Imitation in Death

Chapter6

It was a difficult meeting for him to take. It had to be done, and Roarke could only hope that some of the weight he was carrying at the base of his skull would lift once it was over.

He’d put it off too long already, and that wasn’t like him. Then again, he hadn’t felt completely like himself since he’d metMoiraO’Bannion, and she’d told him her tale.

His mother’s story.

Life, he thought, as he stared out the wide window wall of his midtown office, could take a big chunk out of your ass when you were least prepared for it.

It was after five already, and his timing had been deliberate. He’d wanted to meet with Moira at the end of the day, so that there was no business to be done afterward. So that he could go home and try to shift it all aside with an evening out with his wife.

His interoffice ‘link beeped, and damn him, he nearly jolted.

“Yes, Caro.”

“Ms.O’Bannion’s here.”

“Thanks. Bring her back.”

He watched the traffic, air and sky, and thought idly that the trip home would be a bit of a bitch just now. The commuter trams were already loaded, and from his lofty perch he could see dozens of tired, irritable faces packed together like rowers on a slave ship for the hot journey home.

On the street below, buses were chugging, cabs standing like a clogged river, and the walks and people glides were mobbed.

Evewas down there somewhere, he expected. No doubt having an annoyed thought at the prospect of having to dress up and socialize after a day of chasing a killer.

More than likely, she’d rush in, flustered, with minutes to spare and struggling to make that odd transition from cop to wife. He doubted she had any idea how it thrilled and delighted him to see her make that slippery change.

At the knock on his door, he turned. “Yes.”

His admin brought her in, so that he found himself amused, for a moment, at the sight of two neat, trim, well-dressed women of a certain age stepping into his office.

“Thank you, Caro.Ms.O’Bannion, thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

He took her hand, felt hers tremble lightly as he shook it. He gestured to a chair, knowing his manner was smooth, practiced, cool. He couldn’t quite help it.

“I appreciate you making the time for me,” he began, “especially so late in the day.”

“It’s not a problem.”

He could see her taking in his office-the space of it, the style. The art, the furniture, the equipment, the things he was able to surround himself with.

Needed to surround himself with.

“I thought to come to Dochas, but it occurred to me that having a man around the shelter too often may make some of the women, the children, nervous.”

“It’s good for them to be around men. Men who treat them as people and wish them no harm.” She folded her hands in her lap, and though she met his eyes levelly, he could almost hear the quick beat of her heart. “Part of breaking the cycle of abuse is overcoming fear, and reestablishing self-esteem and normal relationships.”

“I wouldn’t argue that, but I wonder-ifSiobhanBrody had had more fear, would she have survived? I don’t know precisely what to say to you,” he continued before she could speak. “Or precisely how to say it. I thought I did. First, I want to apologize for taking so long to meet with you again.”

“I’ve been waiting to be fired.” Like his, her voice carriedIreland in it, in wisps and whispers. “Is that why you brought me here today?”

“It’s not, no. I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d be concerned after the way I left things. I was angry and… distracted.” He gave a short laugh and had to stop himself from raking a hand through his hair. Nerves, he thought. Well, she wasn’t the only one dealing with them. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You were furious, and ready to boot me out on my ass.”

“I was. I told myself you were lying.” His eyes stayed on hers, level and serious. “Had to be. Had to be some angle in there for you telling me this girl you knew back inDublin was my mother. It was counter to everything I’d known, believed, my whole life, you see.”

“Yes. I do see it.”

“There have been others, from time to time, who’ve wormed their way to me with some story of a relation. Uncle, brother, sister, what have you. Easily refuted, ignored, dealt with.”

“What I told you wasn’t a story, Roarke, but God’s truth.”

“Aye, well.” He looked down at his hands and knew in their shape-the width of palm, the length of fingers-they were his father’s hands. “I knew that, somewhere in the belly, I knew it. It made it worse. Almost unbearable really.”

He looked up again, met her eyes again. “You’ve a right to know I checked on you, deeply.”

“I expected you would.”

“And I checked on her. On myself. I’d never done so before, not carefully.”

“I don’t understand that. I wouldn’t have told you the way I did if I hadn’t thought you’d know some of it. A man like you would know whatever he needed to know.”

