J. Robb - Innocent In Death

“No. No, I got it. It’s just routine stuff.”

And his attention shifted away from her, back to his comp screen. “All right, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Lieutenant,” he said as she turned away. “Try not to drink more than a gallon of coffee.”

For some reason it made her feel better that he’d poked at her. She moved into the kitchen of her work space, and programmed her AutoChef for a half pot instead of the full one she’d have ordered up otherwise.

It was good he had some work to do, she thought. They’d both just do what they did for a few hours. She carried her coffee to her desk, and started to call up Peabody ’s report on Craig Foster.

Cursed.

“Might as well just do it,” she muttered. “Get it off my brain.” She started the run on Percell, Magdelana, manually, ordering text only on her comp screen. It took some time to find her particular quarry, but she narrowed the search by approximate age, physical description-and unless she’d been way off on the accent-nationality. And scored.

Percell, Magdelana. DOB: March 12, 2029. Born: St. Paul, Minnesota. Parents: Percell, James and Karen. Hair: blond. Eyes: green. Weight: 115 pounds. Height: five feet, five inches.

Eve skimmed over her education, but noted that Magdelana had graduated from high school early-at fifteen. Had attended Princeton and graduated in just under three years on an accelerated program. Cum laude.

“So she’s smart.”

Married: Dupont, Andre, June 22, 2048. No offspring. Divorced: March 2051. Married: Fayette, Georges, April 5, 2055. No offspring. Divorced: October 2059.

Approximate net worth: thirteen point five million U.S. dollars.

Residences: Paris, France; Cannes, France.

No criminal.

Eve sat back.

The official data was slim, and the no criminal doubtful as Roarke had said they’d worked together. Even if she hadn’t been convicted, even if she hadn’t been arrested, there should have been some note in her file about being questioned at some point or other.

He’d cleared it for her, Eve thought, and felt something tighten in her belly. He’d hacked in and tidied up her data, the same way he’d taken care of his own once upon a time.

He’d protected her.

Because it was harder to accept than she’d imagined, Eve ended the search. She already knew more than she wanted to know.

She dove into work, reading Peabody ’s report, the case notes. She started runs on staff members as she set up a murder board. And was foolishly pleased when Galahad padded in to leap up and stretch out on her sleep chair.

“What we have here,” she told him, and picked up her coffee, “is your Average Joe. No big highs, no deep lows. Cruising along with his average life without, apparently, getting in anyone’s way. Then one day he gulps down his homemade hot chocolate during his working lunch and dies a very nasty death.

“So who was that pissed off at Average Joe? What was there to gain by his death? Look at his financials. Living within his means, such as they were. Death insurance, sure, but not major. No holdings, no real estate, no fancy artwork. Financial gain is way down on our list here.”

She eased a hip on the edge of her desk, studied the data on her wall screen as she drank her coffee. “And here’s Mirri Hallywell. You could call her an Average Jane. Worked with the vic, hung out with him, had little study sessions with him, and so on. Just friends, though. Now, in your opinion: can two attractive people of the opposite sex, in the same age group, with the same interests who enjoy each other’s company, spend time together and remain only friends? Or will sex, as sex is prone to do, rear its ugly head?”

She glanced toward the adjoining office, annoyed that her line of thinking had circled back around to Roarke and his former playmate.

“It’s possible, sure it’s possible. No sexual spark, maybe. Or the platonic thing is just the level the relationship reaches. Hallywell, however, did have opportunity. As did, naturally, the vic’s wife. Could be the ugly end of an ugly triangle. Just that simple.”

But it didn’tfeel like that.

“Want the guy, kill the wife. That’s what I’d do. There’s the old ‘If I can’t have you no one will’ gambit, but why now?”

She went back to her notes, to the interviews. No one she’d spoken with had mentioned any sort of upset, argument, controversy, or scandal involving the victim.

“Average Joe,” she repeated, looking back at the now snoring cat. “Mr. Clean Machine.”

“If you’re talking to Galahad, you’re wasting your time,” Roarke pointed out.

“He’s taking it into his subconscious.”

“The only thing in his subconscious is a yearning for salmon. How’s it going for you?”

“Circles and dies on me. No motive, no suspects. He’s just not the type to buy it this way. In a mugging, sure. Some random act, absolutely. Everybody’s the type for that. But someone he knew planned this out, set this up, executed it. And no one who knew him has a reason, that I can find, to want him dead.”

Roarke wandered in to take a look at the ID picture of the victim she had on her wall screen. “He wouldn’t be the first to have some secret life tucked under the average.”

“No, and I’m going to keep digging at the surface. Could’ve been banging that one.” Eve lifted her chin toward the wall screen as she brought Mirri Hallywell up.

“Pretty.”

“Yeah, the wife’s prettier. And according to the retired cop who lives below their apartment, the newlyweds were nailing each other every five minutes, so affair seems superfluous. Still, guys never get tired of sex.”

Roarke patted her ass. “Indeed we don’t.”

She split-screened Mirri and Lissette. Opposite types, physically, she thought. “For some, sex is ice cream, and they want a nice variety.”

Roarke only smiled. “I’ve settled on my single flavor.”

“Yeah, but you worked your way through the menu a few times first. Foster was young,” she continued when Roarke laughed. “Hadn’t had a lot of time to experiment. It doesn’t play all the notes for me,” she murmured. “But it’s the only tune I’ve got at the moment.”

He turned now to study her murder board. “Money is, I assume, not in the equation.”

“Not enough of it.”

“Rage?”

“Have to be cold, dead cold. This wasn’t a crime of passion. Poison’s…aloof. Especially if you’re not around to see it do its work. Not discounting rage,” she added. “I just can’t find any. Everybody liked him.”

“That’s what they said about the Icoves,” he reminded her.

She shook her head. “This guy’s nothing like them. The Icoves were lofty, smug, crazy, sure, but rich and privileged and in the spotlight. This guy was happy in the wings. Going to take a look at his apartment tomorrow,” she said. “Go through his files at school. Maybe he wasn’t the one with a secret. If he knew something, suspected something worth being poisoned for…” She shrugged. “I’ll find it.”

“No doubt.” Roarke stepped over, touched his lips to her brow. “And you can start the hunt in the morning. You’ve had a long day of cop work and wifely duties.”

“Guess I have.” She let him take her hand to lead her out. “The Derricks were okay. But I still don’t want to go to Montana.”

“That’s your cow fear talking. We could go out for a couple of days and stay at the resort. Maybe do a little horseback riding.”

“Oh, there’s a lifelong dream. Getting up on some animal that weighs ten times what I do and saying, ‘Giddyup.’”

“It’s surprisingly exhilarating.”

“I’ll stick with chasing down psychopaths for my thrills, thanks.”