Brotherhood in Death

2

Eve saw them off, spoke with the uniforms, the sweepers, and decided to take the house top to bottom. But as she started up the stairs, she stopped, sat down on one.

And tagged Roarke.

She led with “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His face filled the screen and, boy, what a face. It never failed to strike how some days the gods, the angels, the poets, the artists all got together to create something perfect. A beautifully carved mouth, wildly, impossibly blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones all framed by thick black silk.

“You’ve caught a case,” he continued, with those mists of Ireland whispering in his voice to complete the perfection.

“Sort of. No body, which makes it different. Or none yet. Dennis Mira was attacked.”

“What?” The just-for-her smile in his eyes vanished. “Is he hurt? What hospital? I’ll meet you.”

“He’s okay. I just sent them home. He took a pretty good whack to the back of the head, then smacked his temple on the floor when he fell. Probably has a mild concussion, but Mira’s on it.”

“Where are you?”

“At his grandfather’s house. Mr. Mira’s grandfather. Or it was. It’s half Mr. Mira’s, half his cousin’s—former Senator Edward Mira—who was also attacked, and is currently missing. I need to go through the house here to make sure he’s not dead and stuffed in a closet, then I have to talk to some people on the way home. I don’t know how long—”

“Give me the address there.”

“Roarke, it’s in SoHo. There’s no need for you to come all the way down here on a night like this.”

“You can give me the address or I can find it for myself. Either way, I’m on my way.”

She gave him the address.

She’d gone through the top floor—both wings—before he got there. And could admit, seeing him and the go-cup of coffee he held out lifted her mood.

“I was going to make dinner.”

Those wonderful lips curved, then brushed hers. “Were you now?”

“Hand to God. Nothing cooking at the shop, so I was heading out, figured I might beat you home, and set up wine and candles and spaghetti right in the dining room.”

“I’ll treasure the thought.”

“Mira caught me. You don’t see her seriously shaken often, and she was. Mr. Mira contacted her when he came to—took the bash downstairs in the study—and asked her to bring me.”

“Of course he did. He’s an intelligent man.”

“I’ll give you the background as I look for possibly dead Edward, but tell me first, Mr. Buys the Entire World and Its Satellites, if you were going to buy this place, what would you give for it?”

“I haven’t done a full walk-through, but from what I’ve seen it’s beautifully preserved and maintained. Likely built in the 1930s. Round about six thousand square feet, and in this neighborhood? I expect I’d offer about ten. If I were selling, I’d ask fifteen.”

“That’s million?”

“It is, yes.”

“That’s a big bunch of money.”

“Do you fancy it? Does Dennis want to sell?”

“No—I mean, sure, it’s a nice house, but we have one. I’m fine with one. And no, he doesn’t want to sell, which is part of the deal here.”

She filled him in as she searched, knew he’d take in every detail even when he stopped to admire a piece of furniture, some woodwork, or a ceiling medallion.

“I could get twenty, with the right buyer, and careful staging,” he mused. “But back to the matter at hand. You know the senator’s a complete burke—at least from my personal leanings.”

“He’s a complete burke from my perspective from what I got out of Mira, and what Mr. Mira didn’t say. But it’ll be nice to find him alive.”

“Agreed.”

With Roarke she walked back to the study. It smelled of sweeper dust and chemicals now.

“I knew Bradley Mira, a little.”

“Get out.”

“A very little,” Roarke added. “And mostly by reputation. He was respected and admired. Have you run his background?”

“No, not immediately applicable.”

“The prosecuting attorney for New York—before your time and mine. I believe there was some family money, and he made more. He became Judge Mira, and retired more than a decade ago—likely closer to two decades, if memory serves. He spent the last part of his life doing good works, as you see here from all the plaques displayed. An admirable man who, by all accounts, lived a good and productive life.”

“Mr. Mira loved him, that comes through loud and clear. Twenty million?”

With those wild and canny blue eyes, Roarke scanned. “With the right buyer, yes.”

“Half of that’s big motivation to find the right buyer. I need to talk to this Realtor, which means I have to talk to whoever made the appointment for Edward Mira. But now, I want to talk to the housekeeper and the wife. Housekeeper’s on the way to the wife.”

“Why don’t I drive, and you can run backgrounds?”

“It’s a plan. Let me check on the canvass first.”

Sila Robarts lived with her husband of twenty-seven years a few blocks away in the second-floor apartment of a converted townhome. She ran a cleaning company, Maid to Order, while her husband owned and operated We’re Handy—a handyman business.

They’d raised two children, both of whom worked within the two companies, and had three grandchildren.

“They own the place.” Eve nodded at the white brick townhouse after Roarke parked. “Use the first floor for their businesses, live on the second.” She pressed the buzzer for the apartment at the front entrance.

A woman’s voice, brisk and impatient, said, “Yes?”

“NYPSD, Mrs. Robarts. We need to speak with you.”

“What the hell for? Let me see ID. Hold it up for the camera.”

Eve held up her badge.

“What happened? Is one of my kids hurt?”

“No, ma’am. We just need to speak with you. Dennis Mira gave me your name and address.”

“Mr. Dennis? Is he okay? What’s this— Hell.” The woman cut herself off, buzzed them in.

A hallway cut the first floor in half, with doors to the maid service and the handyman business on either side. Another door at the back was marked PRIVATE.

It, too, buzzed open.

They took the stairs up to the second floor, and a pair of double doors. One of them swung open.

“Are you sure Mr. Dennis is okay? Who are you?”

