Chapter 16

THE LIGHTS OF HOME GLIMMERED AGAINST the dark. As she drove through the gates the wind began to whip, lashing denuded trees, sending out a whistling groan.

It’s going to be a rough night,she thought, in more ways than one.

As she got out of the car, that fierce wind clawed at her coat, sent it billowing.

“What?” she demanded when Roarke grinned at her.

“The wind, the gloom, the halos of light. You look like some other-worldly warrior queen about to battle.”

“I don’t know about that, but the battle sounds about right.”

She pushed her way in, assumed the first stage of battle started in the foyer as Summerset gave her a cool stare.

“Ah, you did remember where you live.”

“I keep hoping you’ll forget.”

He merely shifted his attention to Roarke as Eve shrugged out of her coat, and the cat hurried over to rub against her legs.

“Your aunt contacted me to let you know your family will arrive tomorrow as planned. I estimate their ETA here at two P.M. our time.”

“Good. I’ll do what I can to be here for their arrival.”

“I should hope. Richard DeBlass also confirmed. They arrived in New York this evening. The children are very excited.” His eyes pinned Eve now. “Nixie is particularly excited to see you, be here with you.”

“I’ll be here,” Eve snapped back. Sometime. Somehow. God.

And because she could see Nixie as she first had—cowering, covered with her parents’ blood, shaking in the shower where she’d hidden, Eve went straight up the stairs and into her home office with a new weight on her shoulders.

“What am I supposed to do?” she demanded when Roarke came in behind her.

“Exactly what you need to do.” He set the comp down. “And right now? It’s eat dinner.”

“Jesus, lay off, will you? I have work. I need to update my board, check in with Peabody, Baxter, and Trueheart, and the cops I put on various protection details. I need to cross with Feeney and start pushing on hotels because the son of a bitch is somewhere. Add in rental units, property purchases because he’s got a pile of money now and you can bet your ass a spanking new ID. And, oh, while I’m doing that, I’m supposed to stuff food in my face, and worry about a freaking houseful of people and a holiday dinner. I can’t think with everybody crowding me.”

“It must be difficult,” he said in a voice deceptively, dangerously calm, “to be the only one in the city, possibly on the planet who can catch this particular son of a bitch. Or, in fact, so many murdering sons of bitches. Harder yet when so many around you are inconsiderate enough to expect you to eat and sleep and have the occasional conversation. What a burden we are in your world.”

“That’s not what I mean. You know damn well—”

“I know I don’t have to stand here taking slaps because I have friends and family coming to our home. Or because you’re overstressed and jittery. So do as you please.”

He picked the comp up again, walked out.

“Jittery?”Appalled, deeply insulted, she balled her fists, stared down at the cat who stared back at her. “Where does he come off with that crap?”

Galahad turned around, stuck his tail in the air—adding further insult—and strolled out after Roarke.

“Right back at you,” she muttered. She stalked to her desk, kicked it, then ordered her computer to read out her incomings while she updated the board.

She made it nearly two minutes before she swore bitterly. “Computer, stop and save. Goddamn it.”

She started to ask the house system where he’d gone, then knew. He’d taken the evidence comp, so he’d gone to his lab.

Well, he didn’t get to walk away during a fight, and he especially didn’t get to walk away to spend time doing work for her so she’d feel shittier than she already did.

She tracked him down, shoved into his computer lab where he sat, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, a glass of wine in his hand, and his focus on the wiped comp.

“I am not jittery, and that’s a dumbass word.”

“As you like.”

“And you don’t get to do that.” She jabbed a finger at him. “You don’t get to respond in that reasonable voice that’s completely fake so I come off looking unreasonable. It’s fighting dirty.”

He spared her one cool look. “I fight as I like.”

“I don’t have time to fight. I’m trying to do my job because if I don’t somebody else is going to end up on a slab. Morris is going to start charging me rent.”

“Then go do your job, by all means, Lieutenant. I’m not standing in your way.”

