In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

Roarke. He leaned against the rear fender of a sharp-looking sedan. Watching me, she thought. Waiting. But there was nothing of patience in the stance.
    "Give me a minute here," Eve murmured to Peabody, then crossed to him.
    "I thought you were going to use the limo and driver."
    "I was. Have been. I didn't choose to wait for them when I got the call about Jonah."
    "Who informed you?"
    "I have sources. Are we going into Interview, Lieutenant?" When she said nothing, he swore softly, viciously, under his breath. "Sorry."
    "Do yourself a favor and go home for a while. Kick something down in the gym."
    He nearly smiled. "That's your way."
    "It usually works."
    "I need to go into the office. I have a meeting. Will you be informing next of kin?"
    "Yes."
    He looked away from her, toward the lovely little brownstone. And thought about what had been done inside. "I want to talk to his family myself."
    "I'll make sure you're contacted after the official notification."
    His eyes shifted back to hers. Feeney had been right, she thought. He was carrying the weight, but he was also finding his mad. She could see both in his eyes.
    "Tell me what you know of this, Eve. Don't make me go around you for it."
    "I'm going into Central. After notification of next of kin and my prelim report, I will, together with my team, study and analyze all available evidence. Meanwhile, the ME and the lab will do their jobs. Dr. Mira is working up a profile. Other leads, which I'm not prepared to stand here outside a crime scene and talk about, are being actively pursued. While all this is going on, I'm fending off an FBI takeover attempt and will no doubt be ordered to release a statement to the media."
    "What leads?"
    He would, she thought, latch onto that one statement. "I said I'm not prepared to discuss them at this time. Give me some space here. Give me time to think. I'm not as good as you are at balancing worry over somebody I love and the work."
    "Then I'll answer that with something that should sound very familiar to you as it's forever coming out of your mouth. I can take care of myself."
    She expected to feel anger, resentment, or at the least, impatience. Instead, there was only concern. He, a man who rarely lost control, was on the edge of rage. And mired in grief.
    She did something she had never done in public, never done while on the job with other cops looking on. She put her arms around him, drew him close, and held him with her cheek pressed gently to his.
    "I'm sorry." She murmured it, wishing she knew more of the art of comforting. "I'm so damn sorry."
    The rage that had been spitting into his throat, the burn scorching the rim of his heart eased. He closed his eyes and let himself lean.
    Through all the other miseries in his life there'd been no one to offer him the simple soothing of understanding. It swamped him, washed away the worst edge of grief, and left him steadier for it.
    "I can't get a handle on it," he said quietly. "And I can't see through the murk of it to any answers."
    "You will." She eased back, skimmed her fingers through his hair. "Try to put it aside for a little while, and you will."
    "I need you with me tonight."
    "I'll be with you tonight."
    He took her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles. And let her go. "Thanks."
    She waited until he'd gotten into his car, until he'd pulled away from the curb. She was tempted to send a black-and-white out to follow him back to midtown. But he'd make a tail, and be just annoyed enough to lose it.
    Instead, she let him go as well.
    When she turned around, she noted a number of cops get very busy looking in other directions. She refused to waste time being embarrassed. She signaled to Peabody.
    "Let's get to work."
    In his midtown base, Roarke rode the private elevator to his suite of offices. He could feel the anger building inside of him again. He couldn't permit it, not until he had time alone, time to find an outlet.
    He knew how to strap it down. It was a hard-learned skill that had kept him alive during the bad years, and the building years. A skill that had helped him create what he had now, and who he was now.
    And what was he now? he wondered as he ordered the elevator to stop so he could have another moment to find a grip on that fine skill. A man who could buy whatever he chose to buy so he could fill his world with all the things he'd once starved for.
    Beauty, decency, comfort, style.
    A man who could command what he chose to command so that he would never,