In Death 28 - Promises in Death

occupied.”
    “No. No. You’ve juggled enough.” She could take it alone, but he’d get pissy about that. And he’d have a point, she admitted. “I’ll get Baxter.”
    “All right then.”
    Armed with coffee, Eve sat down to write up her notes. She ordered a secondary run on Rod Sandy, including his financials. The man had been in the Ricker stew since college, Eve thought. A long time.
    He’d know how to tuck money away here and there. Maybe money paid by the father to betray the son.
    She scanned the EDD reports on the data mined from the ’links and comps confiscated from the Ricker penthouse. Nothing to Omega, of course. It wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing to Coltraine but the single contact from Alex asking her over for a drink. Nothing to Coltraine’s precinct or any member of her squad.
    But a smart guy like Sandy? He wouldn’t leave that clear a trace—one, in fact, his pal Alex might stumble on and question.
    Second pocket ’link somewhere. Stashed, hidden, already ditched?
    She checked her wrist unit. Hours, she thought, still hours before Callendar docked, much less started digging. Eve told herself to consider it time to refine her theory, to check for wrong turns.
    She poured more coffee, had barely begun when Roarke stepped back in. “You reach Alex?”
    “Yes, that’s done and he’s expecting you about nine. Eve, Morris was at the gate. I had Summerset let him through.”
    “Morris?”
    “On foot.”
    “Oh, shit.” She pushed away from her desk, and started downstairs. “What condition is he in? Is he—”
    “I didn’t ask. I thought it best to get him here. Summerset sent a cart down to him.”
    “A cart?”
    “God, how long have you lived here? One of the autocarts. It’ll bring him straight here.”
    “How am I supposed to know we have autocarts? Do I ever use an autocart? What’s your take?” she demanded of Summerset as she came down the last flight of stairs. “His condition?”
    “Lost. Not geographically. Sober. In pain.”
    Eve stood, dragging her hands through her hair. “Do some coffee thing,” she told Summerset. “Or . . . maybe we should let him get drunk. I don’t know. What should we do here? I don’t know what to do for him.”
    “Then figure it out.” Summerset moved to the door. Then he paused, turned back to her. “A drunk only clouds the pain for a time, so it comes back sharper. Coffee’s best when you listen to him as that’s what he’ll need. Someone who cares who’ll listen to him.”
    He opened the door. “Go on, go on. He’ll do better if you go to him.”
    “Don’t kick at me,” she muttered, but went out.
    The cart was nearly silent as he cruised sedately down the drive, made a graceful turn. It stopped at the base of the steps.
    “I’m sorry.” Morris rubbed his hands over his face like a man coming out of sleep. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I came. I shouldn’t have.” He got off the cart as she went down the stairs. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
    She held out a hand. “Come inside, Li.”
    He shuddered, as if fighting a terrible pain, and only shook his head. She knew pain, and the fight against it, so moved to him, and took his weight, some of the grief when his arms came around her.
    “There,” Summerset murmured. “She’s figured it out, hasn’t she?”
    Roarke put a hand on Summerset’s shoulder. “Coffee would be good, I think. And something . . . I doubt he’s eaten.”
    “I’ll see to it.”
    “Come inside,” Eve repeated.
    “I didn’t know where to go, what to do. I couldn’t go home after . . . Her brother took her. I went and I watched them . . . They loaded her on the transpo. In a box. She’s not there. Who knows that better? But I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t go home. I don’t even know how I got here.”
    “It doesn’t matter. Come on.” She kept an arm around him, walked him up the stairs where Roarke waited.

15
    “I’M INTRUDING, INTERRUPTING.”
    “You’re not.” Eve steered him toward the parlor. “Let’s go sit down. We’re going to have some coffee.” His hands were cold, she thought, and his body felt fragile. There were always more victims than the dead.
    Who knew better?
    She led him to a chair by the fire, relieved she didn’t have to ask Roarke to light one. Anticipating her, he already was, so she pulled a chair around, angling it so she sat facing Morris.
    “It was easier, somehow,” Morris began, “when there were details to see