In Death 21 - Origin in Death

. ."
    He smiled a little, picked up his beer-as comfortable, Eve knew, with the brew and fried fish as he would have been with a two-thousand-dollar bottle of wine and rare filet.
    "But," Roarke continued for her, "the symbolism-the heart wound, death in his office in the center he founded, the sheer cojones, to borrow the Spanish she purported to be-of the murder in a place so well secured. A point proven."
    Yeah, Eve thought, she'd be wasting a valuable resource if she shut Roarke out of her work. "Maybe she's a pro, maybe not. We've got no hits on her, not through IRCC A, not through Feeney's imaging. But if she was hired, the motive was personal. Personal in a way, I think, that relates to his work. He could've been taken out quick and easy elsewhere."
    "You've run his immediate staff by now."
    "Whistle clean, every one. And nobody has a bad word to say about him. His apartment looks like a holo-room."
    "I'm sorry?"
    "You know, one of those programs used to fabricate a home for realtors. Perfect urban living. It was clean and coordinated to fricking death. You'd hate it."
    Intrigued, he angled his head. "Would I?"
    "You got the high life, same as he did. Got it different ways, but you're both drowning in money."
    "Oh," he said easily, "I can tread water quite well, and for quite a while."
    "While you're doing the backstroke, he's got a two-level apartment, where everything's squared off, the bathroom towels match the bathroom walls, sort of thing. No creativity, I guess I'm saying. You've got this place, which may be big enough to hold a small city itself, but it's got-well, it's got style and life. It reflects you."
    "I think that's a compliment." He raised his beer to her.
    "It's an observation. You're both perfectionists in your ways, but his ran toward obsession-everything just so. You like to mix it up. So maybe his need for perfection caused him to bruise somebody, or fire them, or refuse to take them as a patient. I can't make this just so, so forget about it."
    "I'd say it was a big bruise to warrant murder."
    "People kill for a chipped fingernail, but you're right there. This was big enough to do something showy. Because under the efficiency, the tidiness, this was showing off."
    Eve snagged another fry. "Take a look at her. Computer," she ordered, "display ID image, Nocho-Alverez, Dolores, on wall screen one.
    When it flashed on, Roarke lifted his eyebrows. "Beauty is often deadly."
    "So why would somebody who looks like that consult with a face and body sculptor? Why would he take her?"
    "Beauty's often irrational as well. She may have convinced him she wanted something more, something else. Being a man, and one who obviously appreciates beauty and perfection, he might have been curious enough to take the appointment. You said he was all but retired. Time enough to spend an hour with a woman who looks like that one."
    "That's one of the things. Too much time. A guy who's spent all of his life working, dedicated, striving, making history-in his field- what does he do when he's not working? I can't find playtime for this guy. What would you do?"
    "Make love with my wife, steal her away for long, indulgent holidays. Show her the world."
    "He doesn't have a wife, or a specific lover. Not that I can find. Long blocks of time blank on his appointment calendar. He did something with it. Something on those discs. Somewhere."
    "We'll have a look then." He polished off his beer. "How did you sleep while I was gone?"
    "Fine. Okay." She rose, figuring since he got the meal, she had to clear it away.
    "Eve." He laid a hand over hers to stop her, bring her eyes to his.
    "I bunked in here some nights, in the sleep chair. You can't worry about that. You've got business out of town, you've got to go. I can handle it."
    He brought her hand to his lips. "You had nightmares. I'm sorry."
    She was plagued with them, but they were worse when he wasn't with her. "I can deal." She hesitated. She'd sworn she would go to her grave telling no one. But he'd be weighed down with guilt, she knew. "I slept in your shirt." She tugged her hand free, gathered up dishes to keep the confession light. "It smelled like you, so I slept better."
    He rose, took her face in his hands and said, softly, "Darling Eve."
    "Don't get sloppy. It's just a shirt." She stepped back, walked around him. Then stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. "But I'm glad you're home."
    He smiled at her back. "So am I."
     
    THEY SPLIT THE DISCS, ROARKE IN HIS