Portrait In Death

Chapter 13

His hands were on her, and his mouth, heating her blood, tripping her pulse before she was fully awake.

Languidly, Eve moved under him, sighing a little. Her senses were tuned to him-the scent of her mate, his taste, his shape-and the need for him rose up even as her mind flitted around the blurred edges of sleep.

Gently, lightly, fingertips stroked over soft, warm flesh. The slide of a tongue, the brush of lips, and an erotic whisper close to her ear. She was aroused, still floating on that liquid spill where pleasure was lazy and sweet.

Then he said her name. Said her name before his mouth ravished hers, before his hand slid down to cup where she was already wet, already aching.

And he shot her from dreamy drift into urgent demand.

Now there was only sensation, the pounding of blood and shocks of heat, and the tangle of limbs as they rolled to find more. She ran her hands over him, thrilling herself with the angles, the smooth skin, the hard lines of muscle.

He was starved for her. He'd wakened wanting her, just the warm comfort of her beside him in the quiet light she'd left burning against the dark. But he'd only had to touch her, to see her face, to need.

She was his constant.

Her mouth was eager, her hands quick and greedy. Their moods matched here, he knew.Give me more, and more. And take all you can.

Half-mad, he dragged her up. He could see her eyes, gleaming, focused on him as she locked her legs around him, as her hips surged to take him in-into the wet heat. She watched him still as she clamped around him, already coming as she surrounded him.

His breath snagged in his throat. His heart leaped after it.

He might have spoken, or tried, but she pulled him closer, took him deeper, and banding her arms around him used those strong, narrow hips to drive him.

Just hold on,she thought.Hold onto me this time. And she held him while the hunger consumed them both.

They slid down together, shuddering. When his head rested between her breasts, she closed her eyes again.

"Guess you're feeling better," she managed.

"Considerably. Thanks." He brushed his lips gently over the side of her breast. "I suppose I deserved the tranq."

"Goes without saying, seeing as you've doused me too many times to count. Point is though, you needed to sleep." With her hand caught in his hair, she looked up through the sky window at the colorless morning sky. "You scared me, Roarke."

"I know it." Turning his head, he pressed his lips to her heart, then shifted so he could draw her over to him, rest her head on his shoulder. "This, all this… it sucker punched me. I don't seem to have my wits about me yet."

"I get that. But I think you broke a rule. The one about not sharing a personal crisis with your life partner."

"Life partner." He smiled up at the ceiling. "Is that your new, more comfortable alternative for wife?"

"Don't try to change the subject. You broke the rule. I've been collecting marriage rules over the last year."

"Always the cop," he retorted. "You're right though, and if it's not a rule it should be. I shouldn't have kept it from you. I don't know altogether why I did. I have to turn this around in my head awhile more, figure out what to do. Or not."

"Fine. But no shutting me out. Not again."

"That's a deal." He sat up as she did, then caught her face in his hands. How she could have thought, even for a moment, that he'd grown tired of her was beyond him. "Life partners," he said. "It's got a nice ring to it. But you know, I still prefer the sound of 'wife.'" He touched his lips to hers. "Mine."

"You would. I've got to get moving. I have to report to the commander this morning."

"I haven't been keeping up with you. Why don't we catch a shower together, and you can tell me about the case."

She lifted a shoulder as if it didn't matter to her one way or the other. But the fact was she'd missed, very much, being able to run through the steps and stages of an investigation with him. "Okay. But no funny business."

"And here I was, about to grab my big red nose and squirting carnation."

Naked, she turned in the bathroom doorway to stare at him. "You're a strange guy, Roarke. But there will be no clowning around-haha-in the shower."

He considered changing her mind, just on principle, but as he listened to her run through, he got caught up. And found it a relief to think about something other than his own worries.

"It shows how quick you can lock yourself into your own little world. I didn't know there'd been a second murder. Both young, both students-different universities, backgrounds, interests, social circles."

"There are connections. The club where the transmissions originate for one. Hastings and Portography."

"And their killer."

"Yeah." She scooped her hand through her wet hair as she stepped out of the shower. "And their killer."

"Maybe they both modeled for the killer at some point."

"I don't think so." She stepped into the drying tube as Roarke reached for a towel. "Why the candids?" She lifted her voice over the hum of the tube. "Why take photographs of them when they're unaware if they were modeling. Plus, they're kids, right? It seems to me a kid would get all puffed up or jazzed up about the idea of modeling and tell their friends or family. Neither victim mentioned it to anyone we've questioned."

She stepped out, and this time scooped her hand through dry hair, considered it styled for the day. "I'm starting to think this guy, or woman, isn't a professional. Or at least, not successfully. Wants to be, believes he's just aces."

