Chapter Twenty

The dragon who guarded Mira's office didn't look very pleased when Eve strode in. But she tapped her earpiece.

"Dr. Mira, Lieutenant Dallas is here. Yes, I will. Go right in." She slanted Eve a look. "You're on the clock, Lieutenant."

"Understood."

Eve gave the door a quick knock, then stepped inside.

Mira already stood, programming what Eve knew would be tea. She wore a slim, plum-colored dress with a short white jacket, and heels that merged the two colors with tiny checks. A gold chain with little, flat pearly disks draped down the purple bodice. Even smaller pearly disks dangled with purple ones from her ears.

It never failed to amaze Eve how Mira managed it.

"I had a couple minutes to look over your report," Mira said as the flowery scent of the tea wafted into the air.

"I appreciate it."

"It's interesting. Have a seat."

Eve took one of Mira's two blue scoop chairs, accepted the tea in its fancy cup. Mira tucked a strand of mink-colored hair behind her ear and took the other.

"I found your side notes even more interesting. I sometimes wonder if you're bucking for my job."

"Not hardly."

Mira smiled. "You'd be good at it. But then part of being a good investigator is understanding who and what people are. ChiChi Lopez, definitely narcissistic tendencies, but much of her sense of self-worth is tied to her physicality, and more narrowly, her sexuality. A difficult woman who uses that physicality and sex to attain what she wants. Attention, approval, admiration."

Mira sipped some tea. "It may be different with her family, but in her other relationships, emotions, genuine emotions, have played little part. So when she finds herself with genuine feelings for Erin Albright, and these feelings aren't returned, her resentment, her anger, and her bafflement are aimed at the person Erin has feelings for."

"Not at Erin."

"That's not my read, no. Erin had to be misled, somehow deceived, as in every way Lopez—to her mind—is superior to her rival. Even that confident superiority isn't enough as time passes. The rival must become a trickster, a manipulator, a liar, a cheat, a user. And in the end, when Erin is killed, the rival must be responsible, must take the blame."

Mira paused, smiled again. "Which, clearly, you concluded yourself."

"More or less. If Albright had been killed with a handy blunt object, I'd narrow on her. Crime of passion, heat of the moment, I could see it. But to plan it out like this, execute it like this? If Hunnicut was the victim, again, I'd narrow on Lopez."

"I absolutely agree. So. Greg Barney."

"I'd like to add something I just learned, via Detective Callendar."

Eve relayed the story.

"Hearing that story didn't surprise you," Mira commented.

"No. You, either."

"No, but again, some of our work runs in the same lane of human behavior. He enjoys his social standing, again as he sees it. From a solidly, dependably upper-middle-class background, and a classically traditional one, he rose a bit above as a teenager. Class president, star athlete, and a pairing with a popular and attractive girl that made them both stars in that arena. I don't believe either of us will be surprised to find at least some—especially on lower rungs of the social ladder—of his former schoolmates won't remember him with particular fondness."

"He's a bully," Eve said, "but not an obvious one. He hovers, observes, insinuates, placates. He's ridden some on his looks, like Lopez. His job makes him a kind of boss, and in a shiny venue. Both are important to him. Appearances are important to him. I've seen Becca's high school pictures, and he wouldn't have looked twice at her back then. But since? She…"

"Blossomed?"

"Okay, that works. She found a style that suits her, developed confidence in herself, her looks, her work. But he didn't move to the city for Becca—even if he knew she already lived and worked here. He moved because of Shauna."

"Yet they remain friends."

"He found a worthy substitute. And, surfacely, she's a kind of redhead, too. If he follows his family pattern, he'll want to be married around thirty, and to a white woman, or at least not obviously mixed race. He'll expect to have a child within two or three years, and for the woman to take leave from her work and serve as professional mother for at least the first five years after that.

"It's like a template," Eve added. "And it's pretty rigid. Those who deviate tend to drift away."

"Then why kill Erin?" Mira lifted a hand, turned it palm up. "He has Becca to suit his lifestyle."

