In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

weapon." Thoughtfully, Eve drew it. "Why don't you stand back, Spence, and I'll just-"
     
     
"Put that thing away," Summerset snapped. "You lunatic."
     
     
"Might've been fun." With a shrug, Eve holstered it. "Tag the doctor," she ordered Spence. "Tell him Roarke wants him to come here and remove the cast, and do whatever the hell else is necessary to get this pain in my ass on his feet, and out of the house."
     
     
"I fail to see why-"
     
     
"You're not required to see, you're required to do it. If the doctor has a problem with this," Eve added, "he can speak to me."
     
     
Spence huffed off, and Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. "Sooner you're on your feet, sooner you're on vacation somewhere that's not here. And I can start turning cartwheels."
     
     
"Nothing would please me more."
     
     
With a nod, she nudged at Galahad who left Summerset's lap long enough to wind around her feet. "Roarke called last night. From Brian Kelly's place in Dublin. He was drunk. Seriously drunk."
     
     
"Playfully so, or dangerously so?"
     
     
"The first mostly. I guess." Frustrated, she dragged a hand through her hair. "But not in control of himself, and that's dangerous enough. He said something about getting some information out of one of his father's old friends. You know who that might be?"
     
     
"I didn't know Patrick Roarke well. I tended to avoid him, and his like. I had a child to look after." He paused a moment. "For a time, I had two to look after."
     
     
She said nothing to that. There was nothing to be said. "He said he's going to Clare today. That's in the west. That's where she was from, his mother. He's not looking for a warm welcome."
     
     
"If they blame him, it's their loss. The father couldn't break the child, nor could he turn the child into a monster. Though he tried." He studied Eve, and wondered if she understood he wasn't referring only to Roarke now.
     
     
But her eyes showed him nothing as she stepped forward, leaned down, spoke quietly. "Did you kill Patrick Roarke?"
     
     
Like hers, his face stayed blank. "There is no statute of limitations on murder."
     
     
"It's not the cop who's asking you."
     
     
"I had children to protect."
     
     
She let out a short breath. "Roarke doesn't know, does he? You never told him."
     
     
"There's nothing to tell. That's old business, Lieutenant. Shouldn't you be off, taking care of new?"
     
     
Their eyes held another moment. "Yeah." She straightened, turned. "Just remember, you won't be sitting around on your flat ass much longer, and this house will be Summerset-free for three glorious weeks."
     
     
He smirked, then lifted a hand to stroke down Galahad's back when the cat leaped back into his lap. "I believe she'll miss me."
     
     
Chapter 16
     
     
When you had connections, you used them. Doctors, as a breed, were one of Eve's least favorite species, yet somehow she'd managed to develop personal relationships with two of them.
     
     
For this line of the investigation, she'd tug on Louise Dimatto.
     
     
Knowing Louise's scattershot schedule, she tagged her by 'link first, pinned down her location, then wheedled an appointment.
     
     
The Canal Street Clinic was Louise's baby. She might have gone against her family's uptown grain to establish and run a free clinic on the verges of Sidewalk City where sidewalk sleepers made their beds in packing crates and unlicensed beggars trolled for marks, but she'd dug in with her manicured fingers.
     
     
She'd put her own time and money on the line, and then had launched a campaign to drag more time, more money from every source at her disposal. Louise, Eve knew, had a lot of sources.
     
     
She'd ended up being one herself. Or more accurately, Roarke had, she thought as she double-parked beside an ancient, rusted two-seater that had been stripped of its tires, seats, and one of its doors. It was his money, even if the sneaky bastard had dumped it into her account.
     
     
Whatever the sources, it was money well spent. The clinic was a steady beam of light in a very dark world.
     
     
The building was unimposing, unless you considered the fact it was the only one on the block with windows that were clean, and walls that were graffiti-free.
     
     
Across the street a funky-junkie wearing thick black sunshades sat with her muscles jerking to whatever tune she crooned. A couple of badasses stood hip-shot in a doorway looking for trouble that was never far away in this