Children shouldn’t fear their fathers. She knew that now, in some part of her restless brain, she knew that. But the child knew nothing but fear.
There had been no one to stop him, no one to fight for her when his hand had slashed out like a snake. No one to protect her when he’d torn at her, torn into her. There’d been no one to hear her scream, to beg him to stop.
Not again, not again. Please, please, not again.
She’d had no one to run to when the bone in her arm had snapped like a twig broken under a careless foot. She’d had only herself, and the knife.
She could feel the blood flooding over her hands, her face, and the way his body had jerked when she’d hacked that blade into his flesh. She could see herself smeared with it, coated with it, dripping with it, like an animal at the kill. And even in sleep, she knew the madness of that animal, the utter lack of humanity.
The sounds she made were vile. Even after he was dead, the sounds she made were vile.
She struggled, jabbing, jabbing, jabbing.
“Come back. Oh God, baby, come back.”
Panic and protection. Someone to hear, to help. Through the madness of memory, she heard Roarke’s voice, scented him and curled up tight in the arms he’d wrapped around her.
“Can’t.” Couldn’t shake it off. There was so much blood.
“We’re here. We’re both right here. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to her hair, her cheek. “Let it go, Eve. Let it go now.”
“I’m cold. I’m so cold.”
He rubbed his hands over her back, her arms, too afraid to leave her even for the time it would take to get up for a blanket. “Hold on to me.”
He lifted her into his lap, rocking her as he would a child. And the shudders that racked her gradually eased. Her breathing steadied.
“I’m okay.” She let her head fall limply on his shoulder. “Sorry.” But when he didn’t loosen his hold, when he continued to rock, she closed her eyes, tried to drift into the comfort he needed as much as she.
Still, she saw what she’d been, what she’d done. What she’d become in that horrible room in Dallas. Roarke could see it. He lived it with her through her nightmares.
Burrowing against him, she stared off into the dark again and wondered if she could bear the shame if anyone else caught a glimpse of how Eve Dallas had come to be.
Peabody loved briefings at Eve’s home office. However serious the business, there was always an informal atmosphere when you added food. And a breakfast meeting not only meant real coffee, but real eggs, real meat and all manner of sticky, sugary pastries.
And she could justify the extra calories because it was work-related fuel. There was, in her opinion, no downside to the current situation.
They were all loaded in-Feeney, McNab, Trueheart, Baxter, Dallas, even Roarke. And boy, oh boy, a look at Roarke in the morning was as delicious a jolt to the system as the strong black coffee sweetened with honest-to-God sugar.
It was hardly a wonder the lieutenant was so slim. She had to burn up the calories just looking at him. Considering that, Peabody snatched a couple extra slices of bacon and calculated she might actually lose weight during the briefing.
It was a pretty good deal.
“Updates are in your packs,” Eve began, and Peabody divided her attention between her plate and her partner.
Eve leaned on the corner of her desk, coffee in one hand, laser pointer in the other. “Feeney and our civilian made some progress last night, as did McNab. McNab, give the team your data.”
He had to swallow, fast and hard, a mouthful of Danish. “Sir. My area deals with the ’links and d and c’s from both vics.”
He ran through it, pinpointing transmission locations, with considerable comp-jock code. The jargon, and the questions and comments Feeney tossed him in the same idiom gave Eve time to finish her coffee and contemplate another cup.
“You’ll scout those locations this morning,” Eve put in when there was a short lull. “With these images. Screen One. This is Steven Whittier. Current data leads us to believe he is the son of Alex Crew. On Screen Two you see Trevor Whittier, son of Steven Whittier and likely the grandson of Crew. Given accumulated data and the profile, he fits. Steven Whittier is the founder and current owner of Whittier Construction.”
“That’s a nice little pop,” Baxter commented.
“Bigger and louder one as we’ve determined Whittier Construction is the contractor on a major rehab job, building on Avenue B. The company is licensed for four gasoline storage facilities. None of the other potential matches have as many links as this. Steven Whittier’s official data states his father is deceased. His mother… ”
She split the screen and brought up the image of a woman known as Janine Strokes Whittier. “Currently residing at Leisure Gardens, a retirement and care facility on Long Island, where Whittier senior has a second home. She’s in the right age group, has the right racial profile and matches the computer morphs.”
“Will we bring the Whittiers in to interview, Lieutenant?” Peabody asked.
“Not at this time. We’ve got circumstantial and supposition. It’s good circumstantial and supposition, but it’s not enough to push the PA for a warrant. It’s not enough to arrest, much less convict. So we get more.”
“Trueheart and I can take the images, toss in a couple more and show them to the waitress. She picks out one of these guys,” Baxter said, “we’ve got more.”
“Do it. McNab, find me somebody at the transmission sources who remembers seeing one or both of these men. Feeney, I need you to dig back. If Janine and Steven Whittier went by other names previous to this, I want them.”
“You’ll get them,” he told her, and scooped up a mouthful of eggs.
“Peabody and I will head to this job site first, match the trace and do a sweep. If Cobb was killed there, there’ll be blood. I want witnesses, I want physical evidence. We lock it down, then we pull them in. Roarke, I’m counting on your security to keep Samantha Gannon and her family safe under wraps until we nail this.”
“It’s done.”
“Sir.” Like any well-disciplined student, Trueheart raised his hand. “Detective Baxter and I could go by the hotel and show Ms. Gannon the images. She might recognize one or both of these men. If so, it could give us another link.”
“That’s good thinking, Trueheart. Do the legwork. Let’s build this case tight.” She glanced toward the board, and the victims. “Nobody else is going to die over a bunch of fucking rocks.”
When the team began to disperse, Roarke ran a fingertip along Eve’s shoulder. “A moment, Lieutenant?”
“Half a moment.” With her mind on dovetailing points of the investigation, she trailed after him into his office.
He closed the door, then, cupping his hands under her elbows, lifted her to the toes of her boots and took her mouth in a short and heated kiss.
“Jeez!” She dropped back to the flat of her feet with a thud. “What is wrong with you?”
“Had to get that out of my system. Something about watching you take command just gets me started.”
“Watching grass grow gets you started.” She turned toward the door, but he slapped a hand on it. “Do the words ‘obstruction of justice’ ring a bell?”
“Several. And though a quick bout of obstruction might be entertaining, that’s not what I had in mind. I have some things to deal with this morning, but some of the day can be shuffled around.”
“If Feeney wants you on board for the e-work, that’s between you and him.”
“He has his teeth in it now. I don’t imagine he needs me to chew through the rest. But you might want me along when you speak to Steven Whittier.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows me. And from what I know of him, he couldn’t have had a part in what was done to those women. Not knowingly.”