“It was a point of pride to me that it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter, particularly when I believed my mother wasMegRoarke and I was as glad to see the back of her as she was of me.”

Moira let out a long breath. “I said no to coffee before because my hands were shaking. I wonder if I might trouble you for some after all.”

“Of course.” He rose and walked over to open a panel in the wall. Inside was a fully equipped minikitchen. When she laughed, he turned in the act of programming coffee.

“I’ve never seen the like of this office. So posh. My feet nearly sank to the ankles in the carpet. You’re young to have so much.”

The smile he sent her was more grim than amused. “I started early.”

“So you did. My stomach’s still jumping.” She pressed a hand to it. “I was certain you were bringing me in to fire me, maybe to threaten legal action of some sort. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my family, or the guests at Dochas. I hated thinking I’d have to leave. I’ve gotten attached.”

“As I said, I checked on you. They’re lucky to have you at the shelter. How would you like your coffee?”

“Plenty of cream, if you don’t mind. Is this whole building yours, then?”

“It is.”

“It’s like a great black spear, powerful and elegant. Thanks.” She accepted the coffee and took the first sip. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she sniffed the contents of the cup. “Is this real coffee?”

And that weight at the base of his skull vanished with a quick, appreciative laugh. Gone, at last. “It is, yes. I’ll send you some. The first time I met my wife, I gave her coffee and she had a similar reaction. I sent her some as well. Might be why she married me.”

“I doubt that very much.” She kept her gaze steady on his now. “Your mother is dead, and he killed her, didn’t he? Patrick Roarke murdered her, as I always believed.”

“Yes. I went to Dublin and verified it.”

“Will you tell me how?”

Beat her to death, he thought. Beat her bloody and dead, with hands so much like my own. Then threw her away in the river. Threw away the poor dead girl who’d loved him enough to give him a son.

“No, I won’t. Only that I tracked down a man who’d been with him in those days, and who knew of it. Knew her and what happened.”

“If only I’d had more experience and less arrogance…” Moira began.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. If she’d stayed in the shelter in Dublin, or gone back to her family in Clare, or run. As long as she’d taken me, it wouldn’t have mattered. For whatever reason, pride, meanness, bloody-mindedness, he wanted me.”

The knowledge of that would haunt him for all of his days. Maybe it was meant to. “And he’d have found her.”

“That’s the kindest thing you could say to me,” she murmured.

“It’s just truth.” And he needed to get past it as best he could. “I went to Clare. I saw her family. My family.”

“Did you?” She reached out, laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad for that.”

“They were… extraordinary. My mother’s twin, Sinead, she opened her home to me. Just like that.”

“Well, West County folks, they’re known for their hospitality, aren’t they?”

“I’m still baffled, and grateful. I’m grateful to you, Ms. O’Bannion, for telling me. I wanted you to know that.”

“She’d have been pleased, don’t you think? Not only that you know, but that you’ve taken these steps. I think she’d be very pleased.” She set her coffee aside, opened her purse. “You didn’t take this when you were in my office before. Will you have it now?”

He took the photograph of a young woman with red hair and pretty green eyes holding the dark-haired little boy. “Thank you. I’d very much like to have it.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

A guy in a white suit sang about love being quiet and tricky. Eve sipped champagne and had to agree. At least about the tricky part. Why else was she struggling to take her mind off murder and pretending to do something more than taking up space in a Philadelphia ballroom?

God knew love-and she would kick Roarke’s ass later for deserting her-was the only reason she was standing here while some woman in lavender silk rambled on and on and on about fashion designers.

Yes, yes, yes, she knew Leonardo personally. Jesus, he was married to her oldest friend. And she could’ve used a good dose of Mavis at the moment. Yes, for God’s sake, he’d designed the dress she was wearing.

So the fuck what? It was clothes. You put them on and you weren’t naked or cold.

Love obliged her to edit her thoughts so her part of the conversation-when she could shove a word through the wall of noise the woman built around her-went something like: Yes.

“Ah, there’s the most striking woman in the room. Excuse us, won’t you?” Charles Monroe, smooth and handsome, beamed a smile at Eve’s tormentor. “I simply have to steal her.”

