The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [258]
She listened to his voice, more than the words. Something about a meeting with team leaders on a project called Optimum, and a holoconference dealing with his Olympus Resort, a lunch session with key members of one of his interests in Bejing. A merger, an acquisition, conceptual drawings.
How did he keep it all straight?
“You did all that, and still had time to get petunias?”
His hand trailed up and down her back, up and down. “Did you like them?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I liked them.”
“It’s been nearly two years since we were married.” He kissed the top of her head, then turned his to rest his cheek there. “And with Louise and Charles about to have their wedding here, it made me think of the petunias. How the simple—a flower, a few minutes to talk to a relation—makes the complicated worthwhile.”
“Is that why we have tulips and daffodils? They are tulips, right?”
“They are. It’s good to be reminded that things come around again, fresh and new. And some things remain, steady and solid. The call from Sinead brought both back to me. Are you ready to tell me what’s the matter?”
“Sometimes things come around again that are old and hard.” She sat up, shoved at her hair. “I brought Penny Soto in for questioning today. Actually, I baited her into taking a pop at me so I could charge her with assault and resisting.”
He took her chin, tracing his thumb in its dent as he turned her face right and left. “You don’t appear to be popped.”
“The assault was mostly technical. She was Lino’s main lay when they were teenagers. Works in the bodega right next to the church, the bodega he frequented, pretty much daily.”
“So they reconnected.”
“She was the one who knew him,” she said, remembering Roarke’s words from the morning. “The one he needed to tell. Yeah, they reconnected, and in the biblical sense—according to her. I buy that. You’d have to buy that. So she knew who he was, and some of what he was up to—maybe all, but I couldn’t get that out of her. Yet.
“She claims he blackmailed some of the people who came in to confess. Plays, but I can’t quite figure it all.”
“Hobby. More,” Roarke continued, “habit. The masquerade didn’t change who and what he was under it, and what was under it would need the hit. The buzz.”
“Yeah, I circled around that. It doesn’t feel like motive. I know, tried and true,” she said before he could disagree, “I’ll get to why I don’t think it’s going to weigh in, or not much.”
First she wanted to get the rest out, get it off her chest. “The thing is . . . Once I get Soto in the box, putting some pressure on, pissing her off, it comes out of her that her father . . .”
“Ah.” He didn’t need the rest, didn’t need it for his stomach to tighten.
“She’s snapping and snarling it at me, how her old man started on her when she was about twelve, how her useless mother was a junkie, how he beat her and molested her for two years before she joined the Soldados. They were her way out, the escape hatch. And there’s a part of me that gets it, that feels for her, that’s trying not to look at her and see me. To see . . .”
She pressed a hand to her belly, used the pressure to finish it. “Because when she was fourteen, after she’d joined the Soldados, her father was stabbed to death—hacked to bloody death. It went down as a bad illegals deal, since that was his business. But I know, I know when I’m looking at her, and seeing myself, that she had the knife in her hand. That she rammed it in him, again and again. Probably her and Lino together—first kill, lovers’ bond. And no matter what I know, part of me’s saying you did the same as she did. How can you blame