Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,32
air at her, rose. “I’ll find a desk in the bullpen.”
At her desk, Eve added to the file she’d take into Interview. As she reviewed its contents, Roarke came in.
“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you.”
“I have some business nearby, but have a window right now.” He moved to her AutoChef. “Coffee?”
“Is that an actual question?”
He programmed two. “Galla Modesto owned a farmhouse in the Chianti region of Tuscany. A few acres, working gardens, a small vineyard, a custodian’s cottage, a lovely view. He has it listed for sale.”
“He really is an asshole.”
“He’s also given the custodians three weeks to vacate.”
He wandered to her skinny window, looked out while he drank his coffee. “He’s also listed her flat in Florence. She has a young cousin, an art student, currently living there. She was given a month to vacate.”
“We can and will block all that.”
“You will,” he murmured, still looking out the window. “Aye, you will. Money and property, they were desperate needs of mine. Now it’s business, and it’s pleasure, and the game of it. But at one time it was survival, and that desperate need. But there’s a difference between need and greed, isn’t there?”
“Yeah.” Because he needed it, she rose, went to him, wrapped her arms around him from the back. “I’ve got him, Roarke. Trust me.”
“Oh, I do.” He closed a hand over hers.
“And I’ll get Cobbe. We’ll get Cobbe,” she corrected.
“For him, it’s business and it’s pleasure and the game of it as well.”
She could feel it in him, that tension, that anger, that grief all swollen together.
“That doesn’t make him anything like you.”
“We sprang from the same alleys and slums, had our lives dominated as children by the same man. And for a time, we ran on parallel paths.”
“Bollocks to that. Did you ever kill for money?”
“No. That I can say, that at least, was never in me.”
He turned, pressed his lips to her brow, then moved away. “I can confirm Cobbe in Amsterdam three weeks ago. A businessman with interest in an upscale bordello, a popular sex club, and other enterprises of that nature died in what police are calling a bungled break-in. Under that public stance, Cobbe is the prime suspect.”
“Under that.”
“The unfortunate businessman suffered a severe facial beating and multiple stab wounds. All incurred after his throat was slit. The investigators believe the bungled aspect of the break-in was staged after the murder. An hour after time of death, Cobbe visited the bordello using one of the VIP passes the victim often presented to friends or clients, enjoyed the services of two of the ladies employed there and a bottle of Cristal.”
“Bold fucker.”
“And always was. They’ve yet to find how he entered or left the city.”
“It’s still another brick in the wall. I need the name of the primary on it.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Meanwhile Tween’s being booked for conspiracy to murder and murder. Once he’s consulted with his lawyer or lawyers, I’ll have him in the box.”
“Fast work, Lieutenant.”
“You contacted Stefano Modesto.”
“I did. It seemed … appropriate.”
“It was more than appropriate. He and his family appreciated your offer of accommodations while they deal with this loss. His wife knew about the affair, and held her sister-in-law’s confidence. I got it out of her, and it confirms Stowe’s account down the line. Anything, anything at all Tween knows about Cobbe, I’ll have.”
“You’re worrying about me.” After setting his coffee aside, he gripped her shoulders, gave them a light shake. “Stop. You have a job to do.”
“The Marriage Rules clearly require me to worry about you when applicable.”
It made him laugh. So he released her shoulders to take her face in his hands and kiss her. Long, hard, deep.
“Expert consultant, civilian, fraternizing with the primary investigator while said investigator’s on duty is a violation.” Now she took his face in turn. “Might as well do it again.”
And when she had, he held on another moment. “You’re the heart of me.” He drew back. “I wish I could stay and watch you take on this particular asshole, but I’ve already shifted and juggled quite a bit today.”
“I’ll give you the highlights at home.”
“I count on it. I may be a bit late. If more than a bit, I’ll let you know.”
“Same.”
“One day,” he said as he started out, “you might send me a copy of those Marriage Rules.”
As Roarke had, she wandered to the window. An airtram dipped by close enough she could spot the bored faces of locals, the thrilled ones of tourists.