In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

by God never again, feel helpless. Power. The power to amuse himself, to challenge himself, to indulge himself.
    One who reigned over what some called an empire and had countless people dependent on him for their livelihoods. Livelihoods. Lives.
    Now two had lost theirs.
    There was nothing he could do to change it, to fix it. Nothing he could do but hunt down the one who had done it, and the one who had paid for it to be done. And balance the scales.
    Rage, he thought, clouded the mind. He would keep his clear, and see it through.
    He ordered the elevator to resume, and when he stepped off his eyes were grim but cool. His receptionist popped up from her console immediately, but still wasn't quite quick enough to ward off Mick, who strolled over from the waiting area.
    "Well now, boyo, it's a hell of a place you've got here, isn't it?"
    "It does me. Hold my calls for a bit, would you?" Roarke ordered the receptionist. "Unless it's from my wife. Come on back, Mick."
    "That I will. I'm hoping for the grand tour, though from the size of this place of yours that might take the next several weeks."
    "You'll have to make due with my office for now. I'm between meetings."
    "Busy boy." As he followed Roarke down a glass breezeway snaking over Manhattan and through a wide art-filled corridor, he looked around, his eyes bright and scanning. "Jesus, man, is any of this stuff real?"
    Roarke paused at the black double doors that led to his personal domain, managed a half-smile. "Not still dealing in art that finds its way into your hands, are you?"
    Mick grinned. "I deal with whatever comes, but I'm not looking toward yours. Christ, do you remember that time we hit the National Museum in Dublin?"
    "Perfectly. But I'd as soon members of my staff aren't entertained with the story." He opened the door, stepped back so Mick could precede him.
    "I'm forgetting you're a law-abiding soul these days. Holy Mother of God." Just over the threshold, Mick stopped.
    He had heard, of course, and had seen enough for himself already to know the reports and rumors of just what Roarke had accomplished weren't exaggerated. He'd been dazzled by the home, but unprepared, he realized, for the sleek and rich lushness of the workspace.
    It was huge, and the view out the three-sided window was as grand as the art chosen to enhance the atmosphere. The equipment alone, and he knew his electronics, was worth a fortune. And all of it -- from the ocean of carpet, the acres of real wood, the glint of glass new and antique to the streamlined efficiency of the communication and information centers -- belonged to the childhood friend he'd once run with down the stinking alleyways of Dublin.
    "Want a drink? Coffee?"
    Mick blew out a breath. "Coffee, my ass."
    "For me, then, as I'm working. But I'll stand you to a glass of Irish." Roarke moved to a polished cabinet, and opened it to reveal a full bar. He poured Mick a drink before programming the AutoChef for a single cup of coffee, strong and black.
    "To larceny." Mick lifted his glass. "It may not be what keeps you here these days, but by Christ, it's what got you here."
    "True enough. What've you been up to today?"
    "Oh, this and that. Seeing a bit of the town." Mick wandered as he answered, poked his head through a doorway and whistled at the enormous bathroom. "All this is missing is a naked woman. Don't suppose you could be ordering one of those up for an old friend."
    "I never dealt in the sex trade." Roarke sat, sipped his coffee. "Even I had my standards."
    "That you did. 'Course, you never needed to buy a night of affection either, as us mortals did from time to time." Mick came back, made himself at home in the chair across from Roarke's.
    It came to him, fully came, that there was much more than years and miles between them. The man who could command all Roarke commanded was far away from the boy who'd plotted thievery with him.
    "You don't mind me dropping in this way, do you?"
    "No."
    "It occurs to me that it's a bit like having a poor relation land on your threshold. An annoying embarrassment a man hopes to sweep outside and away again at the first opportunity."
    Roarke thought he heard a faint edge of bitterness in the tone. "I have no relations, Mick, poor or otherwise. I'm pleased to find an old friend."
    Mick nodded. "Good. And I'm sorry for thinking it might be otherwise. I'm dazzled, and in truth, not a little envious of what you've managed here."
    "You could say I've had a good run of luck. If