In Death 26 - Strangers in Death

springboard? You’re that vindictive, there has to be anger or hate. If you’re controlled enough to strap those down, why aren’t you controlled enough to handle the details? The hefty dose of barbs—it’s off. You want to humiliate him, but you don’t have anything to say to him. You’re alone in the house—a light tranq would be enough, give you enough to wrap him up. Don’t you want him to hear why—don’t you have something to say, don’t you want him to know ?
    “So that’s the third hand. The sham. The killer didn’t care if the stage fell apart after the curtain. The killer had nothing to say to Anders. But that’s missing something. Why put on the show if you can’t take the bows with a captive audience? What do you gain? What’s the damn point?”
    “He’s dead. Whatever the window dressing, mission accomplished.”
    “Yeah.” She nodded, gesturing with her fork. “And what have I got? A devoted nephew, a loving wife, steadfast friends, the efficient housekeeper. Somebody’s hiding something. That somebody knew he’d be alone in the house that night. Had to be sure of it. So…I dig deeper into financials—see if Anders was paying for it, or if I can find he paid for a subscription to Bondage Weekly. See if the wife, the nephew had any money troubles. Gambling, illegals. Sports betting’s big,” she considered. “Maybe Ben got in too deep.”
    “It won’t be Ben.”
    “Doesn’t feel like Ben. Doesn’t mean it won’t be connected to Ben.” Eyeing him, she polished off her wine. “You want to sign on, expert consultant, civilian, and poke into some bank accounts?”
    “I live for these moments.”
    “Take the wife. I’ll take Ben. Then maybe we’ll split up Anders.”
    “Assignments, always exciting. I’ve one for you. Tend to the dishes. I’ll get the coffee.”
    It was hard to argue, especially since he’d come up with the pot pie idea. She carted the dishes, stacked them in the little washer in her office kitchen, then turned and found him studying her.
    “What?”
    “Awfully domestic, isn’t it? A moment. Dish duty, coffee fetching, the two of us in the kitchen after a meal.”
    Eve glanced down to where Galahad was sniffing his bowl, obviously hoping for seconds. “That would be the three of us.”
    “Ah yes. Our little family.” Reaching out, he brushed the tips of her choppy hair. “A nice settled moment between the business of the day and the puzzle of the evening. It occurs to me these are moments I live for.”
    Her heart simply melted. “I always wonder why they’re enough for you.”
    He laid his lips on hers, soft, sweet. “You shouldn’t.”
    The cat bumped between them, shot a leg up in the air, and began to wash his butt. With a laugh, Roarke shook his head. “And so the moment ends. Your coffee, Lieutenant,” he said and handed her a mug.
    She sat at her desk, and waited to settle as Roarke walked into his adjoining office. It remained an amazement, her personal miracle, that he loved her. Loved her because of or in spite of everything. In all the world, with all its misery, after all the pain, they’d found each other. He was right, of course. It was more than enough.
    “Computer,” she began, and ordered the next layer in the search of Anders’s financials.
    The rich were complicated, Eve thought, with all their many pockets inside which they tucked their booty. Stocks, bonds, trusts, tax-deferred, tax-free, liquid money, futures. Long-term, short-term. Subsets, and arms and divisions.
    But under it all, somehow, someway, even the rich paid bills and bought toilet paper.
    She scraped and she dug, searching for something to tie her victim to a lover or to licensed companions, running a secondary search for medications and/or sexual aids.
    “Eve.”
    “What?” She looked away from the data crowding her wall screen. “I’ve barely started. You can’t have found something already. It’s not natural.”
    “I have, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
    “What?”
    “In Ava Anders’s financials. There are regular bimonthly payments, going back for eighteen months.”
    “For what?” Her eyes narrowed. “To who?”
    “To Charles Monroe.”
    “Charles.” As it slapped at her out of left field, Eve dragged a hand through her hair. “Son of a bitch.” This was the trouble, she thought, this was the damn problem with making friends. It came back and bit you in the ass. “ She’s getting her pipes snaked twice a month