Divided in Death

Chapter 6

Eve was alone when she woke, and a quick check showed her she’d slept a half hour longer than she’d intended.

Too groggy to curse, she crawled out of bed, stumbled to the AutoChef, and got coffee. She carried it with her to the shower, called for water on full at a hundred and one, then glugged down caffeine while the hot water pounded on her.

She was halfway through with the oversized mug when she realized she was still wearing her underwear.

Now she did curse. After downing the rest of the coffee, she peeled off the tank and panties and tossed them into a sopping heap in the corner of the shower.

Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both co

What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the plate. No one was indispensable.

She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn’t like any of the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy once you chipped off the shine?

Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her life in a cage, what did it accomplish?

She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when Roarke walked into the bedroom.

“Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people and frame an employee?” she asked.

“There are all kinds of people in the world.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with the world. There are people in it. But there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don’t think you’re it.”

“Darling, I’m shattered. I was so sure I was it for you.”

“But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more specifically Securecomp. We’ll have to play with that some. But first I want a closer look at the victims.”

“I started the runs for you. I was up,” he said when she frowned at him. “Now that we both are, I’m thinking seriously about food.”

“You’ll have to have it in my office.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re pretty agreeable.”

“No, actually, just hungry.”

Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. “You can have a look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer, data on screen one.”

“Any sealeds?”

“No. At least none that show.”

“What do you mean, none that show?”

“Just that it’s all very, very tidy. See for yourself.”

She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.

Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB… March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass, divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.

Occupation: sculptor.

Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York.

“Serenity Lane.” Eve shook her head as she chewed. “What twink comes up with that stuff?”

“I imagine you’d prefer Kick-Ass Drive.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Because he’d gone deep, she was treated to educational history from Bissel’s formal play group at age three right through his two years abroad at an art school in Paris.

She read through his medical-the broken tibia at age twelve, the standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and so on. He’d had some face and body work-ass, chin, nose.

He’d been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one million, eight hundred thousand and some change.

There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile. He’d paid his taxes in a timely fashion, lived well, but within his means.

Reva was his only marriage.

His parents were still living. His father remained in Cleveland with wife number two, and his mother in Boca Raton with husband number three. His brother-no marriage on record, no children registered-had entrepreneur listed as profession, a sure tip-off to the less polite: no gainful employment. His work history was varied as he’d moved from job to job and place to place. He was currently listed as residing in Jamaica, as part owner of a tiki bar.

His criminal record was equally varied. Petty ante stuff, Eve noted. A little graft, a bit of grift, a touch of larceny. He’d served eighteen months in an Ohio state pen for his part in selling seniors nonexistent time-shares.

His gross worth was just over twelve thousand, which included his part in the tiki bar.

“I wonder if the younger brother has some issues with the fact big brother got the bucks and the glory. No violent crimes on record, but it’s different with family. People get worked up when it’s family. Add money and it gets messy.”

“So little brother comes up from Jamaica, kills big brother and frames sister-in-law.”

“Reaching,” she admitted with a purse of her lips, “but not that far if you speculate Carter Bissel knew about the project. Maybe he was approached, offered money for any information he could get. Maybe he gets some, maybe he doesn’t. But he’s slick enough to figure out his brother’s diddling on the side. Maybe a spot of blackmail, family fight. Threats.” She shrugged.

“Yes, I see the picture.” While he ate, Roarke turned it over in his mind. “He may have been a conduit. A liaison. Sibling rivalry turns deadly, and he and whoever recruited him decided to eliminate the loose ends.”

“Makes the most sense so far. We’ll want to chat with little bro Carter.”

“That’s handy as we don’t spend nearly enough time in tiki bars.”

Since it was there, she picked up the glass of cabernet and sipped while she studied her husband’s face. “You’re thinking something else.”

“No, just thinking. Have a look at Felicity Kade. Kade data, on screen two.”

She got the picture quickly enough of the only child of well-to-do parents. Extensive education, extensive travel. Homes in New York City, the Hamptons, and Tuscany. A socialite who earned some pin money as an art broker. Not that she needed extra to buy her pins, Eve thought, with a net worth-mostly inherited and through trust funds-of five million plus.

Never married, though there was one brief cohabitation on record in her twenties. At thirty, she lived alone, lived well-or had.

She’d had considerable body work, but had apparently been happy enough with her face. There was no unusual or unexpected medical data, and no criminal. No sealeds.

“Spends a lot,” Eve commented. “Clothes, salons, jewelry, art, travel. Lots of travel. And isn’t it interesting that she’s been to Jamaica four times in the last eighteen months.”

“Yes, it’s very interesting.”

“Could be she was cheating on the cheating husband with the cheating husband’s feckless brother.”

“Keep it in the family.”

“Or maybe she did the recruiting, looking for a fall guy should the situation call for one.”

He speared an artichoke heart. “It’s Reva who’s taking the fall.”

“Yeah. Just let me play with it.” She picked up her wine again, sipping at it as she rose to pace. “First trip a year and a half ago. Feels him out, maybe. Could use him to double-team Reva or Blair. Or both. She likes money. She likes risks. You don’t sleep with your friend’s husband if you don’t like risk, or if you have a conscience. Playing with global techno-terrorists might appeal to her. She likes travel, and with all the people she meets-through traveling, through her social position, through the art world… yeah, she could’ve been approached.”

“So, how did she end up dead?”

“I’m getting there. Maybe little brother was jealous. That’s a time-honored motive for hacking your lover to bits.”

“Or learning how to rumba.”