“Kill me,” Eve muttered as Charles drew her clear. “Take my weapon out of my bag, press it to the pulse in my throat, and fire. End my torment.”

He only laughed and swung her to the dance floor. “When I spotted you I thought you might be on the point of drawing that weapon and blasting the woman between the eyes.”

“I imagined ramming it into her mouth. It was never shut anyway.” She gave a quick shudder. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Running a bit late, only just arrived.”

“Working?” Charles was a top-level LC.

“I’m with Louise.”

“Oh.” And because he was a man who made his living selling himself, Eve couldn’t quite figure how he and the dedicated Dr. Louise Dimatto developed, and maintained, a relationship.

Took all kinds, she reminded herself.

“I was going to get in touch with you,” he continued. “About Jacie Wooton.”

The cop shifted back to the forefront. “You knew her?”

“I used to. Not well, really. I don’t think anyone knew Jacie well. But we ran in similar circles, so we’d bump into each other now and then. Or did, before she got busted.”

“Let’s find a corner somewhere.”

“I don’t know that this is the time-”

“Works for me.” Taking charge, she pulled him from the dance floor, scanning the little packs of people, the tables, and decided to take it outside.

There was a terrace festooned with flowers, scattered with more tables, more people. But it was quieter.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Next to nothing.” He wandered to the edge of the terrace, looked out over the lights of the city. “She was well-established before I got into the life. She liked everything top drawer. The best clothes, the best venues, the best clients.”

“The best dealer, then?”

“I don’t know about her dealer. I don’t,” he insisted. “I’m not going to claim I don’t know anything about that end of the business, but I stay clean. Spotless now that I’m dating a doctor,” he added with a smile. “Jacie’s busts took everybody by surprise. If she was an addict, she hid it well. If I knew anything, Dallas, I’d tell you. No hesitation, no bullshit. As far as I know she didn’t have friends. Not real friends. Or enemies. She was the job.”

“Okay.” She started to slip her hands into her pockets, remembered the little copper-colored number didn’t have any. “If something occurs to you, however small or remote, I want to hear about it.”

“That’s a promise. It’s shaken me, the way it happened, the rumors I’m hearing. Louise is worried.” He glanced back toward the terrace doors. “She hasn’t said anything, specifically, but she’s worried. When you love someone you can tell when they’re carrying stress.”

“Yeah, I guess so. You’re going to want to be careful, Charles. You don’t fit the vic profile on this, but you’re going to want to be careful.”

“Always,” he replied.

– -«»--«»--«»--

She didn’t say anything to Roarke about the conversation on the shuttle ride home. But she turned it over in her mind, replayed it, considered it.

When they were back in their bedroom and she was shimmying out of the tiny dress, she ran it by him.

“Doesn’t sound like he’ll be much of a source on this,” Roarke commented.

“No, but that’s not what I’m thinking about. After we went back in, I watched him and Louise together. They’re practically like turtledoves or something. You know they’re going to roll around naked tonight.”

“Naked turtledoves. No, not an attractive visual. Let me think of another.”

“Ha-ha. What I’m saying is how can she roll naked with him tonight knowing he’s going to be doing the same deal with however many clients are on his book tomorrow?”

“Because it’s not the same.” He flipped down the bedspread. “One’s personal, one’s professional. It’s his job.”

“Oh, that’s just bullshit. That’s just a bullshit rationalization. And if it’s not, can you stand there and tell me if I was a sex pro, you’d be perfectly fine, just iced with me riding some other guy’s stick?”

“You have such a way with words.” He looked at her, standing with the glittery dress in one hand. She wore nothing but a matching triangle over her crotch, too small to be called panties, a triple chain of multicolored stones she’d yet to remove, and high, backless heels.

And an annoyed scowl.

“No, I wouldn’t be fine with it, or iced, or anything remotely like it. But then I don’t share. Christ, you look sexy. Why don’t you come over here and we’ll roll around, naked as turtledoves?”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“You are,” he corrected, as he stepped off the bed platform and toward her.

“And speaking of conversations…” She evaded, nipping neatly behind the sofa. “I still have to beat you brainless for leaving me with that woman, the one who looked like a skinny purple tree.”

