J Robb - Imitation in Death

“Yes. I do see it.”

“There have been others, from time to time, who’ve wormed their way to me with some story of a relation. Uncle, brother, sister, what have you. Easily refuted, ignored, dealt with.”

“What I told you wasn’t a story, Roarke, but God’s truth.”

“Aye, well.” He looked down at his hands and knew in their shape-the width of palm, the length of fingers-they were his father’s hands. “I knew that, somewhere in the belly, I knew it. It made it worse. Almost unbearable really.”

He looked up again, met her eyes again. “You’ve a right to know I checked on you, deeply.”

“I expected you would.”

“And I checked on her. On myself. I’d never done so before, not carefully.”

“I don’t understand that. I wouldn’t have told you the way I did if I hadn’t thought you’d know some of it. A man like you would know whatever he needed to know.”

“It was a point of pride to me that it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter, particularly when I believed my mother wasMegRoarke and I was as glad to see the back of her as she was of me.”

Moira let out a long breath. “I said no to coffee before because my hands were shaking. I wonder if I might trouble you for some after all.”

“Of course.” He rose and walked over to open a panel in the wall. Inside was a fully equipped minikitchen. When she laughed, he turned in the act of programming coffee.

“I’ve never seen the like of this office. So posh. My feet nearly sank to the ankles in the carpet. You’re young to have so much.”

The smile he sent her was more grim than amused. “I started early.”

“So you did. My stomach’s still jumping.” She pressed a hand to it. “I was certain you were bringing me in to fire me, maybe to threaten legal action of some sort. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my family, or the guests at Dochas. I hated thinking I’d have to leave. I’ve gotten attached.”

“As I said, I checked on you. They’re lucky to have you at the shelter. How would you like your coffee?”

“Plenty of cream, if you don’t mind. Is this whole building yours, then?”

“It is.”

“It’s like a great black spear, powerful and elegant. Thanks.” She accepted the coffee and took the first sip. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she sniffed the contents of the cup. “Is this real coffee?”

And that weight at the base of his skull vanished with a quick, appreciative laugh. Gone, at last. “It is, yes. I’ll send you some. The first time I met my wife, I gave her coffee and she had a similar reaction. I sent her some as well. Might be why she married me.”

“I doubt that very much.” She kept her gaze steady on his now. “Your mother is dead, and he killed her, didn’t he? Patrick Roarke murdered her, as I always believed.”

“Yes. I went to Dublin and verified it.”

“Will you tell me how?”

Beat her to death, he thought. Beat her bloody and dead, with hands so much like my own. Then threw her away in the river. Threw away the poor dead girl who’d loved him enough to give him a son.

“No, I won’t. Only that I tracked down a man who’d been with him in those days, and who knew of it. Knew her and what happened.”

“If only I’d had more experience and less arrogance…” Moira began.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. If she’d stayed in the shelter in Dublin, or gone back to her family in Clare, or run. As long as she’d taken me, it wouldn’t have mattered. For whatever reason, pride, meanness, bloody-mindedness, he wanted me.”

The knowledge of that would haunt him for all of his days. Maybe it was meant to. “And he’d have found her.”

“That’s the kindest thing you could say to me,” she murmured.

“It’s just truth.” And he needed to get past it as best he could. “I went to Clare. I saw her family. My family.”

“Did you?” She reached out, laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad for that.”

“They were… extraordinary. My mother’s twin, Sinead, she opened her home to me. Just like that.”

“Well, West County folks, they’re known for their hospitality, aren’t they?”

“I’m still baffled, and grateful. I’m grateful to you, Ms. O’Bannion, for telling me. I wanted you to know that.”

“She’d have been pleased, don’t you think? Not only that you know, but that you’ve taken these steps. I think she’d be very pleased.” She set her coffee aside, opened her purse. “You didn’t take this when you were in my office before. Will you have it now?”

He took the photograph of a young woman with red hair and pretty green eyes holding the dark-haired little boy. “Thank you. I’d very much like to have it.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

A guy in a white suit sang about love being quiet and tricky. Eve sipped champagne and had to agree. At least about the tricky part. Why else was she struggling to take her mind off murder and pretending to do something more than taking up space in a Philadelphia ballroom?

God knew love-and she would kick Roarke’s ass later for deserting her-was the only reason she was standing here while some woman in lavender silk rambled on and on and on about fashion designers.

Yes, yes, yes, she knew Leonardo personally. Jesus, he was married to her oldest friend. And she could’ve used a good dose of Mavis at the moment. Yes, for God’s sake, he’d designed the dress she was wearing.

So the fuck what? It was clothes. You put them on and you weren’t naked or cold.

Love obliged her to edit her thoughts so her part of the conversation-when she could shove a word through the wall of noise the woman built around her-went something like: Yes.

“Ah, there’s the most striking woman in the room. Excuse us, won’t you?” Charles Monroe, smooth and handsome, beamed a smile at Eve’s tormentor. “I simply have to steal her.”

“Kill me,” Eve muttered as Charles drew her clear. “Take my weapon out of my bag, press it to the pulse in my throat, and fire. End my torment.”

He only laughed and swung her to the dance floor. “When I spotted you I thought you might be on the point of drawing that weapon and blasting the woman between the eyes.”

“I imagined ramming it into her mouth. It was never shut anyway.” She gave a quick shudder. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Running a bit late, only just arrived.”

“Working?” Charles was a top-level LC.

“I’m with Louise.”

“Oh.” And because he was a man who made his living selling himself, Eve couldn’t quite figure how he and the dedicated Dr. Louise Dimatto developed, and maintained, a relationship.

Took all kinds, she reminded herself.

“I was going to get in touch with you,” he continued. “About Jacie Wooton.”

The cop shifted back to the forefront. “You knew her?”

“I used to. Not well, really. I don’t think anyone knew Jacie well. But we ran in similar circles, so we’d bump into each other now and then. Or did, before she got busted.”

“Let’s find a corner somewhere.”

“I don’t know that this is the time-”

“Works for me.” Taking charge, she pulled him from the dance floor, scanning the little packs of people, the tables, and decided to take it outside.

There was a terrace festooned with flowers, scattered with more tables, more people. But it was quieter.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Next to nothing.” He wandered to the edge of the terrace, looked out over the lights of the city. “She was well-established before I got into the life. She liked everything top drawer. The best clothes, the best venues, the best clients.”

“The best dealer, then?”