"Frustrated artist."

"That's what I get. If he does commercial work, he considers it beneath him. Stews about it. Sits around in his room whining to himself that the world doesn't appreciate his genius. He has such a gift," she continued as she walked to the closet to hunt up clothes. "A light inside, but nobody sees it. Not yet. But they will. He'llmake them see it eventually. When he's done, it'll be so bright, it'll all but blind them. Some will say he's insane, deluded, even evil. But what do they know? More, he's sure of it, more will finally recognize who and what he is-what he can do, and give. The brilliance of it. The artistry. The immortality. Then, finally, he'll get his due."

She yanked a sleeveless tank over her head, then noted Roarke was simply standing, watching her, with the faintest of smiles. "What? Jesus, what's wrong with this top? If I'm not supposed to wear the damn thing, why is it in the closet?"

"The top's fine, and that strong blue's a nice color on you, by the way. I was thinking what a marvel you are, Lieutenant. An artist in your way. You see him. Not the face and form, not yet. But you see inside him already. And that's how you stop him. Because he can't hide from someone who sees inside him."

"Long enough to kill two people, so far."

"And if you weren't standing for them, he might never pay for it. He's smart, isn't he?" He crossed to the closet, chose a jacket for her before she could do so herself. "A clever mind, and oh so organized."

He liked the pale, silvery gray jacket against the strong blue, and set it aside for her to put on after she'd strapped on her weapon. "He watches. Spends a lot of time blending rather than standing out, don't you think? Better to watch. More to see when you're not particularly noticed."

She nodded. "That's good."

"But still, if they knew him as you believe, there's something about him that made them see him as friendly, or at least unthreatening."

"They were kids. Most, at twenty, don't think anything can hurt them."

"We knew better." He stroked a fingertip over the shallow dent in her chin. "But I think you're right again. In the normal way of things, at twenty you're invulnerable. Is that something else he wants? That careless courage and innocence."

"Enough, I think, that he lets them keep it right to the end. He doesn't hurt them, mark them, rape them. He doesn't hate them for what they are. He… honors them for it."

It was good, she realized, really good to talk it out. She'd needed just this. "It's not envy, it's like appreciation. I think he loves them, in his twisted, selfish way. And that's what makes him so dangerous."

"Will you show me the portraits?"

She hesitated while he went to the AutoChef to program coffee. He should be studying the morning stock reports, monitoring any breaking news over breakfast, she thought. That was his routine. And she should be heading out to Central right now to prepare for her morning briefing.

"Sure." She said it casually before sitting down and calling up the file on the sitting room unit. "I'll have a couple of eggs, scrambled, and whatever else you're having."

"A very smooth way of ensuring I eat." He programmed breakfast, then studied the screen-the two images Eve had called up on it. "Different types entirely, aren't they? And yet, the same… vitality, I suppose."

He thought of the picture of the woman he knew to be his mother. Young, vital, alive.

"It's monsters who prey on the young," he declared.

He couldn't get the images out of his mind, even after Eve had left the house. They haunted him as he went down to make amends with Summerset. The two young people he'd never met, the mother he'd never known.

They linked together in his head, a sad and sorrowful portrait gallery. Then another joined him, and he saw Marlena in his mind's eye. Summerset's lovely young daughter. She'd been little more than a child when the monsters had taken her, Roarke thought.

Because of him.

His mother, Summerset's daughter, both dead because of him.

He stepped through the open door of Summerset's quarters. In the living area PA Spence was running a hand scanner over the skin cast to check the knitting of bone.

The wall screen played one of the morning newscasts. Summerset sat, drinking coffee, watching the news, and ignoring the PA as she cheerfully detailed the progress of his injuries.

"Coming right along," she chirped. "Excellentprogress, particularly for a man of your age. You're going to be up and around on your own again in no time, no time at all."

"Madam, I would be up and around on my own now if you'd go away."

She clucked her tongue. "We'll just get a reading of your blood pressure and pulse for the chart. Bound to be elevated since you insisted on drinking that coffee. Black as pitch. You know perfectly well you'd do better with a nice herbal tonic."

"With you nattering in my ear I may take to starting my day with vodka. And I can take my own vital signs."

"I'll take your vital signs. And I want no trouble from you today about your vitamin boost."

"If you come near me with that syringe, you'll find it deposited in one of your own orifices."

"Excuse me." Though he'd have preferred to slink away unnoticed, Roarke stepped inside. "Sorry to interrupt. I need Summerset for a few moments, if you'd excuse us."

"I'm not quite finished. I need to update his chart, and he needs his booster."

