Delusion in Death

screen, and the weeping notes she thought came from a violin.

She noted the security light blinking red on apartment 3-C, and the lack of palm plate or camera.

“Security’s not a top priority,” Eve commented.

“It’s a decent enough neighborhood.”

“There was an illegals deal going down on the corner.”

“I said decent enough.” He smiled at her. “You didn’t bother to ruin the dealer’s night.”

“Busting up a Zoner push isn’t my top priority.” She knocked briskly, and was about to knock again when she saw the shadow pass over the Judas hole. “NYPSD.” She held up her badge.

Locks clicked and clunked before the door opened.

Shelby Carstein looked like a woman who’d just rolled out of a very active bed. The robe she was still tying hit mid-thigh, and her bare feet sported toes painted pumpkin orange. Her hair, nearly the same color, tumbled around a face lax from sex.

She tugged the robe a little closer, but didn’t cover the stubble burn down the right side of her throat.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Her voice came out husky and thick as she looked from Eve to Roarke with a mix of annoyance and curiosity in sleepy green eyes.

“Ms. Carstein?”

“Yes. What’s this about?”

“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, and this is my consultant. We’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“The incident this evening at On the Rocks.”

“The—oh for—look, so we had a fight. It’s not like we threw things or broke up the place. And I didn’t punch that stupid slut, even though I wanted to. I just told her to back off before I slugged her. And so I used harsh language, but I never laid a hand on her.”

“What stupid slut was that, Ms. Carstein?”

“I don’t know, just some big tits. Rocky said she was just drunk and silly, but she came on to him. Right in front of my face.” Shelby pointed two fingers at her face, in case Eve missed its location. “I don’t have to take crap like that from some drunk big tits.”

“Ms. Carstein, if we could come in.”

“Oh for God’s sake.” She backed up, temper burning the sex haze off her face. “Rocky! Rocky, you get out here. I’ve got cops at my door because of that blond bimbo from the bar.”

“Come on!” Exasperation colored the voice from a room off the smartly decorated living area. And articles of clothing—men’s pants, shirt, a woman’s skirt, jumbled shoes, littered their way toward that room.

Eve decided she didn’t have to be a cop to detect the scenario.

A man, dark hair standing in spikes, a love bite on his bare shoulder, shuffled out, still adjusting cotton lounge pants.

So Rocky had closet and drawer space, Eve further deduced. “What the hell, Shel?”

“Let’s make this simple,” Eve decided. “Your name?” she asked Rocky.

“Rockwell Detweiler.”

Seriously? she thought. Rockwell?

“You and Ms. Carstein were in On the Rocks this evening. You left the bar at seventeen-twenty-nine.”

“Seventeen-twenty-nine? Jesus!” Shelby threw up her hands. “What the fuck? Is this a military state now? I didn’t do anything.”

“She didn’t,” Rocky began.

“You thought it was funny.” She rounded on him, jabbed out a finger. “That bimbo poured herself all over him when Rocky went up to the bar. He thought it was funny. Even when she wiggled her way over to our table, put her fricking number on the table, he thought it was funny.”

“Men have juvenile senses of humor,” Eve offered.

“We do,” Roarke agreed. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Charm my ass,” Shelby muttered.

“I didn’t take it!” Rocky held out his hands in appeal. “I didn’t take her number.”

“You gave her that big, wiseass grin, didn’t you? In my face!” Two fingers again noted the location of said face. “Okay, so I told her where I’d put her number if she didn’t back the hell off, and maybe I knocked my drink over so it splashed on her shoes. But, Jesus, it’s not like I assaulted her. Or him.” Now she jerked a thumb at Rocky. “I walked out!”

“We walked out, okay, Shel? Okay, it was stupid.” He appealed to everyone in the room. “I did think it was funny—the girl was pretty drunk—and I confess—right, I confessed, Shel, it was a little flattering. But it was funny because you were there. I didn’t do anything either. I love you, right? Didn’t I tell you? When we went out and you told me I could suck it, and—well, and all the rest, didn’t I come after you, Shel? Didn’t I chase you for three freaking blocks to apologize. And to tell you I love you. I mean it hit me right there on Carmine Street. I love Shelby.”

“Oh, Rocky.” Temper died off into a gooey smile.

“Where did you go when you left the bar?” Eve asked.

“Here.” The gooey smile stayed in place. “We came back here.”

“I take it you’ve remained in. Haven’t watched any screen, used your ’links.”

“We’ve been kind of busy.” Rocky’s smile matched Shelby’s goo for goo. “Listen, if there’s a fine or something, I’ll pay it.”

“There’s no fine. I think you should sit down,” Eve told them. Because what she had to tell them would wipe that happy goo off their faces.

Nothing, she thought, putting her PPC and Peabody’s notification report away as they drove through the gates. Nothing from those left behind but grief and confusion. She studied the house as they approached. All those warm, welcoming lights, she thought, in all those big windows. Roarke’s fortress, a towering edifice of stone, style, and security.

Home. Too many people wouldn’t go home tonight.

“Too late for interviews,” she murmured, “after the Rocky and Shelby show.”

“It entertained. A bit of comic relief after a bloody horrible day.”

“Maybe—okay definitely—and it had to be done. But it ate up the clock. Not enough time for interviewing friends and coworkers tonight.”

“How much time do you think you have?”

She didn’t misunderstand him. “I can’t say, and that’s the bitch. I’m hoping we have a week, two is better. But if I were him—them—her—I’d hit within a couple days. Keep us running, get the city in full panic mode. Isn’t that the point? Panic, fear, violence, death. I wouldn’t wait very long. I have to think.”

She got out of the car, grateful for the jacket as the clear, hard sky had sucked up all the warmth of the day. Shorter days now, she mused.

Longer, darker nights.

“I have things to see to.” Roarke took her hand, and finding it chilled, rubbed his lips over it. “I’ll speak with Feeney once I’ve dealt with them.”

When they stepped inside, the scarecrow in black, Roarke’s man about everything and her domestic ass pain, waited in the wide foyer. At his feet, the fat cat sat. Then Galahad padded over, wound between her legs, then Roarke’s, then back again.

“I’ve heard the media reports,” Summerset began without preamble. Eve waited for the clever insult, and could only frown as he continued without one. “They aren’t detailed of course, as yet, but that many deaths in one place—contained in one place, and one you own,” he said to Roarke, “is disturbing.”

“We’re disturbed,” Eve responded and turned for the stairs.

Summerset kept his gaze on Roarke. “Were you the target?”

“No.”

“The lieutenant disagrees.”

Now she had Summerset’s eyes on her, and Roarke’s. And in Roarke’s she clearly read the warning. “I don’t disagree. I’d say very unlikely.”