"Shauna was his—half of the whole. He may want her back, I'm not sure about that, but she was his, then she wasn't. Like with Lopez, her relationship with Erin might have triggered feelings. It was one thing, at least acceptable, since he had Becca, for Shauna to sleep with attractive men. But she deviated from the template."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yeah, has to be Albright—manipulating, using, and so on. Not half of the famous Shaunbar. He manages. Not just the men's store, but people. And Shauna moves out of that scope—she can't be managed when she's marrying someone who doesn't fit the pattern. And what about the years they were together? What does it say about that, about him?"

"To him? She's made a terrible mistake. She'll not only ruin her life, but smear their history together. Diminish it—and him. It's very personal, as the murder was very personal."

Eve set the tea aside, then pulled out her 'link. She cued up the recording to the smirk.

"This is him, right as Lopez slapped Hunnicut."

Mira took the 'link, studied the screen. "An unguarded instant. A mean, satisfied smile. A derisive smirk. An approval of Hunnicut's comeuppance. His feelings for Hunnicut are very complicated, aren't they?"

Mira handed back the 'link. "He needs and holds on to what they were together, the glossy couple admired, envied, even revered by their peers. I believe he may have genuinely enjoyed their friendship—with him managing it—while he cemented a relationship with the old schoolmate, and his former love's best friend."

"It says I've got someone, and—during that time—you don't. No one that sticks. Until Albright."

"Until," Mira echoed. "He may have been somewhat amused initially, then appalled when it became clear the relationship was serious. Undoubtedly alarmed by the idea of marriage, a future, when he began to disrespect, at the least, the woman who'd once been half of his whole due to what she became."

"And the last straw—Maui," Eve added. "How could he allow Albright to fulfill that dream? More, how dare she try to? And she has the nerve to ask him to help her pull it off?"

"You conclude Erin needed to die—the only clear way to stop the wedding, the mistake, the deviation. But Shauna had to be punished, had to suffer some consequences for her choices, for tainting what they'd been to each other, what they'd had together."

"That's the nutshell."

Now Mira set her tea aside. "I don't disagree."

"I need more."

"I think you're taking the right direction in speaking to former classmates. So much of his persona is still tied there. You might dig up some former staff. Current may not wish to speak frankly about his attitudes on the job."

"I'll do that."

"And when you interview him, when you're ready to, make him angry."

"I have a knack for that."

Mira's smile flashed, made her eyes sparkle. "You do. It's a gift. Insult that self-worth, the hidebound traditions, the high school hero status. You'll need to push for an unguarded moment, like that smirk. Pry that open? I'd be very surprised if the rest doesn't fall."

"You think he did it, too."

"I'm reading your reports and notes, and you certainly lean there. So that's a factor. But I believe he's earned his place as your prime suspect."

When Mira's personal 'link signaled, Eve started to rise. Mira gestured her down again as she took the 'link out of her jacket pocket.

"It's Dennis. One second. Hello, Professor."

"Dr. Mira."

Just his voice had Eve going soft inside. She could see him in her mind's eye, the sweet face, the soft green eyes and mussed gray hair.

"Say hello to Eve. She's with me at the moment."

"Hello, Eve. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Not just soft, she had to admit, but a little bit gooey inside. "I was just leaving."

"Oh, not on my account. I just wanted to let Charlie know I fixed the leak."

"Did you?" Mira's smile broke out again. "You're so clever, Dennis."

"No more dripping, and no need for a plumber. And since it's a good night for grilling, I'm marinating some ribs."

"That sounds perfect. I should be home on time."

"I'll be here, waiting. We'll have some wine, won't we? I just have to find the corkscrew. It's never where I think it is."

"Second drawer, right of the stovetop. See you soon."

"It's never soon enough. Goodbye, Eve, enjoy the rest of your day, and best to Roarke."

"Bye," Eve murmured.

Mira slipped the 'link away again. "Dennis gets a bit antsy toward the end of summer. He only teaches one class in the summer term. And he likes to think he's handy, with tools, around the house. Sometimes, surprisingly, he is. Other times?"

With a laugh, Mira rolled her eyes. "Oh, the chaos, the cursing. But the man's a genius with a marinade. It's lovely to know I'll go home to wine and a good meal."

"It is." Roarke might not be a genius with marinade—she didn't think either of them knew the first thing about marinade—but he always made sure she had a good meal.

"I need to get back to it. Thanks for the time, and the insight."

"I think you had more than enough of your own in this case."

