Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)

The simple heart of it all, she thought. Of course he would find the simple heart of it all.

“Been working on that for a while.” Finish it, she told herself, and move on. “He always locked me up—they didn’t give me a name, I was a thing. He kept me locked up whenever he went out. I don’t remember the first time he raped me. They’re all blurred together, except the last time. He came home—we were in Dallas, that’s where Child Services got my name. And he was drunk, but not enough. He hit me, knocked me down. I fought him, and it made it worse. He broke my arm. I could see the pain, the blinding white flash of it. There was a little knife I’d dropped. I’d been sneaking something to eat while he was gone. I was so hungry. And my fingers found the knife. I used it, and I kept using it until I was covered in his blood. Until he was dead. It was just a little knife. I guess I got lucky, hit some arteries.

“Anyway.” She took a breath, drank more tea. “They found me in an alley. I’d gotten out, wandered off. I didn’t remember any of it.”

“But you remember now?”

“It came back a few years ago. I’d have flashes, some nightmares, some memories—but I could shut them down. And a few years ago it all came back. Dr. Mira . . . she’s helped me. Even when I didn’t want her to.”

“Of course. She’s brilliant and beautiful, and cares deeply for you. And Roarke? Have you told him?”

“I guess he was the trigger, or the finger on it. Yeah, I told him everything.”

“Good, that’s good. He’s a fine young man, and one who loves you without restrictions. Finding a mate, a true one, is a rare and precious thing.”

And the heart of the heart, she thought. Yes, he’d found that, too.

“I don’t even know how it happened, but even when he pisses me off, I’m grateful every day it did.”

“The best possible description for a good marriage.”

“I didn’t intend to come here and talk about all of this, I just— You matter, Mr. Mira. I understand whatever he did, you lost family in a terrible way. I’ll do everything I can to identify, find, and stop those who took his life. I swear it to you.”

“You took an oath when you became a police officer. How long have you been with the police? I don’t recall.”

“About a dozen years now.”

“And so young.” He smiled at her now, that sweet, slightly dreamy smile that melted her heart. “You took an oath long before this, and from all I know, all I’ve seen, you’ve kept it. Look at the woman you’ve made yourself. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, strong and smart and brave. You’ll forgive me if, at this moment, I feel Edward doesn’t deserve you. If in my heart I can’t feel he deserves you. But his children do, and so for their sake I’m grateful you’ll keep your oath.”

“A cop protects and serves, and everybody deserves it. But I don’t think he deserved you. I’ve got to get back to work.”

He got to his feet when she did, stepped to her again, enfolded her again. “I’m proud of you.”

“Oh God, Mr. Mira.” Tears flooded her throat, her eyes. At that moment it seemed her whole being was tears.

“There now.” He let her go to pat the pockets of his sweater, his trousers. “I never have a handkerchief where I think I do.”

“It’s okay.” She swiped at the tears with her hands. “Thanks. Thank you. For everything.” She grabbed her coat, afraid she’d fall to pieces. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes. Charlie will be home soon. I’ll be fine.”

But when she left, he sat by the fire and mourned the death—in every way there was to die—of the man he had thought he’d known. And grieved for the little girl he’d never known, and no one had protected.



Eve got crime scene blotters out of her field kit, used them as tissues, found some sunshades in the glove box. They wouldn’t fool Roarke if he’d beaten her home, but they might get her past Summerset.

She wanted to get home, stick her face in a bowl of ice water, then get to work.

She’d been honest when she’d told Dennis Mira the odds of her saving Frederick Betz were next to zero. Unless she misjudged this . . . sisterhood, they wouldn’t finish him in his own house, not this time. Not when they knew she was looking for them.

She needed to ID the house in the painting, if her hunch held and it was, or had been, real. She needed to find the residence that opened with Betz’s key swipe.

And she needed to watch the recording.

She shuffled that to the side for now.

Easterday, she thought as she drove. He’d be panicked, desperate, looking to both survive and escape.

Forgive me

His last message to his wife told Eve he knew what he’d done, what they’d all done, would come to light.

Where would he run?

Reo had it right—he hadn’t had much of a lead. Unless he’d run straight out of the city, he’d have a hard time getting out, and with only whatever cash he’d taken from the safe. He couldn’t use credit or debit or it would throw up a flag.

And he hadn’t used a card to book a shuttle, a train, a car, or any other mode of transpo.

He didn’t seem the type to hole up in a flop. A hotel, possibly, but that didn’t ensure privacy. She had every property owned by any of the men under watch. If he had a property she didn’t know about, Eve felt certain Petra would have told her.

The woman was terrified, only wanted her husband back and safe.

Would she forgive when she learned why he’d run?

Not your problem, Eve told herself and nearly wept again from the relief of driving through the gates of her home.

She ordered herself to pull it together. She had to get through Summerset and upstairs. And she didn’t want to break down on Roarke.

She didn’t have time to lose it again.

She got out of the car, took the bank bag out of the back—asked herself again if she should’ve made the trip downtown to take the hair to the lab rather than give that task to Reo.

Quicker this way, quicker was best.

She strode to the door, told herself to just keep walking.

The relief she felt when the foyer was Summerset-free dried up any threatening tears. She took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for her office.

Then slowed, stopped, when she heard Summerset’s voice.

“I haven’t seen one of those for thirty years or more.”

“I boosted one like it when I was a boy—before you. It was old even then, but you never knew what might bring in a few punts. So I lifted it and a stack of discs with it. Turned out to be very old porn, which gave the lads and myself quite an education. I traded it off to Mick—no, no, I’m wrong, it was Brian I traded it off to, years later. He may still have it, as far as I know.”

“I take it this one came without the porn.”

“Sadly, it did.”

“How did you come by it?”

“One of my R & R men is known for hoarding everything,” Roarke told him. “He swears it will work, good as new. But the problem, as you see, is the hookup.”

“You’ll jury-rig it there to the comp, and then program it to screen.”

“That’s the plan. Bugger it. Hand me the small spanner there. It’s the wrong size plug, but I can swap it out, I’m thinking.”

She considered backtracking to the bedroom, doing that bowl of ice water. But she’d taken too much time on herself already.

She squared her shoulders, strode straight in to see Roarke at her desk, hunkered over her comp and some black box thing with Summerset peering over his shoulder.

“There you are,” Roarke said without looking up. “I’m just working out how to merge the antique with the contemporary. Nearly there.”

“Great.”

When Summerset glanced over, she realized the shades fooled no one. She saw him lay a hand on Roarke’s shoulder, give it a small squeeze as he himself straightened.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said as Roarke lifted his head, looked at Eve.

She supposed she owed him for leaving the room rather than mortifying her.

“What happened?” Roarke asked.

“A whole bunch of stuff.”