CHAPTER THREE
Eve hated funerals. She detested the rite human beings insisted on giving death. The flowers, the music, the endless words and weeping.
There might be a God. She hadn't completely ruled such things out. And if there were, she thought, It must have enjoyed a good laugh over Its creations' useless rituals and passages.
Still, she had made the trip to Virginia to attend Sharon DeBlass's funeral. She wanted to see the dead's family and friends gathered together, to observe, and analyze, and judge.
The senator stood grim-faced and dry-eyed, with Rockman, his shadow, one pew behind. Beside DeBlass was his son and daughter-in-law.
Sharon 's parents were young, attractive, successful attorneys who headed their own law firm.
Richard DeBlass stood with his head bowed and his eyes hooded, a trimmer and somehow less dynamic version of his father. Was it coincidence, Eve wondered, or design that he stood at equal distance between his father and wife?
Elizabeth Barrister was sleek and chic in her dark suit, her waving mahogany hair glossy, her posture rigid. And, Eve, noted, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with constant tears.
What did a mother feel, Eve wondered, as she had wondered all of her life, when she lost a child?
Senator DeBlass had a daughter as well, and she flanked his right side. Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass had followed in her father's political footsteps. Painfully thin, she stood militarily straight, her arms looking like brittle twigs in her black dress. Beside her, her husband Justin Summit stared at the glossy coffin draped with roses at the front of the church. At his side, their son Franklin, still trapped in the gangly stage of adolescence, shifted restlessly.
At the end of the pew, somehow separate from the rest of the family, was DeBlass's wife, Anna.
She neither shifted nor wept. Not once did Eve see her so much as glance at the flower-strewn box that held what was left of her only granddaughter.
There were others, of course. Elizabeth 's parents stood together, hands linked, and cried openly. Cousins, acquaintances, and friends dabbed at their eyes or simply looked around in fascination or horror. The President had sent an envoy, and the church was packed with more politicians than the Senate lunchroom.
Though there were more than a hundred faces, Eve had no trouble picking Roarke out of the crowd. He was alone. There were others lined in the pew with him, but Eve recognized the solitary quality that surrounded him. There could have been ten thousand in the building, and he would have remained aloof from them.
His striking face gave away nothing: no guilt, no grief, no interest. He might have been watching a mildly inferior play. Eve could think of no better description for a funeral.
More than one head turned in his direction for a quick study or, in the case of a shapely brunette, a not so subtle flirtation. Roarke responded to both the same way: he ignored them.
At first study, she would have judged him as cold, an icy fortress of a man who guarded himself against any and all. But there must have been heat. It took more than discipline and intelligence to rise so high so young. It took ambition, and to Eve's mind, ambition was a flammable fuel.
He looked straight ahead as the dirge swelled, then without warning, he turned his head, looked five pews back across the aisle and directly into Eve's eyes.
It was surprise that had her fighting not to jolt at that sudden and unexpected punch of power. It was will that kept her from blinking or shifting her gaze. For one humming minute they stared at each other. Then there was movement, and mourners came between them as they left the church.
When Eve stepped into the aisle to search him out again, he was gone.
She joined the long line of cars and limos on the journey to the cemetery. Above, the hearse and the family vehicles flew solemnly. Only the very rich could afford body internment. Only the obsessively traditional still put their dead into the ground.
Frowning, her fingers tapping the wheel, she relayed her observations into her recorder. When she got to Roarke, she hesitated and her frown deepened.
"Why would he trouble himself to attend the funeral of such a casual acquaintance?" She murmured into the recorder in her pocket. "According to data, they had met only recently and had a single date. Behavior seems inconsistent and questionable."
She shivered once, glad she was alone as she drove through the arching gates of the cemetery. As far as Eve was concerned, there should be a law against putting someone in a hole.
More words and weeping, more flowers. The sun was bright as a sword but the air had the snapping bite of a petulant child. Near the gravesite, she slipped her hands into her pockets. She'd forgotten her gloves again. The long, dark coat she wore was borrowed. Beneath it, the single gray suit she owned had a loose button that seemed to beg her to tug at it. Inside her thin leather boots, her toes were tiny blocks of ice.
The discomfort helped distract her from the misery of headstones and the smell of cold, fresh earth. She bided her time, waiting until the last mournful word about everlasting life echoed away, then approached the senator.
"My sympathies, Senator DeBlass, to you and your family."
His eyes were hard; sharp and black, like the hewed edge of a stone. "Save your sympathies, lieutenant. I want justice."
"So do I. Mrs. DeBlass." Eve held out a hand to the senator's wife and found her fingers clutching a bundle of brittle twigs.
"Thank you for coming."
