In Death 03 - Immortal in Death

final interview logged.
    The media went into its usual frenzy. Top level model's secret life. The killer beneath the perfect face. Quest for immortality leaves a trail of death.
    She had other cases, certainly had other obligations, but she spent every free minute reviewing the case, picking through evidence, and trying out new theories until even Peabody told her to give it up.
    She tried to juggle the few little details on the wedding Roarke had asked her to see to. But what the hell did she know about caterers, wine selections, and seating charts? In the end, she swallowed her pride and dumped the whole mess on a sneering Summerset.
    And was told, in didactic tones, that a wife of a man in Roarke's position would have to learn basic social skills.
    She told him to shove it, and they both went off, well satisfied to do what they did best. Under it all, Eve was almost afraid they were beginning to like each other.
    Roarke wandered from his office into Eve's. And shook his head. They would be married the next day. In less than twenty hours. Was the bride-to-be fussing with her wedding gown, bathing herself in fragrant oils and perfumes, daydreaming about her life to come?
    No, she was hunched over her computer, muttering at it, her hair tousled from constant raking with her fingers. There was a stain on her shirt where she'd spilled coffee. A plate holding what might have once been a sandwich had been set on the floor. Even the cat avoided it.
    He walked up behind her, saw, as he had expected to see, the Fitzgerald file on screen.
    Her tenacity fascinated him, and yes, allured him. He wondered if she had allowed anyone else to see that she suffered over Fitzgerald's death. If she'd been able, she would have hidden it even from him.
    He knew the guilt was there, and the pity. And the duty. All would push her, chain a part of her to the case. It was one of the reasons he loved her, that huge capacity for emotion strapped into a logical, restless mind.
    He started to bend down to kiss the crown of her head just as she lifted it. They both swore when her head connected hard with his jaw.
    "Christ Jesus." Torn between amusement and pain, Roarke dabbed at the blood on his lip. "You make romance a dangerous business."
    "You shouldn't sneak up behind me that way." Frowning, she rubbed the top of her head. It was just one more spot to throb. "I thought you and Feeney and a few of your hedonistic friends were going out to rape and pillage."
    "A bachelor's party is not a Viking invasion. I have some time yet before the barbarism begins." He sat down on the corner of her desk and studied her. "Eve, you need a break from this."
    "I'm going to be taking a three-week one, aren't I?" she hissed as he only lifted his brows patiently. "Sorry, I'm being bitchy. I can't get past this, Roarke. I've put it aside a half dozen times this past week, but I keep coming back."
    "Say it aloud. Sometimes it's helpful."
    "Okay." She shoved back from the desk, narrowly missed stepping on the cat. "She could have gone to the club. Some of the fancy people slum at that kind of place."
    "Pandora did."
    "Exactly. And they did run with the same basic crowd. So yeah, she could have gone to the club, she could have seen Boomer there. She might even have had a contact tell her he was in. This is all supposing that she knew him, which is not firmly established. And was working with him, or through him. She sees him there, realizing he's mouthing off. He's a loose end, someone who's outlived his usefulness and is now a liability."
    "So far that's logical."
    She nodded, but didn't stop pacing. "Okay, he spots her after he comes out of the privacy room with Hetta Moppett. Jerry has to worry now what he's said. He could have bragged, even puffed up his own connection to impress the woman. Boomer's smart enough to know he's in trouble, takes off, goes underground. Hetta's the first victim. She's got to go because she might know something. She's taken out quick, brutally, so it looks like a random rage hit. Her ID's taken. That means it'll take longer to trace her, connect her with the club and Boomer. If anyone cared to connect her, which was unlikely."
    "Except they didn't count on you."
    "There's that. Boomer's got a sample, he's got the formula. He had quick hands when he wanted them, and a skill for larceny. Judgment wasn't his strong suit. Maybe he pressed for more money, a larger cut of the whole. But he was good at his job. Nobody knew he was a weasel but