J. Robb - Judgment in Death

It was a hard knock for a woman like Roth, Eve mused. But… "Could've been a lot worse for her."

"Yeah. Some were betting she'd just toss in and resign. But no way. She'll tough it out."

"Yeah, I think she will. Now, if we've finished our gossip session, get back to your station."

Martinez flashed a grin. "Yes, sir."

Eve secured the door again and returned to the screens. She started to sit, to settle, then tensed. "God. Why didn't I think of it? That's Mavis. Mavis and Leonardo." Going with the gut, or the heart, she switched to Roarke's channel.

"Mavis just walked in. She and Leonardo are moving through section five. Get rid of them. Make them go home."

"I'll take care of them," was his murmured response, and all she could do was stand by helplessly.

"Roarke!" Mavis gave a squeal of delight, and launched herself, decked out in swirl of blue feathers over a gold body paint job, into his arms. "The place is mag! Even more mag than before! Where's Dallas? Isn't she here for the big night?"

"She's working."

"Oh, bum-time. Well, we'll keep you company. Listen to that band! They're incendiary. Can't wait to dance."

"You'll have a better view from the second level."

"Lots of action down here."

"There, too." He'd never get them out, not without an explanation. But he could calm Eve's nerves by moving them as far away as possible. "Rue?" He signaled his manager. "These are friends of mine. Get them the best table on the second level. Their tab's on the house."

"That's gracious of you." Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. "And unnecessary."

"It's my pleasure. I've got some business to see to shortly. When it's done, I'll come up and join you for a drink."

"Aw, you're so sweet. We'll see you upstairs later."

When he was sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. "Keep an eye on them. Make certain they're tucked up until this is played out."

"Don't worry," he replied.

Onstage, the dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric blue mist crawled over the floor.

Prowling around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.

Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.

He hadn't come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.

They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying mini-scanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.

They would find only what he'd elected to have them find.

Ignoring them, he cut through the bright glitter of people to face Ricker.

"Okay," Eve said from her station. "Run through the marks. I want everyone to acknowledge, everyone to move into first position. Let's do this right."

And where before she'd sweat out the wait, she was now coldly in command. "Feeney, give me a weapons check. I want to know who's carrying and how many."

"Already coming through."

And so, she thought as she kept her eyes on the screen, was Roarke.

"It's been awhile," Roarke said.

Ricker's lips curved, just at the corners. "Quite a long while." He looked away from Roarke just long enough to sweep his gaze over the club. "Impressive," he said with the slightest hint of boredom. "But a strip club is still a strip club, however it's trimmed."

"And business is still business."

"I'd heard you've had a little trouble with yours."

"Nothing that hasn't been dealt with."

"Really? You lost a few of your clients last year."

"I did some… restructuring."

"Ah yes. A wedding present perhaps, to your most charming wife."

"Leave my wife out of it."

"Difficult, if not impossible." It was satisfying, extremely satisfying, to hear that hint of tension in Roarke's voice. There'd been a time, Ricker thought, it wouldn't have shown. "But we can discuss just what you're willing to trade for that kind of consideration."

As with an effort, Roarke took a breath, appeared to calm himself. "We'll use my booth. I'll buy you a drink."

As he started to turn, one of Ricker's guards laid a hand on his arm, stepped in to check him for weapons. Roarke simply shifted, gripped the man's thumb, and jerked it backward.

Too much weakness too quickly would, after all, be suspect.

"Do that again, and I'll rip it off at the knuckle and feed it to you." His eyes went back to Ricker's. "And you know it."

"I'm glad to see at least that much hasn't changed." Ricker gestured his man back. "But you can hardly expect me to have a drink without some basic precautions."

"Have one of the sweepers scan me and the booth. If that doesn't satisfy, fuck yourself. It's my place now."

A muscle in Ricker's cheek jumped, and he felt the rush of heat through his gut. But he nodded. "I never cared for that Irish temper of yours, however colorful. But as you say, it's your place. For the moment."

"All right," Eve said. "They're moving to the booth. Feeney, tell me his system's going to override their scan."

"It overrode mine. I asked him to show me the design, but he just smiled." He swiveled toward a secondary monitor. "Look, see, their sweep's coming up clean, getting just what Roarke said it would get and nothing else. Now we'll settle us down for a little alcoholic refreshment and conversation."

"Peabody," Eve said, reading off the weapons scan. "Your man is left end of the bar, mixed race, black suit. Five-ten, a hundred fifty, shoulder-length black hair. He's armed with a police-issue laser, waist holster. Got him?"

At Peabody's nod, she continued. "Everyone keep individual targets in close visual range, but do not move in, do not move in to apprehend or disarm until ordered. Martinez, your man is…"

– =O=-***-=O=-

"Your droid squad stays out of the booth," Roarke said as he stepped into the tube. "I don't talk business with an audience."

"My thoughts exactly." Ricker moved into the privacy dome, sat as the opening whisked shut behind him.

He had what he wanted now, what he'd planned for over the years. Roarke would beg. Roarke would fall. And if he struggled too hard, too long, the laser scalpel up Ricker's left sleeve would carve considerable regret in that young and handsome face.

"Hell of a view," he commented as the dancers spun onstage. "You always did have a taste for women. A weakness for them."

"True enough. As I recall, you just like to knock them around. You put bruises on my wife."

"Did I?" Ricker asked innocently. Oh, this is what he craved, what he'd been itching for. So very long. "How careless of me. Does she know we're having this conversation, or does she let you keep your balls now and then?"

Roarke took out his cigarettes, tapping one on the table as he met Ricker's sneer. An inner struggle showed on his face and made Ricker laugh. Then Roarke turned to the menu. "Whiskey," he ordered, lifted a brow.

"The same, for old times' sake."

"Two whiskeys. Jameson's. Doubles, and straight up." Then he sat back, lighted the cigarette. "And I'll say this straight up, and that's for old times' sake as well. My marriage stays out of your reach."

Roarke's voice took on an edge; then he paused as if to control it. "You've tried for my wife, and she's tossed what you've sent at her back at you."

"She's been lucky." But Ricker's mouth was tight as he reached for one of the glasses of amber liquid that came through the serving slot. "Luck eventually breaks."

Roarke's hand shot out. As if he caught himself at the last moment, he drew it back, glancing out toward the guard who had moved closer, whose own hand had drifted under his coat.