“I was unavoidably detained.”

“My ass.”

“Oh, darling Eve, I’m thinking very fondly of your ass.” He feinted, she countered. And they circled the sofa. “Better run,” he said softly.

And with a quick whoop, she did. When they were both breathless, she let him catch her.

– -«»--«»--«»--

She had nothing. No breaks, no fresh leads, no old ones that looked promising. She juggled her list of suspects and possibles, looked for openings. She recanvassed the area around the crime scene, studied lab reports.

She ran the elements through IRCCA, searching for similar crimes, and found one in London more than a year before that could fit. Still open. It wasn’t exact, she mused. Messier, sloppier.

Practice session?

There was no note on elegant stationery, just the mutilated body of a young LC. Not the same type as Wooton, Eve acknowledged, and wondered if she was grasping at straws.

There were plenty of slice-and-dice, a number of LCs, especially on street level, who’d been assaulted, even killed, by clients or would-be clients. But nothing that matched the barbaric elegance of Jack.

She spoke with neighbors, coworkers, associates of those on her possible list, keeping the interviews informal and discreet. Pushing, poking for that crack. But nothing broke.

She faced her Sunday off with annoyance and irritability. Hardly a picnic of a mood. Her only hope of getting through it, Eve decided, was to get Mira in some quiet spot and pick her brain.

“Maybe you should give her brain, and your own, a day off.”

She frowned over at Roarke as they crossed the sidewalk to Mira’s pretty house, set in her pretty neighborhood. “What?”

“You’re muttering out loud.” He patted her shoulder supportively. “I don’t know as talking to yourself when knocking on the door of a shrink is the best of behaviors.”

“We’re only staying a couple of hours. Remember? We agreed on that.”

“Mmm.” With this noncommittal sound, he pressed his lips to her forehead. And the door opened.

“Hello. You must be Eve and Roarke. I’m Gillian, Charlotte and Dennis’ daughter.”

It took her a beat as she rarely thought of Mira by her given name. But Mira was stamped, clearly, on her daughter’s face.

Though her hair was longer, well past her shoulders and curling, it was the same rich sable. Her eyes were the same mild and patient blue, but they were homed in on Eve’s, looking deep. Her frame was longer, lankier like her father’s, and she’d draped it in some loose, airy top and pants that stopped inches short of her ankles.

One of those ankles carried a tattoo, a trio of connecting chevrons. Bracelets jangled on her wrists, rings jingled on her fingers. Her feet were bare with the toes painted a pale pink.

She was Wiccan, Eve recalled, and responsible for a couple of Mira’s grandchildren.

“It’s lovely to meet you.” Roarke was already taking Gillian’s hand, and smoothly stepping between two women who were obviously taking each other’s measure. “You favor your mother, who I’ve always considered one of the world’s loveliest of women.”

“Thanks. Mom said you were very charming. Please come in. We’re spread out”-she glanced back to where a baby’s strong wails poured down the stairs-”as you can hear, but most of us are in the back. We’ll fix you a drink, so you’ll be braced for the onslaught of a day at the Miras.”

There were a considerable number of them there already, gathered in the kitchen/activity room that was as big as a barn, and nearly as noisy. Through the two-story glass wall of the back, others could be seen on a wide patio decked with chairs and tables and some sort of large, outdoor cooking device that was already smoking.

She could see Dennis, Mira’s delightful and absentminded husband, manning it with a long fork of some kind. He had a Mets cap over his explosion of gray hair, and baggy shorts nearly down to a pair of knobby knees Eve found secretly adorable.

Another man was with him, his son maybe, and they seemed to be holding an intense and spirited debate with a lot of laughter and beer-swilling from bottles.

There were kids of various ages milling or running around. And a girl of about ten who sat on a stool at the big work counter, sulking.

Food was spread out all over, and urged on them while introductions were made. Someone pushed a margarita in her hand.

When he opted for beer, Roarke was told he’d find them outside in a cooler. A young boy-Eve was already losing the names as they came at her like grapeshot-was given the task of escorting Roarke out and introducing him to the rest.

With the boy’s hand clasped on his, Roarke looked over his shoulder, shot a wicked grin at Eve, and strolled outside.

