Calculated in Death

considered it as she finished her coffee. “And if it runs like that, if that’s a good comparison, the money guy, the accountant, they’re not in charge—they’re tools. The one in charge,” she tapped her computer again, “is in there.”
    “But no pressure,” Roarke repeated.
    “You eat pressure for breakfast, ace.”
    “Some days a man just wants a full Irish.”
    “Me? I get that every day.” She rose, walked back to the board. “He—or she—or them. Not up here yet. Not yet. But the tools are. I just need to figure out which ones up here do the cooking.”
    She went back to her auxiliary, and back to work.
    •   •   •
    H e saw the moment she started to flag, how she rubbed at her eyes, scrubbed at her hair, as if it would keep her awake and alert.
    He thought he could manage another hour or so. It was all so bloody interesting, how others set up their businesses, their books, their investments. He’d find what she needed, nothing else would do the way she’d put her faith in him. Challenged him, of course, very purposefully, he knew. Put his ego and his competitive spirit on the line.
    He wouldn’t have it, or her, otherwise.
    But he wouldn’t find it tonight. He’d found some potential questions, but as he wasn’t a shagging accountant, he’d have to check some tax codes.
    Tomorrow.
    For now, he rose, walked over, pulled her to her feet.
    “I’m just—”
    “Going to bed. With the exception of your short nap, you’ve been up and doing nearly twenty-four hours. And so have I. We both need some sleep.”
    “Did you get anywhere?”
    “I need to check some codes tomorrow, and I want to start a separate search for secondary, unreported accounts. That would be fun.”
    “Anybody stand out?”
    “Not as yet. And for you?”
    She shook her head as she fought to stay upright on the way to the bedroom. “The accountants haven’t been cleared, medically, for travel. Parzarri’s had some BP spikes, and some other medical crap I don’t quite get. But they’re both stable, just not cleared for travel for another couple days. I want face-to-face.”
    “We can go to Vegas. Sweat accountants and gamble.”
    “I don’t have enough to sweat them. Yet.” But boy, she’d enjoy making them sweat. “If I made the trip, whoever’s in charge would know or suspect I know, and I want him thinking he’s clear.”
    In the bedroom she undressed, dragged herself to the bed. And realized as soon as she hit the sheets, he was right. She needed some sleep.
    Dreamless, she hoped, though the last hadn’t been bad, hadn’t been a nightmare. Those were fading again. But it was still death and dying and murder. And mothers, she mused, trying to turn it off as Roarke slid in beside her, drew her in.
    But it nagged.
    Who was right? Was she right claiming Marta had thought of her kids, of her family, when terrified, when hurt? Or was Stella right, and she’d only been able to think of herself and survival?
    It didn’t matter, and the answer couldn’t be known.
    Put it away, she ordered herself.
    Then it came so clear. She’d missed it, too wrapped up in the rest of the investigation.
    “She thought of them.”
    “Hmm?”
    “Marta—the vic. She thought of her kids, her husband, when they had her. She thought of them because she didn’t tell them everything. I figured she’d told them everything, but she didn’t. She didn’t tell them she’d copied the files to her home unit. They hurt her, they scared her, they threatened her and in the end they killed her. But she protected her family.”
    “What she loved most,” he said and brushed his lips over her hair. “Sleep now. Rest that brain.”
    For reasons she couldn’t understand, knowing she’d been right, the mother had protected the children, she closed her eyes and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

SHE WOKE TO THE SCENT OF COFFEE AND A quietly simmering fire—and to Roarke in one of his slick dark suits monitoring the stock reports from the sofa of the sitting area.
    She considered it an excellent way to start the day. Or it would be as soon as she had that coffee and cleared the fog from her brain.
    She rolled out, shuffled over, and poured a large mug from the pot Roarke had on the table.
    “You look rested, Lieutenant.”
    “Feel that way. Mostly.” She gulped coffee on her way to the bathroom.
    When she came out, wrapped in a robe she suspected was cashmere, bowls of berries, rashers of bacon, and plates of