Chapter 8

The first time she'd walked into the bedroom to see a Christmas tree had been a little overwhelming. Now it was simply tradition. The elves could take care of the rest of the house, drape it in lights and tinsel, put up a dozen trees—she wasn't sure she'd ever counted all of them—but this was theirs.

So with the fire simmering, champagne bubbling, and hokey Christmas music playing in the background, they decorated their personal tree.

The cat uncurled, sat for a moment or two to watch. With a decided lack of interest he stretched—ears to tail—turned his habitual three circles, then settled down for another nap.

"The whole city's like holiday on Zeus," Eve commented. "And it's only going to get worse. Then we'll have the B and Es where, as traditional as Santa, the Christmas Burglar swoops in, snatches all the presents under the tree, and has them fenced by dawn."

"Bah humbug."

"Yeah, that's his version of ho, ho, ho. Then there's the shoplifting, the pickpocketing as the tourists flock in with their wallets practically jumping out into the pickpockets' hands."

"Ah, happy memories," Roarke said. "December was always a busy month when I was a boy on the hunt for those jumping wallets."

"I bet. Back when I was in uniform, you couldn't keep up with the incident reports on muggings, purse snatchings, and lifted wallets in December."

She hung a jolly Santa with an overflowing pouch. "Then it gets closer to Christmas and you start getting the domestic disputes, the drunk and disorderlies, the botched self-terminations, the murders, and the holiday favorite, murder-suicide."

"My cop," he said affectionately. "What cheerful thoughts she has on this festive occasion."

"I like it."

"Murder-suicide? Sorry, darling, I'll have to disappoint you. Maybe next year."

"No, Christmas. I didn't used to. When I was a kid—after Richard Troy," she qualified. "He'd go out, get plowed, and probably laid. That was a gift, come to think about it. Anyway, after it was always weird if I was in a foster house, and just fucking depressing in a group home, so it wasn't high on my list of holidays."

"It wasn't roasted goose and plum pudding in my memories either. I'd usually go over to a mate's or a few of us would go out, bang around."

"Hunting more wallets."

He sent her a cheerful look. "You have to celebrate somehow, after all."

"Yeah, you do. I used to take the extra shifts, so cops with families could get the break. And after Mavis and I hooked up, we'd do something." She studied a shiny silver reindeer. "Why are they reindeer? What kind of a name is that?"

"They need the reins for Santa to navigate the sleigh."

She slanted him a look. "Right. Anyway, with me and Mavis and Christmas, it usually involved a lot of alcohol."

"We can serve that tradition." He topped off her glass.

"She dragged me out ice-skating once." She brought the memory back, laughed and—what the hell—drank more champagne. "We were both pretty trashed by that time or she'd never have talked me into it."

"I'd pay good money to see that."

"She zipped around pretty good. God, she had this pink coat with purple flowers all over it, and she'd done her hair in Christmas red and green."

"That hasn't changed. I've wondered how Mavis came to have that ugly gray coat you borrowed." He drew out of his pocket the button he always carried, the one that had fallen off the unfortunate coat the first time they'd met.

"Holdover from her grifting days. A blend-and-be-dull deal, she called it."

"That explains that." He slid the button away again. "And how were you on the ice, Lieutenant?"

"It's just balance and motion. I stayed on my feet. She would have, but she kept trying to do those fancy spins, and she'd face-plant or fall on her ass. She had bruises everywhere, but I still had to drag her off the damn ice after an hour or something. Ice is freaking cold."

"I've heard that. We should try it sometime."

"Ice-skating?" She gave him a look of genuine shock. "You? Me?"

"Which makes we. Brian and I and some others liberated some skates one winter. We must've been fourteen or fifteen, around that. We had a go at playing ice hockey, Dublin rules, which means none at all. And yes, my God, the bruises were majestic."

"Hockey maybe." She considered it as she hung another ornament. "At least that has a purpose. Otherwise you're just strapping some blades to your feet and circling around on frozen water. I mean, what's the point?"