“NYPSD,” Eve repeated, and once again offered her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Dallas? Dallas?” The woman had enormous eyes of bitter-chocolate brown and hair nearly the same color piled in a knot on top of her head. At the name, the eyes went big as planets. “Roarke? Dallas? I saw the vid, I listened to the book. Oh my sweet Jesus. Mel! Mel! Get out here. Something terrible’s happened to the Miras.”

“Mrs. Robarts, calm down. The Miras are fine.”

“You’re Homicide,” Sila snapped, pulling at the neck of a sweatshirt bearing her company’s logo. “You think I don’t know that?” she demanded as footsteps pounded in from the rear of the apartment. “You work with Miss Charlotte.”

“What happened to them?” The man who ran in moved fast for a big guy. He had to be two-fifty spread over about six foot two. An Arena Ball player’s build. “Was there an accident?”

“I think they were murdered!”

“What? What?” The big guy grabbed his hysterical wife, and looked about to join her in the wailing parade. “Oh my God. My God! How—”

“Quiet!” Eve boomed it over the hysteria. “Both the Miras are fine, and probably sitting down eating dinner and maybe having a really big drink. Now everybody just calm the hell down, and sit the hell down!”

Tears rolled out of those bitter-chocolate eyes. “They’re all right? You swear it?”

“If it’ll stop the madness I’ll sign an oath on it in my own blood.”

“Okay, sorry.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Sorry, Mel.”

“What the hell, Sila?”

“It’s Dallas and Roarke.”

“Dallas and . . . somebody’s dead.”

“A lot of people are dead,” Eve pointed out. “But none of them are Charlotte and/or Dennis Mira.”

“I got scared, that’s all.” Sila sniffled. “I got so scared. They’re family.”

“Then understand they’re mine, too.”

“Mr. Dennis speaks highly of you. He came by when I was cleaning the big house, and listening to the book. The Icove book. I asked if he knew you, seeing as you worked with Miss Charlotte, and he said he did, and you were good, caring people. And courageous. I just love that man.”

“Okay.” Eve could relate. “He’s okay.”

“I’m going to get you a glass of wine,” Mel said to his wife. “I can get you some wine,” he added to Eve and Roarke.

“Thanks, but on duty.”

“I’m not,” Roarke said cheerfully, “and I’d love a glass of wine.”

“I can get you something else, Miss Dallas. Coffee, tea maybe. Got Pepsi.”

“Pepsi?” Sila narrowed her still damp eyes. “Melville Robarts, you said you were cutting that out.”

The big man hunched his shoulders like a small boy caught swiping cookies. “Maybe there’s a stray tube or two around.”

“I’ll take it,” Eve said to settle the matter. “It’s Lieutenant. You work for Dennis Mira, clean his grandfather’s house.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Look, let’s sit down, like you said.”

Sila moved off into the living area, a comfortable space and so clean it nearly sparkled, sank into a high-backed chair of bold blue.

“My mama did for Judge Mira and Miss Gwen almost as long as I can remember. When I got old enough, I’d help out sometimes. Miss Gwen, she passed. So sudden, too, and the judge, he just lost his heart, and he passed some months after. My mama still misses them. So do I.”

“Me, too.” Mel came in with a tray holding three glasses of red wine and one of iced Pepsi. “I did work for them around the house when they needed. That’s how I first met Sila—we were sixteen. Is there trouble, Miss—Lieutenant Dallas?”

“There’s trouble. Mr. Mira is fine,” she said again, “but he was attacked earlier this evening, in his grandfather’s house.”

“Attacked? In the house?” Once again those dark eyes narrowed. “The senator went at him, didn’t he? Couldn’t push Mr. Dennis around with words, so he went at him. Senator Edward Mira. He’s Mr. Dennis’s cousin, though you wouldn’t know they shared blood. Different as wet to dry.”

“Why would you think Edward Mira would attack Mr. Mira?”

“Because that man wants his own way, in everything. Nothing but a bully, and always was, if you ask me. I don’t think much of him or his snooty wife. They have nice kids, though. Good people, and the kids’ kids are as sweet as cherry pie. Did you arrest him?”

“No. He didn’t attack Mr. Mira, and was, in fact, attacked himself. And he’s missing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Mira walked in on the attack and was knocked unconscious. When he came to, Edward Mira was gone, as were the attackers.”

Sila took a gulp of wine, breathed out hard. “I’m sorry for what I said about him—it’s the truth, but I’m sorry. Was someone trying to rob them? They’ve got really good security on that house. I never worried a minute about being there alone or with Mama or my girl.”

“When were you there last?”

“Just today, from about seven-thirty to about two-thirty. My daughter and I cleaned there today, and my mama came, too. She can’t clean like she used to, but she loves that house. We went over bright an’ early, gave it top to bottom—that’s once a month rotation. I swear to you, we set the alarms and the locks when we finished up.”

“Did anyone come to the door?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Have you noticed anyone, today or otherwise, who shouldn’t be in the neighborhood? You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, and no, I haven’t. It’s a nice neighborhood. A few retired folks like the judge, and professionals, mostly. Doctors and lawyers and the like. Mr. Dennis came by every few weeks, just to say hello and spend some time in the house.”

“How about the senator?”

Her nose wrinkled. “More lately, with dollar signs in his eyes.”

“Sila.”

“I can’t help it. He took some of the furniture—had it taken,” she corrected, “but Mr. Dennis said it was left to him and it was all right. I didn’t tell Mr. Dennis how I overheard the senator talking on his ’link about appraisals for the pieces he took. It would have hurt Mr. Dennis’s feelings to know what his grandparents loved was being sold to strangers.”

