Survivor in Death (12 page)

“Cold? Sweet Jesus, Eve, you're nothing of the kind.” He went to her, laying his hands on her shoulders. Firming his grip when she started to shrug him away. “You feel too much, so much I wonder how you stand it. And if you have to close off certain things at certain times, it's not coldness. It's not a flaw. It's survival.”

“Mira said . . . she said to me not long ago that once--before I met you--she'd figured I had maybe three years left before I burned out. Before I couldn't do the job anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because the job was it. It...” She lifted her hands, dropped them. “It was all I had at the center of it. I didn't--maybe couldn't--let anything else in. And maybe, no matter how much I felt, there was too much cold with it. If things had gone on that way--I think I'd have been more than cold .. . I'd've been brittle by now. I've got to do what I do, Roarke, or I couldn't survive. I've got to have you, or I wouldn't want to survive.”

“It's no different for me.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “Winning was my god, before you. Winning, whatever it took. And no matter how much gain you stuff in your pocket, there are still empty spaces. You filled them for me. Two lost souls. Now we're found.”

“I don't want the wine.” Craving the connection, she locked her arms around him. “Or the pool.” Crushed her mouth to his. “Only you. Only you.”

“You have me.” He swept her up. “Now and always.”

“Fast,” she said, already tugging at the buttons of his shirt as he carried her to bed. “Fast and rough and real.”

He climbed the platform, and didn't lie her down so much as fell with her, pinning her arms as they hit the sea of bed. “Take what I give you, then.”

His mouth covered her breast over her shirt, teeth nipping so that the pricks of heat stabbed through her. Filled all the cold, dark corners.

She reared up, ground herself to him, let herself be overpowered. For a moment, for a shuddering moment, that lusty desperation flooded her, washing away all the doubts, the fears, the smears of the day. Now just her body and his, hard and eager, strong and hot.

When he freed her hands to take more of her, she tangled her fingers in his hair, dragged his head up so that her mouth fixed urgently to his.

There was his taste, those firm, full lips, that quick and clever tongue. The scrape of his teeth, small, erotic bites that stopped just short of pain.

Feel me, taste me. I'm with you.

Her hands were more impatient now, greedier now, as they pulled at his shirt. As he pulled on hers.

Her skin was like a fever and her heart a thundering storm under his hands, his lips. The demons that haunted her, those monsters they both knew forever lurked in closets, were cast out by passion. For now, for as long as they had each other.

The violence of her need whipped at his own, burning like a sparking wire in the blood.

He dragged her up, fixing his teeth into her shoulder, ripping what was left of her shirt away. She wore his diamond, the sparkling teardrop on a chain around her throat. Even in the dark he could see its fire. Just as he could see the gleam of her eyes.

The thought passed through his mind that he would give anything he had--life and soul--to keep her looking at him with everything she was in those strong, brown eyes.

She pulled him back with her, so that they rolled now, a sweaty tangle over the midnight ocean of the bed.

She locked her legs around him, locked those eyes on his. “Now,” she said. “Now. Hard and fast and ... Yes. Oh God.”

He drove into her, felt her clamp around him, a wet, velvet vice, as she came. Felt that long, lean body shudder and shudder as he plunged. Still her hips pistoned, taking him in deeper, driving him brutally on.

“Don't shut your eyes. Don't.” His voice was thick. “Eve.”

She lifted her hands, and though they trembled, they framed his face. “I see you. I see you. Roarke.”

And her eyes were open, on his, when they fell.

In the morning she was relieved it didn't appear on the “normal” list to have breakfast with Nixie. It might've been small, even cowardly, but Eve didn't think she could face the questions, or those steady, seeking eyes, without a couple of quarts of coffee first.

She did what was normal for her instead and took a blistering shower, and a quick spin in the drying tube while Roarke did his usual scan of the stock reports on-screen in the bedroom.

With the first cup of coffee down, she opened her closet and pulled out a pair of pants.

“Have some eggs,” Roarke ordered.

“I'm going to go over some data in my office before the rest of the team get here.”

“Have some eggs first,” he repeated, and made her roll her eyes as she shrugged on a shirt.

