Divided in Death

Chapter 20

She didn’t want to go home. It was, Eve knew, evasion at its worst, but she didn’t want to go home to a houseful of people. She didn’t want to go home to Roarke.

The answer couldn’t be love-simple or complex-she didn’t see how that could be it. She couldn’t find her way through this thing that was strangling her marriage. And if she loved the man any more than she did, she’d burn up from it.

She didn’t see how the answer could be evasion either, though it helped at the moment. Walking in the city on a balmy evening, the familiar ground, the familiar sounds of irritable traffic, the smell of overdone soy dogs, the occasional whoosh through the vents of a train zooming by underground.

Clutches of people, ignoring each other-ignoring her-as they went about their own business and thought their own thoughts.

So she walked, and it occurred to her she never did this anymore. Never simply walked around the city when she didn’t have a specific destination, a specific purpose. She’d never been the meandering sort. And she sure as hell wasn’t interested in browsing from window to window to study whatever was being sold.

She could’ve rousted a couple of the sidewalk grifters hawking knockoff wrist units, PPCs, fake python handbags-all the rage this season-but she didn’t feel quite mean enough to bother.

She watched two women shell out seventy dollars each for snake bags complete with fangs for fasteners and wondered what the hell was wrong with people.

More because it was there than because of hunger, she dropped some credits on a glide-cart for a soy dog. The stink of the cart’s smoke followed her, and the first bite reminded her how disgusting, and oddly addicting, the fake meat on a stingy bun could be.

She watched a couple of teenagers weave through pedestrian traffic on an airboard. The girl riding pinion had her arms around the boy’s waist in what looked like a death grip, and she was squealing in his ear. From the expression on his face, he didn’t seem to mind. Probably made him feel like a man, Eve decided, to have some girl holding onto him and pretending she was afraid.

Not bothering to pretend anything was why she’d been so lousy at the mating rituals, she supposed. Then, with Roarke, she hadn’t had to pretend.

A messenger droid whizzed by on his zip-bike, risking smashed circuits and vehicular madness as he threaded through the breath of space between two Rapid cabs, then buzzed the bumper on another. The cab driver responded with a vicious blast of horn, which set off several other horns like dogs howling together at the moon.

“I’m driving here!” The driver shouted with his head and upper body popping out his side window. “I’m driving here, you asshole!”

But the red cap and boots of the messenger droid were only a blur as he cut through the light on the yellow, and kept jetting.

She heard snatches of conversations as she walked-bits and pieces of sexual, shopping, or business escapades-all delivered with the same passion.

A licensed beggar squatted on a rag of blanket and played a mournful tune on a rusty flute. A woman with a python bag and matching boots glided out of a shop trailed by a uniformed droid carting several glossy bags. She slid into a shiny black limo.

Eve doubted she’d heard the flute-she’d bet the beggar wasn’t even on her plane of existence. People didn’t pay enough attention, she decided, and tossed a couple of credits into the beggar’s box as she passed by.

The city was awash with color and sound and energy, with petty meanness and careless kindnesses. She didn’t pay enough attention. She loved it, but she rarely looked at it.

And if that was some sort of subconscious metaphor for her marriage, it was time to ditch the rest of the soy dog and get back to work.

She saw the bump and snatch. The man in the suit, carrying a briefcase who crossed toward the curb to hail a cab. The boy of about twelve who bumped against him, the quick exchange of words.

Watch it, kid.

Sorry, mister.

And the fast hands, very fast, very light, that nipped into the pocket of the suit and palmed the wallet.

Still munching her soy dog, she strode toward them just as the boy turned to melt into the crowd. She caught him by the collar.

“Hold on,” she said to the suit.

He sent her a look of irritation as the boy struggled against her hold. “I’m in a hurry.”

“You’re going to have a hard time paying for that ride without your wallet,” Eve told him.

Instinctively he patted his pocket, then whirled. “What the hell is this? Give me back my wallet, you little bastard. I’m calling the cops.”

“I am a cop, so just throttle back. Hands off,” she snapped when he started to reach for the boy. “Give it over, ace.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Lemme go. My ma’s waiting.”

“Whoever’s waiting missed the pass, so give me this man’s wallet and let’s call it a day. You’re good,” she said studying his soft, lightly freckled face. “Not only look harmless, but you’ve got good hands. Slick and smooth. If I hadn’t been right here, you’d have gotten away clean.”

“Officer, I want this delinquent arrested.”

“Give it a rest.” Eve reached into the goodie pouch inside the boy’s jacket, pulled out a billfold. Flipped it open and read the ID. “Marcus.” She tossed him the wallet. “You’ve got your property back. No harm, no foul.”