“You are, too.” She snatched up his wine, took a gulp. “You’re screwing up my head, making me feel stupid and selfish and—”

“Jittery?” he suggested, and earned a burning, narrowed-eye stare.

“Call me that again, and I swear I’ll punch you.”

He stood. Nose to nose, eye to eye. “Try it. A bloody good brawl might do us both some good.”

She slapped the wineglass down again. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“I’d call it more a dare.” He smiled, very deliberately. “Unless you’re too jittery to follow through.”

She didn’t punch him; he’d be expecting that. Instead, she hooked her foot behind his, angled for a takedown. Which he countered, so momentum took them both down.

He tried to turn, take the brunt of the impact, but they both crashed, hard enough to jar bones on the floor of the lab. She scissored her legs, tried a roll that would’ve landed an elbow in his gut, but he’d always been slippery, and blocked it.

He used his superior weight, almost had her pinned. But she was slippery herself, slid clear. And nearly, very nearly, had her knee in his balls.

And she called his tone fighting dirty.

They grappled, rolling and bumping into stools, cabinets, each willing to take or give a few bruises, until he did manage to pin her—and she managed to press her knee, none too gently—against his balls.

His hair had come loose, and fell to curtain his face and hers. Breath came fast over the hum and click of equipment. His eyes, fiercely, furiously blue met her seething brown.

His heart, her heart, beat like war drums.

Then, in the flick of a switch his mouth was on hers, her legs wrapped around him. All the fury, the frustration, the insult, channeled into violent and primal need.

She nipped at his tongue, he tore at her shirt, all while that need, that violence, built and burned. Now they rolled, they grappled, to take in an urgent, almost vicious quest for release.

He filled his hands with her, filled his mouth with her, while his blood raged, while her body arched, quaked. She coiled under him, surrounded him, inflamed him beyond any thought of control.

He yanked her trousers down her hips, ripped away the thin, simple barrier and drove her to gasping, shuddering peak with his hands.

And more and more, from him, from her, in a wild whirlwind of mindless, reckless, impossible lust.

Soaked in the flood of dark pleasure, blind with greed for more, for all, she dragged him to her. Bridging up, she demanded that first savage thrust, then the next, the next. With her legs locked hard around him, she drove him, brutally as spurs to flanks, until he’d filled her. Until he’d emptied her. Until he’d emptied himself.

He collapsed on her, his breath gone, his mind gone. She’d destroyed him, he thought. She’d stripped him to the bone, then shattered him. Now she lay under him, limp, and he could feel the tremors, those aftershocks of crazed sex shake her.

Or him. Or both of them.

His. Every maddening, infuriating, fascinating, courageous inch of her. His.

And he’d change not one thing.

“It seems you had time for that.” His throat felt as if he’d swallowed fire—and he’d have given a million for the wine on his workstation—or the strength to stand and get it.

He barely managed to lift his head to look down at her. All flushed, all soft, all long, glinted whiskey-colored eyes.

“It was pretty quick.”

He smiled at that, and at the touch of her hand on his cheek after she spoke. He pressed his lips to her cheek in turn.

Now, with the anger and lust washed away, the love beneath stood solid and strong.

“I’m not jittery. Think of another word. I like your family, you know I do. It’s just... right now, with everything, all of them, it’s...”

“A bit overwhelming.”

She thought about it. “That’s okay. Overwhelming’s okay. When we went there last summer, it was mostly—well, except for the brief pause for the dead body that was not my case—hanging out, drinking some beer.”

“I understand that perfectly well.”

“I guess, maybe. And add on Nixie. It’s not fair, it’s not right, but every time I see or talk to the kid I get twisted inside. It eases off, but it always starts out that way. I just see her the way she was when I found her, after she’d crawled through her parents’ blood and hidden. I can’t get why she wants to see me, talk to me. I must remind her of that, what she went through, what she lost. It messes with my head, and I can’t afford that right now.”