"Ah, well." Roarke slid his hands into his pockets. "You look better today."

"I'm quite well, considering."

And angry with me, Roarke noted. "I wonder if some fresh air might be in order. Why don't I take you out through the gardens for a bit, before the day heats up."

"That's a fine idea," Spence said before Summerset could answer. And she whipped the pressure syringe from behind her back, had it pressed against his biceps and administered before he could blink. "Nothing like a nice turn around the garden to put roses in your cheeks. No more than thirty minutes," she said to Roarke. "It'll be time for his physical therapy."

"I'll have him back for it." He started to step behind Summerset's chair.

"I can navigate this bloody thing perfectly well myself." To prove it, Summerset engaged the controls and propelled himself toward the terrace doors.

Roarke managed to get there in time to open them before he whisked through.

Back poker straight, Summerset drove over the stone terrace, turned down one of the garden paths. And kept on going.

"He's in a very sour mood this morning," Spence commented. "More so than usual."

"I'll have him back for the therapy." Roarke shut the door behind him, and followed Summerset down the path.

The air was warm and close, and fragrant. He'd built this world, he thought, his world surrounded by the city he'd made his own. He'd needed the beauty. It hadn't been simply desire, but survival. With enough beauty, he could cover up all the ugliness of all the yesterdays.

So there were flowers and pools, arbors and paths. He'd married Eve out here, in this manufactured Eden. And found more than his measure of peace.

He let Summerset glide himself along for the first few minutes, understanding the man probably wanted to put some distance between himself and Spence as much as he wanted the control.

Then Roarke simply stepped up behind the chair, stopped it. Locked it in place. He walked around to sit on a bench so that he and Summerset were on the same level.

"I know you're angry with me," he began.

"You've saddled me with that creature. Locked me in with her as my warden."

Roarke shook his head. "Christ Jesus. You can be as mad as you like about that. Until you're healed you'll have the best care available. She's it. For that I won't apologize. For the things I said to you last night, for the way I behaved, I will. I'm sorry for it, very sorry."

"Did you think you couldn't tell me?" Summerset looked away, stared hard at a violently blue hydrangea. "I know the worst of you, and the best, and everything between." He looked back now, studied Roarke's face. "Well, at least I see she tended to you. You look rested."

Surprise flashed in Roarke's eyes before he narrowed them. "Eve discussed… she spoke to you about what I've learned?"

"However we disagree, whatever our difficulties with each other, we have one thing in common. That's you. You worried us both, needlessly."

"I did." He rose, walked a few paces down the path. Back again. "I can't get a grip on it. Any sort of a grip. It makes me sick inside in a way I haven't felt… in a very long time. And I wondered, I let myself wonder, if you knew."

"If I knew… ah." As another piece fell into place, Summerset let out a long breath. "I didn't. I had no knowledge of this girl. As far as I knew, Meg Roarke was your mother."

Roarke sat again. "I never questioned it."

"Why should you have?"

"I've spent more time, taken more care turning over the background on a low-level employee than I have on my own beginnings. I blocked them out from my mind and from data banks. Wiped most of it clean."

"You protected yourself."

"Fuck that." It was temper as much as guilt that radiated from him. "Who protected her?"

"It could hardly have been you, a babe in arms."

"And no justice for her, not by my hand. Not by her son's hand, for the bastard's been dead for years now. At least with Marlena-"

He cut himself off, drew himself in. "Marlena died to teach me a lesson. You never blamed me for it, not once have you said you blamed me."

For a long beat, Summerset looked over the garden. Those violently blue hydrangeas, the bloodred of roses, the hot pink of snapdragons. His daughter, his precious child, had been like a flower.

Beautiful, brilliant, and short-lived.

"Because you weren't to blame. Not for what happened to my girl, not for what happened to your mother." Summerset's gaze tracked back to him, held. "Boy," he said quietly, "you were never to blame."

"Neither was I ever innocent, not in my own memory anyway." With a little sigh, Roarke snapped off one of the blossoms, studied it. It occurred to him he hadn't given Eve flowers in some time. A man shouldn't forget to do such things, especially when the woman never expected them.

"You could have blamed me." He set the flower in Summerset's lap because that, too, was unexpected. A small gesture, a small symbol. "You took me in, when he'd damn near beaten me to death, and I had no one and nowhere to go. You didn't have to; I was nothing to you then."

"You were a child, and that was enough. You were a child half-beaten to death, and that was too much."

"For you." Emotion all but strangled him. "You took care of me, and you taught me. You gave me something I'd never had, never expected to. You gave me a home, and a family. And when they took part of that family away, when they took Marlena, the best of us, you could have blamed me. Cast me out. But you never did."

