In Death 02 - Glory in Death

times with you since this whole mess began. I apologize for it."
    "It doesn't matter."
    "I wish it didn't." He searched her face, saw the stiff restraint. "But I see it does. I'll take care of Mirina, arrange the visitations."
    "Yes, sir. I'd like to continue my interview with Marco Angelini."
    "Tomorrow," Whitney said and set his teeth when she didn't quite mask the sneer. "You're tired, Lieutenant, and tired cops make mistakes and miss details. You'll pick it up tomorrow." He headed for the door, swore again, and stopped without looking back at her. "Get some sleep, and for Christ's sake, take a painkiller for that headache. You look like hell."
    She resisted slamming the door after him. Resisted because it would be petty and unprofessional. But she sat down, stared at the screen, and pretended her head wasn't shuddering with pain.
    When a shadow fell over her desk moments later, she looked up, eyes fired for battle.
    "Well," Roarke said mildly and leaned over to kiss her snarling mouth. "That's quite a welcome." He patted his chest. "Am I bleeding?"
    "Ha-ha."
    "There's that sparkling wit I missed." He sat on the edge of the desk where he could look at her and catch a glimpse of the data on the screen to see if that was what had put the miserable anger in her eyes. "Well, Lieutenant, and how was your day?"
    "Let's see. I booked my superior's favorite godson on obstruction and other assorted charges, found what may be the murder weapon in his console drawer in the family town house, took a confession from the prime suspect's father, who claims he did it, and just took a couple of shots between the eyes from the sister, who thinks I'm a media grabbing bitch." She tried on a small smile. "Other than that, it's been pretty quiet. How about you?"
    "Fortunes won, fortunes lost," he said mildly, worried about her. "Nothing nearly as exciting as police work."
    "I wasn't sure you were coming back tonight."
    "Neither was I. The construction on the resort's moving ahead well enough. I should be able to handle things from here for a time."
    She tried not to be so relieved. It irritated her that in a few short months she'd gotten so used to his being there. Even dependent upon it. "That's good, I guess."
    "Mmm." He read her well. "What can you tell me about the case?"
    "It's all over the media. Pick a channel."
    "I'd rather hear it from you."
    She brought him up to date in much the way she would file a report: in quick, efficient terms, heavy on facts, light on personal comments. And, she discovered, she felt better for it afterward. Roarke had a way of listening that made her hear herself more clearly.
    "You believe it's the younger Angelini."
    "We've got means and opportunity, and a good handle on motive. If the knife matches... Anyway, I'll be meeting with Dr. Mira tomorrow to discuss his psych testing."
    "And Marco," Roarke continued. "What do you think of his confession?"
    "It's a handy way to confuse things, tie up the investigation. He's a clever man, and he'll find a way to leak it to the media." She scowled over Roarke's shoulder. "It'll jerk everything around for a while, cost us some time and trouble. But we'll smooth it out."
    "You think he confessed to the murders to complicate the investigation?"
    "That's right." She shifted her gaze to his, lifted a brow. "You've got another theory."
    "The drowning child," Roarke murmured. "The father believes his son is about to go under for the third time, jumps into the torrent. His life for his child's. Love, Eve." He cupped her chin in his hand. "Love stops at nothing. Marco believes his son is guilty, and would rather sacrifice himself than see his child pay the price."
    "If he knows, or even believes, that David killed those women, it would be insane to protect him."
    "No, it would be love. There's probably none stronger than a parent's for a child. You and I don't have any experience with that, but it exists."
    She shook her head. "Even when the child's defective?"
    "Perhaps especially then. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a woman whose daughter had lost an arm in an accident. There was no money for a replacement. She had five children, and loved them all. But four were whole, and one was damaged. She built a shield around that girl, to protect her from the stares and the whispers and the pity. It was the damaged child she pushed to excel, who they all devoted themselves to. The others didn't need her as much, you see, as the one who was flawed. "
    "There's a