"It helps to have some confirmation. I know he did it," she said as she rose. "I know how he did it, and if I don't have all the why, I have most of it. Make him angry," she repeated. "I don't think I'll have a problem there."

She started for the door, paused with her hand on the knob. "It's nice, being married."

This time Mira simply beamed. "Yes, it is. The right life partner makes all the difference. Wasn't it clever of both of us to choose so well?"

"I used to think I didn't choose so much as tripped into it."

"You don't trip, Eve."

"Well, not very often."

When she left, she got the gimlet eye from the admin that suggested she'd gone over her allotted time. Probably had, she considered as she kept right on going.

But it had been worth it.

Former staff—a good angle. Make him angry? She'd have done that anyway, but it was a solid tip to do that as quickly as possible.

When she walked back into Homicide, Jenkinson, his tie, and his partner were missing, as were Baxter and Trueheart. Santiago and Carmichael huddled at his desk. Eve hoped they consulted on a case and weren't making a bet that Santiago would surely lose.

Peabody signaled her.

"Jenkinson and Reineke caught one. Baxter and Trueheart are with a suspect in Interview A. And I talked to some former classmates. Actually three. Two were full of Shaunbar, and how Barney was such a star on the field and an inspiration otherwise. But then I got an earful from a… Julian Prowder."

"Fill my ear."

"Okay. He was careful at first. High school, who remembers, who cares. But then it turned out he remembered a lot and cared a bunch more. Let's see."

She pulled her notes, though Eve could tell she didn't need them.

"Puffed-up prick, stuck-up jerk with a stick up his ass. More than happy to narc on a fellow student for any infraction, but kept it down-low. Any guy who so much as looked at Shauna too close became a prime target for just that. He said Barney would wait and watch for a misstep, then pounce.

"Apparently Prowder wasn't among the best dressed in that era—family of three boys, and he was the youngest. So hand-me-down time. He said Barney liked to sneer and snark at him about his clothes, but again, down-low because he liked to pretend he was above the fray. And Shauna wasn't one for snarking that way."

"A different perspective. Keep at it. I'm going to dig up former employees at the men's shop. Let's see what they think about Barney's managerial style."

"That's a good one."

"More Mira's than mine, but yeah."

Then, she decided as she went to her office, she'd take another page from Feeney.

She'd put in some thinking time.

It took her awhile, but when she found one—a LeRoy Vic—she hit gold.

"Yeah, I can talk about Greg Barney, the fuck." Vic, age thirty-five, mixed race, sun-streaked brown hair, scowled on-screen. "I had an opportunity for a manager's position at Orlando's in Brooklyn. My wife was having a baby, and we wanted to move there to be closer to our families. It would've been a step up for me—a solid raise. I worked five years at On Trend, the last two as assistant manager under that prick. And what does he do? He gives me a crap eval. How my work ethic declined, I've taken too much time off, my customer service tended to be shoddy."

"You disagree with that evaluation?"

"Damn right. I always covered for Greg, or anybody, when they needed some time. Did I take some time, too? Sure. My wife had a real shaky first trimester, and she needed me. I had the time coming, and I took it. But my work was never, ever shoddy, and I had top sales six months running."

"Can you speculate why his evaluation was so poor?"

"I can tell you why. He didn't want me to get the job. I wouldn't have known about the eval, but the outgoing manager at Orlando's told me. He said how I'd aced the interview and so on, so I confronted Greg about it, and he said, like he's my keeper or something, how it was for my own good. How I couldn't handle that job, and was making a mistake taking on the responsibility when I had a kid coming."

"I see. What did you do about it?"

"I wanted to quit, but my wife talked me out of it. And she was right. What I did? I made copies of my sales records, and I contacted some of my regulars, asked for references. And I got them. I got passed over for the manager's slot, but I got a sales position, and I took it. Then I quit.

"That was two years ago. I'm manager now, so Greg Barney can kiss my ass. He had no right, no fucking right to do that, to decide what was best for me and my family. But he's the type who always thinks he knows best."

"I appreciate your input."

"You ought to talk to Sharlene Wilson. She was in sales, and he pushed her out. Maybe a year and a half ago."

"Would you have her contact?"

"Haven't talked to her in a few months, but yeah. Give me a second." Muttering to himself about Barney—asshole, prick, bullshit eval—he dug it up, gave it to Eve. "So, what did he do?"