She marched over, picked up his plate, and shoveled in two forkfuls of his omelette.

“I didn't mean mine.”

“Be more specific, then,” she said with her mouth full. “Where's the cat?”

“With the girl, I'd wager. Galahad's shrewd enough to know she'll be more likely to share her breakfast with him than we are.” To prove it, Roarke took the plate back. “Get your own eggs.”

“I don't want any more.” But she nipped a piece of his bacon from the plate. “I expect to be in the field most of the day. I might need to relieve Baxter and Trueheart, pull in a couple of uniforms. That a problem for you ?”

“Having a house full of cops? Why would that be a problem for me?”

The dry tone made her smile. “I'm going to see the Dysons. Could be we'll move her by tonight, or tomorrow anyway.”

“The child is welcome as long as need be, so that goes for whoever you need to look out for her. I mean that.”

“I know. You're nicer than me.” She leaned down, kissed him. “I mean that.”

She reached over for her weapon harness, strapped it on. “With the Dysons as legal guardians, I can bypass Child Protection and get them moved into a safe house without any sort of data trail.”

“You're concerned whoever did this to her family will want to clean up the loose end.”

“It's a good bet. So her location will be need-to-know, with no paperwork.”

“You told her you'd arrange for her to see her family. Is that wise?”

Eve picked up the boots she'd thrown in temper the night before. “She'll need to. Survivors of violent crimes need to see the dead. She'll have to wait until it's safe, and until Mira clears it, then she'll have to deal. It's her reality now.”

“You're right, I know. She looked so small in that bed last night. It's the first I've dealt with this, specifically. A child who's lost so much. It wouldn't be the first for you.”

After dragging on the boots, she remained sitting on the arm of the sofa. “Not many firsts left in my line. You've seen this at Dochas,” she said, thinking of the shelter Roarke had built. “And worse than this. That's why you made the place.”

“Not quite so personally. Would you want Louise to help in this?”

Louise Dimatto, crusader and doctor, head of Dochas--she'd be a plus, Eve thought, but she shook her head. “I don't want to pull anyone else in, not at this point anyway. Especially a civilian. I've got to get set up before the rest get here. If you get anything on the security system, let me know.”

“I will.”

She leaned down, brushed his lips with hers. “See you, ace.”

She was revved to work, ready to do what she knew how to do. While Baxter and Trueheart plowed through some drone work, Feeney, his EDD team--along with their civilian expert--pushed on the security angle, she and Peabody would continue the interview process.

It was likely, she thought, that the killers had been hired, and were even now out of the city. Even off planet. But once she found the root, she'd work her way up the stem, then break off those branches.

And that root was buried somewhere in the lives of an ordinary family.

“Ordinary family,” she said when Peabody walked in. “Mother, father, sister, brother. You know about that.”

“And good morning to you, too.” Peabody all but sang it. “It's a lovely fall day. Just a bit brisk, with the trees in your beautiful, personal park just--what is it--burnished with that last stand of color. And you were saying?”

“Jesus, what happy bug jumped up your ass?”

“I started out my day with what you could call a bang.” She showed her teeth. “If you know what I mean.”

“I really don't want to know. Really don't.” Eve pressed the heel of her hand against her left eye as it twitched. “Why do you do that? Why do you insist on making me see you and McNab having sex?”

Peabody only flashed a wider grin. “Gives my day an extra bounce. Anyway, I saw Nixie for a minute downstairs. How'd she do last night?”

“Had a nightmare, took a soother. Would you also like to discuss fashion, or any current events while we're chatting?”

“No happy bug up your ass,” Peabody grumbled. “So,” she said when Eve merely studied her with steely eyes, “you said something about families.”

“Oh, I see we're ready to work now.” Eve gestured to the board where, in addition to the on-scene pictures, she'd pinned photos of the family, alive and smiling for the camera. “Routines, families have routines. I had Nixie take me through the morning before the murder, so I've got a sense of theirs: breakfast together, hassling the kids, father walks them to school on his way to work, and so on.”

“Okay.”