“He belongs in jail.”

She had a strong hold on the boy now, and felt him tremble. She thought of Roarke running the streets of Dublin, picking pockets and going home with his take to a father who’d likely beat him no matter what the day’s work had brought in.

“Fine. Let’s all go downtown and spend the next couple of hours filling out forms.”

“I don’t have time-”

“Then you’d better catch that cab.”

“It’s hardly a wonder the city is overrun with crime when the police treat law-abiding citizens with such disdain.”

“Yeah, that must be the reason,” she replied as he climbed into the cab, slammed the door. “And you’re welcome, sunshine.”

She hauled the kid around, studied his young, angry face. “Name, and don’t bother to lie, just give me the first name.”

“Billy.”

She saw it was a lie, but let it pass. “Okay, Billy, like I said, you’re good. But not that good. Next time you’re going to get caught by somebody without my mushy compassionate nature and winning personality.”

“Shit.” But he grinned a little.

“Ever been in juvie?”

“Maybe.”

“If you have, you know it sucks. Food’s lousy and they lecture you every damn day, which is worse. You got a problem at home, or wherever, need some help, you call this number.”

She dragged a card out of her pocket.

“Dufus? What the hell is that?”

“Duchas. It’s a shelter. Hell of a lot better than juvie,” she said when he sneered. “You can tell them Dallas sent you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Put it in your pocket. Don’t throw it away until you’re out of sight at least. No point in insulting me after I kept your ass out of lockup.”

“You hadn’t caught me, I’d have the wallet.”

Smartass, she thought. God, she had a weakness for a smartass. “Well, you’ve got me there. Scram.”

He bolted, then spun around, grinned at her again. “Hey! You’re not a total asshole, for a cop.”

And that, she figured, was a better thanks than the suit had managed. Feeling marginally better, she hailed a cab of her own.

She gave the driver Reva Ewing’s home address. He turned around, gave her a pained stare.

“You want I should drive you to fricking Queens?”

“Yes. I want you should drive me to fricking Queens.”

“Lady, I gotta make a living here. Whyn’t you take a bus or the subway or an airtram?”

“Because I’m taking a cab.” She yanked out her badge, pressed it to the safety shield that caged in the driver. “And I gotta make a living here, too.”

“Oh jeez, lady, now you’re gonna want the cop rate. Now I’m going to be driving you to fricking Queens at ten percent off. You know how long that’s going to tie me up?”

“I’ll give you the standard fare, but get this bucket of shit moving.” She shoved her badge away. “And don’t call me lady.”

She ruined the driver’s evening when she told him to wait, then recorded his name and license number to ensure he did. He drooped behind the wheel as she got out to unseal and unlock the gates.

“How long am I supposed to wait?”

“Let’s see. Oh yeah. Until I get back.”

EDD had removed the statuary, and it was an improvement. Still, she imagined Reva would sell the place. She wouldn’t want to live where she’d lived with the man who used and betrayed her.

She unsealed and unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

It had the feel of an empty house, an abandoned one. A home that was finished, she supposed, being a home.

She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she wandered the house much as she’d wandered the streets. Just to see what popped out at her.

The sweepers and EDD had both combed the place. The faint, metallic smell of chemicals lingered. To satisfy herself she browsed through Bissel’s closet. Large wardrobe, expensive clothes. She knew how to recognize expensive material and cuts now.

He’d indulged himself in the two-level space with its revolving racks, automatic drawers, computerized menu of contents, and their location.

Jesus, even Roarke didn’t computerize his wardrobe. Of course, his brain was a damn computer so he probably knew just where the specific black shirt he wanted would be, when he’d last worn it, for what occasion, and with what pants and jacket. Shoes. Fricking underwear.

She blew out a breath and scowled at the little wall screen.

Bissel hadn’t fried his closet unit. Because there was nothing on there worth bothering with, or because there was something on there he wanted to retrieve?

Curious, she engaged it. “List last wardrobe selection, and date.”

Working… Last selection on September 16, at twenty-one sixteen, by Bissel, Blair. Contents removed as follows…

She listened to the list, mentally matching it with the contents taken from Bissel’s bags and Kade’s closet after the murders. They seemed to jibe.

“Okay, let’s try this. Last use of this unit by Bissel, Blair, for any purpose.”

Last usage September 23, at oh six hundred twelve hours.

“This morning, the son of a bitch was here this morning? What was the purpose of usage?”

Purpose blocked. Privacy engaged.

“Yeah, screw that.” She keyed in her police code, her badge number, and spent several annoying minutes trying to override the system. The fourth time the computer spat PRIVACY ENGAGED at her, she kicked the wall.