“If you brought her pain, Richard and Elizabeth wouldn’t allow her to see or talk to you.”

“I guess not.”

“Take this friends and family business as it comes for the next couple days. You give what you can, when you can. And as they are friends and family, every one of them understands what you are, what you do, and what it means.”

“Summerset.” She sneered it.

“And Summerset as well.” Roarke flicked a finger down the dent in her chin. “He enjoys drilling you, just as you do him.”

“Maybe.”

She closed her eyes a minute. “I was too late. And I see them in my head, see what he did to them because I was just too late.”

“Eve.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “You know better than to blame yourself.”

“Knowing better doesn’t always stop it. Everything I turn up says his parents were good people, did their best to be good parents, and because he didn’t get his way, he slaughtered them. He annihilated them. Lori Nuccio, just an ordinary girl, a good waitress, responsible, who went out of her way twice to help him get work. He debases her, ends her because she wouldn’t let him live with her after he stole from her, after he hit her.”

She curled to him when he wrapped around her, and found such comfort.

“And Farnsworth—a good teacher, the kind students remember, a woman who loved her ugly little dog and offered to make soup for her neighbors. He tormented her for hours, and he killed her because he was too lazy to do his goddamn schoolwork.”

“You know him. You’ll stop him.”

“I have to find the worthless bastard first.”

“And you will,” he repeated.

She let out a long breath. “I will.” Let it go, she ordered herself. Just let it go. “Anyway, sorry. Sort of.”

He smiled down at her. “Considering where we ended up, it’s hard to say the same.”

And she found she could smile back. “Now I’m hungry.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it’s so.”

He levered off, sat back on his heels. Then just grinned at her.

Following the direction of his gaze, she looked down at herself. She wore one tattered sleeve of what had been her shirt, most of her support tank, and her weapon harness—with her pants bunched around the ankles of her boots—and her clutch piece.

“That was probably a nice shirt,” she thought aloud.

“It’s good you have more. As do I.”

He tugged off the rags of his own.

“We need to get the torn stuff into a recycler. I’m not having Summerset getting a load of it.”

“I keep reminding you he’s aware we have sex.”

“There’s sex, then there’s sex.”

He considered the torn clothes as she hiked up her pants again. “There is, yes. We’ll gather them up.” He offered a hand, pulled her to her feet. “Then what do you say we change, eat, then get to work.”

“I say it’s a plan.”

“And what do you say to spaghetti and meatballs?”

“I say it’s a genius plan.” She let herself lean on him a moment. “I’ve been pissed under it all, all day. It’s nothing to do with anything but the case, and it doesn’t do any good to get pissed about a case. I guess I needed to blow off some steam.”

“Happy to assist.”

She poked his bare chest. “You got your steam off, too, pal.”

“We both have something to be thankful for.”

Together, they picked up torn shirts.

···

The food helped, as did the routine of updating her board, reading the reports from her people in the field, touching base with Feeney.

She couldn’t say what Roarke did in the lab, but knew without question if anyone could find something to help on the wiped machine, he could. He would.

She ran probabilities, but didn’t feel confident in the results. Indeed, when she factored out the Boyds’ two college-age children, the percentage increased for targeting. And how could Reinhold know the kids were home for Thanksgiving?

Would he even think of family and holidays?

He’d want Boyd, she thought, drinking yet more coffee as she worked. To prove he could hit one out of the park, that would be his thinking.

But Boyd was no slightly out-of-shape salesman, ambushed by his own son—a son who lived in the same apartment. Boyd was fit, tough, had good security. Reinhold would need to plan carefully there. More, Eve thought, he’d need to build up his courage.

More likely to try for women first, for older targets, less secure targets.

Marlene Wizlet and the Schumakers topped her list, along with his friend Asshole Joe, followed by Garber, his former Global Studies teacher.

If he stuck to pattern, it would be one of them. If, she thought, as she highlighted each.

Maybe he’d take a little vacation on his latest victim’s money.