Eve asked more questions, digging into what she already sensed was fallow ground. When they rose to leave, Sila touched her arm.

“I want to contact Mr. Dennis, just want to hear his voice. I don’t think I can settle down until I do. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Eve hesitated. “Give this about a week, but if you get a chance, maybe you could go back over there, clean the study. Crime Scene leaves dust.”

“You can bet I will.”

Eve brooded on their way uptown, then turned to Roarke.

“Selling furniture, wanting to sell the house. Some people are just greedy, but maybe you can take a good look at his finances. It could be gambling debts, blackmail over an affair. Maybe he doesn’t just want to sell. Maybe he needs to sell.”

“Permission to wiggle my fingers in someone else’s finances is always delightful. Permission in this case, a veritable treat.”

“You really don’t like him.”

“Not in the least.”

“Could he force Mr. Mira to sell?”

Smoothly, Roarke maneuvered around a mini, fishtailing on the slick streets. “I don’t know the particulars, but if they own equal shares, I think it would be a considerable battle. Dennis could buy Edward out.”

“Sure, if he has ten million lying around gathering dust.”

“Ten million doesn’t gather dust, it—if used well—makes more millions. We could easily lend him what he’d need. Family,” Roarke added when Eve stared at him.

She took his hand. “I really was going to do the dinner thing. And I was thinking about a swim with pool sex, and maybe a vid.”

He gave her a slow, easy grin. “All that?”

“I was working out the details. I’m really sorry I didn’t get a chance to pull it off.”

“We’re young yet.”

—

Roarke pulled the DLE to the curb in front of a gleaming silver building. Eve smirked when the doorman, who looked like a formal polar bear in white livery with gold braiding, hustled through the icy rain to scowl at them.

“You own this place?”

“No. Why don’t we go in, see if we want to.”

“I get to intimidate the doorman,” she said before they got out. “Do not bribe him.”

“And spoil your fun? What do you take me for?”

She got out, planted her feet as the doorman curled his lip.

“You can’t park that heap here.”

“I just did.”

“Now you’re just going to move it. This space is reserved for pickups, drop-offs. For cabs, limos, and vehicles that aren’t an embarrassment to the vehicle industry.”

She flipped out her badge. “This is an official NYPSD vehicle, and it works for me. It stays where I put it.”

“Look, look, I’m all in support for the boys—and girls—in blue, but I can’t have junkers like that sitting out here.”

“Don’t judge a book by its title.”

“What?”

“Cover,” Roarke supplied. “It’s cover, darling.”

“Whatever. It stays . . .” She scanned his name tag. “Eugene. Have you seen Senator Mira tonight?”

“No, haven’t seen him and I’ve been on the door since four. Look, look, pull that thing around the corner, into the garage. I’ll buzz ’em, and you won’t have to pay.”

“Some might consider that attempting to bribe a police officer. I’m going to let it pass. How about Mrs. Mira?”

“Her social secretary left about twenty minutes ago, so as far as I know Mrs. Mira’s up there. What’s the beef here?”

“I’m going to have one with you if you don’t clear us up to the Mira apartment, and now. It’s been a long day, pal, and now I’m wet and cold. I can make your life a living hell should I choose to do so.”

“Cops,” he mumbled under his breath and lumbered back to the doors. He stomped over to the lobby comp.

“Mrs. Mira or one of her people have to clear you. They bought a private elevator, and if I try to send you up without clearance, that trips an alarm. And it’s my job. You can make my life a living hell, but, sister, you’ve got nothing on my wife. I lose my job, she’ll make me wish I was in hell.”

“That’s Lieutenant Sister—and let them know the NYPSD needs to speak with Mrs. Mira.”

He tapped something on the screen, then put on an earpiece for privacy. “Yo, Hank, it’s Eugene on the door. I got the NYPSD down here needing to speak with the boss. Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s next. Got it.”

He turned to Eve. “Need to scan that for verification, and Mrs. Mira’s security is informing her you want to come up.”

“Scan away.”

Once he verified, he went back to the screen and Hank. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, verified. All right. Security wants to know what you want to talk to Mrs. Mira about.”

“I’ll discuss that with Mrs. Mira, in order to respect her privacy.”

“She said— Okay, you heard her. I got it.”

He turned away from the screen to gesture to the last elevator in a line of three. “That’s the private. I’m going to send you straight up. Security will meet you.”

“Dandy.” Eve strolled to the elevator with Roarke, waited for the doors to open.

They did so with barely a whisper. The car had soft gold walls, a bench padded with royal blue on each side, and a small table holding a vase of white roses on the back wall.

“Who does that?” Eve wondered. “Who puts flowers in an elevator?”

Roarke continued to work on his PPC. “They purchased the entire top floor—that’s four units and terraces—eight years ago.”

“The whole top floor.”

“Indeed they did, to the tune of twelve-point-three million. You did say to have a go at their finances.”

“I figured that for when we’re home.”

“The anticipation was too much for my fragile willpower. Oh, the car has ears and eyes as well, but I took the liberty of jamming both when we got in.”

“You do keep busy.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

“Why? They’re idle when you’re sleeping—does he set up shop then? Are we all supposed to stay awake using our hands so the devil doesn’t make stuff? What if you broke your hand? Is he doing his workshop thing while you’re waiting to have it fixed?”

Roarke contemplated the pale gold ceiling. “Such a simple, if moralistic, phrase now thoroughly destroyed.”

“I keep busy, too.” Pleased with herself, she strode off when the doors whispered open.

