Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“You don’t want me to come with?”

“I want the report in. It’s so fucking clean and simple. I want to see it written up, see if there are holes to poke through. I can’t do that if I write it myself. Then go home, catch a few hours. We’ll probably take the lawyer, this Gia Gregg, first thing in the morning. I’ll give you the where and when. Figure on oh-eight hundred.”

“Will do.”

Eve pulled out her ’link as she headed down to the lobby.

Roarke filled the screen, made her wish she was home.

“I figured you hadn’t hit the rack yet.”

“I’m waiting for my wife.”

“You’re going to wait awhile yet.”

His eyes, so breathlessly blue, stayed on hers. “I knew them a little.”

“The Fitzwilliams.”

“Yes—the media’s having a rout over the salacious idea of murder/suicide in the gilded halls of the wealthy and powerful.”

“Fuck the media.”

“I’m sure others feel the same. You met them yourself—at Charles and Louise’s wedding.”

“I’ve been refreshed. What’s your take on the salacious idea?”

“I didn’t know them well enough to have one. How’s Louise?”

“Handling it. And she’ll be distracted, as I sent the sister’s fiancé down to her. Henry Boyle. He works for you.”

“He does, and for a number of years now. A smart, creative, interesting man. I know he was mad about Darlene.”

She’d seen the love; she’d felt the grief. “I’m about to turn their residence upside down to see if I can find the reason this is murder/suicide or the reason it’s not.” She stepped out in the lobby. “Did you watch the rest of that vid?”

“I didn’t, no. It’s not nearly as entertaining without you.”

“We’ll get back to it. Anyway, don’t wait up.”

“I won’t.”

She clicked off, stepped outside, glanced at her wrist unit.

Nearly midnight, she noted. It looked like the day would end and the next begin with murder.

CHAPTER FOUR

Eve considered double-parking, then homed in on a spot across the street. She hit vertical, took the short flight crossways over traffic, executed a quick one-eighty, then dropped down.

Not bad, she decided as she got out. Not half bad.

Since traffic was fairly light, she gauged it, jaywalked—more jay-jogged—back across the avenue, then hiked the three-quarters of a block to the pretty white-brick townhouse where her victim/suspect had co-habbed with Henry Boyle.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to see the ridiculously handsome Irishman sitting on the top of the three steps leading to the front door.

“I believe you just broke several traffic laws, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe.”

She stood at the base of the steps just looking at him, the way the wind ran through that black silk hair, the way that beautifully sculpted mouth curved just for her.

She wondered how many people could claim to have a spouse, a partner, a lover sitting out on a cold, windy January night waiting for them. Not many. And if you added in how gorgeous that spouse, partner, lover looked doing it, that number whittled down to one.

Just her.

“Why aren’t you home in the warm getting some sleep?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said, with the Irish a gilded thread woven through the words. “I debated my choices. Going off to bed without my wife, or coming out to join her.” He rose, tall and lean. “I found it an easy choice, even without the added incentive of poking about in other people’s belongings.”

He’d enjoy that part, of course, she mused; had built the foundation of his empire doing just that as a Dublin street rat.

She climbed up until they were eye to eye. “Did you mess with the locks, ace?”

“I didn’t, no. As yet.” Still smiling, he brushed his lips to hers. “Would you like me to?”

Her master would get them in. His skill would get them in quicker. And it was freaking cold.

“Go ahead, have some fun. Tell me about Henry Boyle,” she said as Roarke went to work.

“Bright, as I told you. Talented, creative. Earned a promotion about ten months ago. He’s done good work—and I have him in charge of engineering on the youth shelter. I like him quite a bit.”

So saying, Roarke opened the front door and gestured Eve in. In the dim light of the foyer, she saw the security panel blinking.

“I didn’t get his codes,” she began.

“Please.” Roarke only shook his head as he scanned the panel with some little tool, which had the light blinking off then going steady green.

“It’s a nice system,” he commented.

“One of yours.”

“It is, which made that simple.”

He glanced around the foyer, one that spilled seamlessly into a living area with cozy conversational groupings, a small glass-tiled fireplace and art of various European cities. She recognized Paris, Florence, London. Wondered a bit that she’d actually been to those places.

“Lights on full,” she ordered, and wandered into the living area. “Casually urban,” she decided.

“What does that tell you?”

“Just that it’s a comfortable space for a couple of city-dwellers. The art’s probably originals, and some of the dust-catchers are likely important. But it doesn’t come across as ‘we’re really rich.’ Then again, I guess he’s not.”

“He does well—and earns it.”

Roarke glanced around himself, noting she’d been right about the art.

“But no, he wouldn’t have her generational fortune. I met her a couple of times—before the wedding. I recall having a conversation with her about philanthropy. She was very dedicated to her work in her family foundation. And I would say she and Henry were very much in love, and nicely suited.”

“How did he get along with the brother?”

“Very well, as far as I know. Is Henry a suspect?”

“Right now I have what reads as murder/suicide. He wasn’t there—I checked his alibi on the way over. And he has no motive I can see.”

“But.”

“But both he and Louise—with Charles backing her—insist it couldn’t be what it reads. So . . .” She looked around. “Plus I found what appear to be pieces of a busted-to-shit lapel recorder beside the body. Who wears a recorder when they’re about to commit murder/suicide?”

“Some might want it documented—last words and so on—but jumping from the fifty-second floor would eliminate that.”

“Exactly. I’m going to start in the bedroom—must be upstairs. Why don’t you take the electronics?”

They started up together, then Roarke turned into a room serving as a home office. Comfortable again, Eve concluded on a quick glance. Organized without being obsessive about it. A coffee cup left on the desk, sketches pinned to a board, an ancient pair of skids—his—in a corner. A data and communication unit with an auxiliary comp. One large wall screen.

As Roarke took off his coat, she moved on.

A guest bedroom: soft, soothing colors, and the required—for reasons she couldn’t fathom—mountain range of pillows.

She found the master—a little more elaborate here. The bed, a soaring four-poster, struck her as an antique, while the set of chairs in the sitting area with their silky blue and silver print hit solid contemporary. Wood floors, a silver area rug, a sweep of blue—silky again—to frame the windows. The fireplace was a long, narrow rectangle inserted into the wall across from the bed.

Clear glass lamps vied with a painting of blue and white flowers in a thick, deeply carved silver frame. Real flowers—white lilies—speared out of a massive urn that looked as old as the bed.