No, she decided as she rose to pace and circle. He’d need that euphoria again, that power again, that payback again. But he was hurt, so that might buy a little time.

“Where are you, you bastard?”

Once again, she put the map on screen, highlighted each crime scene, each sighting. With the aid of the computer, she calculated more routes, more probabilities until her head throbbed.

When Roarke came in, she stood studying results, rocking back and forth on her heels more from frustration than fatigue.

“Too many damn possibles. Hotels, apartments, condos, duplexes, single-family residences. Even when you calculate high-end and focus on sectors near his old neighborhood, there’s too many. And hell, he could decide to live uptown. Freaking New Jersey. Brooklyn, Queens. No, no.” Annoyed with herself, she rubbed at the tightness in the back of her neck. “It’s going to be Manhattan, and near what he knows. He won’t want to feel superior from a distance. But...”

“You’re working in circles, Lieutenant.”

“I know it. It’s pissing me off.”

“You need sleep. Clear your mind,” he continued, and cupped her face in his hand. “Come at it fresh in the morning.”

“I hate this guy, and that’s stupid. I don’t even know why especially, as I’ve dealt with worse. But he’s stuck in my throat.”

“When you have him in Interview, you’ll be stuck in his.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Let’s go to bed.”

Might as well, she thought, as working in circles wasn’t going to find her mark.

“Did you get anything?” she asked as they walked to the bedroom.

“It’s slow, and bloody frustrating. I’ve got some bytes, and enough to see she’d interfaced her units. When we pull out more, we may be able to follow the money trail more precisely. Feeney’s banging his head against that wall. We’ve connected on it a few times tonight. He’ll bang it again tomorrow. And before you ask, yes, McNab’s been at work as I have, and they pulled in Callendar as well. We’ll get there, but it’s going to continue to be slow and frustrating for all of us.”

In the bedroom, she stripped down. “If we find the money trail, the accounts—and they’re out of our reach, legally—you could hack them with the unregistered.”

He glanced over as she dragged on a nightshirt. Her skin had that faint, translucent glow it developed when she’d exhausted herself. “I could, yes, and enjoy it as well.”

“I need to think about it. Well, we need to get there first, and I need to think about it. If I can’t find him my way, I may have to find him yours. Because he’s got his next target in mind, and he’s figuring it out now. He’s working it out, and feeling smug about it.”

He slipped into bed with her, pulled her against him. “One way or the other you’ll have him. He won’t be so bloody smug then, will he?”

“Not when I’m done with him.” She closed her eyes, tried to will herself to sleep.

···

In his new penthouse, in his swanky new bed, Reinhold swallowed another dose of pain meds, chased it with the last of the complementary bottles of champagne from building management.

His foot fucking hurt!

It hadn’t been bad when he’d left the clinic, in fact he’d felt damn good cruising on the drugs. Then he’d felt like a million—or four—when he’d walked into his new place, found the big-ass gift basket from management. Champagne, fancy cheeses, and candy and fruit and cookies, and all kinds of rich-man snack food.

He’d felt so damn good, he’d ordered the droid to unpack, then go out and buy some imported brew, and fix up that steak dinner.

He was going to like getting used to steak dinners.

He’d walked all over the apartment, all over the building checking out the shops, the fitness center, the restaurants and bars.

He’d thought about hanging out at the bar—for longer than the one drink he’d had—maybe hooking up with a woman. But he wanted to get the lay of the land first.

He’d walked around the neighborhood some, too, just getting that feel and feeling fine.

It wasn’t until the foot started throbbing some he remembered being told to stay off it, keep it elevated.

The idiot doctor should’ve made it more clear, he told himself, teeth gritted as he waited for the meds to kick in. He should’ve given him stronger drugs, more specific instructions, better care.

Maybe he’d give the asshole doctor a taste of his own. See how he liked a broken foot.

“You’re on my Shit List,” Reinhold mumbled.