A big, built black guy, who looked as if he should grace the cover of some men’s fashion mag, stepped forward in the wide entrance foyer. There were more white roses, more benches, subdued lighting—and double doors, firmly closed.

“Lieutenant, sir,” he said to them with a faint British accent. “I’ll need to stow and secure your weapons as well as any electronic devices before I let you in to see Mrs. Mira.”

“Not a single, solitary chance in hell.”

“Then I’m afraid, without a warrant, this is as far as you go.”

“All right. I’ll assume Mrs. Mira isn’t concerned about her husband being attacked and possibly kidnapped this evening. Any change there, she can contact me at Central tomorrow. I’m going off duty. Let’s go eat spaghetti,” she said to Roarke and turned back to the elevator.

“Just a minute. Are you claiming Mr. Mira’s been attacked?”

“With meatballs,” Eve added. “And a nice glass of wine.”

“Sounds absolutely perfect to me. In front of the fire?” Roarke added. “It’s a night for a fire in the hearth.”

“Lieutenant Dallas!”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Are you talking to me?”

“Has Senator Mira been injured?”

“Look, Hank, I’m here to speak with Mandy Mira on official police business. She either agrees to the access or she doesn’t. Stop wasting my time.”

“Please wait here. I need a minute.”

“That’s what you’ve got. Sixty seconds. From right now.” She lifted her arm, deliberately consulting her wrist unit as Hank opened the doors, slipped inside.

Then she drew a deep breath. “Why are people so bitchy to cops?”

“I can’t imagine, but now I actively crave spaghetti.”

“We’ll get there.” She turned around as the doors opened again on the thirty second mark.

“If you’ll come in, Mrs. Mira will be right with you.”

“Fine. She’s got about twenty-five seconds left.”

“Lieutenant,” he began, looking relieved when he was interrupted by the quick click of heels.

Mandy Mira was a tall, impressive-looking woman with a statuesque figure and a gilded swing of hair. It fascinated Eve that one side stopped at the ear while the other curved at her chin.

Eyes, coldly blue under a sweep of deep brown eyebrows, managed to convey annoyance and boredom.

“What is this nonsense? I’m not accustomed to having the police at my door, and don’t appreciate you using some wild fabrication of an attack to worm your way in.”

“Have you spoken to your husband in the last couple hours, Mrs. Mira?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Okay, sorry for the worming in.” Eve turned to go.

“I demand to know what this is about!”

“This is about investigating a reported attack on Edward Mira and the fact that he subsequently went missing.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Then you can contact him right now, prove that, and we’ll be out of your hair with sincere apologies for the interruption to your evening.”

“Hank!” She actually snapped her fingers. “Contact Senator Mira.”

“Ma’am, I’ve attempted to do so, on all numbers. I can’t reach him.”

“Give me that thing.” She snatched Hank’s ’link out of his hand, strode off with it on sky-high, sky-blue heels.

“Wow, she must be a joy to work for,” Eve commented.

She stuck her hands in her pockets, took a measure of the living space.

A lot of chilly blues, selected, Eve deduced, because they matched Mandy Mira’s eyes. And everything slick and sleek and shiny.

Just as well they hadn’t been asked to sit, as every chair looked like an ass-bruiser.

Another huge display of white roses sitting on a glossy white piano—and white drapes framing the wall of glass leading to a terrace. By the time she’d gotten to the portrait of the senator and his wife over the unlit fireplace, Mandy’s outrage shot back at her.

“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re paid to know. If you want to continue to be paid, you’ll contact Senator Mira now. Is that understood?”

She stormed back, shoved the ’link at Hank. “The senator is currently incommunicado, which should be no concern of yours. However, I want an explanation. Why are you here, suggesting something has happened to him?”

“Are you aware your husband had an appointment today with a Realtor regarding his grandfather’s home?”

“I am.”

“Do you have the name and contact of said Realtor?”

“I have no interest whatsoever in that property or its disposition.”

“I take that as a no. Your husband’s cousin Dennis Mira—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Mandy waved that away as if it were a vaguely unpleasant odor. “If Dennis contacted you, he’s wasted your time as well as mine. He’s a foolish and befuddled little man, and one strangely attached to that property. I’d say he arranged all this to complicate the sale, but that’s far too much complex thinking for Dennis.”

Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s arm, squeezed lightly. He spoke before she could so she only imagined—vividly—plowing her fist into Mandy Mira’s face.

“Dennis Mira was assaulted seconds after he tried to rush to the aid of your injured husband. If you’d stop interrupting,” Roarke continued in a tone cold enough to freeze the balls Eve imagined Mandy sported under her white silk lounging pants, “the lieutenant could give you the details.”

“And who are you?”

“Roarke, and at the moment, Lieutenant Dallas’s civilian consultant.”

Those cold eyes narrowed. “Of course. Yes, of course. I know who you are—both of you. Riffraff. And here, no doubt, at the instigation of Dennis and Charlotte Mira. You can go back and tell them I’m not interested in their pitiful ploys, and my husband will do whatever he chooses to do with that ridiculous old house and everything in it. If you come here again trying to stir up trouble, I’ll have something to say about it to the governor—and we’ll see how long Charlotte continues her embarrassing association with the police. Hank, put these people out. Now.”

Eve leaned forward, just a little. “You can kiss my ass.”

Color flooded Mandy’s face. “How dare you. You can be sure I’ll contact your superior and report your behavior.”

“That would be Whitney, Commander Jack. Cop Central.” Eve took out her badge. “Make a note of the name and number. I cleaned up some of your husband’s blood in that ridiculous old house today—you think about that. You think about that and the fact that you can’t find him. And you remember Dennis Mira ended up unconscious on the floor, shedding some of his own blood because he tried to help. And you—”

“Eve,” Roarke murmured.

