The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [30]
“He has no business here, or with you.”
“Not at the moment. Please sit. Be comfortable.”
Comfort wasn’t one of the options in the ugly chair, but she sat.
“How attractive you are.” He spoke smoothly while his gaze crawled over her.
Men who looked at a woman in just that way wanted her to feel sexually vulnerable, physically uneasy. Eve only felt mildly insulted.
“In a competent, unpretentious sort of fashion,” Ricker finished. “Not what one expected of Roarke, of course. His taste always ran to the more stylish, more obviously female.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and she noted he had his nails painted in his signature color. And the tips were filed to vicious little points.
“But how clever of him to have selected you, a woman of your more subtle attributes and profession. It must be very convenient for him to have such an intimate ally on the police force.”
It was meant to get a rise out of her, so she only angled her head. “Really? And why would that be convenient for him, Mr. Ricker?”
“Given his interests.” Ricker sipped his drink. “Business interests.”
“And does his business concern you, Mr. Ricker?”
“Only in an academic sense, as we were once connected. So to speak.”
She leaned forward. “Would you like to speak, on record, about your connections?”
His eyes narrowed, snakelike. “Would you risk him, Lieutenant?”
“Roarke can take care of himself. Can you?”
“Have you tamed him, Lieutenant? Neutered the wolf and made him a lapdog?”
This time she laughed, and meant it. “The lapdog would rip out your throat without breathing hard. And you know it. I had no idea you were so afraid of him. That’s interesting.”
“You’re mistaken.” But his fingers had tightened on the tube.
She watched his throat work, as if he were struggling to swallow something particularly vile.
“I don’t think so. But Roarke isn’t the reason I’m here. It’s your business I’d like to discuss, Mr. Ricker.” She took out her recorder. “With your permission.”
His lips curved, a hard line under that brush of silver that was nothing like a smile. “Of course.” And he tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. Across the room a hologram swam into view. Six dark-suited men sat side by side at a long table, hands folded, eyes sharp.
“My attorneys,” he explained.
Eve set the recorder on the silver table between them, read off the necessary data, and recited the revised Miranda.
“You’re thorough. Roarke would appreciate that. As do I.”
“You understand your rights and obligations, Mr. Ricker?”
“I do indeed.”
“And you have engaged your right to have your attorneys—all six of them—present at this informal interview. You were arrested six months ago for . . .” She held up a hand, and though she knew the charges by rote, took out her memo book and read them off precisely. “The manufacture, possession, and distribution of illegal substances including hallucinogens and known addictives, the international and interplanetary transportation of illegal substances, possession of banned weapons, the operation of chemical plants without a license, the—”
“Lieutenant, to save us both valuable time, I will state that I was aware of all charges levied against me at the time of my unfortunate arrest last fall. As I’m sure you are aware that most of those ridiculous charges were subsequently dropped, and those that were not resulted in a trial in which I was acquitted.”
“I’m aware that your attorneys and the prosecuting attorney of New York negotiated a deal in which several of the more minor charges against you were dropped. In return, the names of four arms and illegals dealers and information against them were given to the PA’s office through your representative. You’re not overly loyal to your associates, Mr. Ricker.”
“On the contrary, I’m exceedingly loyal to them. I have no associates who are arms and/or illegal dealers, Lieutenant. I’m a businessman, one who makes considerable donations to charitable and political causes every year.”
“Yes, I know about your political donations. You