Eve nodded. One close look had shown her Anna DeBlass was skimming under the edge of emotion on a buffering layer of chemicals. Her eyes passed over Eve's face and settled just above her shoulder as she withdrew her hand.
"Thank you for coming," she said in exactly the same flat tone to the next offer of condolence.
Before Eve could speak again, her arm was taken in a firm grip. Rockman smiled solemnly down at her. "Lieutenant Dallas, the Senator and his family appreciate the compassion and interest you've shown in attending the service." In his quiet manner, he edged her away. "I'm sure you'll understand that, under the circumstances, it would be difficult for Sharon 's parents to meet the officer in charge of their daughter's investigation over her grave."
Eve allowed him to lead her five feet away before she jerked her arm free. "You're in the right business, Rockman. That's a very delicate and diplomatic way of telling me to get my ass out."
"Not at all." He continued to smile, smoothly polite. "There's simply a time and place. You have our complete cooperation, lieutenant. If you wish to interview the senator's family, I'd be more than happy to arrange it."
"I'll arrange my own interviews, at my own time and place." Because his placid smile irked her, she decided to see if she could wipe it off his face. "What about you, Rockman? Got an alibi for the night in question?"
The smile did falter – that was some satisfaction. He recovered quickly, however. "I dislike the word alibi."
"Me, too," she returned with a smile of her own. "That's why I like nothing better than to break them. You didn't answer the question, Rockman."
"I was in East Washington on the night Sharon was murdered. The senator and I worked quite late refining a bill he intends to present next month."
"It's a quick trip from EW to New York," she commented.
"It is. However, I didn't make it on that particular night. We worked until nearly midnight, then I retired to the senator's guest room. We had breakfast together at seven the next morning. As Sharon, according to your own reports, was killed at two, it gives me a very narrow window of opportunity."
"Narrow windows still provide access." But she said it only to irritate him as she turned away. She'd held back the information on the doctored security discs from the file she'd given DeBlass. The murderer had been in the Gorham by midnight. Rockman would hardly use the victim's grandfather for an alibi unless it was solid. Rockman's working in East Washington at midnight slammed even that narrow window closed.
She saw Roarke again, and watched with interest as Elizabeth Barrister clung to him, as he bent his head and murmured to her. Not the usual offer and acceptance of sympathy from strangers, Eve mused.
Her brow lifted as Roarke laid a hand on Elizabeth 's right cheek, kissed her left before stepping back to speak quietly to Richard DeBlass.
He crossed to the senator, but there was no contact between them, and the conversation was brief. Alone, as Eve had suspected, Roarke began to walk across the winter grass, between the cold monuments the living raised for the dead.
"Roarke."
He stopped, and as he had at the service, turned and met her eyes. She thought she caught a flash of something in them: anger, sorrow, impatience. Then it was gone and they were simply cool, blue, and unfathomable.
She didn't hurry as she walked to him. Something told her he was a man too used to people – women certainly – rushing toward him. So she took her time, her long, slow strides flapping her borrowed coat around her chilly legs.
"I'd like to speak with you," she said when she faced him. She took out her badge, watched him give it a brief glance before lifting his eyes back to hers. "I'm investigating Sharon DeBlass's murder."
"Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of murder victims, Lieutenant Dallas?"
His voice was smooth, with a whisper of the charm of Ireland over it, like rich cream over warmed whiskey. "Do you make a habit of attending the funerals of women you barely know, Roarke?"
"I'm a friend of the family," he said simply. "You're freezing, lieutenant."
She plunged her icy fingers into the pockets of the coat. "How well do you know the victim's family?"
"Well enough." He tilted his head. In a minute, he thought, her teeth would chatter. The nasty little wind was blowing her poorly cut hair around a very interesting face. Intelligent, stubborn, sexy. Three very good reasons in his mind to take a second look at a woman. "Wouldn't it be more convenient to talk someplace warmer?"
"I've been unable to reach you," she began.
"I've been traveling. You've reached me now. I assume you're returning to New York. Today?"
"Yes. I have a few minutes before I have to leave for the shuttle. So… "
"So we'll go back together. That should give you time enough to grill me."
"Question you," she said between her teeth, annoyed that he turned and walked away from her. She lengthened her stride to catch up. "A few simple answers now, Roarke, and we can arrange a more formal interview in New York."
"I hate to waste time," he said easily. "You strike me as someone who feels the same. Did you rent a car?"
"Yes."
"I'll arrange to have it returned." He held out a hand, waiting for the key card.
"That isn't necessary."
"It's simpler. I appreciate complications, lieutenant, and I appreciate simplicity. You and I are going to the same destination at the same approximate time. You want to talk to me, and I'm willing to oblige." He stopped by a black limo where a uniformed driver waited, holding the rear door open. "My transport's routed for New York. You can, of course, follow me to the airport, take public transportation, then call my office for an appointment. Or you can drive with me, enjoy the privacy of my jet, and have my full attention during the trip."
