The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [412]
“Mavis?”
“Yeah. I’ve got all these brains—I don’t mean Mavis is stupid, but I’ve got the police detective, the profiler, the ace reporter, and the doctor. And it’s the former grifter turned music disc star and mother who nails it. I’ll fill you in later if you want, but I guess I’ve got to go down and do whatever I’m supposed to do with everybody until they go the hell home.”
“They’ve all gone the hell home.”
“Don’t toy with me.”
“With many thanks for a wonderful party.”
She started to grin, caught herself. “That’s bad, right? That’s being a crappy hostess. I was just going to go down for an hour while the rest of them were getting breakfast and all that. I was supposed to be down there waving bye-bye and thanking everyone for coming.”
“I can tell you everyone who was still here when we arrived hoped you got some much needed rest. McNab had to come up and wake Peabody, so you weren’t alone. I think you did very well.”
“How long have I been down?”
“I don’t know when you finally fell on your face, but it’s nearly four now.”
“Shit. shit. I have to check, make sure Callendar’s on her way.”
“I can tell you she is, along with the other detective, two prisoners, and a representative of Omega. They had to clear the shuttle with me. So.” He shifted, moved back to sit at the head of the bed, patted the space beside him. “Why don’t you come over here and tell me what prisoners my shuttle is transporting to New York, and how they’re connected to Ricker, Coltraine, and Sandy.”
“It’s going to take a while,” she warned him.
“Believe me, after nearly twenty hours of gambling, naked women, strip music, and extraordinarily filthy jokes, I’m ready for home.”
She rolled over until she was snuggled against him. “I missed you, too.”
And while the cat sat at the foot of the bed washing himself, she filled Roarke in on the progress of the case.
20
ROARKE LISTENED, RELAXING WITH HIS WIFE curled up against him. The cat padded up the bed to bookend him at the hip.
Yes, it was good to be home.
“They’ll shut him down for a while,” he said, thinking of Ricker. “But down the line he’ll find another Rouche, another way. His power’s diminished, his freedom gone—he needs some outlet. Some . . . entertainment.”
“He has enough power, and freedom, to have caused two murders. Or one, anyway,” Eve considered. “I don’t think he ordered Sandy’s. If Callendar didn’t find a transmission on that, I have to believe it wasn’t there. Grady did that one for free, for herself.”
“Ricker wouldn’t object. Not in the long run. Sandy was on shaky ground, enough to let it show. Ricker might have decided to snip that thread even as he arranged for Coltraine’s murder.”
“I don’t know.” She started to roll away, and Roarke tightened his grip on her. “I’ll be back. He’s used Sandy for years—more than likely,” she continued as she got off the bed. “Sandy, shaky or not, was his best line to his son. His infallible way to keep tabs on Alex. That’s gone now.”
“Grady might think she can find a way to make that work for her.” Roarke watched Eve go to the panel, open it to select a bottle of wine.
“I got ambition from her, and couldn’t figure out why she’s stuck at third grade, working out of that small, low-level squad. Now it makes sense, because her ambitions lie elsewhere.” Eve chose a Tuscan red, opened it. “So yeah, I’ve got to figure she’s got plans. And she’s got to think she’s in the clear on Coltraine. Sandy takes the rap there. Or I work on trying to tie Alex up along with his dead pal. That’s how it’s going to look.”
“You’ve got plans.”
“I’m working on some.” She poured two glasses of wine, then carried them to the AutoChef. She programmed an assortment of cheeses, breads, crackers, fruit. She brought the wine over, handed a glass to Roarke, put hers on the night table before going back for the food. When she laid the tray on the bed, both the cat—who’d propped his head on Roarke’s thigh—and her husband studied her.
“Well now, isn’t this homey?”
“Some . . .” She reached over him for her wine, brushed her lips