“No, bullshit, not done. And you think about the fact a cop came to your door to inform you, to gather information in the investigation of your husband’s whereabouts, and you stonewalled. As a cop I’m now looking right at you, right straight at you as my chief suspect.

“You got anything hiding in your closets, sister? I guarantee I’ll find it.”

Astonished outrage stripped Mandy Mira’s face of color. “Get them out. Get them out of my house.”

She stalked off as Eve turned back to the entrance foyer.

Hank closed the doors behind them.

“Lieutenant? Sir? I want to apologize for—”

“You got your job, I’ve got mine.”

“Are you certain Senator Mira was injured, and is missing?”

“Yes.” The change in tone had her glancing back at him. “Do you know who he was set to meet at the brownstone today?”

“I don’t, but I’ll try to find out. I do know he was due home more than an hour ago. I should be home myself, but Mrs. Mira insisted I stay until he got home.”

“Is that usual?”

“It’s not unusual. If I find out anything that can help, I’ll contact you at Central. Just FYI—she will contact the governor and your commanding officer.”

“She can contact God as far as I’m concerned.”

When the elevator doors shut, Roarke slid his hand down to take hers. He could all but feel the rage vibrating off her skin.

“I’ll be Riff,” he said.

“What?”

“I’ll be Riff, which leaves you with Raff.”

He saw the momentary confusion on her face, then the quick glint—a reluctant humor—in her eyes. “Why do you get Riff? Because it’s first?”

“Because I like the sound of it. I think it suits me. You’re more a Raff, definitely. My Raff.”

“That’s Lieutenant Raff.”

“As you like.”

“You’re trying to calm me down so I don’t bust up the elevator.”

“It’s a by-product of calming myself. I don’t often have an urge to strike a woman—it’s just against my nature. But I had a powerful one up there.”

“When I mentally punched her, blood exploded out of her nose.”

“Well then, that will have to do us both. And yet . . .” He brought her fingers to his lips. “We’ll go home and work into all hours trying to find the breathtakingly rude bitch’s husband.”

“He has to be a dick. Nobody would stay married to that unless he was a dick. But yeah, we’ll work on it.”

He kept her hand in his as they crossed the lobby. “Maybe he faked an abduction to escape her.”

“It would be hard to blame him, except he’s a dick.”

She contacted Mira as Roarke drove home, let her know she’d notified Mandy Mira.

“How did she take it?”

“She claims it’s bullshit you and Mr. Mira cooked up, insulted me, Roarke, both of you, and intends to contact the governor and Whitney to report me. I told her to kiss my ass.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Hey, no. I don’t want you to—”

“I’ll take care of it, Eve. I insist. Expect an apology.”

“I don’t want her to—”

“Don’t argue with me on this.”

Eve started to do just that, but saw the fatigue, the strain. “Okay, fine. How’s Mr. Mira?”

“He’s all right. No worrying symptoms. I’ll keep an eye on him tonight, but I truly believe he’s fine. Worried about Edward, of course.”

“Let him know we’re working on it, and I’ll be in touch if and when.”

She clicked off before Mira could thank her again, and considered investigative approaches as they turned through the gates, and toward home.

Lights gleamed welcome in the dozens and dozens of windows, glowing against the dignified stone, even in the fanciful turrets.

She considered coming home to such a wonder after an endless day her personal miracle.

They got out opposite sides of the car, circled around.

“How long did it take you to design the house—the whole elegant fortress with a touch of castle?”

“Oh, I spent years building it in my head as a boy. Every time I went to bed hungry or bruised, it got bigger.”

Since his childhood had been as much a nightmare as her own, it surprised her he’d restrained himself to just huge.

“I pulled it in a bit,” he said, taking her hand again as they approached the door. “Eliminated the guard towers, the moat, and accepted that the catapults of my fancy had no practical purpose.”

“I don’t know. Catapults would be pretty frosty.”

When they stepped inside, she saw the first thing she’d have loaded into one: Roarke’s majordomo.

Summerset stood in his habitual black suit—the living corpse who haunted the house. The fat cat gave one of Summerset’s bony legs a rub, then jogged over to twine through Eve’s, Roarke’s, in a kind of pudgy feline ballet.

Eve waited a beat for the expected sneering remark on how late they’d come home, or some other insult. But he only said:

“Mr. Mira?”

“He’s right enough,” Roarke said, shrugging out of his coat. “Eve’s just spoken with Dr. Mira.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If there’s anything I can do, you’ve only to let me know.”

He drifted away in that nearly silent way of his, leaving Eve frowning after him.

“After a day like this, I don’t even get to take a shot at him?”

“You told a former senator’s wife to kiss your ass.” He slipped off Eve’s coat. “Be satisfied with that.”

“That was a professional kiss my ass.”

Roarke gave Galahad a quick rub before starting up the steps. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Since that would have to be good enough, Eve went up with him, and the cat thumped up the steps behind them.

“Dinner first,” he insisted. “We’ll have it in the bedroom with the fire, and the wine.”

She could live with that. After, she’d set up a board in her office, do some runs, harangue the detective in Missing Persons she’d alerted. Roarke could check finances, which would entertain him. She could—

“I’ll deal with the fire and the wine,” Roarke said. “You deal with the pasta.”

“Right. Okay. I’m going to contact his two kids, just see if they have any information. I can hit this brain trust of his in the morning if nothing’s turned up.”

“You mean a body. You think like a murder cop, don’t you?”

