The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [46]
But what the hell was he going to do with them once they got here? It wasn’t like entertaining business associates or even friends.
He had relations, for God’s sake. How was he supposed to get used to having them, dealing with them, when he’d lived nearly the whole of his life without them?
Now they were going to be under his roof, and he hadn’t a clue what they would expect.
“Should we have something separate for the children, do you think?”
“What?” Eve frowned at him as she poked at the food on her plate. “Oh, that. Hell, I don’t know. You’re supposed to know how to do this stuff.”
His face was a mirror of his frustration. “And how am I supposed to know how to do something I’ve never done before?” He scowled into his wine. “It’s unnerving, that’s what it is.”
“You could contact them, say something’s come up. Cancel.”
“I’m not a bloody coward,” he muttered in a way that made her think he’d considered doing just that. “And it would be rude as well.”
“I can be rude.” Shifting work to one side, she gave it some thought. “I like being rude.”
“That’s because you’re so good at it.”
“True. You could tell them that due to my obsessive involvement in a juicy murder case, Thanksgiving’s been cancelled. No turkey for you. See, then it’s all on me. Me bloody wife’s driving me starkers,” she said in an exaggerated Irish accent while she waved the water glass around. “The lieutenant, she’s working all the day and half the night as well, and not giving me five minutes of her precious time. What’s a man to do, then? Bugger it.”
He sat silent a moment, just staring at her. “I don’t sound a bit like that, nor does anyone of my acquaintance.”
“You haven’t heard yourself when you’re drunk, which you would be out of frustration with my selfish behavior.” She shrugged, drank some water. “Problem solved.”
“Not nearly, but thanks for the strange and generous offer. Well, back to murder, which as it happens is a simpler matter for both of us to deal with.”
“Got that right.”
“Why do you suppose a man of Icove’s stature would dabble, if your theory’s correct, in gray medicine?”
“Because he could, that’s one. And because he was hoping to build a—what do you call it?—better mousetrap. The human body’s flawed, right. It breaks down, needs regular repair and maintenance. It’s fragile. He grew up seeing its fragility with his parents’ work. Then with his mother’s accident and subsequent suicide. His wife’s death, and the whole ugly nightmare of the Urbans. So how much of a rush would it be to try to make it perfect, to make it stronger, more durable, smarter? You’ve already done considerable work toward that goal, and gotten accolades for it. Gotten way rich for it. Why not take it up a level?”
“With only women?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe he had a thing for women. His mother, his wife. Maybe he focused on women because his women had proven too fragile.
“And rich or not, he’s got to have income to sustain the work. Probably, that’s more your area than mine. It’s still easier to sell a female than a male. There are still more female LCs than male. Sexual predators are most usually male. You guys equate sex with power or virility, even life. Punishment, if you’re twisted. Women, mostly, equate it with emotion first. Or see it as a commodity or bargaining tool.”
“Or weapon.”
“Yeah, that, too. It’s how the machine ticks. See . . .” She ate without thinking about it now that the pieces of the case were shifting around in her mind. “You’ve got this big-deal doc—big brain, big name, big bucks. Big ego. You get that.”
Roarke smiled. “Naturally.”
“He’s already got a lot under his belt. Lots of good, public work, lots of important slaps on the back. And a hell of a good lifestyle. But there’s always more. More to do, more to want to do. More to just want. That Frankenstein guy, he must’ve been pretty smart.”
He loved