"You were mine by then, weren't you?"

"God." He had to take a breath, a careful one. "I suppose I was."

Needing to move, Roarke got to his feet. With his hands in his pockets he watched a small fountain gurgle to life above a riot of lilies. He watched the cool water until he was calm again.

"When I decided to come here, wanted to make my home here and asked you to come, you did. You left the home you'd made for the one I wanted to make. I don't think I've ever told you that I'm grateful."

"You have told me. Many times and in many ways." Summerset laid his hands over the strong blue flower, looked out over the garden. The peace of it, and the beauty of it.

The world within a world the boy he'd watched become a man had created. Now that world had been shaken, and needed to be put steady again.

"You'll go back to Ireland. You'll have to go back."

"I will." Roarke nodded, unspeakably grateful to be understood without having said the words. "I will, yes."

"When?"

"Right away. I think it's best to go straight away."

"Have you told the lieutenant?"

"I haven't." Unsettled again, Roarke looked down at his own hands, ran the gold band of his marriage around his finger. "She's in the middle of a difficult investigation. This will distract her from it. I'd considered telling her I had business out of town, but I can't lie to her. It'll be simpler, I think, to make the arrangements, then tell her I'm going."

"She should go with you."

"She's not only my wife. Not even always my wife first." He angled his head, smiled a little. "That's something you and I might never see quite the same way."

Summerset opened his mouth, then shut it again. Deliberately.

"People's lives depend on her," Roarke said with some exasperation. "It's something she never forgets, and something I'd never ask her to put second. I can handle this on my own, and in fact, I think it's best I do."

"You were always one for believing you had to handle everything yourself. In that area, you and she are peas in a pod."

"Maybe." Because he wanted their faces on the same level, Roarke crouched. "Once, if you remember, when I was young and things were a bit tight for me, and the hate I felt for him still hot-running like some black river inside me-I told you I was going to take another name. That I wouldn't keep his. Wanted nothing of his."

"I remember. I think you were still shy of sixteen."

"You said: Keep it, the name's yours as much as his. Keep it, and make something of it, then it'll be all of yours and none of his. Start now. Didn't tell me what to make of it, did you?"

With a short laugh, Summerset shook his head. "I didn't have to. You already knew."

"I have to go back, myself, and find whatever it is she gave me. I have to know if I've made something of it, or have something yet to make. And I have to start now."

"It's difficult to argue with my own words."

"Still, I don't like leaving you before you're on your feet again."

Summerset made a dismissive sound. "I can handle this, and that irritating woman you've chained to me, on my own."

"You'll watch after my cop while I'm gone, won't you?"

"In my way."

"Well then." He got to his feet. "If you need me for anything… you'll be able to reach me."

Now Summerset smiled. "I've always been able to reach you."

Eve finished her oral report to Commander Whitney standing. She preferred that kind of formality in his office. She respected him for the kind of cop he was, and had been. Respected the lines of worry and authority that scored his wide, dark face.

Riding a desk hadn't made him soft, but had only toughened the muscles of command.

"There are some media concerns," he said when she'd finished. "Let's get them out of the way."

"Yes, sir."

"There have been some complaints that Channel 75, and Nadine Furst in particular, is receiving preferential treatment in this investigation."

"Channel 75 and Nadine Furstare receiving preferential treatment in this investigation due to the fact that we believe the killer has sent transmissions directly to Ms. Furst at 75. She, and the station, are cooperating fully with me and my team. As the transmissions were sent to her, I have no authority to stop her, or 75, from broadcasting any and all of the contents. However, they have agreed to filter those transmissions, and any other data received, through me. Asquid pro quo, I have agreed to filter back any information on the case I deem appropriate for broadcast to them first."

Whitney tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Then we're covered."

"Yes, sir, I believe so."

"We'll set up a media conference to keep the dogs at bay. When dealing with the media, it's best to CYA twice, whenever possible. I'll have our liaison go through your reports and cull out what we want to feed them."

Satisfied, he set the media aside, went back to the meat. "You need to work the connections, find the conduit between the victims."

"Yes, sir. I'd like to put a man, or better, a team on the club. Baxter and Trueheart. Trueheart's young enough to pass for a student. Baxter's training him, so I'd want him on board, to keep close. Trueheart hasn't had much undercover experience. McNab could cover some ground in the colleges, working the geek end of things. He's already been in the club with a badge, so I can't use him there."

"Set it up."