The sound was hollow in the lavish space. “Well, what’s this?” She crouched and began to thump and press on the wall.

She considered, briefly, hunting up a really big knife and just hacking at the wallboard. But cooler heads prevailed. Instead she pulled out her communicator and contacted Feeney.

“I’m in Queens, in Bissel’s closet.”

“What the hell you doing in a closet in Queens?”

“Just listen, he was here. This morning. There’s a comp menu thing in the closet. He used it this morning, but the little bastard won’t tell me why. Privacy block. And there’s something behind the wall here, a hidey-hole or something. How do I get the computer to let me in?”

“You beat on it yet?”

“No.” She perked up a bit. “Can I?”

“Won’t do any good. Can you open her up?”

“I don’t have any tools.”

“You can give me a look at it, and I can try to walk you through, or one of us can come over there and work on it. Probably be faster to deploy one of the team.”

“That’s an insult, and don’t think I don’t know it. It’s a damn closet menu, Feeney, get me in.”

He puffed out his cheeks, made little noises while she scanned the unit so he could see it on his screen. “Okay, key in this code.”

He read it off as she input the numbers manually. “What’s this? A privacy override?”

“Just keep going. Snap your fingers and say, ‘Open Sesame.’”

She started to obey, then set her teeth. “Feeney.”

“Okay, okay, just a little joke. Code’s from the data we’ve been pulling out here. Let’s see if he used it on that unit, too.”

“Computer, what was removed by Blair Bissel at last usage?”

Working… Contents listed as emergency package.

“Emergency package. What was in the emergency package?”

That data is not available.

“Computer, open the compartment from which said emergency package was removed.”

Acknowledged.

The panel slid open, revealing a small safe. “Bingo. Computer, I said to open the compartment.”

Acknowledged. Compartment is open.

“You have to be specific, Dallas,” Feeney told her. “You want the safe open, you tell it you want the safe open. It can’t read your mind.”

“Open the damn safe.”

Acknowledged. Commencing interface.

There was a low hum and some blinking red lights on both the safe and the wall unit as they communicated. When it stopped, Eve wrenched open the safe door.

“Empty,” she said. “Whatever it was, he got it all.”

She asked herself what Blair Bissel would have secreted away for an emergency. Funds, forged ID, codes or passkeys into bolt-holes. But surely he’d have taken all that with him before he killed Kade and his brother.

What else, she thought, would a man who prepared to run require enough to risk breaking into his own house for?

Weapons seemed the most logical.

He hadn’t stored a rocket blaster in that little safe, but he might’ve stored smaller weapons and passkeys.

Stupid to have left them behind in the first place, she thought as the cab drove through the gates of home. Sooner or later the safe would have been discovered, and whatever he’d left behind found.

Then again, it would all have been a kind of mystery, wouldn’t it? His body would have been long since cremated, ensuring he’d stay dead. But people would wonder about the safe, its contents.

He might have left behind something that would have hinted at the HSO, at his association. It would make him important, talked about.

Another kind of immortality for the dead man who didn’t die.

Yeah. Yeah. That would be right up his alley.

“You want I should wait? Again?”

Eve broke out of her thoughts, stared at the big house with lights gleaming in some of the windows. “No, last stop. You’re sprung.”

She pulled out a debit card, swiped it over the scanner.

“You telling me you live here?”

She verified the meter charge and decided to cut him a break and give him a decent tip. “So?”

“So then you ain’t no cop.”

“Surprises me all the time, too.”

She went straight in and straight up to her office. She wanted, very much, to go straight to bed. Still playing the evasion game, she bypassed the lab.

She found her team had been busy in her absence. The full report on Quinn Sparrow was filed, and copied. He’d been charged. Peabody’s attached personal memo told Eve that there was already political wrangling taking place between the HSO and the NYPSD on who owned him.

She couldn’t work up the spit to care who won that battle. Sparrow was done, and that was that.

Reva had left her a list of Bissel’s habits, routines, favorite haunts and getaways. Most of those haunts and getaways leaned toward the trendy or exotic.

She would, in the morning, contact local authorities in all the out-of-town and foreign locations Reva listed and ask for their assistance.

But he wasn’t out of town, he wasn’t in some foreign location. He was, for now, in New York. Maybe not for much longer, but for now.

She read McNab’s report. He’d found nothing under Chloe McCoy and was now pursuing variations and codes based on that name.

What had she died for? What use had she been for him that had made her a victim when that use was over?

A locket, a sculpture, and corrupted data on a cheap desk unit.

She made a note to ask Feeney to have the team focus on McCoy’s unit. She worked late, and she worked alone, soothing herself with the quiet, the routine, with the puzzle until her brain began to fuzz.