“So, somebody surveilling them would get a good sense of their routine, too. Easy enough to snatch and grab one of them, if one of them is the problem. A little persuasion and you know if you've got a problem. Tells me the whole family was the problem. That's one.”

She stepped back from the board. “Two, they have contact with a number of people during the course of this routine: clients, coworkers, neighbors, merchants, friends, teachers. Where do one or more of them cross with someone who not only wants them dead, but has the means?”

“Okay, from what we know, no one in the family felt threatened or worried. From that we can deduce, no dangerous type came up to one of them and said: 'I'm going to kill you and your whole family for that.' Or words to that effect. From the profile on this family, if they'd been scared, they'd have made a report. They were law abiders. Law abiders generally believe in the system, and that the system will find the way to protect you from harm.”

“Good. So while there may have been an argument or a disagreement, none of the adults in the household took it seriously enough to take those steps. Or it happened long enough ago they no longer felt threatened.”

“Oh. There might have been a previous threat, a previous report,” Peabody responded.

“Start looking.” She turned as Baxter and Trueheart came in.

Within the hour, she had her team on their respective assignments and was driving out of the gates. “Dysons first,” she told Peabody. “I want to handle that one, then we'll do formal interviews with the neighbors.”

“I'm not finding any official complaints filed by any of the Swishers or the domestic. Not in the last two years.”

“Keep going. Somebody who could do this would have a lot of patience.”

The Dysons had a two-level apartment in a security-conscious building on the Upper West Side. Even before Eve swung toward the curb, she spotted a pair of media vans.

“Goddamn leaks,” she muttered, and slammed out, leaving Peabody to flip the on-duty light.

The doorman had called out reserves--a smart move, Eve thought-- and had two burly types helping him hold off the reporters.

She flashed her badge, saw the relief on the doorman's face. Not the usual reaction. “Officer.”

The minute he said it, the hungry horde swung on her. Questions shot out like laser blasts and were ignored.

“A media conference will be scheduled later today, at Central. The liaison will give you the details on that. Meanwhile, you will remove yourselves from this entrance or I'll have the lot of you arrested for creating a public nuisance.”

“Is it true Linnie Dyson was killed by mistake?”

Eve reined in her temper. “In my opinion, the murder of a nine-year-old child is always a mistake. My only statement at this time is that all resources of the NYPSD will be utilized to identify those responsible for the death of that child. This case is open and active and we are pursuing any and all possible leads. The next one who asks me a question,” she continued as they were hurled at her, “will be banned from the official media conference. Moreover, you will be cited for obstruction of justice and tossed in the tank if you don't get the living hell out of my way so I can do my job.”

She strode forward; they scrambled back. As the doorman pulled open the door for her, he muttered, “Nice work.”

He came in behind her, leaving the two wide-shoulders to deal with any loitering press.

“You'll want to see the Dysons,” he began. “They've asked not to be disturbed.”

“I'm sorry. They'll have to be.”

“I understand. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me call up first, let them know you're down here. Give them a couple of minutes to ... Mother of God.” His eyes filled with tears. “That little girl. I saw her every day. She was a sweetheart. I can't believe . . . Sorry.”

Eve waited while he pulled out a cloth, mopped at his face.

“You knew her, and the Swisher girl. Nixie.”

“Nixie Pixie.” He balled the cloth in his hand. “I'd call her that sometimes when she came over to visit. Those kids were like sisters. The reports this morning are saying she's okay. That Nixie, she's alive.”

She judged him to be six feet, and in fighting trim. “What's your name ?”

“Springer. Kirk Springer.”

“I can't give you any information right now, Springer. It's against procedure. You see a lot of people come in and out of here, a lot of people pass on the street. Have you noticed anybody hanging around, maybe a vehicle that was parked in the vicinity that wasn't familiar?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Building's got security cameras on the entrance. I can get clearance, get you copies of the discs.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Anything I can do. That kid, she was a sweetheart. Excuse me, I'll call upstairs.” He paused. “Officer?”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant. The Dysons, they're good people. Always got a word for you, you know? Don't forget you on your birthday or Christmas. So anything I can do.”