“It looks chaotic now, but… it’ll get worse.” With a laugh, Mira took a bowl of yet more food out of an enormous refrigerator. “I’m so glad you came. Lana, stop pouting and run upstairs. See if your aunt Callie needs any help with the baby.”

“I don’t see why I have to do everything.” But the kid scooted down and away.

“She’s irritable because she broke the rules and can’t have screen or comp privileges for a week,” Gillian commented.

“Oh.”

“Her life, as she knows it,” Gillian said as she bent to pick up a toddler-sex undetermined for Eve-from the floor, “is over.”

“A week’s an endless stretch of time when you’re nine. Gilly, taste this coleslaw. I think it could use a bit of dill.”

Obediently, Gillian opened her mouth, accepted the bite her mother held out on a fork. “Bit more pepper, too.”

“So, um…” Eve already felt as if she’d entered a parallel universe. “You’re expecting a lot of people.”

“We are a lot of people,” Mira said, chuckling.

“Mom still thinks we all have the appetites of teenagers.” Gillian rubbed a hand absently over Mira’s back. “She always makes too much food.”

“Makes it? You made all this?”

“Hmm. I like to cook, when I can. Especially when it’s for family.” Her cheeks were pink with pleasure, her eyes laughing as she winked at her daughter. “And I drag the girls into helping out. It’s shamefully sexist, of course, but none of my men are worth two damns in the kitchen.” She glanced out the window wall. “Give them a big, complicated smoking grill, however, and they’re right at home.”

“All our men grill.” Gillian gave the toddler a little bounce on her hip. “Does Roarke?”

“You mean, like, food?” Eve looked out to where he stood, apparently enjoying himself, picnic casual in jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. “No. I don’t think he has one of those.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

There were soy dogs and burgers, the potato salad of Roarke’s fantasy, cold pasta, big chunks of fruit swimming in some sweetened juice, fat slices of tomatoes, the slaw, and deviled eggs. Bowls, platters, trays of those and more were shuffled around. The beer was cold and the margaritas kept coming.

She found herself in a conversation with one of Mira’s sons about baseball, and to her frozen shock had a small, blond child climb up her leg and into her lap.

“Want some,” he burbled at her and grinned with his ketchup-smeared mouth.

“What?” She looked around in mild panic. “What does he want some of?”

“Whatever you’ve got.” Mira patted the boy’s head as she passed by to take the baby from her daughter-in-law and cuddle it.

“Okay, here.” Eve offered her plate with the hope the boy would take it and go back about his business. But he just dipped his fat little fingers into her fruit salad and came out with a slice of peach.

“Like it.” He took a bite, then generously offered her the rest.

“No, you go ahead.”

“Off you go, Bryce.” Gillian hefted him off Eve’s lap and instantly became her new best friend. “See what Granddad’s got for you.”

Then she plopped down beside Eve, arched her eyebrows at her brother. “Go away,” she told him. “Girl talk.”

He ambled away, good-naturedly. Amiability, Eve thought, appeared to be a common trait for the men in this family. “You’re feeling overwhelmed and just a little out of place,” Gillian began.

Eve picked up what was left of her burger, bit in. “Is that an observation or the result of a psychic scan?”

“A little of both. And a little of being the daughter of two observant and sensitive people. Large family gatherings can be odd for those who don’t have one of their own. Your Roarke adjusts more seamlessly.” She glanced around to where he sat with Dennis and Bryce. “He’s more a social animal than you, and part of it’s from the work he does, part’s just his nature.”

Gillian took a forkful of pasta salad. “There are a couple of things I feel compelled to say to you. I hope you won’t be offended. I don’t mind offending people, but I prefer to do it deliberately, and this wouldn’t be deliberate.”

“I don’t bruise easy.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” She switched her food for her margarita. “Well, first, I have to say that your husband is, without question, the most magnificent piece of work I’ve ever seen in real life.”

“I’m not offended by that, as long as you remember the mine part.”

“I don’t poach, and if I did-and there was anything left of me after you’d got done, he wouldn’t even notice. Added to that, I’m very much in love with my husband. We’ve been together a decade now. We were young, and it concerned my parents. But it was right for us.” She nibbled on a slice of carrot. “We have a good and satisfying life, three beautiful children. I’d like to have another.”

