Stolen in Death, page 1
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Ordinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of your soul, there are infinitely precious things, that may not be taken from you.
—Oscar Wilde
Love is not a product of reasonings and statistics.
It just comes—none knows whence—
and cannot explain itself.
—Mark Twain
Chapter One
As she stood in skinny-heeled shoes instead of boots, a gown instead of trousers, Eve Dallas thought whoever invented the gala should be brutally murdered.
Maybe they had been, and their body fed to wild dogs.
Since that would’ve happened decades, maybe centuries before this September night in 2061, she considered the case closed.
Regardless, the strange institution of the gala remained a part of society’s fabric. At least it did if you happened to be a murder cop married to a billionaire.
The Marriage Rules demanded it.
The whole deal supported Sarah’s Song, a worthy charity, a national network for victims of domestic abuse founded around the turn of the century. While she couldn’t argue with the cause, she wondered why people needed to wear fancy clothes in a big, fancy ballroom, stand or sit around making small talk, spend buckets on drinks and dinner instead of staying home, comfortably, and sending those buckets.
But that was just her, obviously, because people packed the big-ass ballroom and the big-ass space outside of it where various bars served various drinks.
In the rosy light and flower-drenched air of the ballroom, hardly anyone sat at the swankily decorated tables yet. She’d learned the gala had a specific order to things.
You had your arrival time, where you had to walk a kind of media gauntlet while society-type reporters took photos or videos so they could tell people who didn’t rate an invite what you were wearing.
Then it was for-God’s-sake-get-me-a-drink time, where you hit one of the various bars.
Fortunately, she’d crossed both those off the list.
Now it was mill-around time, where you stood in those skinny heels and talked to people you didn’t actually know, and likely wouldn’t have any further business with unless they ended up in the morgue.
After mill-around time came sit-around time, while servers served some sort of salad, and people went up onstage to thank everybody, to make their speeches.
Blah blah blah.
Then a meal, but you had to keep talking around the table, or to people who decided to come by and talk while you were trying to eat the fancily plated whatever they served you.
She had no doubt the food and the service would be top-notch. After all, the ballroom and the whole damn hotel belonged to Roarke. Which probably meant the gala people hadn’t paid buckets for the space.
Once the servers whisked away those plates, brought out dessert, someone would make another speech—applause, applause.
Then the entertainment. Which, since Roarke had connections, would be Avenue A, with a guest appearance from Mavis.
Bright spot, she admitted, except she’d probably have to dance, and in these damn torture shoes. Dancing with Roarke, okay, fine, but dancing with whoever?
Marriage Rules, she reminded herself, and took another sip of very nice wine.
And even after all that, when it was finally socially acceptable to get the hell out, there was departure time, where you had to have yet more conversations before the mercifully short drive home.
Maybe the gala inventor should’ve been thrown to those wild dogs while still breathing.
Then Roarke, gorgeous in his tux, as comfortable in the formal wear as she imagined he’d once been in cat-burglar black, smiled at her.
“It’s only a few hours,” he murmured with the Irish flowing through it like harp song over green, mist-soaked hills. “And for a cause that matters, in so many ways, to both of us.”
“You say that, but you’re not standing on stilts.”
“Fashion’s a killer even you can’t toss in a cage, Lieutenant. You’re stunning.” He took her free hand, kissed her fingers while those impossibly blue eyes looked into hers.
“All right now, time to share this beautiful woman.”
Eve recognized the man who approached and the woman at his side as the heads of Sarah’s Song. She knew the story—he’d been eight when his widowed mother had remarried. The abuse began shortly after the I-do’s. Eventually, she’d taken her little boy and run, but not far enough or fast enough.
Now, some sixty years later, the boy who—on his mother’s orders—had run for help that had come too late, held out a hand to Roarke.
“It’s lovely to see you both. Eve, Martin and Sylvia Ellison, the brains, brawn, and heart behind Sarah’s Song.”
Martin caught Eve’s hand in both of his. He had hair the color of old pewter that shot out in the same kind of electric shock bush sported by her former partner and current captain of EDD, Feeney. He had a ruddy, lived-in face and a toned-up, lightweight boxer’s build.
His deep, dark brown eyes smiled into hers as if she were the only person in the room. Inside a streaky silver-and-white goatee, his lips curved.
“It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Sylvia and I are big fans. That’s probably not the right word,” he said with a laugh she could only describe as jolly.
“Admirers of the work you do, and how well you do it.” Sylvia nudged at Martin so she could shake Eve’s hand. “Fair warning, we’ll probably ask a thousand questions about that work before the night’s over.”
She smiled, a tall woman, thin as a whippet in a gown the color of her husband’s hair. She wore her own in a cap of black curls, and had eyes of molten green.
Martin winked. “We’ve used our status for the privilege of sharing your table. Lots of schmoozing to do, but we’ll enjoy sharing the meal with you, Roarke, Nadine Furst, your friends Louise and Charles, and, when they’re not performing, Jake and Mavis.”