"Relaxation, exercise, fun?"

"I guess we had fun, but we were drunk. Or nearly drunk. I think I remember we finished getting all the way drunk back at my place. Her place now, hers and Leonardo and Bella's. That's kind of weird when you think about it."

"Life changes." He paused to tap his glass to hers. "Or we change it."

"I guess." She realized she was just a little bit drunk now, and that was just fine.

"Here we are decorating the tree. They've probably got one over at their place, which used to be my place. She used to bring over this skinny little fake tree, every damn year, and nag me until I put it up. She always took it back because she was smart enough to know I'd dump it if she left it with me. But I guess she was right. It added something."

Roarke draped his arm around her shoulders. "We should have them over, some preholiday drinks. Just the four of us. Well, five, with the baby."

"That'd be good." Leaning against him, she studied the lights, the shine, the symbol. "That's good, too. We're as good as the elves. We're having a party, aren't we? I mean, one of those bashes where a half a million of our closest friends come over to eat fancy food, drink enough to make them dance like lunatics?"

"We are. It's on your calendar, the one you never pay the slightest bit of attention to."

"Then how did I know we were having a party?"

"Good guess."

Because it was, she just laughed and turned so they were face-to-face, her arms around his waist. "You know what all this makes me want to do? The decorating, the memory street—"

"Lane. Memory lane."

"Street, road, lane, they all lead somewhere. All this, and the idea of having some big-ass party? It makes me want to punch you, and punch you hard."

She hooked her foot around his, shifted balance so they flopped back onto the bed. Galahad woke, gave them a hard stare of annoyance, and jumped off.

"How hard?" Roarke wondered.

"Really hard. Tell me when it hurts."

She took his mouth—an exceptional place to start—a nip, a graze of teeth before she sank in, met his tongue with hers.

Here was all she wanted in the world.

She could shed the miseries and frustrations of the day, even the grief she couldn't allow to surface and blur the job. Here, with him, the emotional fatigue that had dragged at her since she'd seen twelve young lives robbed of all possibilities and potentials lifted.

Here was happy, and she could take it, hold it, feel it bloom like roses.

The hard lines of his body under hers, his quick and clever hands already roaming. And one long, soul-searing kiss.

He felt her let it go, the tension, the worry that had dogged her even through her pleasure in the tree. The tether loosened, slid away, freed her.

Now just his Eve, just his woman, warm and eager over him. Drawing love in, pouring love out.

He tugged her shirt free from her waistband, wanting her skin under his hands—all that smooth skin on that long, narrow back.

And discovered neither of them had noticed she'd never taken off her weapon harness.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, shifting to find the release.

"Shit. I forgot. Wait. I'll get it."

"Got it." He shoved it off her shoulders. Ignored her wince when it thudded on the floor. "You're unarmed, Lieutenant."

"You'd better not be."

He laughed, rolled to reverse their positions. "Never with you around. My cop."

Now he nipped at her lip as his fingers got busy on her shirt.

"You've still got all this suit on," she complained, and fought off his jacket. "There are too many pieces."

"No rush."

"Speak for yourself."

"Is that the way of it?" Willing to oblige, he slid his hand down the trousers he'd opened, and shot her straight to peak.

When she cried out in shock and satisfaction, he lowered his lips to her throat. "Not as much of a rush."

He fed there, where her pulse hammered, then at her breast, so firm, so smooth, where her heartbeat thundered.

Her body was a constant joy and wonder to him. So slim, so tight. Satin skin over tough muscle. He knew where to touch to make her quiver, where to taste to loose a sigh in her.

He did both as they struggled themselves and each other out of clothes.

There, she thought, there he was, naked and hard and hungry for her. Everything about him so familiar and only more exciting for the knowledge. All that glorious hair sliding over her skin, those strong shoulders, the narrow hips.

She curled her fingers around him—hot, ready, as she was—would have guided him into her, but he pulled her up with him. Her arms locked tight around his neck to pull him closer.

