“Why, thank you, darling.”
“I’m serious. There’s nothing in his background that leads me to believe he’s that savvy with the e-work. That he’s that damn good he could pull all this off. Get to her, get to her files, and leave nothing. No trace.”
She stared into her wine as if she might find that trace, that one vital clue swimming in the deep red. “If she was going after him, or she was going to drop the dime there, she’d have documentation. She was a maniac about documentation. Her reports and case notes are fucking textbook. It was her strength.”
“Kept elsewhere.”
“Yeah, yeah, shit, like I haven’t thought of that?” Frustrated, she took another sip of wine. “I’ve got nothing that indicates she had a safe house, a bank box, a hidey-hole. Nothing that . . . Oh fuck me. Fuck me!”
“Again? Good God, Eve.”
“Yeah, a riot of laughs.” She pushed her glass into his hand, shoved up. “Morris. She hooks up, falls for Morris. Spends a lot of time with him, a lot of time at his place.”
“Ah. And may have passcoded and hidden something on one of his units. Or stashed copies of said data among his data discs.”
“I’m an idiot for not thinking of it.”
“That would make me an idiot, as I didn’t think of it either. And I’m a bloody genius about these things.” He smiled when she stared at him. “So I’m told.”
“I’ve got to check it out. I’ve got to—crap, he could be a target, too.”
“I believe we’re going out,” Roarke said, and set his wine and hers aside.
From the sidewalk, Eve stared at the windows of Morris’s loft while her stomach clenched. The privacy screens were engaged, and she could see only the faintest glow behind the glass.
“God, I hate this. He wants to be alone, just wants time and space to grieve, and I’ve got to go in there, pry in there.”
“A lesser friend would have waited until tomorrow, and sent an EDD contingent in. You’re respecting him and his grief as much as you possibly can.” Roarke took her hand. “I don’t want to put myself in his place, but if I were? I’d want the same.”
“I promised to tell him the truth, and keep him in the loop. Well, this is the damn loop.” She bore down, walked over, and pressed his buzzer.
It took time, but she saw the security light go on. She faced the camera. “I’m sorry, Morris, really sorry to disturb you. We need to come up. We need to talk.”
The only response was the green glow, and the mechanical thunk of the locks being released. They went in, but when she turned to the stairs, the elevator grate opened, and its light went green.
“Okay then.” She took a breath, stepped in with Roarke.
When the grate opened again, Morris stood on the other side.
He looked as he had that afternoon. A little tired, Eve thought, a little more worn, but much the same. The lights of the loft were quiet, as was the music haunting the air.
“Have you made an arrest?”
“No. But I need to tug on another line of investigation.”
He nodded, then seemed to focus on Roarke for the first time. “Please, come in. Both of you.”
Roarke touched Morris’s arm, just the lightest of contacts. “I wish there were more than words, because they’re never enough, or they’re simply too much. But I’m very sorry.”
“I’ve been sitting here, in the dark—or near dark—alone, trying to come to terms. Death is my business. It’s a reality, a finality I’ve made into my profession. But I can’t come to terms.”
“Death is your business,” Roarke said before Eve could comment. “Eve often says the same. I’m on the outside, of course, but I’ve never seen it that way. The truth is your business. Seeking it for those who can’t seek it for themselves is what you’ve made into your profession. She worries for you.”
“Roarke.”
“Quiet,” he said to Eve, mildly. “Hurts for you. You mean a great deal to her. To both of us. We’ll do whatever it takes to help find the truth for Amaryllis.”
“I saw her today.” Morris stepped away, sat—weariness in every movement. “Clip had done all he could. The people in my house, all they could. How many times have I stood there while someone looked on dead love? How many hundreds and hundreds of times? It doesn’t prepare you for when it’s yours. They’ll release her soon. I’ve, ah, cleared it to have her memorial tomorrow, in one of Central’s bereavement suites. At two. Her family will have one next week in Atlanta. I’ll go. And still, it doesn’t seem real.”
Eve sat on the table in front of him, to face him. “Have you spoken with a grief counselor?”
“Not yet. I’m not ready for that yet. I should offer you a drink.” When Eve started to shake her head, he continued. “I could use one. I’ve been careful not to, not to use that to block it out. But I think I could use a drink. There’s brandy on the sideboard.”
“I’ll get it,” Roarke told him.
“If not a counselor, would you speak with Mira? A friend?”
He waited until Roarke came back with a snifter. “Thanks. I don’t know,” he said to Eve. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been thinking of dead love.”
He drank some brandy, met her eyes. “But here you are,” he murmured. “Did you know I had a brother?”
“No.”
“I lost him when I was a boy. He was twelve, and I was ten. We were very close. There was an accident while we were on holiday one summer. He drowned. He wanted to go out, into the ocean early in the morning. We were forbidden, of course. Not without our parents, but we were just boys. He was a strong swimmer, and a daredevil. I worshipped him, as boys do.”
He sat back, sipped his brandy. “I promised I wouldn’t tell, swore an oath to him. So he let me go with him, and I was so excited and terrified.” The memory brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, to his eyes. “There was little I liked more than when he’d let me in on an adventure. Our father would skin us if he found out, which made it only more thrilling. In we went—warm water, warm waves, with the sun barely up, and the gulls screaming.”
He closed his eyes, and even that hint of smile vanished. “I wasn’t as strong a swimmer, and couldn’t keep up. He was laughing and teasing me as I thrashed my way back toward shore.
“Out of breath, eyes stinging from the salt, the sun starting to burn over the water. I remember all that. I can still feel all that. I turned in the shallows, panting, to yell at him to come on, to come back before we got caught.”
He opened his eyes, looked into Eve’s again. She saw old pain in them.
“And he was gone. I couldn’t swim back, couldn’t save him. Couldn’t see him. I suppose if I’d tried, if it had occurred to me to do anything but run for my father, I’d have drowned, too.”
He let out a breath. “So. They said he may have gotten a cramp, or been swamped by a wave, simply tired out, or been caught in an undertow. I wanted to know how and why my brother was dead. I wanted the truth. But they couldn’t tell me.”
“So you look for it now,” Roarke said.
“So I look for it now.” He looked at Roarke. “You’re right. The business of truth. I never found it with my brother. I’m not sure I can bear losing someone I love a second time and not know why. Not know the truth.”
“What was his name?”
Morris looked up from the brandy, into Eve’s face. For a moment his eyes swam with memories, tears, and gratitude. “Jin. His name was Jin.” He sat forward, gripped Eve’s hand. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you’re here. You . . . you’ve hurt your head,” he said abruptly.
“It’s nothing. Just banged it.”
“You’re not clumsy.”