“Another what?”

Gillian laughed, turned back. “Another child. I’m hoping to be blessed with one more. But I’ve wandered from my purpose, and I doubt this group will give me much more time alone with you. I’ve been jealous of you.”

Eve’s eyes narrowed, flicked back in the direction where Roarke sat, then back when Gillian let out a low, almost purring laugh. “No, not because of him, though one could hardly be blamed there. Jealous of you and my mother.”

“You lost me.”

“She loves you,” Gillian said, and watched something like embarrassment pass over Eve’s face. “She respects you, worries about you, admires you, thinks of you. All the things she does for and about me. And this relationship, well, annoyed me on some primal level.”

“It’s not at all the same,” Eve started to say, and Gillian shook her head.

“It’s very much the same. I’m the daughter of her body, her heart and spirit. You’re not of her body, but you are, without question, of her heart and her spirit. I was of two minds when she told me you were invited today.”

She licked salt from the rim of her glass as she studied Eve. “The first was purely selfish-why is she coming? You’re my mother. The other was rampant curiosity. At last, I’ll get a good look at her.”

“I’m not in competition with you for Mira’s…”

“Affections?” Gillian finished with a little smile. “No, you’re not. And it was my flaw, my self-absorption that caused those unattractive and destructive feelings in me. She’s the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known. Wise, compassionate, strong, smart, giving. I didn’t always appreciate it, you don’t when it’s yours. But as I’ve gotten older, had children of my own, I’ve come to treasure everything about her.”

Her gaze swept the patio, then stopped, held on her own daughter. “I hope, one day, Lana will feel that way about me. In any case, I felt you were stealing little bits of my mother from me. I was prepared to dislike you on sight-an attitude that is in direct opposition to what I believe, to what I am, but there you are.” She lifted her glass in a little toast, sipped. “I just couldn’t pull it off.”

Gillian picked up the pitcher of margaritas, poured more in each of their glasses. “You came here today for her. Probably with a little persuasion from your gorgeous husband, but primarily you’re here for her. She matters to you, on a personal level. And I noticed the way you look at my father, with a kind of charmed affection. It tells me you’re a good judge of character, and I know from my mother-who’s one as well-that you’re a good cop, a good woman. It makes it easier for me to share her with you.”

Before Eve could think of a response, Mira walked over, carrying the now sleeping baby on her shoulder. “Did everyone get enough?”

“More than,” Gillian assured her. “Why don’t you give him to me? I’ll take him upstairs.”

“No, he’s fine. I don’t get to hold him nearly often enough.” Agilely, she sat, lightly patting the baby’s back. “Eve, I should warn you, Dennis has convinced Roarke he can’t live without a grill.”

“Well, he has everything else.” She polished off her burger. “And it works great.”

“Dennis would tell you it’s all in the cook, not the cooker. Which I’ll claim when you’ve tasted my strawberry shortcake and peach pie.”

“Pie? You made pie?” Obviously, Eve realized, there was a great deal to be said for family cookouts after all. “I could probably-”

Eve’s communicator beeped. Her face closed down; Mira’s cheerful smile vanished.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me a minute.”

She rose, pulling it out of her pocket as she walked back inside the kitchen, back into the quiet.

“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s the matter?”

“Her work,” Mira murmured, thinking of how Eve’s eyes went cool and flat. “Death. Take the baby, Gilly.”

She was rising when Eve stepped back out. “I have to go,” Eve began, then lowered her voice as Mira walked over, took her arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Is it the same?”

“No. It’s him, but it’s not the same. I’ll get you the details as soon as I can. Damn, brain’s a little sloshy. Too many margaritas.”

“I’ll get you some Sober-Up.”

“Appreciate it.” She nodded to Roarke when he joined her. “You can stay. This is going to take a while.”

“I’ll take you, and if need be I’ll get myself home and leave you the car. Another LC?”

She shook her head. “Later.” She took a breath, studying the patio, with its family sprawl, its flowers and food. “Life’s not always a goddamn picnic, is it?”