

"He doesn't abuse them. It's all very neat and tidy. There's no rage. Because they're him or about to become him."

"Very good."

"He preserves their image, showing them at their best. Pretties them up for the camera, poses them in some flattering way. Part of that's the art, right-look what I can do, look how talented I am. But part of it's vanity. We're one now, and I want to look good."

"Interesting. Yes, very possibly. This is a complicated person, and one who sincerely believes he has a right to do what he's doing. Perhaps even an obligation. But he doesn't do it selflessly. It's not a holy mission. He wants credit. He may have been disappointed in his art in the past, feels as though his talent's been overlooked. By Hastings, or someone who preferred Hastings over him. If, as seems logical, he took the initial images of the victims from Hastings records, part of the motivation might be to outdo his competition."

"Or his mentor."

Mira raised her eyebrows as they walked into the garage. "I don't see Hastings as a mentor."

"Neither would he, but the killer might."

"I'll spend some more time on this if you like. I'd need your updated reports."

"I'll make sure you get them. I appreciate it." To buy more time, she walked Mira to her car. "Dr. Mira, you've been married a long time."

They'd come a long way together, Mira thought, for Eve to bring up something personal without prompting. "Yes, I have. Thirty-two years next month."

"Thirty-two. Years."

Mira laughed. "Longer than you've been alive."

"I guess it has its ups and downs."

"It does. Marriage isn't for the weak or the lazy. It's work, and it should be. What would be the point otherwise?"

"I don't mind work." At least, Eve thought, as she tucked her hands in her pockets, when she knew what she was doing. "People back away from each other sometimes, don't they? It doesn't mean they feel any different, just that they need a step back."

"There are times we need to be by ourselves, or work something out on our own, certainly. In any partnership, the individuals require personal time and space."

"Yeah. That makes sense."

"Eve, is something wrong with Roarke?"

"I don't know." It spilled out before she could bite it back. "I'm being stupid, that's all. He wasn't acting like himself one night, and I'm blowing it into a BFD. But, damn it, I know how he looks at me, I know the tones of his voice, his body language. And it was off. It was all off. So he was having a bad day, why can't I let it go at that?"

"Because you love him, so you worry about him."

"We didn't leave things on an easy level last night, then he never came to bed. I got called in early this morning, left him a memo. But I haven't heard from him all day. He all but threw me out of his office last night, and I haven't heard from him all day. That's not right. That's not Roarke."

"And you didn't contact him at all today?"

"No. Damn it, it was his turn."

"Agreed," Mira said with a warm smile. "And you gave him his personal time and space." She leaned forward, surprised Eve with a light kiss to the cheek. "Now go home and pry it out of him. You'll both feel better."

"Okay. Right. Thanks. I feel stupid."

"No, sweetheart. You feel married."

Chapter 12

Her puke green police issue was in front of the house when Roarke arrived, so he knew Eve was home before him.

He wasn't ready to talk to her or anyone else for that matter. But he could hardly ignore the fact that the man who'd stood in as his father for most of his life was laid up with a broken leg.

He'd check on Summerset, then try to sweat out some of the fatigue and frustration in the gym, swim a few laps. Maybe get good and drunk. Whatever worked.

Meetings hadn't. The day-to-day demands of ru

So he'd just try something else.

He stepped inside, relieved-and guilty for the relief-that Eve wasn't in the foyer, or the front parlor. At the moment, he was forced to admit he wasn't feeling quite equipped to go up against her again.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so bloody tired, and so off his stride.

Setting his briefcase aside, he glanced toward the wide curve of stairs. Likely she was up and at work in her home office, and with any luck she'd be busy with whatever case was occupying her for some time yet.

Still, he hesitated. He wasn't handling her well. Wasn't handling a bloody thing well, come to that. He just needed a bit more time to himself. A man was entitled to that, wasn't he?

Surely a man was entitled to a little time to think, for Christ's sake, when his whole life had been turned inside out.

He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed under his breath as he walked back to Summerset's quarters.

He heard the blast of music from three rooms away, and nearly turned on his heel in retreat. Mavis. God knew he adored the woman, but he didn't have the energy for her just now.

On the other hand, with her there, he could make this duty visit all the quicker.

At any other time it would have amused him to see his dignified majordomo stripped to the waist and stretched out in a sleep chair having blue goo slathered on his face. Trina, one of the few people on or off planet who actively terrified his wife, was doing the honors as she shuffled her feet to the beat of one of Mavis's music discs.

She'd chopped off her raven black hair close to the scalp and had a neon pink design of a butterfly dyed over the crown. She'd repeated the motif with temporary tattoos-or so he assumed-at the corner of her mouth, and in a ru