She hesitated only a moment, then took the key card for the rental from her pocket and dropped it into his hand. Smiling, he gestured her into the limo where she settled as he instructed his driver to deal with the rental car.
"Now then." Roarke slid in beside her, reached for a decanter. "Would you like a brandy to fight off the chill?"
"No." She felt the warmth of the car sweep up from her feet and was afraid she'd begin to shiver in reaction.
"Ah. On duty. Coffee perhaps."
"Great."
Gold winked at his wrist as he pressed his choice for two coffees on the AutoChef built into the side panel. "Cream?"
"Black."
"A woman after my own heart." Moments later, he opened the protective door and offered her a china cup in a delicate saucer. "We have more of a selection on the plane," he said, then settled back with his coffee.
"I bet." The steam rising from her cup smelled like heaven. Eve took a tentative sip – and nearly moaned.
It was real. No simulation made from vegetable concentrate so usual since the depletion of the rain forests in the late twentieth. This was the real thing, ground from rich Columbian beans, singing with caffeine.
She sipped again, and could have wept.
"Problem?" He enjoyed her reaction immensely, the flutter of the lashes, the faint flush, the darkening of the eyes – a similar response, he noted, to a woman purring under a man's hands.
"Do you know how long it's been since I had real coffee?"
He smiled. "No."
"Neither do I." Unashamed, she closed her eyes as she lifted the cup again. "You'll have to excuse me, this is a private moment. We'll talk on the plane."
"As you like."
He gave himself the pleasure of watching her as the car traveled smoothly over the road.
Odd, he thought, he hadn't pegged her for a cop. His instincts were usually keen about such matters. At the funeral, he'd been thinking only what a terrible waste it was for someone as young, foolish, and full of life as Sharon to be dead.
Then he'd sensed something, something that had coiled his muscles, tightened his gut. He'd felt her gaze, as physical as a blow. When he'd turned, when he'd seen her, another blow. A slow motion one-two punch he hadn't been able to evade.
It was fascinating.
But the warning blip hadn't gone off. Not the warning blip that should have relayed cop. He'd seen a tall, willowy brunette with short, tumbled hair, eyes the color of honeycombs and a mouth made for sex.
If she hadn't sought him out, he'd intended to seek her.
Too damn bad she was a cop.
She didn't speak again until they were at the airport, stepping into the cabin of his JetStar 6000.
She hated being impressed, again. Coffee was one thing, and a small weakness was permitted, but she didn't care for her goggle-eyed reaction to the lush cabin with its deep chairs, sofas, the antique carpet, and crystal vases filled with flowers.
There was a viewing screen recessed in the forward wall and a uniformed flight attendant who showed no surprise at seeing Roarke board with a strange woman.
"Brandy, sir?"
"My companion prefers coffee, Diana, black." He lifted a brow until Eve nodded. "I'll have brandy."
"I've heard about the JetStar." Eve shrugged out of her coat, and it was whisked away along with Roarke's by the attendant. "It's a nice form of transportation."
"Thanks. We spent two years designing it."
"Roarke Industries?" she said as she took a chair.
"That's right. I prefer using my own whenever possible. You'll need to strap in for takeoff," he told her, then leaned forward to flip on an intercom. "Ready."
"We've been cleared," they were told. "Thirty seconds."
Almost before Eve could blink, they were airborne, in so smooth a transition she barely felt the g's. It beat the hell, she thought, out of the commercial flights that slapped you back in your seat for the first five minutes of air time.
They were served drinks and a little plate of fruit and cheese that had Eve's mouth watering. It was time, she decided, to get to work.
"How long did you know Sharon DeBlass?"
"I met her recently, at the home of a mutual acquaintance."
"You said you were a friend of the family."
"Of her parents," Roarke said easily. "I've known Beth and Richard for several years. First on a business level, then on a personal one. Sharon was in school, then in Europe, and our paths didn't cross. I met her for the first time a few days ago, took her to dinner. Then she was dead."
He took a flat gold case from his inside pocket. Eve's eyes narrowed as she watched him light a cigarette. "Tobacco's illegal, Roarke."
"Not in free air space, international waters, or on private property." He smiled at her through a haze of smoke. "Don't you think, lieutenant, that the police have enough to do without trying to legislate our morality and personal lifestyles?"
She hated to admit even to herself that the tobacco smelled enticing. "Is that why you collect guns? As part of your personal lifestyle?"
"I find them fascinating. Your grandfather and mine considered owning one a constitutional right. We've toyed quite a bit with constitutional rights as we've civilized ourselves."
