The In Death Collection 06-10 (105 page)

“Yes.”

“Oh. I’ve got this thing at seven.”

“What thing?”

“Will reading. At B. D. Branson’s.”

“Ah. No problem, I’ll shift dinner to eight-thirty and we’ll go by Branson’s first.”

“There’s no
we
here.”

He lifted his head from her breast, smiled. “I think I just proved you wrong.”

“It’s a case, not sex.”

“All right, I won’t have sex with you at Branson’s, but it might have been interesting.”

“Look, Roarke—”

“It simply makes sense, logistically.” He gave her cheek a pat and rolled aside. “We’ll go from Branson’s to the hotel where dinner is set.”

“You can’t just sit in on a will reading. It’s not a public event.”

“I’m sure B. D. has some comfortable place where I can wait for my wife without intruding, if that’s necessary. As I recall, he has a very spacious home.”

She didn’t bother to grumble. “I guess you know him.”

“Of course. We’re competitors—not unfriendly ones.”

She blew out a breath as she sat up and eyed him. “I’ll see if the lawyer approves it, so pending that, fine. And maybe later, you’ll give me your opinion of the Branson brothers.”

“Darling, I’m always delighted to help.”

“Yeah.” This time she did grumble. “That’s what worries me.”

Eve fidgeted in the back of the limo. It wasn’t the mode of transport she’d have chosen when she considered herself on duty. The fact was, she preferred being at the wheel when she was on the clock. There was something just plain decadent about streaming along in a mile-long limo under any circumstances, but in the middle of an investigation, it was, well, embarrassing.

Not that she would use the words
decadent
or
embarrassing
to Roarke. He’d enjoy her dilemma entirely too much.

At least the long, somewhat severe black dress she wore was suitable enough for both a will reading and a business dinner. It was straight and simple, covering her from neck to ankle. She considered it practical, if foolishly expensive.

But there was no place to strap on her weapon without looking ridiculous, no place for her badge but the silly little evening purse.

When she squirmed again, Roarke draped an arm over the backseat and smiled at her. “Problem?”

“Cops don’t wear virgin wool and ride in limos.”

“Cops who are married to me do.” He skimmed a finger over the cuff beneath the sleeve of her coat. He enjoyed the way the dress looked on her—long, straight, unadorned so that the body under it was quietly showcased. “How do you suppose they know the sheep are virgins?”

“Ha ha. We could have taken my ride.”

“Though your current vehicle is a vast improvement over your last, it hardly provides this kind of comfort. And we wouldn’t have been able to fully enjoy the wines that will be served with dinner. Most importantly . . .” He lifted her hand, nipped at her knuckles. “I wouldn’t be able to nibble on you along the way.”

“I’m on duty here.”

“No, you’re not. Your shift ended an hour ago.”

She smirked at him. “I took an hour’s personal time, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” He shifted closer, and his hand slid up her thigh. “You can go back on the clock when we get there, but for now . . .”

She narrowed her eyes as the car swung to the curb. “I haven’t gone off the clock, ace. Move your hand, or I’ll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer.”

“When we get home, will you read me my rights and interrogate me?”

She snorted out a laugh. “Pervert,” she muttered and climbed out of the car.

“You smell better than a cop’s supposed to.” He sniffed at her as they walked toward the dignified entrance of the brownstone.

“You squirted that stuff on me before I could dodge.” He tickled her neck, made her jerk back. “You’re awfully playful tonight, Roarke.”

“I had a very satisfying lunch,” he said soberly. “Put me in a cheerful mood.”

She had to grin, then cleared her throat. “Well, shake it off, this isn’t exactly a festive occasion.”

“No, it’s not.” He stroked an absent hand down her
hair before ringing the bell. “I’m sorry about J. C.”

“You knew him, too.”

“Well enough to like him. He was an affable sort of man.”

“So everyone says. Affable enough to cheat on his lover?”

“I couldn’t say. Sex causes the best of us to make mistakes.”

“Really?” She arched her brows. “Well, if you ever feel like making a mistake in that area, remember what an annoyed woman can do with a Branson power drill.”

“Darling.” He gave the back of her neck a quick squeeze. “I feel so loved.”