"I'm just gathering information in an ongoing investigation."

"Well, I hope whatever it is, I read about it. Shoddy customer service, my ass."

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Vic."

"No problem."

She contacted Sharlene Wilson, left a voice mail.

Then she put her boots up, closed her eyes.

And took the thinking time.

Peabody said, "Um."

"I'm thinking." Though Eve had heard her coming, she stayed another moment as she was. "I reached Barney's former assistant manager, and have a voice mail into another former clerk. The former assistant manager shares your former classmate's opinion of Greg Barney."

Eve pointed to the AC, then opened her eyes. As Peabody programmed coffee, she relayed LeRoy Vic's statement.

"That's a crappy thing to do."

"It is, but more, it fits the ‘I'm going to screw up your life for your own good' routine."

"I hit another who said he got the shit kicked out of him in high school, not by Barney, but because of him."

With her coffee, Peabody eased very, very carefully onto the ass-biting visitor's chair.

"One of Barney's teammates got suspended—from school and the team—when someone reported he had a couple Zoner joints in his locker. Since the teammate was going hard after Barney's team captain position, the guy figured Barney for the squealer, but Barney claimed he actually saw the other kid heading into the vice principal's office right before the teammate was called down and suspended."

Peabody shifted, again very, very carefully. "You have to figure the guy's got no reason to lie about it now. He says he never went to the vice principal, never said a damn thing, but got his ass kicked over it anyway. He figures Barney turned it on him because his locker was next to Zoner Guy's and he was a member of the Clean Teens Club. They take an oath not to use illegals or drink alcohol, to eat only plant-based foods and abstain from sex."

Eve glanced up from her coffee. "Seriously?"

"I take it it's a pretty small club. Anyway, when Zoner Guy jumped Mr. Clean Teen—you're going to like this—he said Barney saw it go down. And he smirked."

"I bet he did. Oh yeah, he did. Gets rid of competition, covers his own ass, and gets to watch someone he probably considered an annoyance get tuned up."

Eve looked at the board, looked at Barney's easy, attractive smile. "You know, he'd have lived his life smoothly bullying and manipulating—a general asshole who'd probably have carved out the life he wanted. But then Shauna had to fall for someone he didn't approve of—and couldn't be smoothly manipulated out of it. So he turned to murder. He'd feel justified," she added. "In all cases, he'd feel justified."

She lifted her mug toward the board. "We're going to nail his ass, Peabody."

"I like to think so, but up till now the only real evidence we have, and that's still circumstantial, is he's an asshole."

"Next step." Thinking time had given her that. "We go through the victim's apartment again. With Shauna. Barney took something out with him in that damn box. She's the only one who'd know what's missing."

"That's going to be touchy."

"She'll stand up to it." Eve remembered the punch, the damn good punch. "I'm not going to hit her with it today. Not only too emotional, but she'll have too many people around her today. But tomorrow. You have to figure her friends need to go back to work—they can't surround her all day. So tomorrow, we go by where she's staying and convince her to go through the apartment with us."

"Okay, but if he took something she didn't even know was there—"

"She will. It's personal. Something he wanted for himself, or wanted back, or maybe some sort of trophy. It mattered to him enough to take it. If she notices later, well, it got lost in all the confusion, so sorry."

"It's worth a shot, but even with that—"

"It's the next step," Eve interrupted. "And it's going to lead to the one after. He's slick, Peabody. A first kill, yes, but he's been honing his skills in manipulation, ass-covering, that smooth bullying his whole life, so he's slick. We're slicker."

"I'd drink to that if I hadn't already finished my coffee."

"Go contact Shauna—you're just checking on her, letting her know we charged Lopez with assault. Lay on the sympathy and find out if she's still at Decker's for the next few days, blah blah. How you guess her friends have to get back to work. Don't mention tomorrow."

"Got it. Just confirm where she'll be, and if she'll be on her own."

"Then dig more into high school. I'll start on college. Let's build ourselves a pattern, Peabody. A profile of an asshole."

"You know, there are a lot of assholes in the world. Most of them don't kill people over bullshit."

Eve glanced back at the board. "This one did."

She gave it another hour, then ninety minutes when Sharlene Wilson tagged her back. Deciding her ears were full enough, for now, she called it.

