The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [327]
“And how will this be, for you, if this somehow tracks back to your father and mine?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out.” She took a breath. “I don’t know how it’ll be for either of us, but we need to find out.”
“We do, yes.”
“The killer sent her weapons, her badge back to me. Personally. Maybe he’s got a mole in Dispatch, and arranged for me to be assigned. But the fact is, it doesn’t take a brain trust to figure out that even if someone else had caught this case, I’d have been involved. Because of Morris. That package was always going to come to me.”
“Then we’re on the same page. And the note inside the package becomes more a threat than bravado.”
“Possibly. She wasn’t a street cop, Roarke. She was a puzzle solver, a detail chaser. But she wasn’t street, sure as hell wasn’t New York street. Nobody’s going to take me with my own weapon. Damn if I’ll have that in my jacket at the end of the day.”
He nearly smiled. “So pride will keep you safe?”
“Among other things. If I’m a target, why take her down? Why put every cop in the city on alert, then go for me?” She faced Roarke over the wink of jeweled lights. “I’m better than she was. That’s not bragging, that’s just fact. So it’s smarter to try to take me out cold than to try it when I’m already looking for a cop killer. And when, within the first twenty-four hours, I’ll find Alex Ricker in her files.”
“Logical. And somewhat comforting.”
“In any case, that’s all speculation. We need data.”
“It’ll take some time, to get under the layers.”
“I’ll use the auxiliary and keep going through her case files.”
Roarke sat, and began to peel at the first layers.
Ricker, he thought. The name was like a virus in his life, springing out, spreading, then crawling back into hiding only to slither out again. And again.
He had reason to wonder if Ricker had been responsible for jamming the knife in Patrick Roarke’s throat in that alley in Dublin years ago. And that, Roarke admitted, was the single thing he’d have to be grateful to Ricker for.
Not true, he corrected, not entirely true.
He could be grateful for what he’d learned during his association with Ricker. He’d learned how far he would go, and where he wouldn’t go. He knew it had both amused and annoyed Max Ricker that he wouldn’t deal in the sex trade when it involved minors or the unwilling. That he wouldn’t kill on command, or for the sake of spilling blood.
He’d taken lives in his time, Roarke admitted. He’d spilled blood. But always for purpose. Never for profit. Never for sport.
He supposed, in some oddly twisted way, he’d learned more of his own lines, his own moralities from Max Ricker than he had from his own unlamented father.
What, he wondered, had Alex Ricker learned from his father?
German boarding schools, Roarke noted. Military type. Very strict, very costly. Private tutors on holidays, then private university. Studied in business, finance, languages, politics, and international law. Played football—soccer to the Yanks.
Covering many bases there.
No marriages, no children on record.
Alex Maximum Ricker, age thirty-three, residences in Atlanta, Berlin, Paris, and most recently, New York. Financier and entrepreneur listed as occupations of record.
Also covering a lot of bases. Current net worth: 18.3 million.
Oh, no, there’ll be more than that. So, Roarke thought. Let’s get down to it.
He worked steadily for an hour, ordering multiple runs and chipping away manually.
“Covering asses, too, aren’t you now?” Roarke mumbled to himself when he hit a block, shoved and tunneled around and under it. “Not so quick to toot your own horn as your father was.