A solemn-eyed maid opened the door, her slick, black jumpsuit conservatively cut, her voice smooth and faintly British. “Good evening,” she began with the faintest of nods. “I’m sorry, the Bransons aren’t accepting visitors at the moment. There’s been a death in the family.”

“Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve took out her badge. “We’re expected.”

The maid studied the badge for a moment, then nodded. It wasn’t until Eve saw the quick jitter in the eyes that indicated a security probe that she tagged the maid as a droid.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Please come in. May I take your coats?”

“Sure.” Eve shrugged out of hers, then waited until the maid neatly laid it and Roarke’s over her arm.

“If you would follow me. The family is in the main parlor.”

Eve glanced around the foyer with its atrium ceiling and graceful curve of stairs. Urban landscapes done in spare pen and ink adorned the pearl gray walls. The heels of her dress boots clicked on tiles of the same hue. It gave the entranceway and wide hall a misty, sophisticated ambiance. Light slanted down from the ceiling like moonbeams through fog. The staircase, a pure white
sweep, seemed to be floating unsupported.

Two tall doors slid silently into the wall at their approach. The maid paused respectfully at the entrance. “Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke,” she announced, then stepped back.

“How come we don’t have her instead of Summerset?”

Eve’s muttered question earned her another light neck squeeze from her husband as they walked into the room.

It was high-ceilinged, spacious, the lighting muted. The monochromatic theme carried through here, this time in layers of blue from the delicate pastels of fan-shaped conversation pits to the cobalt tiles of the fireplace where flames flickered.

Silver vases of varying sizes and shapes were arranged on the mantel. Each held white lilies. The air was ripely funereal with their scent.

A woman rose from the near curve of the seating area and crossed the sea of carpet toward them. Her skin was white as the lilies against her black suit. She wore her wheat-colored hair pulled severely back, knotted at the nape in smooth, snaking twists, in a way only the most confident and beautiful of women would dare. Unframed, her face was stunning, a perfect creation of planed cheekbones, slim, straight nose, smooth brow, shapely, unpainted lips all set off with large, lushly lashed eyes of dark violet.

The eyes grieved.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” She held out a hand. Her voice reminded Eve of her skin—pale and smooth and flawless. “Thank you for coming. I’m Clarissa Branson. Roarke.” In a gesture that was both warm and fragile, she offered him her free hand so that, for a moment, the three of them stood joined.

“I’m very sorry about J. C., Clarissa.”

“We’re all a little numb. I saw him just this weekend. We had . . . we all had brunch on Sunday. I don’t—I still don’t—”

As she began to falter, B. D. Branson stepped up, slid an arm around her waist. Eve watched her stiffen slightly, saw the gorgeous eyes lower.

“Why don’t you get our guests a drink, darling.”

“Oh yes, of course.” She released Eve’s hand to touch her fingers to her temple. “Would you like some wine?”

“No, thanks. Coffee, if you have it.”

“I’ll arrange for some to be brought in. Excuse me.”

“Clarissa’s taking this very hard,” Branson said quietly, and his gaze never left his wife.

“She and your brother were close?” Eve asked.

“Yes. She has no family, and J. C. was as much a brother to her as he was to me. Now we only have each other.” He continued to stare at his wife, then seemed to pull back into himself. “I didn’t make the connection until you’d left my office today, Lieutenant. Your connection to Roarke.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” He managed a small smile for Roarke. “We’re competitors, but I wouldn’t say we’re adversaries.”

“I enjoyed J. C.,” Roarke said briefly. “He’ll be missed.”

“Yes, he will. You should meet the lawyers, so we can get on with this.” A bit grim around the mouth now, he turned. “You’ve spoken with Suzanna Day.”

Catching Branson’s eye, Suzanna came over. Handshakes were brisk and impersonal before Suzanna ranged herself beside Branson. The final person in the room rose.

Eve had already recognized him. Lucas Mantz was one of the top and priciest criminal defense attorneys in the city. He was trim, slickly attractive, with waving hair of streaked white on black. His smile was cool and polite, his smoky eyes sharp and alert.

“Lieutenant. Roarke.” He nodded to both of them, then took another sip from the straw-colored wine he
carried. “I’m representing Ms. Cooke’s interests.”

“She didn’t spare any expense,” Eve said dryly. “Your client figuring on coming into some money, Mantz?”

His eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused irony. “If my client’s finances are in question, Lieutenant, we’ll be happy to provide you with records. Once you provide a warrant. The charges against Ms. Cooke have been filed and accepted.”

“For now,” Eve told him.

“Why don’t we get on with the business at hand.” Branson once more looked toward his wife who was directing the maid to position the coffee cart. “Please, let’s sit down.” He gestured toward the seating area.

Once they took their places and coffee was served, Clarissa sat beside her husband, her hand clinging to his. Lucas Mantz shot Eve one more cool smile, then settled on the far end. Suzanna sat in a facing chair.

“The deceased left personal bereavement discs to his brother and sister-in-law, to Ms. Lisbeth Cooke, and to his assistant, Chris Tipple. Those discs will be hand delivered to the appropriate parties within twenty-four hours of the reading of his will. Mr. Tipple was advised of tonight’s reading but has declined to attend. He is . . . unwell.”

She took a document out of her briefcase and began.

The opening was technical and flowery. Eve doubted the language for such things had changed in two centuries. The formal acknowledgment of one’s own death had a long tradition, after all.

Humans, she thought, had a tendency to start planning for their end well in advance. And to be pretty specific about it. There was the betting pool with life insurance.
I bet so much a month that I’ll live till I die,
she mused.

Then there were cemetery plots or cremation urns, depending on your preferences and income. Most people bought them in advance or gave them as gifts, picking
out a sunny spot in the country or a snazzy box for the den.

Buy now, die later
.

Those little details changed with the fashions and societal sensibilities. But one constant in the business end of life to death appeared to be the last will and testament. Who got what and when and how they got all the goodies the dead had managed to accumulate through the time fate offered.

A matter of control, she’d always thought. The nature of the beast demanded control be maintained even after death. The last grip on the controls, the last button pushed. For some, she imagined, it was the ultimate insult to those who had the nerve to survive. To others, a last gift to those loved and cherished during life.

Either way, a lawyer read the words of the dead. And life went on.

And she who dealt with death on a daily basis, who studied it, waded through it, often dreamed of it, found the whole business slightly offensive.

The minor bequests went on for some time, giving Eve a picture of the man who’d enjoyed foolish chairs and purple dressing gowns and carrot pasta with peas and cream sauce.

He’d remembered the people who’d had a part in his routine, from his doorman to the ’link operator at his office. He left his attorney, Suzanna Day, a Revisionist sculpture she had admired.

Her voice hitched over that, then Suzanna cleared her throat and continued.

“To my assistant, Chris Tipple, who has been both my right and left arms, and often most of my brain as well, I leave my gold wrist unit and the sum of one million dollars, knowing he will treasure the former and make good use of the latter.

“To my beautiful and beloved sister-in-law, Clarissa Stanley Branson, I leave the pearl necklace my mother
left to me, the diamond heart brooch that was my grandmother’s, and my love.”

Clarissa began to weep silently into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking even when her husband draped his arm around them.

“Hush, Clarissa,” Branson murmured in her ear, barely loud enough for Eve to hear. “Control yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” She kept her head lowered. “I’m sorry.”

“B. D.” Suzanna paused, casting Clarissa a glance of quiet sympathy. “Would you like me to stop for a few moments?”

“No.” Jaw set, mouth grim, he kept his arm firmly around his wife and stared straight ahead. “Please, let’s finish.”

“All right. To my brother and partner, B. Donald Branson.” Suzanna took a breath. “The disposition of my share of the business we ran together is set down in a separate document. I acknowledge here that all my interest in Branson Toys and Tools is to be transferred into his name upon my death should he survive me. If he should predecease me, that interest is to be transferred to his spouse or any children of that union. In addition, I hereby bequeath to my brother the emerald ring and diamond cufflinks that were our father’s, my disc library including but not exclusive to all family images, my boat the
T and T
, and my air cycle in the hopes he’ll finally try it out. Unless, of course, he was right, and my crashing it is the reason this will is being read.”

Branson made a sound, something that might have been a short, strained laugh, then closed his eyes.

“To Lisbeth Cooke.” Suzanna’s voice chilled several degrees as she spared Mantz one glimmering stare of dislike. “I leave all the rest of my personal possessions, including all cash, bank and credit accounts, real estate, financial holdings, furnishings, art, and personal property. Lissy my love,” Suzanne continued, biting off the words, “don’t grieve too long.”