After shutting down for the night, she used the elevator. The bedroom was empty. It seemed Roarke knew how to play the evasion game, too.

The cat padded in while she undressed. Grateful for his company, she picked him up, nuzzling as he purred. He curled up beside her in the dark, blinking his bi-colored eyes at her.

She didn’t expect to sleep. Prepared herself to spend most of the night staring at the dark.

And was out in minutes.

He knew the moment she’d passed through the gates in the cab. He knew she’d worked after most of the team had gone to bed. The fact that she hadn’t sought him out was a small ache. It seemed he had so many small aches these last days he’d forgotten what it was like without them.

He stood over her now as she sprawled facedown on the bed in exhaustion. She didn’t wake. The cat did, enough to stare so those odd eyes gleamed at him in the dark. Roarke couldn’t have said why he was sure the stare was accusatory.

“I’d think you’d understand well enough the primal, the instinctive, and be a bit more on my side in this.”

But Galahad only continued to stare until Roarke cursed softly and turned away.

He was too restless to sleep, too unsettled to lie beside her knowing there was a great deal more than a fat lump of feline between them.

The knowledge so infuriated, so terrified, that he strode away from her, left her sleeping. He moved through the house where others slept, and accessed entry to the tightly secured room where he kept his unregistered.

He’d given Eve and Reva all of his time. His work was suffering because of it and he would begin to mend that in the morning. But tonight was for himself. Tonight, he was himself, and he would gather the data he wanted on the people, all of them, who’d had a part in Dallas.

In Eve.

“Roarke,” he said, his tone was cold as ice. “Open operations.”

She stirred in the dark, in the dead quiet just before dawn. The whimper sounded in her throat as she tried to turn herself out of the dream. And sweat pooled at the base of her spine as she fell into it.

The room, always the same. Freezing, dirty, and washed with the erratic red light from the sex club across the street. She was small, and very thin. And very hungry. Hungry enough to risk punishment for a bite of cheese. A little mouse, sneaking toward the trap when the brutal cat was away.

Her stomach clenched and knotted-part fear, part anticipation, as she cut the mold off the cheese with the knife. Maybe he wouldn’t notice this time. Maybe. She was so cold. She was so hungry. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

She held onto that even when he came in. Richie Troy. Somewhere in her unconscious brain his name echoed, over and over. She knew him now, she knew his name. Nothing, no monster was ever as terrifying if you could name him.

She had a moment of hope. He would be drunk, drunk enough to leave her alone. Drunk enough not to care that she’d disobeyed and gotten food.

But he came toward her, and she saw in his eyes there hadn’t been enough drink that night. Not enough to save her.

What are you doing, little girl?

And his voice turned her bowels to ice.

The first blow stunned her, but she fell limply. A dog who’d been kicked often enough knew to stay down and submit.

But he had to punish her. He had to teach her a lesson. Despite her fear, despite her knowing, she couldn’t stop herself from pleading.

Please don’t please don’t please don’t.

Of course he would. He did. Bearing down on her, striking her. Hurting her, hurting her while she begged, while she wept, while she struggled.

Her arm broke with a sound as thin as her shocked scream.

The knife she’d dropped was in her hand again. She had to make him stop. Make him stop. The pain, the horrible pain in her arm, between her legs. He had to stop.

Blood gushed warm over her hand. Warm and wet, and she scented it like an animal in the wild. When his body jerked on hers, she plunged the knife into him again, again. Again and again as he tried to crawl away. Again and again and again as the blood splashed her arms, her face, her clothes, and the sounds she made were nothing human.

When she crawled away, shivering, panting, to huddle in the corner, he was sprawled on the floor, drowned in his own blood.

As always.

But this time she wasn’t alone with the man she’d killed. She wasn’t alone with the dead in the hideous room. There were others, countless others, men and women in dark suits, sitting in row after row of chairs. Like people at a play. Observers with empty faces.

They watched as she wept. Watched as she bled and her broken arm hung limply at her side.

They watched, and said nothing. Did nothing. Even when Richie Troy rose, as he sometimes did. When he rose, pouring blood from all the wounds she’d put into him and began to shuffle toward her, they did nothing.

She awoke bathed in sweat with the scream tearing at her throat. Instinctively she rolled and reached out for Roarke, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to gather her in, to soothe away those horrible jagged edges.

So she curled into a ball, battling the tears while the cat bumped his head against hers.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.” She pressed her damp face against his fur, rocked herself. “God. Oh God. Lights on, twenty-five percent.”

The low light helped, so she lay in it until her chest stopped burning. Then, still shivering, she rose to drag herself to the shower, and the heat of the water.

Rose to drag herself into the day.