“I am a murder cop. A body, because if this was kidnapping, a straight deal, there’d have been a demand for ransom. If someone just hauled him off to get something out of him, maybe they let him go after.”

“But why?”

She programmed the spaghetti, added the herbed breadsticks they both liked. “Yeah, why? Unless it’s some deal where he’d have to keep it zipped or be in worse. I don’t know enough about him yet to get a solid handle. Instinct says we’ll find the body, but that’s maybe knee-jerk.”

“His wife doesn’t love him.”

The cop she’d been would have reached that conclusion, but the cop she’d become, the one who knew love, was certain of it. “Not even in the general vicinity of love. But she’s territorial, protective of their status. I don’t see her setting this up. Maybe I find something that swings it that way. Mira said he played around, but the wife didn’t care. Maybe she started to care for some reason—threat of divorce and loss of status.”

She brought plates with generous portions to the table in the sitting area of the bedroom. Now the fire crackled, and Roarke poured deep red wine into glasses.

And the cat watched avidly.

“Summerset would’ve fed him, right?” Eve said.

“Oh, of course.”

“Crap.” She went back to the AutoChef, programmed a small dish of salmon. “He’ll give us the beady eye while we eat otherwise,” she claimed when Roarke lifted an eyebrow.

When Galahad pounced like a starving thing on the fish, she went back to sit, picked up the wine.

“This was supposed to happen hours ago.” She took a deep drink.

“And still, here we are. It’s a nice thing, however delayed, to share a meal in front of the fire on an ugly winter’s night.”

She twirled spaghetti around her fork, sampled. “It seriously doesn’t suck. The Realtor.” She twirled up another bite. “I need the Realtor. Either he—or she—is in on it, or got called off. In on it is most probable.”

She forked off a bite of meatball. “It’s not about selling the house.” She shook her head. “Mr. Mira’s the wedge there. Maybe it’s politics, maybe it’s personal. Maybe he owes somebody a bunch of money. But they got him into that house—meaning they knew about that house—where they assumed they’d have plenty of time and privacy. Mr. Mira screwed that up.”

“So while Dennis is unconscious, they spirit Edward Mira away. And that requires a vehicle.”

“Yeah, so it’s most likely, having that handy, he/she/they planned to haul him off all along. Tune him up some first. Goes back to why it sounds personal. Or it’s about money, which is pretty personal to a lot of people. Still . . .”

“If it were money, he’s pushing to sell a valuable property, which would cover all but the most insane of debts.”

“Exactly. So again, if it’s money, the sensible thing is to go after the obstacle, and that’s Mr. Mira. But they don’t. Odds are on personal.”

“Someone he judged, sentenced,” Roarke suggested. “A relation or loved one of someone he sentenced. Someone he twisted the wrong way while in Congress, or someone he passed over for a position.” Roarke lifted a shoulder. “A man who’s had those careers makes enemies.”

“A man who cats around makes them, too. A woman he dumped, the husband or lover of someone he had an affair with. A lot of ground on personal.”

Nodding, Roarke twirled some pasta of his own. “Why not just finish him where he sat?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She continued to eat while it stewed around in her brain. “That’s why I figured kidnapping at first. But it’s been hours, and no ransom demand. So . . . Wanted more time to play with him—which again leans toward getting information or just making him suffer more.”

“The attack came at Dennis from behind.”

She nodded, sampled the wine again. “Took some care he didn’t see the attacker. Now, cold-blooded? Why not give him another whack or two, take him out, and use the violence to scare the piss out of Edward. But, no. He wasn’t on the agenda.”

“Which tells you there is an agenda.”

“Take a look at this.” She shifted in her chair. “The attacker walks in the house with him. That says to me, he doesn’t know this person, not as a threat. Or does, again, not as a threat. The Realtor ploy—or the attacker is a Realtor, and that helped set the trap. Without the vic around to tell us, or his body to tell us, we don’t know if the attacker stunned him, lured him, forced him into the study. And we don’t know why they chose that spot—whether it’s significant—for the tuning up. Mr. Mira doesn’t think his cousin was restrained in the chair, and I didn’t see any signs of it on scene. So I think at least two people. One to hold a weapon on the vic, the other to smack him around.”

“If he owed money, which I hope to find out, they might have been a couple of spine-crackers. But the ploy to get him to that location seems a bit sophisticated and unnecessary.”

“Exactly. And why then take him instead of just breaking his legs? Maybe there will be a ransom demand, but without one, I don’t think this is about money. Not in the usual sense. We need to cross it off, but I don’t feel that.”

“Sex follows next.”

“Yeah. Sex makes people crazy. Mean, vindictive, violent.”

“Promise?” he said and made her choke on her wine.

“Such a pervert.”

“Card-carrying. But you’re talking the nonentertaining and nonconsensual crazy. And I agree. But . . .” He tore a breadstick in half, offered her a share. “If beating him to death over an affair, or a thwarted affair, why take him?”

“Mr. Mira.”

Roarke nodded. “The unexpected, perhaps some panic. But not enough to rush the beating. Take him elsewhere.”

“That’s the one I like. Shit, what do we do now? Let’s get out of here—take him with us.” She gestured with the breadstick, bit in. “Five gets you ten we find the body within the next twenty-four.”

“I feel, even for us, such a bet would be in poor taste.”

“Yeah.” As she ate, she wondered who’d come up with the concept of a ball of meat, and if they’d been properly compensated. “Anyway, I’m going to approach it as a murder—let Missing Persons handle it as a missing. But if a body turns up, I’ll have a jump on it. It’ll be hard on Mr. Mira, even though he and his cousin weren’t what you’d call friendly.”