“Not to mention Leonardo. That’s one of his designs, I’m sure, and just gorgeous.”
Eve glanced down at the gown. Roarke had called the deep purple bleeding and blending lighter and lighter as it rose up her body ombre. All she knew was it fit, had pockets—and a slash up one leg nearly to her damn waist.
“Ah—”
Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder, bare but for the skinny strap that went back to the deep purple. “Leonardo’s not only a good friend and Mavis’s husband, but he understands just what the lieutenant needs in wardrobe.”
“It has pockets.”
Sylvia just beamed. “Shouldn’t everything?”
“We won’t keep you now,” Martin said. “We want you to know how much we appreciate all you do. Dochas…”
He trailed off as he mentioned the women’s shelter Roarke had built, and Eve saw clearly that some grieving lasts forever.
“It represents,” he continued, “what my grandmother hoped for when she founded Sarah’s Song. Not just safety, but hands outstretched to help, to renew, to rebuild. I hope you enjoy the evening.”
Eve gave a little sigh when they walked away. “They’re nice.”
“They’re exactly what they seem. Generous, intelligent, caring people. They’re also interesting. You won’t be bored. Let’s get you another glass of wine.”
Because she figured it made her a moving target, she went along. It didn’t stop people from waylaying them. She blamed it on Roarke. People recognized him. And if they didn’t, who wouldn’t be attracted to the tall and gorgeous? All that black silk hair, the wild blue eyes, the mouth sculpted by a particularly artistic angel?
She saw plenty giving him a second look, a third, murmuring behind their hands as they did.
When she said just that to him, he laughed.
“And no one notices the long, lanky woman with the cap of deer-hide hair, the eyes like aged whiskey that take in every detail she sees. The chin that looks like it could take a punch. And has,” he added, brushing a finger down its shallow dent.
“There’s a group of three women at your two o’clock. Every one of them’s mind-fucked you, a couple times each.”
“Ah, is that why I feel so used yet oddly unsatisfied?” Deliberately, he touched his lips to hers. “There, that’s better.”
She had to smile, especially since one of the three women heaved a sigh and laid a hand on her heart.
“Enough of the milling. It’s got to be sit-down time by now.”
“Then we’ll find our table and do just that.”
They not only found their table—after the gauntlet of stop, talk, go, stop, talk—but Nadine and Mavis were already seated there.
They huddled together, giggling over something. Or Mavis
They couldn’t have looked more different, less like two women who would be not only friends, but great, good friends.
Mavis Freestone, former grifter, current rock star, mother of one with another on the way, had her hair in a spilling fountain of twisty curls tinted electric blue. A tiny woman, at least from Eve’s stance of five-ten (without the stilts), she wore glittery, gleaming gold that hugged her impressive baby mountain like loving arms.
Eve figured she could’ve put her fist through the hoops dangling from her ears.
Beside her, Nadine Furst, ace on-camera reporter, bestselling crime writer, Oscar winner, and cohab of Avenue A’s front man, wore a gown of smoky red. A sophisticated hue in a sophisticated cut that left one well-toned shoulder bare. She’d rolled her streaky blond hair into some sort of twist. A couple of jeweled pins sparkled in it.
Mavis spotted them first. Her face, already glowing, lit like the sun. “You’re here! No dead bodies!”
“Night’s young,” Eve said, and put a hand on Mavis’s shoulder before her oldest friend tried to haul her baby mountain out of the chair.
Roarke bent down to kiss her cheek, then Nadine’s. “Breathtaking, both of you. How fortunate am I to share a table with three stunning women? Ah, and here’s yet another,” he added when Louise and Charles approached the table.
Dr. Dimatto did stun, Eve supposed, in a pale lavender gown that looked delicate enough air might tear it. And somehow added the faintest lavender tint to her gray eyes. Beside her, tall and lean, Charles Monroe looked as if he’d been born in a tux.
The doctor who’d turned her wealthy upbringing on its ear by opening and running a free clinic, and the former licensed companion, now sex therapist, made a solid couple, a solid marriage.
So hug time postponed sit-down time.
“Get a load of us,” Mavis said with another giggle. “We’re all mag to the ex. You ever figure it, Dallas, you and me, duded to the mega max and doing the totally uptown gala thing?”
“No.”
“And she’d still rather be chasing a psycho down a dark alley.”
Eve looked at Nadine, and thought it was good to have friends who knew you.
“Yes.”
“Ah, let it chill, Dallas. Lap up the moment. This is my last gig before Number Two makes an entrance.”
“I don’t have to ask how you’re feeling,” Louise said as she took her seat. “I can see it. Not much longer now.”
“How do you perform carting all that around?”
Mavis’s eyes twinkled at Eve. “Wait and see. The guys’ll be here soon. Leonardo just stepped out to tag August, make sure everything’s aces at home with Bella. He’s spending the night because it’ll be a long one.”
