J. Robb - Portrait In Death

Younger, Roarke thought as his gut twisted, a year or two younger than the picture he'd seen in Moira O'Bannion's office. And without that deep sadness, without the wear and the bruises. But the same girl. The same.

BRODY, SIOBAHN, BORN TULLA, COUNTY CLARE, IRELAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 2005. PARENTS COLIN BRODY AND PATRICIA CARNEY BRODY, FARMERS. SIBLINGS EDWARD BRODY, FERGUS BRODY, SINEAD BRODY, TWIN. EDUCATED AT MOTHER OF MERCY THROUGH GRADE TWELVE. NO FURTHER EDUCATION. EMPLOYMENT, FAMILY BUSINESS. ADDITIONAL EMPLOYMENT CARNEY'S PUB, TULLA, 2022 THROUGH 2023. THE WHITE HORSE, DUBLIN, NOVEMBER 2023 THROUGH OCTOBER 2024.

He stared at the screen image. "Additional data requested. Marriage, children, current status."

NO MARRIAGE ON RECORD, NO LEGAL COHABITATION ON RECORD, NO CHILD ON RECORD. CURRENT STATUS UNKNOWN. THERE IS NO DATA ON BRODY, SIOBAHN, AFTER OCTOBER 2024.

A line of icy sweat trailed down the center of his back. No record. Dropped off the face, he thought.

"Criminal investigations relating to, medical records, financials, known associates. Something for fuck's sake."

WORKING…

There was more, he told himself as he rose. And this time he went for whiskey. There was always more. He'd find it.

Eve walked in the door only two hours over shift. She told herself she was pleased Summerset wasn't in the foyer waiting to hassle her, and the only reason she headed back to his quarters was for the chance to hasslehim.

She found him in his living area, propped in his chair with some sort of long-hair piano music playing while he paged through a thick, leather-bound book she imagined came from Roarke's personal library.

Galahad, perched on the arm of the chair, blinked at her.

"Where's the warden?" Eve asked.

"Taking a brisk walk around the estate, while I enjoy some much-deserved solitude." Though he pretended reluctance, he marked and closed the book, prepared to be entertained. "You're quite late this evening."

"I don't live by the clock."

"Despite my temporary difficulties, I still run this household, and require some notification of your schedule. You were expected more than an hour ago."

"You know, this is funny, I see your mouth moving but all I hear is blah, blah, blah. Maybe your little trip damaged your vocal chords. I should ask Nurse Happy Time to check it out."

He peeled his lips back in a grin. "You must have had a quiet day. There's no blood on you for a change."

"Day's not over. I'd better go see if Roarke made it home on schedule, so he doesn't get scolded."

"He's been back for some time." And hadn't come back to visit. "He's in the private office."

Her eyebrows went up, but she shrugged. "I've got work. Oh, and so you know, I left my vehicle out front to embarrass you if you have any visitors this evening."

When she strolled out, Summerset sat back, satisfied, and listened to Chopin while he scratched Galahad between the ears.

Eve went directly up to the private office, used the palm plate, gave her name and code.

ACCESS DENIED.

Baffled, she stared at the locked door, the blinking red light above it. "Well, that's bull," she grumbled and gave the door a little kick before trying again.

ACCESS DENIED.

On an oath, she yanked out her pocket-link and called Roarke's personal number. Her brows drew together when his voice slid out, but her screen remained blank.

Why the hell would he block video?

"Hey, what's up? I'm standing outside the door, but my code's not working."

"Give me a minute."

When the 'link clicked off, she stared at it. "Sure, ace, I'll give you a minute."

It took a full one, and a bit more, before she heard the security stand down. The light went green.

When she stepped in, he was seated behind the console. His sleeves were rolled up, a sign to her that he was working one or more of the keyboards manually.

But his face was as blank as the wall screens.

The door shut behind her, and locked.

"What's going on?"

"I have work."

"On the unregistered?"

Annoyance flickered over his face, and he picked up the heavy crystal glass at his elbow, watching her over the rim, coolly, dispassionately, as he drank. "Yes. On the unregistered."

There was no warmth in his voice. No smile of greeting. "Is there a problem?"

He swirled the liquid in his glass and watched her the way she'd seen him watch an adversary he intended to dispose of. "Why should there be?"

Baffled, she walked behind the console, but the screens there were also dark and blank. She caught the sharp scents of whiskey and tobacco. The ripple of unease she felt increased. "Because I was denied access, because you're sitting here drinking, because you closed down whatever you're working on so I couldn't see it."

"You were denied access because I'm working on a private matter. I'm drinking because I wanted a drink." He lifted the glass to his lips again, as if to prove it. "I closed down because what I'm doing has nothing to do with you. Does that clear it up for you, Lieutenant?"

There was a little punch of shock, dead center in her throat. Instinctively, she searched back through the day for something said or done to have caused his anger.

For it was anger, under all that cold wash. Hot and bubbling.

"If you're pissed at me about something, I'd like to know what it is. That way when I kick your ass, we'll both know why."

Get out,was all he could think.Get out and leave me be so I can finish this nightmare. "Not everything I do pertains to you. Not everything I feel revolves around you."

It was a quick and nasty slice in the heart, and she struggled to ignore it. "Look, something's wrong. I can see it." Worried now, she laid a hand on his shoulder, rubbed. And felt the vicious knots of tensed muscles. "If this is about Summerset, I just saw him, and he's his usual irritating self. I know you're upset about what happened to him, but-"

"He's being well seen to, isn't he? I've taken care of it. It might occur to you that I've more on my mind than you, and him, your work, your worries." He shoved away from her to get up, to get away from that supportive hand on his shoulder, to go over to pour another whiskey with the foolish hope that this time it might flood away the sickness inside him.

"Roarke-"

"Goddamn it, Eve, I'm busy here." He snapped it out, and stopped her in her tracks. "Give me some fucking space, will you? I'm not in the mood to chat or for a quick shag or a replay of your day."

Insult and anger lit her face. "Just what the hell are you in the mood for?"

"To be left alone to do what I'm set to do here."

I can't stand having you here, can't stand doing what I'm doing.

"The time I spend diddling about with your work takes away from my own, and I've got to make it up when I choose. As the bloody door was locked, it might've occurred to you that I didn't want to be interrupted. I've a great deal to do, so why don't you be about your own? I've no doubt you've plenty of the dead to keep you occupied for one evening."

"Yeah." She nodded slowly, and the temper in her eyes had faded into astonished hurt. "I've always got the dead. I'll just get the hell out of your way."

She strode for the door, heard the locks whisper open even before she reached it. The instant she was through, it shut and locked tight.

Inside, Roarke stared into the glass, then simply hurled it against the wall so the crystal showered to the floor like lethal tears.

She went to work, or tried, started by running all the names she'd been able to get from Hastings. She'd talk to each personally, but she wanted the basic background before she began.

She had Peabody 's very detailed report on her foray into the field. The second pop was tidily alibied for Rachel Howard's murder. Eve expected the alibi to hold, but would have Peabody follow up.