“I wasn’t sure you were coming back tonight.”
“Neither was I. The construction on the resort’s moving ahead well enough. I should be able to handle things from here for a time.”
She tried not to be so relieved. It irritated her that in a few short months she’d gotten so used to his being there. Even dependent upon it. “That’s good, I guess.”
“Mmm.” He read her well. “What can you tell me about the case?”
“It’s all over the media. Pick a channel.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
She brought him up to date in much the way she would file a report: in quick, efficient terms, heavy on facts, light on personal comments. And, she discovered, she felt better for it afterward. Roarke had a way of listening that made her hear herself more clearly.
“You believe it’s the younger Angelini.”
“We’ve got means and opportunity, and a good handle on motive. If the knife matches . . . Anyway, I’ll be meeting with Dr. Mira tomorrow to discuss his psych testing.”
“And Marco,” Roarke continued. “What do you think of his confession?”
“It’s a handy way to confuse things, tie up the investigation. He’s a clever man, and he’ll find a way to leak it to the media.” She scowled over Roarke’s shoulder. “It’ll jerk everything around for a while, cost us some time and trouble. But we’ll smooth it out.”
“You think he confessed to the murders to complicate the investigation?”
“That’s right.” She shifted her gaze to his, lifted a brow. “You’ve got another theory.”
“The drowning child,” Roarke murmured. “The father believes his son is about to go under for the third time, jumps into the torrent. His life for his child’s. Love, Eve.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Love stops at nothing. Marco believes his son is guilty, and would rather sacrifice himself than see his child pay the price.”
“If he knows, or even believes, that David killed those women, it would be insane to protect him.”
“No, it would be love. There’s probably none stronger than a parent’s for a child. You and I don’t have any experience with that, but it exists.”
She shook her head. “Even when the child’s defective?”
“Perhaps especially then. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a woman whose daughter had lost an arm in an accident. There was no money for a replacement. She had five children, and loved them all. But four were whole, and one was damaged. She built a shield around that girl, to protect her from the stares and the whispers and the pity. It was the damaged child she pushed to excel, who they all devoted themselves to. The others didn’t need her as much, you see, as the one who was flawed.”
“There’s a difference between a physical defect and a mental one,” Eve insisted.
“I wonder if there is, to a parent.”
“Whatever Marco Angelini’s motive, we’ll cut through to the truth in the end.”
“No doubt you will. When’s your shift over?”
“What?”
“Your shift,” he repeated. “When is it over?”
She glanced at the screen, noted the time in the bottom corner. “About an hour ago.”
“Good.” He rose and held out a hand. “Come with me.”
“Roarke, there are some things I should tie up here. I want to review the interview with Marco Angelini. I may find a hole.”
He was patient because he had no doubt he’d have his own way. “Eve, you’re so tired you wouldn’t see a hundred-meter hole until you’d fallen into it.” Determined, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”
“All right, maybe I could use a break.” Grumbling a bit, she ordered her computer off and locked. “I’m going to have to goose the techs at the lab. They’re taking forever on the knife.” Her hand felt good in his. She didn’t even worry about the ribbing she’d take from the other cops who might see them in the hall or elevator. “Where are we going?”
He brought their linked hands to his lips and smiled at her over them. “I haven’t decided.”