“Family’s often a different kettle, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is, and I guess the whole cousin thing can get unwieldy. Still, when you hear McNab or Peabody talk about their cousins—then there’s your whole Irish cousins thing—there’s a lot of ties, a lot of . . . liking. But with this cousin and his fuckhead of a wife, it’s not just a lack of liking or ignoring of ties, it’s . . .”

“Contempt,” Roarke said, and she jabbed her fork at him in agreement.

“That’s the exact word. And anybody who has contempt for somebody like Mr. Mira has to be an asshole.”

“So you are expecting the dead body of an asshole within the next twenty-four.”

She nodded, ate one last bite. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean we don’t do the job. We should add that as like an addendum to the banner the bullpen made. You know, ‘No matter your race, creed, blah blah, we protect and serve, because you could get dead.’ We should put one of those . . .”

She squiggled a shape with a finger in the air, making him smile because he understood her so easily. “Asterisk.”

“Yeah, that thing. And add: ‘Even if you’re an asshole.’”

“Past tense might be more applicable, being Homicide. ‘Even if you were an asshole.’”

“Hmm. Good point. And I’d better get started. You’ll take the financials.”

“With considerable delight.”

They walked out together. “I’m going to send Peabody a report, bring her up to speed. I’ll copy Mira on it. It shook her up. You don’t see her shaken very often, but it really shook her, seeing he’d been hurt.”

“Love makes us vulnerable.”

“He soothed her. He’s got this way. I know he was upset, and he took a hell of a knock, so he was hurt, but he soothed her.”

“And love makes us strong. That’s its wonder.”

“I don’t know if many people are born kind. Like it’s just part of their DNA. I think Mr. Mira was. So I really wish I’d punched the Mandy-Bitch.”

“You have your visual of exploding blood.” Roarke patted her shoulder. “Let that be enough.”

“It’ll have to be.”

They split off, her to her office, Roarke toward his that adjoined it. The cat opted to stick with Eve, and trotted directly to her sleep chair, leaped up, circled, circled, circled, and collapsed as if he’d run a marathon.

She went to her desk first, sat, and saw from her incomings the sweepers had taken her rush-it order to heart.

The blood on the desk chair was Edward Mira’s. Floorboards, Dennis Mira. The only prints in the study, entranceway, doors, belonged to: Dennis and Edward Mira; Sila Robarts; Frankie Trent, Sila’s mother; and Dara Robarts, Sila’s daughter—the housekeepers.

So the suspects sealed up, she concluded. They’d had a plan.

She began to construct a report, with the sweeper’s early results attached. Then deciding it best to also copy her commander, cleaned it up a little. She considered whatever hit she’d take over the “kiss my ass” comment worth it.

With the book already begun with the reports, her notes, she set up her board. Pretty thin so far, she thought, circling in and studying Edward Mira’s ID shot. But still ahead of the game when the body showed up.

She started back to her desk intending to start deeper runs on all connected parties, and Roarke stepped in.

“That fast?” she commented.

“Initially. I can tell you the senator could very much use a large influx of cash.”

“Gambling?”

“Not particularly, no. Lifestyle. And the Mira Institute isn’t yet self-sustaining. He pumped a lot of money into it, and it continues to drain his resources. Basically, they spend a great deal. Security, entertaining, travel. They have the penthouse here in the city, another home in East Hampton, a pied-à-terre in East Washington. And memberships at very exclusive country clubs in each location. The Institute also rents a suite at my Palace Hotel, as well as carrying a substantial payroll, and very high operating expenses.”

He wandered over, helped himself to the coffee she had on her desk. “He’s made some poorly considered investments in the last two or three years, and that’s depleted some of the income. There has been sporadic income from the sale of some antiques and collectibles.”

“From the grandfather’s estate.”

“Yes, indeed. But they’ll have to begin to cut a few corners, or sell off one of their properties, unless they have a serious increase in cash flow. This includes his two buried accounts, and her one.”

“You found three secret accounts already?” When he merely sipped her coffee, studied her over the rim, she shook her head. “Of course you did. Illegal accounts?”

“Questionable, and for a man in his position politically, unethical. The sale of the house would absolutely give him some breathing room.”

“But nothing that looks like he owed somebody who’d send the spine-crackers?”

“I’ll look deeper, but what I’ve already gone through paints a fairly clear picture. These are people accustomed to a certain lifestyle—and status—unwilling to pull back on expenses to keep their financial ship comfortably afloat. For instance, she spends between ten and twelve thousand a month on salon and spa visits. Not including twice a year body and face work, which triples that amount. He isn’t far behind her in that area.”

“Jesus, that’s, what, in the land of a quarter of a mil annually for vanity.”

“That’s the geography. And this is nothing, really, up against what he’s invested and continues to invest in the Institute. He put in twenty million of his own to launch it, and though he receives around a million annually from it, he pumps that, and a bit more, back in to keep it running. I can tell you that in the last eighteen months to two years, money has become a serious issue for him.”

“Okay, he needs to sell—that’s his motive. We need to find out who gets his share of said potential sale on his death. Wife and/or kids, most likely.”

She circled the board again. “The wife doesn’t want to give up the lifestyle. Would she have him killed over it?” Pausing, Eve studied the ID shot. “Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s got the chops for it. He probably has death insurance. He kicks, she’s not only the grieving widow, but she’d be pretty well set.”