She walked into the bullpen just as Baxter rose from his desk. A glance at the bullpen case board told her he and Trueheart had closed their current case.

"Wrapped it?" she said.

"In a bright, shiny bow. My esteemed partner and I are heading out for a celebrational brew. We just sent you the paperwork."

"I'll take a look from home."

"Wrapped ours, too," Santiago said from his desk as he continued to work his comp. "Just finishing up the eights. I'm in for a celebrational brew. Carmichael?"

"Twist my well-toned arm. Reineke?"

"We're waiting for the ME on ours. Gonna be accidental. Guy weighs in easy four-fifty. Decides he's going to sweat off the pounds and buys himself one of those hot boxes."

"Hot boxes?"

"Some fad, Loo," Jenkinson told her. "You buy this kit, put this box together with a temp control deal. Supposed to get a certified tech to do it, but this guy does it himself, puts on the suit that comes with it, goes in. Ends up baking himself, can't get out. Kit's got a fail-safe so it shuts off after like thirty minutes, but he didn't bother with that. So baked."

"Well, that sounds… ugly."

"Sure as hell was," Reineke confirmed. "I can meet you for one brew—I got time for one—after we clear this."

"I got a family thing," Jenkinson said. "Catch one next time."

"How about it, Peabody, Dallas?"

Eve shook her head at Baxter. "We didn't close ours. I've got work to do at home. Peabody, go home or go catch a brew."

"The Blue Line?" she asked. "I'll see if McNab's up for it, meet you if he is. Shauna's still at Decker's, Dallas, and everyone's got work tomorrow. She should be alone by nine-thirty."

"Then we'll go by after nine-thirty."

"I got a couple more statements."

"I'll read them at home. Take off. Good work," she added to the rest of the squad, and headed out.

She could see the steps toward closing out the case. But until that first step, the rest continued as speculation.

Right now, she wanted home. Some quiet. Some mind-clearing time.

A stupid murder, she thought, and found that single point infuriated her. Selfish, ugly, cruel, but she expected those elements in any murder. The stupidity of the motivation stuck in her craw.

And not over a high school girlfriend, she thought as she pushed through traffic. Not that, not really. It was more, and it was deeper than that. It came down to the need to direct others' choices, to open or block the life path of people connected to him.

An ordinary man, really, an average sort of guy with an average sort of background, income, lifestyle. Nothing particularly dark, nothing especially brilliant.

But in his way, he'd decided he was qualified to play God. He decided what suited, what didn't.

And in Erin Albright's case, who lived, who died.

Her advantage wasn't just that she knew it all, was as sure of it all as she'd been about any investigation in her career, but that Barney surely believed he'd gotten away with it.

She hoped by this time tomorrow, he'd learn differently.

As she swung through the gates, she felt her shoulders relax.

Just that easy, she realized. All it took was the sight of that castle-like house rising on that green ocean of lawn, the wild late summer blooms, the glint of window glass in the evening sun.

She'd update her board and her book, then maybe have that glass of wine with Roarke. Talk the whole thing over with him. Share a good meal, then maybe try to work some new angles, as the talking-things-over part often gave her that potential.

She parked, and didn't let the knowledge she'd need to go through the gamut of Summerset spoil the homecoming.

He loomed, of course, with his greeting partner Galahad beside him in the foyer where the cool air smelled, very subtly, of summer flowers.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she began. "No blood again. Must be a record, since the anal keep track."

"Congratulations." He spoke dryly. "I'll be sure to mark it down on my event calendar. Roarke is upstairs in his office. He had a difficult day."

She'd bent down to stroke the cat, and looked up, straightened. As alarm bells rang in her head. "Is he hurt?"

"Not physically, no. He's brooding, which he's quite good at from time to time. I expect you'll deal with it. If not, I can cancel my plans for this evening."

"I'll deal with it." She started for the stairs.

"Fish and chips," Summerset added. "It's a comfort food for him."

"I've got it." She went up the stairs with the cat on her heels.

He didn't often need comfort, she thought. But she could figure it out.

Upstairs, she heard his voice—sharp and final, with a little more Irish leading the way. A sure sign of emotion—passion, anger, amusement. And in this case, anger.

"I said it's done, and handled as I choose. That's the bloody end of it."

