J. Robb - Delusion in Death

He had that right. “Five-thirty should do it.”

“Five-thirty then.”

Without discussion, they walked to the bedroom. In silence they readied for bed. She slipped in, shut her eyes. And saw his face—the worry, the temper, the misery. Heard all that as she replayed his words to her.

“I know this is hard for you,” she said in the dark. “I’m sorry.”

His arm came around her. “I know it’s hard for you to talk of it even to someone you trust as you trust Mira. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. But I’m still a little pissed.”

“It’s all right. So am I.”

She turned to him, curled to him, and let herself sleep.

She woke to the scent of coffee, And wondered if that was how mornings in heaven smelled. She opened her eyes to soft light, and Roarke sitting on the side of the bed.

Definitely had earmarks of heaven.

“Your wake-up call, Lieutenant.”

She grunted, shoved up, reached for the coffee he held. He moved it out of reach.

“What makes you think this is yours?”

“Because you’re you.”

“So I am.” He brushed at her hair, a light, easy touch, but his eyes took a deep and thorough study of her face. “You slept well enough, I think.”

“Yeah.” Taking the coffee, she breathed in the scent like air, then drank. Then gave her mind a chance to catch up.

He’d dressed, though he’d yet to put on his jacket and tie. The cat ignored them both, sprawled on the foot of the bed like a lumpy blanket.

A glance at the clock showed her it was precisely five-thirty.

She didn’t know how he did it.

He watched her come around, watched the sleep glaze fade until her eyes were alert, focused.

“And now you’re you,” he decided.

“If there wasn’t coffee, the entire world would shuffle around like zombies.”

She moved quickly now, and by the time she’d dressed he had breakfast set up in the sitting area. She eyed the oatmeal suspiciously.

“It’s what you need,” he said, anticipating her. Then trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Don’t be a baby about it.”

“I’m an adult. I thought when you got to be an adult you could eat what you want.”

“You can, when your stomach also reaches maturity.”

Because arguing about it would waste time she didn’t have, she sat, spooned some up. Since it was loaded with apples and cinnamon, she tried to think of it as a weird apple Danish.

“I’ve copied the data I compiled and sent it to your computer,” he began, “but I can give you a summary.”

“Summarize away.”

“There are some life insurance policies large enough to be tempting.”

She loaded a piece of toast with some sort of jam. Enough jam, she thought, might disguise the weird apple Danish. “You have a different level of what’s tempting, monetarily, than the rest of the population.”

“It wasn’t always so, was it?” He ate his own oatmeal with apparent contentment. And probably actually thought of it as oatmeal. “While it’s true a certain type will kill for loose change, that’s not what you’re after here. We have a couple of victims who stood to inherit family money, and some substantially. There’s also the matter of salaries, pay scales, positions, bonuses. A large percentage of the victims were executives, junior executives, which means they certainly stood ahead of someone, or several someones on that corporate ladder.”

As he spoke he simply lifted a finger, and the cat—who’d been bellying over like some furry combatant, stopped.

Galahad stretched as if he’d had nothing more in mind.

“The admins, assistants—the support also takes a rung,” Roarke continued. “And all these positions can earn bonuses—often hefty ones—for bringing in accounts, clients, reaching or exceeding sales goals or running a successful campaign. There’s only so much bonus money to go around, so if someone’s rewarded—”

“Somebody else gets a hearty handshake.”

“Basically. Or may lose out on a desired promotion when the someone else lands that major client or account, has a good run of sales.”

“People get pissed when they get passed over, or somebody else gets the plum on top.”

“Cherry. The cherry’s on top. The plum’s in the pie.”

“Sometimes you want the plum, the cherry, and the whole damn pie. It doesn’t feel like greed, not simple, ‘I want it all’ greed. But it may be a factor. Ambition, greed, envy—it’s what starts wars. You want what the other guy has, so you fight to take it from him. It feels like a war. That’s why Summerset’s Urbans connection rings for me.”

“Not old-style, hand-to-hand or weapon-against-weapon,” Roarke put in. “But the more dispassionate, distant style of dropping a bomb from a great height, or launching a missile—or, more accurately, the cold science of germ and biological warfare.”

“That’s what it is—warfare. Cold, dispassionate, and distant. But to start a war, or wage a battle, you have to want something.”

“It’s possible all he wanted was to kill, and to see if his method worked, and how well.”

“Another factor, but if that was it, that was all, I think he’d take credit or taunt. I’m so smart, I’m so clever. Look what I did . Instead we’re into the next day, and there’s no contact. My sense is there’s a connection to the bar and/or somebody in it he doesn’t want coming back on him.”

She pushed to her feet, strode over to strap on her weapon. “Another high probability, according to the percentages: It’s a strike against a business or corporation whose suits frequent the place. He didn’t get that bonus or promotion, or more probable, got demoted or fired.”

“I’ve got most of that data as well—or will have by now as I left the search ongoing last night. By the time you compile all these names, you and your team are going to have more suspects—”

“Persons of interest—for now.”

“However you want to term it. It’ll take a week to run them, interview them, analyze.”

“I’m going to cross them with mine. Anyone who pops on both lists, that’s priority. We’ll work through elimination, go with the percentages. I’ll get more manpower for the drone work. Whitney’s going public, so that means we’ll have the cracks and loonies buzzing us—but there may be something in what comes in. We’ll sift through, follow up.”

She paused, pulled on a jacket. “I need to see the data, and I need my boards. There’s time to filter it down some before the briefing.”

“I’ll give Feeney, and you if you want it, time when and where I can.” He laid a hand on her shoulder as they walked out together. “You’ll contact Mira, make arrangements to talk to her.”

She actually felt her hackles rise. “I said I would.”

“Then I trust you will.”

Even as she walked into her office, Summerset stepped out of Roarke’s. The man had some kind of spooky radar, or he’d found a way to plant tracking devices.

Either way, it was creepy.

“I have some information you may want.” He offered her a disc. “There are names on there of people who trust me. Their identities must be protected.”

“Understood.”

“Some of the information can’t be officially confirmed, as the files have been sealed if not destroyed.”

She lifted the disc. “Is this speculation or fact?”

“The attacks are fact. There were witnesses, including the boy I spoke of last night—though he’s no longer a boy. You have his name now, and his statement as he related it to me. Others I spoke to, who were in the position to know or find out, state the initial investigation was able to identify most of the components of the substance used. The base was lysergic acid diethylamide, commonly called—”