In Death 21 - Origin in Death

here?"
    "A little weird, but okay. How about you?"
    He relaxed. "A little weird, but okay. I appreciate it."
    "As long as I don't have to bake a pie."
    "God forbid."
    The workout did indeed clear her mind, and she added a stint with weights, polished it off with twenty laps in the pool.
    She'd intended to do twenty-five, but Roarke caught her on the twenty-first turn. And she ended the workout with a different sort of water exercise.
    She was alert and ravenous by the time she'd showered and grabbed her first cup of coffee.
    She went for waffles, exchanged beady eyes with Galahad when the cat tried to slink up to her plate.
    "He's got to have space."
    Cat's got the run of the bloody house."
    "Not the cat. Icove," Eve said and got an absentminded mmm-hmm from Roarke as he scanned the morning stock reports on-screen in the sitting area of their bedroom. "Not in the apartment," she continued. 'Too many patients coming in and out. Lab. Maybe in the Center, maybe someplace else entirely. He'd need privacy. Even if it's not anything illegal, it's strange. He didn't go through all the trouble to private the discs and his unit, then conduct all these exams or experiments or case studies in the open."
    "It's a big facility, the Center," Roarke began, and switched to the media bulletins. "But there are a lot of people through there. Patients, staff, visitors, stockholders. Very possible, if he was careful enough, to have a private area. But wiser, I'd think, to do this other work- particularly if it skirts the law-off-site."
    "The son would know. If they were as close, personally and professionally, as I think they were, the father and the son would both be involved with this…project. We'll call it a project. Peabody and I'll pay him another visit, see if we can go at this the direct way. We'll take a deeper look at the financials. If this is a by-fee project, it would have generated big bucks. And I'll look at property in his name, the son's, the daughter-in-law, grandchildren, under the Center or his other arms. If he's got a place, we'll find it."
    ''You'll want to save them. The girls," he continued when she said nothing. "You'll want to stop them from being arranged, let's say, if that's the case." He turned from the screen to look at her. "If this is
    some sort of training ground, some kind of preparation area, you'll see them as victims."
    "Aren't they?"
    "Not like you were." He took her hand. "I doubt very much it's anything like that, or that you'll be able to stop yourself from seeing it that way regardless. It'll hurt you."
    "They all hurt me. Even when they have nothing to do with what happened to me. They all take a toll."
    "I know." He kissed her hand. "Some more than others."
    "You'll ask your family here for Thanksgiving, and it'll hurt you. Because your mother can't be here, and you'll think of that. Won't be able to stop yourself from remembering what happened to her when you were only a baby. It'll hurt you, but it won't stop you from asking them here. We do what we have to do, Roarke. Both of us."
    "So we do."
    She rose, reached for her weapon harness. "You're off, then?" he asked her.
    "Might as well get an early start, since I'm up."
    "Then I'd best give you your present." He watched her face-the surprise, the chagrin, the resignation. And burst out laughing. "Thought you'd gotten away clean, did you?"
    "Hand it over, get it done."
    "Gracious to the last." To her surprise he went to his closet, opened it, and pulled out a large box. He set it on the sofa. "Open it, then."
    Another fancy dress, she supposed. As if she didn't already have enough of them to clothe an army of fashion plates. Of which she was the chipped one, hidden on the top shelf. But buying glam made him happy.
    She pulled off the top, stared. "Oh. Oh wow."
    "An atypical reaction for you, Lieutenant," he said with a grin, but she was already yanking the long black leather coat out of the box, burying her nose in it to sniff.
    "Oh boy, oh boy." She whirled it around, swirled it on while he watched. It hit her an inch above the ankles, carried deep pockets, and was smooth as butter.
    "You make a picture," he complimented, pleased that she'd already spun toward the mirror to see for herself. It was masculine-a deliberate choice on his part. No frills, no feminine touches. In it she looked sexy and dangerous, and just a little aloof.
    "Now this is what it is. This is a goddamn coat. I'll bung it up before the end of shift, but it'll look