J. Robb - Creation In Death

Two months had passed since that first sighting. Soon, all the time, the work, the care he’d put into this selection would bear fruit.

He saw her from a block away, slowed his pace. He carried the two small shopping bags from nearby stores he’d brought along with him. He would be, to anyone glancing his way, just a man doing a little casual Sunday shopping.

No one noticed, no one paid any mind. He smiled when she saw him, lifted his hand in a wave.

“Ms. Greenfeld. I’d hoped to make it down and escort you all the way. I’m so sorry to make you walk so far in the cold.”

“It’s fine.” She tossed back the pretty brown hair she wore nearly to her shoulders. “It’s so nice of you to pick me up. I could have taken a cab, or the subway.”

“Nonsense.” He didn’t touch her as they walked, in fact moved aside as a pedestrian, chattering on a pocket ’link, clipped between them. “Here you are, giving me your time on a Sunday afternoon.” He gestured toward the lot. “And this gave me an opportunity to do a little shopping.”

He opened the car door for her, and estimated they’d been together no more than three minutes on the street.

When he got in, he started the car, smiled. “You smell of vanilla and cinnamon.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“It’s lovely.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting your granddaughter.”

“She’s very excited. Wedding plans.” He laughed, shook his head, the indulgent grandfather. “Nothing but wedding plans these days. We both appreciate you meeting with us, on the QT, we’ll say. My darling is very choosy. No wedding planners, no coordinators. Has to do it all herself. No companies, no organizations.”

“A woman who knows her own mind.”

“Indeed. And when I saw some of your work, I knew she’d want to meet with you. Even though you worked at Your Affair, and she refuses to so much as go through the doors.” With a little laugh, he shook his head. “Over a year now since she had trouble with the manager. But that’s my girl. Her mother, God rest her, was the same. Stubborn and headstrong.”

“I know Frieda can be temperamental. If she found out I was doing a proposal like this on the side, she’d wig. So, well, keeping this between us is best for everyone.”

“It certainly is.”

When he pulled off the street, she gaped at the house. “What a beautiful home! Is it yours? I mean, do you own the whole building?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s been in the family for generations. I wanted us to meet here, particularly, so you could see it, the wedding and reception venue.”

He turned off the engine and led the way into the house. “Let me take you into the parlor-you can make yourself at home.”

“It’s gorgeous, Mr. Gaines.”

“Thank you. Please, call me Edward. I hope I can call you Ariel.”

“Yes, please.”

“Here, let me have your coat.”

He hung her things in the foyer closet. He would, of course, dispose of the coat, the scarf, her clothing. But he enjoyed this part of the pretense.

He stepped back into the parlor, sighed. “I see my granddaughter isn’t here yet. She’s rarely prompt. I’m just going to make us some tea. Be at home.”

“Thanks.”

In the kitchen, he switched his security screen to the parlor, so he could watch her as he prepared.

He had house droids, of course, and replaced their memory drives routinely. But for the most part he preferred doing for himself.

He selected Earl Grey, and his grandmother’s Meissen tea set. He brewed it as he’d been taught-heating the pot, boiling the water fully, measuring precisely.

Using tongs, he added the precious and pricey sugar cubes to the bowl. She would add sugar, he knew. He’d observed her adding the revolting chemical sweetener to her tea. She would think the cubes a treat, and never notice they were spiked with the tranq until it was already swimming in her system.

After setting a lacy doily on a plate, he arranged the thin, frosted cookies he’d bought especially for this little tête-à-tête. And on the tray he set a single pink rose in a pale green bud vase.

Perfect.

He carried the tea tray-with the three cups to maintain the granddaughter fantasy-into the parlor where Ariel wandered, looking at some of his treasures.

“I love this room. Will you use this for the wedding?”

“We will. It’s my favorite room in the house, so welcoming.” He set the tray down between the two wing chairs that faced the fire. “We’ll have some tea while we wait for the bride. Oh, these cookies are some of her favorites. I thought it might be nice if you re-created them for the reception.”

“I’m sure I can.” Ariel sat, angling herself so she could face him. “I brought a disc with images of some of the cakes I’ve done, and some I’ve assisted in making.”

“Excellent.” He smiled, held up the sugar bowl. “One lump or two?”

“I’ll live dangerously, and go for two.”

“Perfect.” He sat back, nibbling on a cookie while she chattered about her plans and ideas. While her eyes began to droop, her voice began to slur.

He dusted the crumbs from his fingers when she tried to push out of the chair. “Something’s wrong,” she managed. “Something’s wrong with me.”

“No.” He sighed and sipped his tea when she slumped into unconsciousness. “Everything’s just as it should be.”

IN ORDER TO WORK WITHOUT GOING MAD, Roarke erected a mental wall of silence. He simply put himself behind that wall and filtered out the ringing, the clacking, the voices, and electronic beeps and buzzes.

Initially, he’d taken the names A through M, with Eve working on the second half of the alphabet. How could he possibly employ so many brunettes with names beginning with A? Aaronson, Abbott, Abercrombie, Abrams, and down to Azula.

It hadn’t taken long before it had been monumentally clear two people weren’t enough to handle the contacts.

Eve pulled in more cops, and the noise level increased exponentially.

He tried not to think about the time dripping away while he sat, contacting employees he didn’t even know, had never met, would unlikely ever meet. Women who depended on him for their livelihoods, who performed tasks he, or someone else who worked for him, created and assigned to them.

Each contact took time. A housekeeper at a hotel wasn’t accustomed to receiving a call at home, at work, on her pocket ’link from the owner of that hotel. From the man in the suit, in the towering office. Each call was tedious, repetitious, and he was forced to admit, annoyingly clerical.

Routine, Eve would have called it, and he wondered how she could stand the sheer volume of monotony.

“Yo, Irish.” Callendar broke through Roarke’s wall, poking him in the arm. “You need to get up, move around, pour in some fuel.”

“Sorry?” For a moment, her voice was nothing more than a buzz within the buzz. “What?”

“This kind of work, the energy bottoms if you don’t keep it pumped. Take a break, get something to power up from Vending. Use a headset for a while.”

“I’m not even through the bloody B’s.”

“Long haul.” She nodded, offered him a soy chip from the open bag at her station. “Take it from me, move around some. Blood ends up in your ass this way, not that yours isn’t prime. But you want to get the blood back up in your head or your brain’s going to stall.”

She was right, he knew it himself. And still there was a part of him that wanted to snarl at her to mind her own and let him be. Instead he pushed back from the station. “Want something from Vending, then?”

“Surprise me, as long as it’s wet and bubbly.”

It did feel good to be on his feet, to move, to step away from the work and the noise.