And joined with him.

Shuddering, shuddering, she dropped her face to his shoulder. Impossible to feel so much, incredible to know there was more to give, to take.

The fire simmered, casting shadows and subtle light. The tree sparkled, casting joy.

Once again their lips met, clung.

She moved with him, surrounded him. Her hands came to frame his face in a gesture that burst through his heart.

Only with her had love and lust so perfectly twined. Only she met every need, every longing, every wish he'd ever made, every one he'd never thought of.

She bowed back, caught, caught on that final rise. Her hair streamed with the firelight, her skin glistened in it.

Once more he pressed his lips to her throat—a taste to take with him on the fall. And surrendered with her.

···

All the pretty young girls sat in a circle, cross-legged on the floor. She recognized three—Linh, Lupa, Shelby. All the others wore masks. All the masks were of Eve's face.

"We're all the same anyway," one of the Eves said. "Under it. We're all the same until you know."

"We'll find your names, your faces, who you were. We'll find who killed you."

"I just wanted to have some fun. My parents are so strict, so totally lame about stuff." Linh sulked, shrugged. "I needed to show them they couldn't treat me like a kid anymore. This wasn't supposed to happen. It's not fair."

"Fair's a bunch of shit." Shelby snorted out a bitter laugh. "Life sucks. Dead just sucks louder. You can't trust anybody," she told Eve. "That's the deal. You know the deal."

"Who did you trust?" Eve demanded.

"You have to trust people," Lupa insisted. "Bad things happen even when you're good. Most people are good."

"Most people are assholes, and just out for themselves." But even as she said it, a tear rolled down Shelby's face. "If I'd had a knife like you did, I wouldn't be here. You just got lucky. I never had a chance, not ever. Nobody gives a shit about me."

"I do," Eve said. "I give a shit."

"It's a job. We're a job."

"I'm good at my job because I give a shit. I'm what you've got, kid."

"You're just like us. Not even as much as us," Shelby shot back. Bitter, bitter. "They didn't even give you a name. The one you have's just made up."

"Not anymore. It's who I am now. I made myself who I am now."

And all the pretty girls sitting in the circle stared at her. And all of them said, "We'll never have a chance to be anything."

She woke with a jolt. Roarke sat, fully dressed, on the bed beside her, his hand on her cheek.

"Wake up now."

"I am. I'm awake." She sat up, stupidly relieved to have him so close as she shook off the sorrow of the dream. "It wasn't a nightmare." And still she was comforted by him, and by the cat who stopped bumping his head against her hip to worm his way across her lap. "Just my subconscious giving me a little mind fuck to start the day. I'm okay."

He cupped her chin, his thumb brushing lightly over the shallow dent in it as he studied her face. Then nodded as he could see she was. "You'll want coffee then."

"As much as my next breath."

He got up to fetch it, and to give her another moment to settle.

She sat, replaying the dream as she stroked the cat.

"All the vics, sitting in a circle," she told him when he came back in. "The ones we haven't ID'd had my face."

"Disturbing."

"Weird, but... apt, I guess. The lost and nameless. That's what I was." She took the coffee he brought her, drank some down—strong and black. "Mostly Shelby Stubacker had her say, being she's really pissed off. Who did she trust? Who did she trust enough he or she or they got by her defenses, because I'd think her defenses, her survival instincts would've been pretty sharp."

"Someone she trusted, or someone she thought she could manipulate. Like she did Clipperton."

"Looking to score. Yeah, it could've been."

She glanced over to the sitting area where the screen ran its financial reports on mute. "Been up long?"

"A bit."

"I better catch up. Thanks for the coffee service." She rolled Galahad over, gave his pudge of a belly a rub, then slid out of bed.

When she stepped out of the shower, warm from the drying tube and the cashmere robe, she found him on his pocket 'link with two covered plates and a pot of coffee on the table—and the stream of numbers and symbols still scrolling by on screen.

The man was the god of multitasking, she thought.