She turned into the office just as he cut off whoever had been on the other end of the 'link.

He sat, hair tied back, jacket off, sleeves rolled. Work mode, she noted. But the cold blue fire in his eyes went dark and broody. Dark and broody enough he didn't sense her there.

The cat trotted over, leaped onto the desk.

"Not now, mate. Not now."

He started to lift the cat off, then spotted Eve.

"Ah. I didn't know you were home."

"Just got here. So, what was that about? On the 'link just now?"

"Nothing." He shrugged it off as he set the cat on the floor. "A work matter. It's handled. But I have a bit more to see to here."

Oh no, she thought, he didn't get off that easy.

"What kind of work matter?"

"It's handled," he repeated, and though the tone lacked the sharpness, it still held all the finality.

It clearly said: Butt out.

The tone would've pissed her off—if she hadn't seen the brooding under the temper.

But she knew how to light the match.

"When my work matters put me in a mood, you want to know why."

"Your moods are many," he muttered. "And it's not at all the same."

Okay, sometimes dealing with it meant pushing for a fight to burn off the brood, more with a torch than a match.

"Oh, because your work's so important and beyond my limited scope with me just being a cop and you being the great and powerful Roarke."

"Now she quotes from classic vids." He shoved up. It wasn't the icy fire in his eyes but all heat.

"I asked a simple question," she tossed back. "Instead of a simple answer, you lob insults."

"I stated a simple fact, but take it as you will. Now, for feck's sake, give me a bit of time. Christ knows I give you all you need there. Go deal with your board and scour your daily notes, and leave me to this."

She said, simply, "No."

The cat, who'd watched the exchange, decided to desert the field and jogged out the office door as Roarke rounded on her.

"This is my bloody space, for my bleeding business, so move on to yours. This has nothing to do with you, so go see to your own."

"You are my own."

With that, she watched the anger drain out of him as if she'd turned a tap.

"Ah, fuck it all."

When he dragged a hand through his hair, when it wasn't ice, or fire, or brooding in his eyes, but desolation, she stepped to him. Put her arms around him.

"Tell me."

He lowered his forehead to hers. "I had to fire someone today, someone who's worked for me a decade."

"Who?"

"You know her a bit, I'd think. Alyce Avery."

Eve did a quick run through her mental files. "Okay, yeah, she's been to the holiday parties. Why did you have to fire her?"

"She stole from me—which is a haughty ledge for a thief to stand on."

"No, it's not—and former," she reminded him, laying a hand on his cheek.

"As if that wasn't enough, she tried to throw the blame on someone else to save herself. She could've come to me." He drew away to pace to the window and stare out. "Why didn't she come to me when she found herself in a squeeze?"

"What squeeze?"

"All that came out, didn't it, too late. Her son started gambling and got into considerable debt to the wrong sort. So she skimmed and shuffled—of course, intending to pay it all back. And when the skimming and shuffling came out, she tried to blame her assistant, which only made it that much worse, didn't it?"

He turned back. "I'd have helped her, but she broke trust between us, and would've let someone innocent pay the price. So now her life's in shambles."

"Are you pressing charges?"

The ice came back. "She'll pay it back. She'll have time, but she'll pay every penny back. That's my decision, and that's the end of it."

"Okay."

He lifted an eyebrow. "So the cop doesn't point out she broke the law?"

"No. Your wife points out you did what you had to do by firing her, and what you needed to do by giving her time to pay it back. And the son?"

"I had a word with him as well. I used the threat of his mother going to prison for embezzlement as motivation for him to enter rehab for gambling addiction. Likely not the way, but—"

"It's one way, especially if you were Scary Roarke."

He smiled, just a little. "I suppose I was at that. I was fair pissed enough to be. Others don't fully agree with my decision."

"Others aren't the boss of you. If it counts, I agree with it."

"It counts a great deal. Bugger it. It counts a very great deal. And I'm sorry for my vicious mood and slapping at you when you offered to listen."

"I'm not the only one whose moods are many."

He smiled again, just a little more. "I suppose you're not. I love you, Eve."

"It's a good thing I love you back. Enough that I'm going to take care of dinner, which we're going to eat on the patio. It's cooled off enough, and we could both use it."

"That sounds like a very fine idea. Thanks for it."