"Sir; my initial run of the list from Portography-Hastings's assistants. Some of the names are bogus. Some of these people just make them up, because they think they sound better. But the one who was on during the wedding where Howard was photographed rings false. I'm going to push on that. I'm also going to try some sources, see if I can narrow down the images the killer's produced to style and equipment. I've got a lot of lines to tug, which may keep my people scattered for a while, until I can pull them all in again."

"Do what's necessary to close this down. Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir." She started to step back, then stayed where she was. "Commander, there's one more thing. As I mentioned last month, I'd like to have Officer Peabody's name put in for the next detective's test."

"She's ready now?"

"She's had about eighteen months of homicide experience under me. She's worked, and closed, a cold case on her own. She's clocked more field time than some of the guys in the bull pen. She's a good cop, Commander, and deserves her shot at a gold shield."

"On your recommendation then, Lieutenant."

"Thank you."

"I'd tell her to start prepping. As I recall the exam isn't a walk on the beach."

"No, sir." This time Eve smiled. "More like a run through a war zone. She'll be prepped."

She went down to the conference room, taking the time before her team arrived to sit on the edge of the table and study the board.

The images looked back at her. She focused first on Rachel Howard. Smiling, sunny, cheerfully at work. Typical college-age job-clerking at a 24/7. Wanted to be a teacher. Studied hard, made friends, good solid family life. Middle class.

Subway shot-heading home to that solid family life, or maybe off to school. Confident, pretty. Vital.

Wedding shot. Dolled up for the event. Fussier hair, darker lips, longer eyelashes. Big, celebratory smile that just plain popped out from the rest. You noticed this girl. Couldn't help it.

Even in death, Eve thought. Sitting so neat, so pretty, with the light on her hair, her eyes staring out.

And Kenby Sulu, exotic, striking. Fairly typical job as well, particularly for the theater type. Ushering. Wanted to be a dancer, worked hard, made friends easily, good solid family life. Upper class.

Standing outside of Juilliard. Ready to go in, just coming out. Big smile for his friends.

Then the formal cast shot. Dark and intense, but still, oh yeah, still, you saw the light in him. Anticipation, health, energy.

The death shot mirrored it, she noted. The way he was posed in a dance, as if still on the move. And the light shimmering like a halo around him.

Healthy, she thought. Had to be healthy, had to be innocent, young, well-adjusted. Clean. There was something else the two victims had in common, she decided. They were clean. No history of illegals, no major illnesses on medical records. Good sharp brains, nice healthy young bodies.

She turned to the computer and started a run on any imaging business with Light in the name. She got four hits, noted them, then ran books on imaging with Light in the title. At some time, she was certain, her killer had been a student.

She hit several, and was about to print them out when one caught her eye.

Images of Light and Dark,by Dr. Leeanne Browning.

"Okay," Eve said aloud. "Time to go back to school, one more time."

When the conference door opened, she spoke without looking up. "Peabody, requisition and download a copy of a photographic text book titledImages of Light and Dark, by Leeanne Browning. Use the auxiliary computer. I'm not done here."

"Yes, sir. How did you know it was me?"

"You're the only one who walks like you. Find out if there's an actual book copy available while you're at it. It may be helpful."

"Okay, but what does that mean? How do I walk?"

"Quick march in cop shoes. Working here."

Eve didn't have to look up this time either to know Peabody was scowling at her shoes. She did a cross-check to locate and highlight any other book, paper, or published images by Browning, ran them through.

Sulu had gone to Juilliard, but lived only a few blocks away from the Browning/Brightstar apartment. Could be another connection, she mused.

"I can get it in both e and print versions, Lieutenant."

"Get both. While it's downloading, you might want to check the schedule for upcoming detective exams. You've been cleared to take the next one."

"I need to wait until the requisition clears, then…" Her voice trailed off.

"I said get both. Screw the requisition. Order them. I'll cover it until the red tape clears."

"The detective exam." Peabody's voice was a squeak. "I'm going to take the detective exam?"

Eve swiveled in her chair, kicked out her legs. Her aide had gone ice pale, right down to the lips. Good, Eve thought. It wasn't a step any good cop should take lightly. "You're cleared for it, but it's your call. You want to stay in uniform, you stay in uniform."

"I want to make detective."

"Okay. Take the exam."

"Do you think I'm ready?"

"Do you?"

"I want to be ready."

"Then study up, take the exam."

Her color was coming back, slowly. "You put my name up, cleared it with the commander."

"You work under me. You're assigned to me. It's up to me to put your name up if I think you do good work. You do good work."

"Thanks."

"Now keep doing good work and get me what I told you to get me. I've got to go drag Baxter and Trueheart into this."

Eve walked out. She didn't have to look back to know Peabody was grinning.