She sat beside him, cautiously lifted the dome over the plate. Then did a little butt-on-cushion dance when she found thick slices of French toast and a pretty bowl of mixed berries instead of the oatmeal she'd feared.

She popped a raspberry, poured more coffee—and he ended transmission.

"I thought a morning mind fuck deserved the French toast."

"It might be worth waking up with one every day. Did you just buy a solar system?"

"Just a minor planet." He passed her the syrup, watched her drown the bread. "Actually, just a quick conference with Caro, some schedule juggling."

His über-efficient admin could juggle schedules while balanced on a flaming ball. "You don't need to shift your stuff around for mine."

"I wanted a little more time this morning. You'll be starting in your home office, I assume."

"That's the plan."

"Mine's to do the same. Things can be rescheduled further if I can be useful. We can't resume work on the building until you close the case," he added. "And on a less practical level, I couldn't begin it until you close the case. These girls aren't mine, Eve, as they're yours. But..."

"You found them."

"And need to know their names, their faces, see their killer dealt with as much as you. What we hope to accomplish in that place is to keep the young, the vulnerable, the wounded safe. Those twelve girls epitomize the purpose."

She wanted to give him the closure, she realized, almost as much as the dead and those they'd left behind.

He wanted to build something good and strong and needed. She wanted to give him those names, so he could.

"It's going to be someone who lived or worked there. That's playing the odds, but they're good odds. It's not that big a pool. Added to it, it stopped—if DeWinter and Dickhead are right on the estimates, and the remains were all sealed in there approximately fifteen years ago. So the focus starts on someone who lived or worked there who died, relocated, or was put in a cage shortly after that time."

"Or moved his burial grounds."

"I thought of that." She ate while the cat watched her with a mixture of hope and resentment. "But why? It's working. It's locked up, no buyers, no plans. And it symbolizes the girls. It's where those vulnerable and wounded came. He knows how to access it, it's familiar. Why find another place that's not so well suited?"

"I hope you're right about that."

"If he had to relocate, for some reason, he would've found a place in his new area. But so far I haven't found any like crimes. And damn if I think he could create another mausoleum."

No, she thought, he didn't pull this off a second time.

"This one basically fell into his lap," she pointed out. "There can't be that many opportunities like it.

"Still, there are spaces in that theory," she admitted over a mouthful of syrupy toast. Take Lemont Frester. He's made some money, travels all over. If he's a sick-fuck predator he could be carrying on his sick-fuck predatory ways all over the world—and off it."

"Happy thought."

"I'm taking a look at him, but for anyone to pull this sort of thing off for this long? And someone like him, who puts himself in the public eye? It's hard to swallow it. Not impossible, but it doesn't go down easy."

"You'll interview him today."

"On my list. Along with nagging DeWinter and her team, notifying Lupa Dison's next of kin, and getting what I can there, maybe another pass through HPCCY and blah blah blah. Top of the list is ID the nine we have left. So I better get started."

She rose to go to her closet.

"The black jean-style trousers. The snug ones," he added, "with the black jacket, the cropped one with the leather trim and the zippers on the sleeves, black tank with a scoop neck, and the black motorcycle style boots. Wear the pants inside the boots."

She'd paused at her closet to listen to him as he reeled off the wardrobe.

"You're telling me to wear all black? You're always trying to paint me up with color."

"In this case it'll be the lines and the textures, as well as the unrelieved black. You'll look just a little dangerous."

"Yeah?" She brightened right up. "I'm all about that."

"I'll be in my office when you're done."

She grabbed what he'd listed, dressed, then curious, glanced in the mirror. Damned if he hadn't hit it again, she thought. She did look just a little dangerous.

Half hoping she had a chance to put the look to use, she went to her office.

Sitting at her desk, she called up the results of her auto-search.

She scanned the remaining sixty-three names, found four deceased within a year of the murders, and separated them as possibles.

She separated any who'd done time, with a subset for violent crime.

