Portrait In Death

Roarke. She knew him. She loved him. He'd come with her to Dallas, and now he'd take her away. When she turned to him she wasn't a child anymore, but a woman. And still, the man who'd been her father lay bloody between them.

"I don't want to stay here. I need to go home now. I'm so glad you're here to take me home."

"You've done Richie in, haven't you?"

"He hurt me. He wouldn't stop hurting me."

"Well now, a father has to hurt the child now and again to teach them some respect." He crouched, and taking a grip on her father's hair, lifted the head to examine it. "I knew him, you know. Wheeled some deals. We're two of a kind."

"No, you're nothing like him. You never met him."

Those blue eyes sparked with something that made her stomach clutch like a fist. "I don't like being called a liar by a woman."

"Roarke-"

He picked up the knife, rose slowly. "You've got the wrong Roarke. I'm Patrick Roarke." Smiling, smiling, he turned the knife in his hand as he stepped toward her. "And I think it's time you learned a little respect for fatherhood."

She woke with the scream trapped in her throat, and sweat pouring off her like blood.

By the time her team arrived, she was steady. Bad dreams, worries about Roarke, even the conversation she knew she needed to have with Summerset were all locked away.

"We're looking for this Luis Javert, listed as Hastings's assistant during the period in January the photographs of Rachel Howard were taken at a wedding. Going off profile, we're going to assume he's between twenty-five and sixty years of age. Highly functional, artistic, intelligent. Odds are he lives alone and owns or has access to imaging equipment. I'm saying owns. These are his tools, his work, his art.

"Feeney, I want you to work Browning on this angle. The name doesn't appear on her list of students sent to Hastings, but he might have changed it. I'm banking that he studied under her, and that she covered Javert in some of the class-work at one time or another. She's tired of looking at me at this point, and maybe a fresh face will jog something loose."

"First time I've been called a fresh face in two decades." Feeney munched on a danish.

"McNab, I want you at Columbia. Work on students, play up the Javert angle. Who's interested in that kind of work."

"Cops are." His mouth was full of scrambled eggs. "Homicide cops are always photographing the dead."

"They don't generally take pictures of them before they're dead."

"How about doctors?" He scooped up bacon. "They take imaging records of patients, right? Then there's the before and after records. Mostly it's to cover their asses in case somebody decides to sue, but-"

"You may not be as stupid as you look." Eve snitched one of his slices of bacon. "Hard to believe, but you may not be. Light. Energy, health, vitality. I was playing with it last night, and got distracted. Maybe our boy's sick. What if he's convinced himself that by absorbing vital life through photography, he can be cured?"

"It's out there."

"Yeah, well, so is he. Peabody and I will follow this up. Baxter and Trueheart stick with the clubs."

"It's a tough job." Baxter drained his coffee. "Hanging out in clubs, watching all the nubile young bodies." He winked at Trueheart. "Right, kid."

Trueheart's blush turned his young, smooth face rosy pink. "There's a lot going on there. The dancing, the music, the bar scene, the data flood."

"He got hit on three times," Baxter added. "Two were girls."

"Talk photography," Eve told him. "Bone up some on this Henri Javert and work the conversation around to him when you're being hit on."

"It wasn't like that, Lieutenant. They were just talking to me."

"I love this guy." Baxter wiped an imaginary tear away. "Just fucking love him."

"If Baxter hits on you, Trueheart, you have permission to kick his ass. Moving on. Memorial service this evening for Rachel Howard. Baxter and Trueheart will be dancing among the nubiles, but I want the rest of us there. Our boy may show. Let's move out. Peabody, I have a personal matter to deal with downstairs. Be ready in ten."

Eve went downstairs, and found Summerset in the middle of a fight with the PA.

"If you want the cast off, you will cooperate and let me transport you to the health center. You require a doctor's authorization and supervision for its removal."

"I can have this irritant off in two minutes. Move aside." He started to haul himself up. She shoved him back down.

Fascinated, Eve watched the show. "Madam, I have yet to strike a woman, despite considerable provocation. You are about to be my first."

"You piss him off even more than I do," Eve commented and had two furious faces turning toward her. "I think we may have to keep you."

"I expect some cooperation," Spence began, lifting her chin so high her curls bounced.

"I will not have this person drag me to a health center for a simple procedure."

"It requires a doctor."

"Then bring the doctor here," Eve suggested. "And get it done."

"I'm hardly going to request a doctor make a home call for something as minor as a skin cast removal."

"If it's so minor, why do we need a doctor?"

"Ah!" Summerset raised one long, bony finger. "Exactly."

"I bet I can zap it off with my weapon." Thoughtfully, Eve drew it. "Why don't you stand back, Spence, and I'll just-"

"Put that thing away," Summerset snapped. "You lunatic."

"Might've been fun." With a shrug, Eve holstered it. "Tag the doctor," she ordered Spence. "Tell him Roarke wants him to come here and remove the cast, and do whatever the hell else is necessary to get this pain in my ass on his feet, and out of the house."

"I fail to see why-"

"You're not required to see, you're required to do it. If the doctor has a problem with this," Eve added, "he can speak to me."

Spence huffed off, and Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. "Sooner you're on your feet, sooner you're on vacation somewhere that's not here. And I can start turning cartwheels."

"Nothing would please me more."

With a nod, she nudged at Galahad who left Summerset's lap long enough to wind around her feet. "Roarke called last night. From Brian Kelly's place in Dublin. He was drunk. Seriously drunk."

"Playfully so, or dangerously so?"

"The first mostly. I guess." Frustrated, she dragged a hand through her hair. "But not in control of himself, and that's dangerous enough. He said something about getting some information out of one of his father's old friends. You know who that might be?"

"I didn't know Patrick Roarke well. I tended to avoid him, and his like. I had a child to look after." He paused a moment. "For a time, I had two to look after."

She said nothing to that. There was nothing to be said. "He said he's going to Clare today. That's in the west. That's where she was from, his mother. He's not looking for a warm welcome."

"If they blame him, it's their loss. The father couldn't break the child, nor could he turn the child into a monster. Though he tried." He studied Eve, and wondered if she understood he wasn't referring only to Roarke now.

But her eyes showed him nothing as she stepped forward, leaned down, spoke quietly. "Did you kill Patrick Roarke?"

Like hers, his face stayed blank. "There is no statute of limitations on murder."

"It's not the cop who's asking you."

"I had children to protect."

She let out a short breath. "Roarke doesn't know, does he? You never told him."

"There's nothing to tell. That's old business, Lieutenant. Shouldn't you be off, taking care of new?"

Their eyes held another moment. "Yeah." She straightened, turned. "Just remember, you won't be sitting around on your flat ass much longer, and this house will be Summerset-free for three glorious weeks."