The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [335]
He walked back to the foyer, called the elevator.
“You know the routine, don’t leave town, stay available, blah blah.” Eve stepped onto the elevator with Roarke.
“Yes, I know the routine. I also know if our backgrounds made us who we are, we’d all be fucked.”
He walked away as the doors closed.
When they hit the sidewalk, Eve stopped, turned to speak. Roarke simply shook his head, then took her arm and led her to the car.
“What?” she said, and repeated when they were inside, “What?”
“Drive. If I were a man who’d been expecting a visit from a cop who’d be looking at me for killing another cop, I’d have myself a plant on the street, with eyes and ears. And then I’d know just what that cop thought about me and our conversation.”
Eve frowned as she drove. “You actually have people who walk around listening to other people?”
He patted her hand. “We’re not talking about me, are we?”
“Privacy laws—”
“There, there.” He patted her hand again. “He was in love with her, and still is. To some extent, still is.”
“People often kill the ones they love.”
“Well, if he did, he’s either amazingly stupid about it, or damned clever. Pathetic alibi like that. You’ll be getting a warrant for his building’s security discs, to verify his coming and going.”
“First on the list. He’d have to know that, so he’ll have come and gone pretty much as stated. He’s wide open for the time in question. Wide. And he was nervous when we got there. He lost some of the nerves as we went along because he got mad. The stunner’s not going to play out. He gave it up too easily. He could have another, unregistered, unlicensed. Hell, he could have a freaking arsenal.”
“Max did love the weapon’s trade. He’s smoother than his father,” Roarke commented. “And yet not so smooth. Odd, really. Max wouldn’t have shown those nerves, wouldn’t have felt them come to that. Yet the son has a polish the father lacked. He doesn’t seem the type to use the word cunt when referring to Amaryllis. It’s too vulgar.”
“Maybe he hires vulgar underlings.”
“Very possibly. Or it was a deliberate choice because it seems off. Because it seems more like his father.”
“Maybe. He’s interested in us, has been interested in us. But—”
“No more, it seems, than reasonable. Given the circumstances.”
“It seems,” she agreed. “There’s either some tension between him and his father, or he wanted us to think there is. I wonder which. Anyway, are you going to midtown? To your office?”
“I suppose I am.”
“I’ll dump you there.”
“Shows me what I’m worth to you. Now I’m dumped.”
“I mean drop you off there, take you. Whatever. But speaking of dumping. She breaks things off back in Atlanta. He’s pissy about it—amicable, my ass—but maybe it’s like, sure, screw it, who needs you. Or maybe he keeps at her some, and that’s why she decides to transfer.”
“The timing would indicate she wanted distance.”
“What did he say? He doesn’t get to New York often. Then he comes here, contacts her. Here we go again, she thinks, and just when she’s gotten into this romance with Morris. When things are smoothed out. She goes to see him, tries to convince him it’s over and done. He could play that out. Like you said, he’s smooth, he’s polished. But it burns his guts. This bitch can’t dump me. She’s not going to get away with it. Works himself up. Really gets up the steam. Contacts her that night, demands she come meet him, or he’s going to make it sticky for her with Morris, with the department.”
“She might argue with him, or try to reason,” Roarke continued her thought. “Or simply go along. But she’d take the precaution of strapping on her weapons.”
“Yeah, but he’s waiting for her. Already in. Could be he managed to get her key card when she came to visit, or his pal Sandy did—clone it, get it back without her realizing it. Takes her out on the stairs, carries her down, brings her back so he can tell her no woman tells him it’s over. Maybe he lets her