With all, she looked for any indication the subject had skill or interest in construction, then crossed them with the staff Peabody and Roarke had run.

"Could've been a team," she said when Roarke came in. "One to kill, one to clean up, or both together. I don't like that as much as it's a damn long time for two people to suppress the urge to kill, and for two people to keep their mouths shut about it."

"One or both could be dead or incarcerated."

"Yeah, it's an angle. Pairs like that usually have a dominant and a submissive." She drummed her fingers. "Older, trusted staff member exploits boy's dark side. Maybe. Maybe, but again it means keeping a secret for a long time, and two people don't keep them very well as a rule, especially when one of them's in a cage. Still, teamwork's efficient. You've got to get the girls, kill the girls, hide the girls. It's a lot of work."

"It's not work if you enjoy it."

She looked back at her board. "No, it's not, and he must have. You don't keep doing something unless you like it—or are compelled—until someone, something stops you."

She gestured to her screen where she'd put up three faces, three names. "The three chronic runaways. At least one of them. The odds again, but at least one of them is probably in DeWinter's lab. I'm going to send them to the reconstructionist, in case it helps."

"Why don't you give me a portion of the male residents to look at more closely? I can do that off and on today when there's time."

"Okay. I'll send you a few. If you don't get to them, just let me know. I've got to get going. I contacted Peabody to have her meet me at Rosetta Vega's. We'll get the notification done, see if she can add anything."

"Frester's booked to speak at the main ballroom of the Roarke Palace Hotel this afternoon."

Eve leveled a speculative look. "Is that so?"

"Excellent synchronicity, isn't it? It's a luncheon speech, the event runs from noon to two. I had no idea. I don't get into the weeds such as event bookings, but I thought I'd check on what he might be doing while in New York, and there you are. There's a twenty-minute question-and-answer period after his speech."

"Handy, as I've got some questions. Thanks. I need to go."

"Send me names for the girls as you get them, would you?"

"Okay." She laid her hands on his shoulders. "Go buy that solar system."

"I'll see if I can squeeze it in."

"Fair enough." She kissed him, then strode out to tell a woman any hope she'd clung to was gone.

···

Upscale neighborhood, Eve thought as she slid into a street-level slot. Nice, tidy townhomes, condos, glossy shops, and eateries. Dog walkers, nannies, domestics already bustled around on their early duties along with a few people in good coats, good boots on their way to work.

She caught the sugar and yeast scent from a bakery when one of the good coats slipped inside, and the chatter of kids, many in spiffy uniforms, marching along to school.

Then Peabody in her big purple coat and pink cowboy boots, clomping around the corner.

"I think it's not as cold" was the first thing she said. "Maybe. More like frigid instead of fucking frigid. I don't think..." She paused, sniffed the air like a retriever. "Do you smell that? It's that bakery. Oh my God, do you smell that? We should—"

"You're not going in to do a notification and interview with pastry breath."

"More like pastry ass. I think I gained a couple pounds just standing here smelling that."

"Then let's save your ass and get this done."

Eve walked up to the door of one of the pretty townhomes, rang the bell.

Instead of the usual computer security check, the door opened almost immediately in front of a pretty, attractive woman in a gray suit. "Did you forget your—oh, I'm sorry." She brushed back her dark curly hair. "I thought you were my daughter. She's always forgetting something when she leaves for school, so I—sorry," she said again with another laugh. "How can I help you?"

"Rosetta Delagio."

"That's right. Actually, I have to leave for work myself in a few minutes, so—"

"I'm Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody." Eve took out her badge. "NYPSD."

The woman looked at the badge, slowly lifted her gaze back to Eve's face. The easy laughter in her eyes died away, and what replaced it was old grief turned over fresh.

"Oh. Oh, Lupa." She laid a hand on her heart. "It's about Lupa, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to—"

"Please, don't. Don't tell me out here. Come in. Please come in. We'll sit down. I want to get my husband, and we'll sit down. You'll tell me what happened to Lupa."