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A low drift of music, a quick rumble of laughter, a fretful baby’s nighttime wail. Life, Roarke thought, and a pleasant one. He rang the bell at Feeney’s door and waited.
His eyes stared soberly at the peep screen, continued to stare when Feeney’s irritated voice came through the intercom.
“What the hell do you want? You slumming?”
“I don’t think this building qualifies as a slum.”
“Anything does, compared to that palace you live in.”
“Do you want to discuss the difference in our living arrangements through the door, or are you going to ask me in?”
“I asked what you want.”
“You know why I’m here.” He quirked a brow, making sure it was just insulting enough. “You’ve got guts enough to face me, don’t you, Feeney?”
It had, as Roarke had expected, the right effect. The door swung open. Feeney stood, blocking entrance with his compact body braced for war, his rumpled face bright with fury. “It’s none of your fucking business.”
“On the contrary.” Roarke stood where he was, kept his voice even. “It’s very much my fucking business. But I don’t believe it’s any of your neighbors’.”
Teeth clenched, Feeney stepped back. “Come in and say what you have to say, then get the hell out.”
“Is your wife at home?” Roarke asked when Feeney slammed the door at his back.
“She’s got a girl’s thing tonight.” Feeney inclined his head, much like a bull, Roarke thought, preparing to charge. “You want to take a shot at me, you go ahead. I wouldn’t mind pounding that pretty face of yours.”
“Christ Jesus, she’s just like you.” Shaking his head, Roarke wandered the living room. Homey, he decided. Not quite tidy. The viewing screen was set on the ball game, the sound muted. The batter swung, the ball flew in total silence. “What’s the score?”
“Yanks are up by one, bottom of the seventh.” He caught himself on the verge of offering Roarke a beer, then stiffened again. “She told you, didn’t she? Filled you in right from the get-go.”
“She wasn’t under orders not to. And she thought I could help.”
He could help, Feeney thought and tasted bitterness. Her rich, fancy husband could help, but not her former trainer, not her former partner. Not the man who had worked side by side with her with pride, and goddamn it, affection, for ten years. “Doesn’t make you less of a civilian.” His tired eyes went broody. “You didn’t even know Frank.”
“No, I didn’t. But Eve did. She cared.”
“We’d been partners, me and Frank. We were friends. Family. She had no business bumping me out of it. That’s how I feel, that’s what I told her.”
“I’m sure you did.” Roarke turned away from the view screen, looked Feeney dead in the eye. “And however you told her, it broke her heart.”
“Dented her feelings some.” Feeney walked away, picked up a half-empty bottle of beer. Even through the murky haze of his fury, he’d seen the devastation in her eyes when he’d come down on her. And had willed himself not to give a damn. “She’ll get over it.” He drank deeply, knowing the taste wouldn’t overpower the bitterness lodged in his throat. “She’ll do her job. She just won’t do it with me anymore.”
“I said you broke her heart. I meant it. How long have you known her, Feeney?” Roarke’s voice hardened, demanding attention. “Ten years, eleven? How many times have you seen her fall apart? I imagine you could count them on the fingers of one hand. Well, I watched her fall apart tonight.” He took a careful breath. Temper wasn’t the answer here, not for any of them. “If you wanted to crush her, you succeeded.”
“I told her how things were, that’s all.” Guilt was already seeping in. He slammed down the bottle, determined to chase it away. “Cops back each other, they trust each other or they’ve got nothing. She was digging on Frank. She should have come to me.”
“Is that what you’d have told her to do?” Roarke countered. “Is that the kind of cop you helped her become? It wasn’t you in Whitney’s office, taking the orders, doing the job,” he went on without giving Feeney time to answer. “And suffering for it.”
“No.” A fresh wave of bitterness passed through him. “It wasn’t me.” He sat, deliberately turned up the sound, and stared at the ancient battle on the screen.
Stubborn, thick-headed Irish bastard, Roarke thought with twin tugs of sympathy and impatience. “You did me a favor once,” Roarke began. “When I was first involved with Eve and I hurt her because I misunderstood a situation. You straightened me out on that, so I’m going to do you a similar favor.”
“I don’t want your favors.”
“You’ll have it, anyway.” Roarke sat in a chair comfortably sprung. He helped himself to Feeney’s nearly empty bottle. “What do you know about her father?”
“What?” Baffled now, Feeney turned his head and stared. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with her. Did you know he beat her, tortured her, raped her repeatedly until she was eight years old?”