Since she’d run August, the nanny, former military, solid, Eve didn’t worry there. Plus, Peabody and McNab shared the big, rambling, sort of fascinating house.
“Jake’s with us,” Nadine said. “They’ve spread the band around the tables before they take the stage.”
Leonardo swept in wearing what Eve imagined he considered a tux with a long, billowing coat that reminded her of dusters in old Western vids. His hair didn’t fountain like Mavis’s, but it did spill in curls around his wide, copper-hued face.
He shook Roarke’s hand, bent to kiss Eve, then repeated with Charles and Louise.
“And how is the beautiful Bella?” Charles asked.
“Perfect. Just perfect. They’re having a dance party. August said Bella claimed since Mama and Daddy went to a party, she should have one, too. So Peabody and McNab came over and they’re having a dance party before bedtime.”
“You’ve made a happy home.”
Leonardo beamed at Charles as his big hand covered Mavis’s.
People began to take their seats at their tables when Jake came in from a door to the left of the stage. Then several of them jumped up again. So Eve watched as he did the walk, stop, talk, and in his case, pose for a selfie or sign the evening’s program.
A good guy, she thought. He handled it all smooth as silk, patient and easy, but still making progress. Rather than a tux, he wore rock star black—jeans, shirt, leather jacket, and boots that suited his tall, lean frame.
No colorful streaks in the black mane tonight, she noted.
When he finally got to the table, Nadine poured him a glass of wine. “You earned it.”
“Did. Hey, everybody.” He grinned at Eve. “Hardly ever see you without the badge and weapon.”
She tapped the evening bag—the one just big enough to hold her essentials. “You’re still not.”
“Oh. Okay then. Feel safer already.”
They served the salad; they started the speeches. The first, fresh and pretty, the second, mercifully short and heartfelt enough she noted several people dabbing at their eyes.
As the main course came out, Mavis sighed. “Gotta waddle.”
Eve gave her a blank look. “What?”
“Ladies’ room.”
As Leonardo helped her out of the chair, Nadine rose. Louise rose. Eve started to cut into what looked like some sort of actual beef. And Nadine tapped her shoulder.
“What? Really?”
“You’re security. Bring your weapon bag.”
“Security, my ass.” But Eve grabbed her bag and rose. “You couldn’t have had to waddle during the speeches?”
“Number Two was sleeping, but now? Sometimes they sit on your bladder. Sometimes they dance on it.” Rolling her eyes, Mavis rubbed at the mound. “Someone else is having a dance party.”
Since Eve didn’t want that image stuck in her brain, she said nothing more. And didn’t have to pull her weapon on the trip to the restroom.
She didn’t mind the dinner portion, in fact enjoyed it. Maybe it wasn’t pizza and beer with friends, but it was still sharing a meal with friends. And the Ellisons had stories to tell or conversational gambits that pulled stories out of others.
“I read,” Sylvia began, “that you and Lieutenant Dallas met when she arrested you. That can’t be true.”
“Solid fact.” Mavis lifted her glass of sparkling water, toasted Eve before drinking. “I had an off day that turned out to be the best day because Dallas busted me.”
“What did you do?” Martin asked. “If you don’t mind telling us.”
“What’d I do, Dallas?”
“Fumbled a wallet lift. You got the wallet—some tourist—but you’d been trailing him, and I caught the lift.”
“Caught me, too. I was better at the grift than the lift. Short cons, I ruled short cons back in the ago.”
Then she put a hand over Martin’s. “The street was better to me, for me, than where I ran from. What you’re doing tonight? What you and Sylvia do, what Dallas and Roarke do? I’m all in. Anytime I can help.”
Martin brought her hand to his lips. “You’re a beautiful soul. It shines right out of you.” He gave her hand an extra squeeze before turning to Eve. “And do you often make lifelong friends with former grifters and thieves?”
“Mavis was the first.”
He laughed. “And the last as well?”
Eve thought of the man sitting beside her, so obviously amused. “Not exactly.”
As dessert came out, Jake turned Nadine’s face to his, kissed her. “Gotta rock.”
And rock they did.
After an enthusiastic introduction from Martin, Avenue A took the stage to the thunder of applause. And with the blast of the opening riff, people poured onto the dance floor. They shook it in their tuxes, designer gowns, sparkling jewels. Some—more than some, by Eve’s estimate—held up their ’links to capture the moment.
Halfway through the first set, Mavis wiggled. “Gotta waddle.”
“Again?”
“Not that way. Gotta waddle up there. Haul me up, moonpie.”
“Just how,” Eve murmured to Roarke, “is she going to do whatever she does up there when somebody has to haul her out of a chair?”
He just smiled. “Wait and see.”
She waited, and she saw.
The drums went to a pulsing beat, like a heart quickening. Jake held his hands over his head, clapped in a steady rhythm along with his other bandmates. And so, Eve noted, did people on the dance floor, at tables.
“How do we rock tonight?” he shouted.
