“Make it fast,” she snapped and, still fuming, went to her command center to do the run.
She had to use Feeney’s baby, the IRCCA, as she needed the international run. She found Donnelly easily enough, and his spotty juvenile record. Petty theft, some car boosts. Then it appeared he’d gotten better at his work. Only suspicions of burglary or theft, and always in empty houses or businesses. No muggings, no person-to-person crimes. One arrest tossed for lack of evidence. And one conviction in his late twenties.
He did three years for that one, and then poofed.
But she found not a single citing of violence, of weapon possession.
She pushed on his family, saw his mother lived in Queens near the sister and the retired Army. Another sister lived in New Jersey—also married with family—and the third currently lived and worked in Italy.
Nothing criminal on any of them. She couldn’t decide if that equaled relief or annoyance.
Then Roarke came back, and she found the annoyance easily.
“He was nervy,” Roarke said as he moved to the cabinet for wine, “and evasive, as he knew your reputation. He was frightened. He knew about the bombing, of course. He works at Econo, as you know.”
Roarke poured wine while she sat and said nothing.
“He never thought the cops would give him more than a cursory glance as he had no connection to the meeting or anyone in it. When you interviewed him this evening, he was shaken. He has a wife and three children, as you also know. He met his wife as William O’Donnell, twelve years ago. After he’d come to New York—before he was . . . retired. He retired after their first child was born—that’s nearly eleven years now. And before they married, he told his wife about Liam and the time he’d spent in prison and the rest. She married him anyway. But they haven’t told the children, you see.”
He looked at her now as he sipped the wine. “And he was afraid you’d push deep enough to see through the identification he’s used all these years, the life he’s built. He was afraid he’d have to leave his family, or decide to uproot them all and run.
“You can contact his sister in Italy. He says if Richie was becoming important, his Colleen would know, and would help you in any way she could. He hopes you wouldn’t need to speak with his brother-in-law, who knows nothing of his life before, as it could cause friction in the family, but he won’t run. He trusts me enough not to, as I told him I trusted you weren’t interested in uprooting three children or punishing him for false papers.
“He’s terrified,” Roarke finished. “But he’s putting the life he’s built in your hands because I asked him to.”
He crossed to her. “So where does that leave us, Lieutenant?”
“You say you understand the job comes first, then you slap at me when it does.”
“And you ask me to work with you when it suits, but yank back when my way of doing the job veers from yours. Even,” he said before she could speak, “if both ways put those who’ve died first and foremost. Pushing at Liam would have eaten up your time and energies—as it already has more than it needed to.”
“Chasing him down if he was part of this would’ve eaten more.”
“True enough, but he’s not. And you’re too good a cop to have looked into his past and thought otherwise. We both know there are ways of doing the job other than pulling a man out of his house and grilling him in the box. And both of us, Eve, skirt our particular lines when we have to, or when the other needs it.”
“It’s easier for you.”
He angled his head. “Do you think so?”
She let out a breath. “I like to think so. I don’t like thinking how many times you’ve compromised or moved your line. It makes the scales too uneven.”
“They’re level enough from where I stand. What I can’t tolerate is thinking your trust in me has limits.”
“It doesn’t. Fuck.” She had to put her head—throbbing again—in her hands. “It wasn’t not trusting you. It was not trusting some guy you acknowledged was a thief—a guy who checked off several boxes—just because you have some fond memories.”
He drank more wine. “If I jiggle my line a bit, we can call that fair enough. But I’d never jeopardize your investigation over fond memories.”
“He was the best shot I had so far. Markin’s another, but I haven’t been able to pin it down. Now this guy is off the list. I’m still checking out his alibi.”
“I’d expect no less. Nor would he. I’ll go make another couple of contacts. And you should drink some water. It’ll help revive the blocker a bit to push back the fresh headache.”
“It’s annoying when you look in my head.”
“I just have to look in your eyes. I know how they look when they’re fighting pain. Drink some water,” he said, and left her.
17
When he judged he’d done all he could for the night, Roarke found Eve asleep at her command center.
Second night running, he thought. She would push herself to exhaustion, carrying the weight of eighteen dead. And no point, he decided, in beating against that wall. That was the woman he loved, no matter how much she could—and did—infuriate him.
He glanced at the work on her screen, noted she’d juggled, yet again, names on her list. From most to least probable.
She’d do better, he knew, when she conducted her face-to-face interviews. She had a master’s skill in reading people, the nuances of tone, gestures, a look in the eyes, a turn of phrase.
Oh, she had her blind spots, he thought, but then he did as well. Still, he didn’t care for it, not one bit, when one of those blind spots centered on him.
However irritated he remained, he gathered her up.
She jerked, might have struck out. Fortunately for both of them her reflexes remained keen.
“I was just—”
“Past the point where coffee can keep you going,” he said as he carried her to the elevator.
“I drank the water.”
“Good.”
He carried her into the bedroom where Galahad was already sprawled on the bed, belly-up like roadkill. After sitting her on the side of the bed, Roarke sat himself to take his boots off.
His boots, she thought, not hers. Maybe a small, stupid thing, she considered, but she knew a flick in the eye when it stung her.
She was, as he’d thought himself only minutes before, very good at reading nuances.
“If you want to stay pissed off—”
“It isn’t a matter of want.”
“Fine. If you’re going to stay pissed off, I can stay right there with you.” She yanked off her own boots, tossed them aside before she shoved up to strip off her weapon harness.
“I took him off the list, didn’t I? I’m not going to report him over the fraudulent ID. But you should tell him he’s on my scope now.” In angry clicks and bangs, the contents of her pockets hit the dresser. “So if he’s not retired, or he gets a yen to come out of retirement, I’ll bust him. And that’ll be on him.”
Roarke rose to take off the sweater he’d changed into after his workday. “I did.”
“Fine. Good.” She dragged off her belt with a snap like a whip. “And goddamn it, if I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t get within fifty klicks of an investigation.”
“Unless it suited you.”
Hot, molten, flaming fury erupted against his cold and bitter ice. “Bullshit.” She stalked over to him. “Bullshit, bullshit.” Shoved him. “Bollocks.”
“Careful.” His voice, dangerously quiet, only pumped up the heat for her.
“Oh, bite me.” Shoved him again. “I opened the door, and I can close it because I’m the one with the badge. I’m in fucking charge. I opened it, and I leave it the hell open because I trust you. So knock it off.”
Viciously pleased to see flashes of heat melting the Arctic ice in his eyes—damned if she’d be the only one on boil—she pushed again. Then added an insulting gesture he’d once pulled on her. She flicked his shoulder.
“There, I knocked it off for you.” And there it was, the hot blue center of the flame. She started to flick his other shoulder. He grabbed her hand; she lifted her chin.