"Ask Peabody that in the morning."
With a laugh, she stepped into the elevator. "Let's go hunting."
They hit every location, even overlapping into Angelo's portion. It was a long, tedious, and exacting process. Later she would think that the operation had given her a more complete view of the scope of Roarke's pet project.The hotels, casinos, theaters, restaurants, the shops and businesses.The houses and buildings, the beaches and parks. The sheer sweep of the world he'd created was more than she'd imagined.
While impressive, it made the job at hand next to impossible.
It was after three in the morning when she gave it up for the night and stumbled to bed. "We'll find him tomorrow. His face is on every screen on-site. The minute he tries to buy any supplies, we'll tag him. He has to sleep, he has to eat."
"So do you." In bed, Roarke drew her against him. "Turn it off, Lieutenant. Tomorrow's soon enough."
"He won't go far." Her voice thickened with sleep. "He needs to finish it and get his father's praises.Legacies.Bloody legacies. I spent my life running from mine."
"I know." Roarke brushed the top of her head with his lips as she fell into sleep. "So have I."
This time it was he who dreamed, as he rarely did, of the alleyways of Dublin. Of himself, a young boy, too thin, with sharp eyes, nimble fingers, and fast feet.A belly too often empty.
The smell of garbage goneover, and whiskey gone stale, and the cold of the rain that gleefully seeped into bone.
He saw himself in one of those alleyways, staring down at his father, who lay with that garbage gone over, and smelled of that whiskey gone stale.And smelled, too, of death – the blood and the shit that spewed out of a man at his last moments. The knife had still been in his throat, and his eyes – filmed-over blue – were open and staring back at the boy he'd made.
He remembered, quite clearly, speaking.
Well now, you bastard, someone's done for ya. And here I thought it would be me one day who had the pleasure of that.
Without a qualm, he'd crouched and searched through the pockets for any coin or items that might be pawned or traded. There'd been nothing, but then again, there never had been much. He'd considered, briefly, taking the knife. But he'd liked the idea of it where it was too much to bother.
He'd stood then, at the age of twelve, with bruises still fresh and aching from the last beating those dead hands had given him.
And he'd spat. And he'd run.
He was up before she was, as usual. Eve studied him as she grabbed her first cup of coffee. It was barely seven a.m. "You look tired."
He continued to study the stock reports on one screen and the computer analysis of potential locations on another. "Do I? I suppose I could've slept better."
When she crouched in front of him, laid a hand on his thigh, he looked at her.And sighed. She could read him well enough, he thought, his cop.
Just as he could read her, and her worry for him.
"I wonder," he began, "and I don't care to, who did me the favor of sticking that knife in him. Someone, I think, who was part of the cartel. He'd have been paid, you see, and there was nothing in his pockets. Not a fucking punt or pence on him, nor in the garbage hole we lived in. So they'd have taken it, whatever he hadn't already whored or drank or simply pissed away."
"Does it matter who?"
"Not so very much, no. But it makes me wonder." He nearly didn't say the rest, but simply having her listen soothed him. "He had my face. I forget that most times, remember that I've made myself, myself. But Christ, I have the look of him."
She slid into his lap, brushed her hands through his hair. "I don't think so."And kissed him.
"We've made each other in the end, haven't we, Darling Eve? Two lost souls into one steady unit."
"Guess we have. It's good."
He stroked his cheek against hers, and felt the fatigue wash away."Very good."
She held on another minute,then drew back. "That's enough sloppy stuff. I've got work to do."
"When it's done, why don't we get really sloppy, you and I?"
"I can get behind that." She rose to contact Darcia and get an update on the manhunt.
"Not a sign of him anywhere," Eve told Roarke, then began to pace. "Feeney took care of transpo. Nothing's left the station. We've got him boxed in, but it's a big box with lots of angles. I need Skinner. Nobody's going to know him as well as Skinner."
"Hayes is his son," Roarke reminded her. "Do you think he'd help you?"
"Depends on how much cop is left in him. Come with me," she said. "He needs to see us both. He needs to deal with it."
He looked haggard, Eve thought. His skin was gray and pasty. How muchwas grief, how much illness, she didn't know. The combination of the two, she imagined, would finish him.
But, she noted, he'd put on a suit, and he wore his precinct pin in the lapel.
He brushed aside, with some impatience, his wife's attempt to block Eve.
"Stop fussing, Belle.Lieutenant." His gaze skimmed over Roarke, but he couldn't make himself address the man. "I want you to know I've contacted my attorneys on Hayes's behalf. I believe you and Chief Angelo have made a serious error in judgment."
"No, you don't, Commander. You've been a cop too long. I appreciate the difficulty of your position, but Hayes is the prime suspect in two murders, in sabotage, in a conspiracy to implicate Roarke in those murders. He injured bystanders while fleeing and caused considerable property damage. He also fired his weapon at a police officer. He's currently evading arrest."
"There's an explanation."
"Yes, I believe there is. He's picked up his father's banner, Commander, and he's carrying it where I don't think you intended it to go. You told me yesterday no losses are acceptable. Did you mean it?"
"The pursuit of justice often… In the course of duty, we…" He looked helplessly at his wife. "Belle, I never meant – Reggie, Zita. Have I killed them?"
"No, no." She went to him quickly, wrapped her arms around him. And he seemed to shrink into her. "It's not your fault. It's not your doing."
"If you want justice for them, Commander, help me. Where would he go? What would he do next?"
"I don't know. Do you think I haven't agonized over it through the night?"
"He hasn't slept," Belle told her. "He won't take his pain medication. He needs to rest."
"I confided in him," Skinner continued. "I shared my thoughts, my beliefs,my anger. I wanted him to carry on my mission. Not this way." Skinner sank into a chair. "Not this way, but I beat the path. I can't deny that. Your father killed for sport, for money, for the hell of it," he said to Roarke. "He didn't even know the names of the people he murdered. I look at you and see him. You grew out of him."
"I did." Roarke nodded. "And everything I've done since has been in spite of him. You can't hate him as much as I can, Commander. No matter how hard you try, you'll never reach my measure of it. But I can't live on that hate. And I'm damned if I'll die on it. Will you?"
"I've used it to keep me alive these past months." Skinner looked down at his hands. "It's ruined me. My son is a thorough man. He'll have a back door. Someone inside who'll help him gain access to the hotel. He'll need it to finish what he started."
"Assassinate Roarke?"
"No, Lieutenant. Payment would be dearer than that. It's you he'll aim for." He lifted a hand to a face that had gone clammy. "To take away what his target cherishes most."
When he hissed in pain, Eve stepped forward. "You need medical attention, Commander. You need to be in the hospital."
"No hospitals. No health centers. Try to take him alive, Dallas. I want him to get the help he needs."
"You have to go." Belle stepped in. "He can't take any more of this."