He could go back for a “follow-up,” teach the asshole a lesson, grab some good drugs.

He liked the idea, rode on it through the pain until the miracle of chemistry clicked in, and eased that pain away.

Not smart, he thought, to go back to the asshole doctor. Smarter to do a little research, find out where said Asshole, M.D., lived, and take care of it. He probably had money, too.

Fucking doctors rolled in dough.

Yeah, he’d start working on that, maybe catch him some night when he left the clinic, or when he was in his own fancy apartment.

Something to think about, but he had other business first.

He ordered the bedroom screen on, had to think through to remember how to call his computer up on it. Then decided he wanted pizza.

Steak dinner had been hours ago.

“Hey, Asshole!” He enjoyed programming the droid to answer to the insult. It made him laugh, every single time.

“Yes, sir.” The droid came to the bedroom doorway.

“Get me a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, onions. A large. Get it at Vinnie’s, that’s my place.”

“Yes, sir. Should I go out and get one or arrange for delivery.”

“Go get it, for Christ’s sake. You think I want to wait for some fuckwad to deliver it? And make it snappy, you shithead.”

“Yes, sir.”

He liked the “sir.” About damn time somebody called him sir. In fact, from now on, he’d make anybody he planned to kill call him sir before he did them.

He called up what he termed his Shit List, studied the names, the addresses he’d found, the workplaces he either knew or had been able to find.

Beside each were their offenses, and his current—subject to change—method of making them pay.

He’d have been surprised to see just how closely Eve’s list aligned with his. But he didn’t think about the police. He’d begun to consider himself a professional. After all, each kill had generated pay—payback and cash.

Jerry Reinhold—and he had another program with possible code names—was a Hit Man with a (S)Hit List. It cracked him up. After he’d worked his way through his own list, he’d use the code name and hire himself out.

His current favorite was Cobra. Fast and deadly. Except he really liked Reaper. As in Grim.

As he studied his list, he relived each insult, embarrassment, rejection.

He thought of how it would feel to burn Marlene Wizlet’s pretty face with acid until she looked like a monster. Then he’d force her to look at herself—before he slit her throat.

Teach her to flip him off, teach her to think she was better than he was. And she’d made some good money, he was sure, whoring her face, the one he’d ruin, her body.

And the Schumakers. God, he hated them. He’d get plenty from them. He figured on beating the old man to death, drowning the old hag in her own bathtub.

Coach Boyd, good old Coach Boyd. That would be the best time ever. Wanna see me swing away? He’d figure out how to get inside Boyd’s place—just figure it out. Then he’d rape the wife right in front of him. Then he’d get busy with the snips. He really wanted to use those snips. And when that was done, he’d beat the bastard’s brains out with his trusty bat.

Pure satisfaction.

Even if he didn’t get much profit out of Boyd, that would be—what was it? Yeah, yeah, a labor of love.

He cracked himself up again, kept going down his list.

He changed a few methods. He had enough money now to get his hands on a stunner. You could do a lot with a stunner. And he figured he’d pick up a hammer, maybe a saw.

A guy wanted to be well-rounded.

He thought of Mal. The way to Mal—what kind of friend boots you just because you were short on the rent—was through his mother. That pushy bitch. He liked the idea of the hammer there. First mother, then son.

But not quite yet.

He smiled as he studied his next pick. Oh yeah, that would be good. That would be fun—and he knew just how to pick up the bucks for his profit on that one.

“Asshole, where’s my pizza! And bring me a damn beer.”

He took a few more minutes to go over his plan. Jesus, it was really so simple. Why hadn’t he ever thought of doing all this before?

The droid brought pizza and beer on a tray, with a napkin.

Not bad.

“Go on out there, active rest. I want you around if I need you.”

“Yes, sir. Enjoy your pizza.”

“Bet your ass.”

He switched the screen to entertainment, scrolled through his choices, settled on porn.

He amused himself with pizza, beer, and violent sex until he dropped contentedly off to sleep.