The house loomed into view, with all its fanciful and elegant angles softened by twilight. Lights glowed richly against too many windows to count. Ornamental trees and shrubs she couldn’t name were in wild bloom, perfuming the air so delicately, so completely, you could almost forget you were in the city.
Then again, sometimes she thought of this strange and perfect space behind stone walls and iron gates as its own country. She just happened to live in it.
She’d come to love the house. Even a year before she wouldn’t have believed that possible. She’d admired it, certainly. Been both intimidated and fascinated by its sheer beauty, its amazing warren of rooms and treasures. But the love had caught her, and held her. Just as love for the man who owned it had caught her. Had held her.
Knowing he wasn’t inside tempted her to turn around and drive away again. She could spend the night at Central.
Because the idea depressed her, because it reminded her of what she might have done before her life had opened to Roarke, she pulled to a stop in front of the house.
She climbed the old stone steps, pulled open the grand front door, and stepped out of the dusk into the glamorous light of the entrance foyer.
And Summerset, a skinny crow in his habitual black, stood waiting. His stony face matched his stony voice.
“Lieutenant. You left the premises in the middle of the night and failed to inform me of your schedule or your expected return.”
“Gee, Dad, am I grounded?”
Because it would irritate him, and irritating Roarke’s majordomo was one of life’s guaranteed pleasures, she stripped off her jacket and tossed it on the polished newel of the main staircase.
Because it would irritate her, and irritating Roarke’s cop was one of Summerset’s pleasures, he lifted the scarred leather jacket with two thin fingers. “Informing me of your comings and goings is a basic courtesy, which naturally you’re incapable of understanding.”
“Ice. We understand each other. Anyway, I was out partying all night. You know, while the cat’s away.” She wanted to ask, and couldn’t bring herself to ask, if he knew when Roarke was expected back.
He’d know, she thought as she started upstairs. He knew every fucking thing. She could call Roarke herself, but that would make her feel nearly as stupid. Hadn’t she talked to him twenty-four hours ago? Hadn’t he said he hoped to wrap things up and be home in another couple of days?
She walked into the bedroom, thought about a shower, thought about a meal. And decided she wasn’t in the mood for either. Better to go up to her office, run some probabilities, read through her case notes. She removed her weapon harness, rolled her shoulders. And realized work wasn’t the answer either.
What she needed was some thinking time.
It was a rare thing for her to go up to the roof garden. She didn’t like heights. But despite the sprawling space of the house, being inside made her feel closed in. And maybe the air would clear her head.
She opened the dome so starlight sprinkled down on the dwarf trees, the lush blooms that speared and spilled out of pots. A fountain gurgled into a pool where exotic fish flashed like wet jewels.
She took her time walking to the wall, carved with winged fairies, that circled this section of the roof.
They’d entertained up here a few times, she remembered. For a man in Roarke’s position, entertaining was a job. Though, for reasons that escaped her, it was something he actually enjoyed.
She couldn’t recall ever coming up here alone before, or for that matter, ever coming up with just Roarke. And she wondered who the hell tended the masses of flowers and plants, fed the fish, kept the tiles gleaming, made certain the seats and tables and statuary were clean.
It was rare to see any sort of servant, human or droid, in the house other than Summerset. But then, she’d learned that people who held great wealth, great power, could easily command silent and nearly invisible armies to handle the pesky details of life.
Despite that wealth and that power, Roarke had gone personally to handle the final details of a friend’s death.
And she spent her days handling the details of the deaths of strangers.
She let her mind clear, then filled it with Bryna Bankhead.
Young, eager, romantic. Organized. She’d surrounded herself with attractive things displayed in an attractive manner. Her closet had been full of stylish clothes, with everything hung neatly.
Both the dress and the shoes she’d worn on her fatal date had been new, with the debits efficiently listed in her log book. She’d gotten a manicure and had a facial as well, had put on pretty earrings purchased the afternoon of her date.
A very female woman, Eve mused. One who read and enjoyed poetry.
Which meant the killer had hunted the young, the romantic, the particularly female.
She had two bottles of wine in her kitchen, one white, one red. And neither approaching the label or price range of the bottle on the table. Had he brought it with him, in his black leather bag, along with the illegals, the rose petals, the candles?
She’d kept condoms in her goodie drawer, but the killer hadn’t used one. Bryna had been too high on illegals to insist on such defenses, which meant the killer hadn’t been concerned about protection, or leaving DNA evidence.