"And murder and injury by that particular type of weapon is now an aberration rather than the norm."
"You like rules, lieutenant?"
The question was mild, as was the insult under it. Her shoulders stiffened. "Without rules, chaos."
"With chaos, life."
Screw philosophy, she thought, annoyed. "Do you own a thirty-eight caliber Smith Wesson, Model Ten, circa 1990?"
He took another slow, considering drag. The tobacco burned expensively between his long, elegant fingers. "I believe I own one of that model. Is that what killed her?"
"Would you be willing to show it to me?"
"Of course, at your convenience."
Too easy, she thought. She suspected anything that came easily. "You had dinner with the deceased the night before her death. In Mexico."
"That's right." Roarke crushed out his cigarette and settled back with his brandy. "I have a small villa on the west coast. I thought she'd enjoy it. She did."
"Did you have a physical relationship with Sharon DeBlass?"
His eyes glittered for a moment, but whether with amusement or with anger, she couldn't be sure. "By that, I take you to mean did I have sex with her. No, lieutenant, though it hardly seems relevant. We had dinner."
"You took a beautiful woman, a professional companion, to your villa in Mexico, and all you shared with her was dinner."
He took his time choosing a glossy green grape. "I appreciate beautiful women for a variety of reasons, and enjoy spending time with them. I don't employ professionals for two reasons. First, I don't find it necessary to pay for sex." He sipped his brandy, watching her over the rim. "And second, I don't choose to share." He paused, very briefly. "Do you?"
Her stomach fluttered, was ignored. "We're not talking about me."
"I was. You're a beautiful woman, and we're quite alone, at least for the next fifteen minutes. Yet all we've shared has been coffee and brandy." He smiled at the temper smoldering in her eyes. "Heroic, isn't it, what restraint I have?"
"I'd say your relationship with Sharon DeBlass had a different flavor."
"Oh, I certainly agree." He chose another grape, offered it.
Appetite was a weakness, Eve reminded herself even as she accepted the grape and bit through its thin, tart skin. "Did you see her after your dinner in Mexico?"
"No, I dropped her off about three A.M. and went home. Alone."
"Can you tell me your whereabouts for the forty-eight hours after you went home – alone?"
"I was in bed for the first five of them. I took a conference call over breakfast. About eight-fifteen. You can check the records."
"I will."
This time he grinned, a quick flash of undiluted charm that had her pulse skipping. "I have no doubt of it. You fascinate me, Lieutenant Dallas."
"After the conference call?"
"It ended about nine. I worked out until ten, spent the next several hours in my midtown office with various appointments." He took out a small, slim card that she recognized as a daybook. "Shall I list them for you?"
"I'd prefer you to arrange to have a hard copy sent to my office."
"I'll see to it. I was back home by seven. I had a dinner meeting with several members of my Japanese manufacturing firm – in my home. We dined at eight. Shall I send you the menu?"
"Don't be snide, Roarke."
"Merely thorough, lieutenant. It was an early evening. By eleven I was alone, with a book and a brandy, until about seven A.M., when I had my first cup of coffee. Would you like another?"
She'd have killed for another cup of coffee, but she shook her head. "Alone for eight hours, Roarke. Did you speak with anyone, see anyone during that time?"
"No. No one. I had to be in Paris the next day and wanted a quiet evening. Poor timing on my part. Then again, if I were going to murder someone, it would have been ill advised not to protect myself with an alibi."
"Or arrogant not to bother," she returned. "Do you just collect antique weapons, Roarke, or do you use them?"
"I'm an excellent shot." He set his empty snifter aside. "I'll be happy to demonstrate for you when you come to see my collection. Does tomorrow suit you?"
"Fine."
"Seven o'clock? I assume you have the address." When he leaned over, she stiffened and nearly hissed as his hand brushed her arm. He only smiled, his face close, his eyes level. "You need to strap in," he said quietly. "We'll be landing in a moment."
He fastened her harness himself, wondering if he made her nervous as a man, or a murder suspect, or a combination of both. Just then, any choice had its own interest – and its own possibilities.
"Eve," he murmured. "Such a simple and feminine name. I wonder if it suits you."
She said nothing while the flight attendant came in to remove the dishes. "Have you ever been in Sharon DeBlass's apartment?"
A tough shell, he mused, but he was certain there would be something soft and hot beneath. He wondered if – no, when – he'd have the opportunity to uncover it.
"Not while she was a tenant," Roarke said as he sat back again. "And not at all that I recall, though it's certainly possible." He smiled again and fastened his own harness. "I own the Gorham Complex, as I'm sure you already know."
Idly, he glanced out the window as earth hurtled toward them. "Do you have transportation at the airport, lieutenant, or can I give you a lift?"