In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

from here in the city. The rest is shadows, echoes."
    "How close can you pinpoint?"
    "Given a bit more time I can take you to his doorstep."
    "How much time?"
    "Until it's done."
    "Yeah, but how long until -- "
    "Lieutenant, impatience won't speed the process." He glanced over as Mick came to the doorway.
    "Sorry. Interrupting?"
    "Not at all." But Eve noticed Roarke saved data and blanked her screen manually. "Your... business must have gone well if you're just getting in."
    Mick grinned. "I can say with truth it went better than any man has a right to expect. Is that coffee I smell?"
    "It is, yes." Though he could almost hear Eve grinding her teeth in frustration, Roarke got to his feet. "Would you like some?".
    "I like it fine, especially if a good drop of Irish found its way into it."
    "I think that can be arranged."
    Mick smiled at Eve as Roarke walked back to the kitchen, with the cat -- sensing the possibility of breakfast -- jogging behind him.
    "The man sleeps less than is human. He must be pleased to have found a woman who can start the day before dawn as he does himself."
    "You look pretty perky for a guy who's been up all night yourself."
    "Certain activities energize a man. So you work here at home from time to time, do you?"
    "From time to time."
    He nodded. "And anxious, I imagine, to get back to what you were doing. I'll be out of your way in just a moment. I hope you'll pardon me for saying so, but it's an odd sight to see the man working hip to hip with a cop."
    "Odd all around." She looked over her shoulder as Roarke came back with a thick, working man's mug steaming with coffee and whiskey.
    "The answer to a prayer, thanks. I'll just take it off to my room and let it lull me off to sleep."
    "A moment first. Eve, do you have the name of the couple in Cornwall?"
    "What I have or don't have is police business."
    "Mick might know them." He shifted his eyes to Eve's face. "And their competitors."
    It was a good point. A potential weasel was a useful tool, even when he was a houseguest. "Britt and Joseph Hague."
    "Hmm, well." Mick gave his attention to his laced coffee. "It's possible, of course, that I may have heard the names somewhere in my travels. I couldn't say." He gave Roarke a hard, meaningful look. "I couldn't say," he repeated.
    "Because you've done business with them?" Eve shot back. "The kind Customs frowns on?"
    "I do business with a great many people." He spoke coolly, evenly. "And I'm not in the habit of discussing them or their affairs with cops. I'm surprised you would ask me to," he said to Roarke. "Surprised and disappointed that you'd expect me to roll on friends and associates."
    "Your friends and associates are dead," Eve said flatly. "Murdered."
    "Britt and Joe?" His green eyes widened, clouded, and he slowly lowered himself into a chair. "I hadn't heard that. I never heard that."
    "Their bodies were found in Cornwall," Roarke told him. "Apparently they weren't found for some time, and it took longer yet to identify them."
    "Good Christ. God rest their souls. A lovely couple they were. How did it happen?"
    "Who would have wanted them dead?" Eve countered. "Who would have paid a great deal of money to take them out of the equation?"
    "I don't know for sure. They'd been having considerable luck running prime liquor and high-grade illegals into London, and dispersing them from there into Paris, Athens, Rome. Stepped on some toes, I imagine, along the way. They'd only been in business, in a serious way, for a couple years. God, I'm sick about this."
    He drank from the mug, made an obvious effort to settle himself. "You wouldn't have known them," he said to Roarke. "As I said, they'd only been exporting for a few years, and stuck to Europe. They had a little cottage on the Moors. Liked the country life, Christ knows why."
    "Whose profits were they cutting into?" Roarke asked him.
    "Oh, a little here, a little there, I'd say. Always room for another smuggler, isn't there, with all the goods in the world to be moved? Francolini, maybe. Aye, he's a vicious bastard, and they'd have cut into him a bit. He wouldn't think twice about sending one of his men up to cut them out, permanently."
    "He doesn't use a paid assassin." Roarke remembered Francolini well. "He has enough men to let blood when blood needs to be let. He wouldn't go outside his own family."
    "Paid assassin? No, not Francolini then. Lafarge, maybe. Or Hornbecker. Hornbecker's more likely to pay, for blood. But he'd need good