Delusion in Death

me.”
    He had that right. “Five-thirty should do it.”
    “Five-thirty then.”
    Without discussion, they walked to the bedroom. In silence they readied for bed. She slipped in, shut her eyes. And saw his face—the worry, the temper, the misery. Heard all that as she replayed his words to her.
    “I know this is hard for you,” she said in the dark. “I’m sorry.”
    His arm came around her. “I know it’s hard for you to talk of it even to someone you trust as you trust Mira. I’m sorry.”
    “Okay. But I’m still a little pissed.”
    “It’s all right. So am I.”
    She turned to him, curled to him, and let herself sleep.

6
    She woke to the scent of coffee, And wondered if that was how mornings in heaven smelled. She opened her eyes to soft light, and Roarke sitting on the side of the bed.
    Definitely had earmarks of heaven.
    “Your wake-up call, Lieutenant.”
    She grunted, shoved up, reached for the coffee he held. He moved it out of reach.
    “What makes you think this is yours?”
    “Because you’re you.”
    “So I am.” He brushed at her hair, a light, easy touch, but his eyes took a deep and thorough study of her face. “You slept well enough, I think.”
    “Yeah.” Taking the coffee, she breathed in the scent like air, then drank. Then gave her mind a chance to catch up.

    He’d dressed, though he’d yet to put on his jacket and tie. The cat ignored them both, sprawled on the foot of the bed like a lumpy blanket.
    A glance at the clock showed her it was precisely five-thirty.
    She didn’t know how he did it.
    He watched her come around, watched the sleep glaze fade until her eyes were alert, focused.
    “And now you’re you,” he decided.
    “If there wasn’t coffee, the entire world would shuffle around like zombies.”
    She moved quickly now, and by the time she’d dressed he had breakfast set up in the sitting area. She eyed the oatmeal suspiciously.
    “It’s what you need,” he said, anticipating her. Then trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Don’t be a baby about it.”
    “I’m an adult. I thought when you got to be an adult you could eat what you want.”
    “You can, when your stomach also reaches maturity.”
    Because arguing about it would waste time she didn’t have, she sat, spooned some up. Since it was loaded with apples and cinnamon, she tried to think of it as a weird apple Danish.
    “I’ve copied the data I compiled and sent it to your computer,” he began, “but I can give you a summary.”
    “Summarize away.”
    “There are some life insurance policies large enough to be tempting.”
    She loaded a piece of toast with some sort of jam. Enough jam, she thought, might disguise the weird apple Danish. “You have a different level of what’s tempting, monetarily, than the rest of the population.”

    “It wasn’t always so, was it?” He ate his own oatmeal with apparent contentment. And probably actually thought of it as oatmeal. “While it’s true a certain type will kill for loose change, that’s not what you’re after here. We have a couple of victims who stood to inherit family money, and some substantially. There’s also the matter of salaries, pay scales, positions, bonuses. A large percentage of the victims were executives, junior executives, which means they certainly stood ahead of someone, or several someones on that corporate ladder.”
    As he spoke he simply lifted a finger, and the cat—who’d been bellying over like some furry combatant, stopped.
    Galahad stretched as if he’d had nothing more in mind.
    “The admins, assistants—the support also takes a rung,” Roarke continued. “And all these positions can earn bonuses—often hefty ones—for bringing in accounts, clients, reaching or exceeding sales goals or running a successful campaign. There’s only so much bonus money to go around, so if someone’s rewarded—”
    “Somebody else gets a hearty handshake.”
    “Basically. Or may lose out on a desired promotion when the someone else lands that major client or account, has a good run of sales.”
    “People get pissed when they get passed over, or somebody else gets the plum on top.”
    “Cherry. The cherry’s on top. The plum’s in the pie.”
    “Sometimes you want the plum, the cherry, and the whole damn pie. It doesn’t feel like greed, not simple, ‘I want it all’ greed. But it may be a factor. Ambition, greed, envy—it’s what starts wars. You want what the other guy has, so you