She stuck her hands in her pockets, rocked back on her heels. Shook her head. “But the method’s all wrong for it. Even if she hired somebody. Here’s a bunch of money. Beat up my husband, kill him—and do it in this location because maybe she figures Dennis would agree to sell under those conditions.”

“My cousin’s grieving wife, he was killed here. Selling it will help us all heal. Yes.” Considering, Roarke offered her the rest of the coffee. “I could see it. Convoluted as it is.”

“Too convoluted. Plus, if they’re hired hits, be done with it. You don’t haul him off.”

“You’re back to personal.”

“Yeah, I am. He doesn’t owe anybody, no signs he’s paying or extorting blackmail?”

“Not that I’ve found, no.”

“So, it’s about the money for him, but it’s not about money for whoever has him. Sex.”

Roarke wrapped his arms around her waist. “Delighted.”

“Not us, ace. Money, politics, women—those appear to be his main deals. Money just isn’t playing. Politics—he’s not a senator anymore, but there’s that brain trust. I’ll look into that, but if he’s fueling it to keep it running, how much influence does it, or he, have . . . politically? So it comes down to sex. The suite at your hotel. I bet it makes a nice love nest.”

“We do try to keep such things well-feathered.”

“Ha. I bet you could tug a line and get me some names of lovebirds Senator Hound Dog might have roosted with. That doesn’t sound right,” she realized with a frown. “I’ve lost the colorful metaphor.”

“But it held long enough. I can tug a line, of course. And if he used it to entertain, I’ll have names or at least faces for you. Give me a few minutes.”

She went back for more coffee, then sat down to do the runs.

It didn’t surprise her when Roarke finished his task before she did.

“Five women in the past year. I’ve sent you their names. All multiple visits, on a weekly basis, most lasting between six and eight weeks. I want a brandy.”

“Five, in a year. And he’s nearly seventy.”

“Medical science, and we salute it, has made that issue moot.” He opened the wall slot, took out a decanter. “I’ve sent them to you in order of appearance. I can also tell you: While the senator uses the suite on the average of once a week for personal purposes, he generally stays the night. The lady of the moment rarely does.”

She generated ID shots, added them to the board. “All but two legally married. And the latest is twenty-five. I mean, humping Jesus, he has more than forty years on her. It’s just wrong.”

When Roarke just swirled and sipped brandy, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

“I don’t like the man—less now than I did before—but I can’t help but admire his . . . stamina.”

“That’s dick-thinking.”

“Well . . .” Roarke glanced down at his own. “It does have opinions.”

Muttering to herself, she got up to circle the board. “They’re all lookers, I’ll give him that. And not one of them within fifteen years of his age. This Lauren Canford’s his oldest pick at forty-two. Married, two kids, a lobbyist. That’s a political thing. And the baby of the bunch, Charity Downing, twenty-five, single, an artist who works at Eclectia—a gallery in SoHo. Asha Coppola, on her second marriage, works for a nonprofit—age thirty-one. Allyson Byson, third marriage—is that optimism or insanity? Anyway, third marriage at age thirty-four, no occupation. And Carlee MacKensie, twenty-eight, single, freelance writer.

“I’ll take a look at them, and their spouses.”

“I’ve some work of my own unless you need something more.”

“No, go ahead. Thanks.”

He gave her until midnight and, as expected, found her starting to droop over the work.

“That’s a big enough jump on things for one night.”

She didn’t argue, knew she had to let it simmer and settle. And if she was wrong, Edward Mira might limp home before morning.

But she wasn’t wrong.

“Did you know Mr. Mira and his cousin both went to Yale? The senator was a year ahead of him—would’ve been two but Mr. Mira graduated early. And he came out of Yale with that Latin deal—the magnum thing.

“Magna cum laude.”

“Yeah, that. And the Phi Beta deal, too. Graduated third in his class. The senator graduated like seventy-whatever in his. Mr. Mira has all these letters after his name. Don’t know what half of them are, and he served as class president his senior year, was the valedictorian. The senator did more than okay, but on an academic level, Mr. Mira kicked his ass.”

“I imagine that didn’t sit well with the future senator.”

“I’m thinking not. Anyway, the Urbans were just starting to rumble, and Mr. Mira was a frigging captain of the campus peace patrol. The campus was far enough out of the city, so reasonably safe, but there was trouble, and demonstrations, and regular bomb threats.”

In the bedroom, she sat to take off her boots. “The senator got his law degree, and took a job with a law firm in Sunnyside—away from the conflict. Mr. Mira came back to New York, got his master’s from Columbia. He got the doctorate from there, too, so they’re both Dr. Mira. He and Mira cohabbed for like a year.”

She shook her head as she undressed. “I never figured them for cohabs, you know? And looking into that stuff felt weird. Voyeuristic, but still. And they’re both starting out their careers and their life together in a city shaking from the Urbans. They got married at the grandparents’ house. There was this whole story I dug up. I shouldn’t have been taking time to look at stuff like that, but . . .”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yeah. And it shows another reason why the house matters so much to him.” She pulled on a sleep shirt, crawled into bed. “The senator and Mandy tied it up at the Palace—before your time—in a big, splashy deal.”

She turned to him when he slid into bed with her. “You could’ve had a big, splashy deal when we tied it up. Why didn’t you?”

“You wouldn’t have liked it.” He wrapped around her, drawing her in where he liked her best. “And for myself, I wanted our lives to begin where it mattered most. Home. I wanted that memory to be here—like the painting you had done for me. Of the two of us, under the arbor on our wedding day.”

She let out a sigh. “Maybe we’ll make it there.”

“Make it where?”

But she’d already dropped away into sleep, and didn’t answer.