J. Robb: Betrayal in Death

Each display or bank of displays was ringed inside red velvet rope. That was for show. The sensor shields ringing those same displays were invisible.

Those were for security.

Auction catalogues, disc or commemorative hard copy, were on sale to those who wanted to shell out over twelve hundred dollars.

A sampling of the catalogue could be accessed onscreen in hotel guest rooms at no charge.

"They're shoes," Eve finally said, pausing by a pair of silver pumps. "Somebody else's shoes. You want to wear somebody else's shoes, you go to a recycle mart."

"But, sir, it's like buying magic."

"It's like buying somebody else's shoes," Eve corrected, and satisfied for the moment, started out.

Magda, and her entourage, stepped off the elevator.

"Eve. I'm so glad I've ran into you." Magda hurried forward, both hands outstretched. Her waterfall of hair was scooped up at the neck. And her eyes were tired. "My son."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry he's ill. How's he doing?"

"They tell me he'll be fine. Some silly reaction. But they're keeping him sedated and quarantined. I can't even let him know I'm there."

"Now, Magda, of course he knows." Mince patted her arm, but his gaze skipped uneasily to Eve's. "Magda's worrying herself sick over that boy," he said. And his eyes said clearly: Make it stop.

"He's being well taken care of." Eve gave Magda's hands a reassuring squeeze.

"Well, I hope… In any case, I'm told you were there with him when he became ill."

"Yeah, that's right. I'd dropped by to see him to go over some of the security details."

"He was fine when I left." Liza gave Eve a piercing look. "Just fine."

"He certainly seemed to be. So, he didn't complain earlier about being a little queasy, dizzy?"

Back to you, sweetheart, Eve thought.

"No, he was fine."

"He probably didn't want to worry you. He mentioned he'd been feeling a little off. But that was after he started to look pale and clammy and I asked him if he was okay. He got shaky fast after that, said he was sorry, but he needed to lie down. My aide suggested we call the house doctor."

"Yes, sir," Peabody confirmed. "I didn't like his color."

"He didn't want the fuss. I was about to send Peabody to get him some water, when he started to seize. We called for medical assistance. There was a rash spreading just under the neck of his sweater. They clicked on allergic reaction right off."

"Thank God you were there. I hate to think what might have happened if he'd been alone and unable to call for help."

"You could have let me know," Liza interrupted. "I waited and waited for him at Rendezvous. I was worried sick about Vinnie."

"Sorry. Didn't think of it. At the time, he was my priority."

"Of course." And breathing a little easier, Magda smiled. "The important thing is Vince got treatment quickly." She glanced toward the ballroom. "He's going to hate missing all this, after all his hard work."

"Yeah," Eve said. "Bad break."

"Man, Dallas, you were so good." Peabody beamed as they rode the private elevator to base control. "Maybe you should have thought about becoming an actor."

"Yeah, that was a big mistake on my part. Magda's going to have to take it on the chin tomorrow when it comes out about her son. I'm sorry for that."

She stepped out of the elevator and into Roarke's conception of base control.

"Oh. Oh, Dallas," Peabody whispered, overcome by the sheer glamour of the owner's suite.

"Don't drool, Peabody, it's unattractive. And try to remember, we're here to work."

The living area was a long sweep of warm color, plush fabrics, thick rugs in gracious patterns over acres of blond wood. A gleaming copper sculpture sleeked down one wall, spilling deep blue water in a gentle arch into a small, free-form pool decked with flowers and ferns.

Tumbling from the dome ceiling was a chandelier formed of hundreds of slim globes in that same deep blue. The tone was repeated in the grand piano and the marble hearth and mantel of a cozy fireplace.

A spiral of copper led up to a second level. On its landing, pots trailed tangled vine roses.

The atmosphere was so rarefied even the presence of cops, stacked equipment, and a half-dozen portable surveillance monitors couldn't lower it.

It was embarrassing.

When she heard a burst of laughter, Eve strode through the luxury, rounded a curve, and stared hard at the scene in the dining room.

The long table was loaded with food. The banquet, she thought, had been going on for some time from the looks of it. Plates and platters and bowls had been scavenged for their contents. The air still hung with the scents of roasted meat, spices, sauces, and melting chocolate.

Ranged around the scene of the crime were McNab, a pair of uniforms – including the young and promising Officer Trueheart, whom she'd assumed would know better – Feeney, Roarke's head of security, and the culprit himself.

"What the hell is this?"

At her voice, McNab quickly swallowed what was in his mouth, started to choke and turn beet-red, while Feeney pounded him helpfully on the back. The two uniforms came to rigid attention, Roarke's man looked elsewhere. And Roarke greeted her warmly.

"Hello, Lieutenant. Can I fix you a plate?"

"You, you – " She jabbed her finger at the uniforms. "At your stations. McNab, you're a disgrace. Wipe that mustard off your chin."

"It's cream sauce, sir."

"You." She aimed the finger at Roarke. "With me."

"Always."

He strolled out behind her, through a pretty den where another cop was snacking on cocktail shrimp and studying yet another monitor. Eve gave him a hard look, but kept going until she'd reached the relative privacy of the master bedroom suite.

Then she whirled.

"This is not a goddamn party."

"Certainly not."

"What are you doing, ordering up half the food in New York for my men?"

"Providing them with fuel. Most people require it at fairly regular intervals."

"A plate of sandwiches, a couple of pizzas, okay. But you've provided them with enough damn fuel to make them logy and stupid."

"Lieutenant, we have hours yet. Without an occasional break from the stress, tedium, and monotony, we'll all be logy and stupid."

He lifted her rigid chin, turned her face right and left, nodded. "Not bad," he decided, "but you'll want a blocker boost and another hit of anti-inflammatory."

"McNab," she hissed and made him laugh.

"You impressed the bloody hell out of him, taking that minor mountain down with one tackle. But did you have to use your face? I'm very fond of it."

"Apparently you've been brought up-to-date."

"Apparently. When will you get your shot at Yost?"

"I'll wait for tomorrow. He'll pay, Roarke. Between local and federal charges, covering two decades, he'll never see the light of day again. He'll get maximum, solitary, concrete cage. And he knows it."

He nodded again. "Yes, I've thought of that. And I'm content that his life from now on will be worse than death for a man of his tastes and habits."

"Okay." She drew a breath. "You may have to be satisfied with that. Taking Yost out was my priority, and I couldn't risk any delay in doing so. But removing him may screw up this op. I don't see him as directly involved. He's an assassin, not a thief, and his type wouldn't soil themselves by participating in a heist. But in the past few days, we've eliminated Lane, Yost, and Connelly from the mix. Naples isn't stupid. Even with the time and investment he's put in, he may very well abort."

"Mick won't tip him."

She wasn't going to argue that. "Whether he does or doesn't, he's out. With Naples's main security tool running for cover, a key inside man in the hospital, and his assassin on ice, it's dicey. Maybe we'll get Yost to roll on him. Maybe. We're not going to be able to offer him much in return so it'll be a matter of pressure instead of trade. We may both have to be satisfied that we've prevented a crime, and Magda's auction goes off as scheduled."