In Death 12.5 - Interlude in Death by J.D. Robb Read Free Book Online

twelve months. But he lost one. He was never able to get his hands on one.”
    “Darling, I might’ve been precocious, but at twelve I’d yet to run arms, unless you’re counting a few hand-helds or homemade boomers sold in alleyways. And I hadn’t ventured beyond Dublin City. As for weaseling, that’s something I’ve never stooped to.”
    “No.” She kept staring at his face. “Not you.”
    And watched his eyes change, darken and chill, as it fell into place for him. “Well, then,” he said, very softly. “Son of a bitch.”

5
    A s a boy, Roarke had been the favored recipient of his father’s fists and boots. He’d usually seen them coming, and had avoided them when possible, lived with them when it wasn’t.
    To his knowledge, this was the first time the old man had sucker punched him from the grave.
    Still, he sat calmly enough, reading the hard copy of the reports Eve had brought him. He was a long way from the skinny, battered boy who had run the Dublin alleyways. Though he didn’t care much for having to remind himself of it now.
    “This double cross went down a couple of months before my father ended up in the gutter with a knife in his throat. Apparently someone beat Skinner to him. He has that particular unsolved murder noted in his file here. Perhaps he arranged it.”
    “I don’t think so.” She wasn’t quite sure how to approach Roarke on the subject of his father and his boyhood. He tended to walk away from his past, whereas she—well, she tended to walk into the wall of her own past no matter how often, how deliberately, she changed directions.
    “Why do you say that? Look, Eve, it isn’t the same for me as it is for you. You needn’t be careful. He doesn’t haunt me. Tell me why if my father slipped through Skinner’s fingers in Atlanta, Skinner wouldn’t arrange to have his throat slit in Dublin City.”
    “First, he was a cop, not an assassin. There’s no record in the file that he’d located his target in Dublin. There’s correspondence with Interpol, with local Irish authorities. He was working on extradition procedures should his target show up on Irish soil, and would likely have gotten the paperwork and the warrant. That’s what he’d have wanted,” she continued, and rose to prowl the room. “He’d want the bastard back on his own turf, back where it went down and his men were killed. He’d want that face-to-face. He didn’t get it.”
    She turned back. “If he’d gotten it, he could’ve closed the book, moved on. And he wouldn’t be compelled to go after you. You’re what’s left of the single biggest personal and professional failure of his life. He lost his men, and the person responsible for their loss got away from him.”
    “Dead wouldn’t be enough, without arrest, trial, and sentencing.”
    “No, it wouldn’t. And here you are, rich, successful, famous—and married, for Christ’s sake—to a cop. I don’t need Mira to draw me a profile on this one. Skinner believes that perpetrators of certain crimes, including any crime that results in the death of a police official, should pay with their life. After due process. Your father skipped out on that one. You’re here, you pay.”
    “Then he’s doomed to disappointment. For a number of reasons. One, I’m a great deal smarter than my father was.” He rose, went to her, skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin. “And my cop is better than Skinner ever hoped to be.”
    “I have to take him down. I have to fuck over fifty years of duty, and take him down.”
    “I know.” And would suffer for it, Roarke thought, as Skinner never would. As Skinner could never understand. “We need to sleep,” he said and pressed his lips to her brow.
     
    S he dreamed of Dallas, and the frigid, filthy room in Texas where her father had kept her. She dreamed of cold and hunger and unspeakable fear. The red light from the sex club across the street flashed into the room, over her face. And over his face as he