Free Vengeance in Death by J. D. Robb Page A

one.” She slipped the wallet and the pocket contents into an evidence bag as she glanced over at Roarke. He’d said nothing, his face revealed nothing, not even to her.
    Automatically, she reached for the solvent to remove the blood and sealant from her hands, then walked to him.
    “Have you ever seen one of these before?”
    He looked down into the bag that held what Shawn had carried with him, saw the token. “No.”
    She took one last scan of the scene — the obscenity in the midst of grandeur. Eyes narrowed, she cocked her head and stared thoughtfully at the small, elegant statue on a pedestal with a vase of pastel silk flowers.
    A woman, she mused, carved out of white stone and wearing a long gown and veil. Not a bridal suit, but something else. Because it seemed both out of place and vaguely familiar she pointed. “What is that — the little statue there?”
    “What?” Distracted, Roarke glanced over. Puzzled, he stepped around a field tech and might have picked it up if Eve hadn’t snagged his hand. “The BVM. Odd.”
    “The what?”
    His laugh was short and far from humorous. “Sorry. Catholic shorthand. The Blessed Virgin Mary.”
    Surprised, she frowned at him. “Are you Catholic?” And shouldn’t she have known something like that?
    “In another life,” he said absently. “Never made it to altar boy. It doesn’t belong here,” he added. “My decorating firm isn’t in the habit of adding religious statues to the rental units.”
    He studied the lovely and serene face, beautifully carved in white marble. “He put it there, turned it just so.”
    He could see by the cool look in Eve’s eyes that she’d already come to the same conclusion. “His audience,” she agreed. “So, what was he, like showing off for her?”
    Roarke might not have thought of himself as Catholic or anything else for too many years to count, but it sickened him. “He wanted her to bless his work, I’d say. It comes to the same thing more or less.”
    Eve was already pulling out an evidence bag. “I think I’ve seen another just like this — at Brennen’s. On the wife’s dresser, facing the bed. It didn’t seem out of place there, so I didn’t really notice. There were those bead things you pray with, holos of the kids, a statue like this, silver-backed hairbrush, comb, a blue glass perfume bottle.”
    “But you didn’t really notice,” Roarke murmured. Some cops, he mused, missed nothing.
    “Just that it was there. Not that it shouldn’t have been. Heavy,” she commented as she slipped the statue into the bag. “Looks expensive.” She frowned at the markings on the base. “What’s this, Italian?”
    “Mmm. Made in Rome.”
    “Maybe we can run it.”
    Roarke shook his head. “You’re going to find that thousands of these were sold in the last year alone. The shops near the Vatican do a bustling business on such things. I have interests in a few myself.”
    “We’ll run it anyway.” Taking his arm, she led him outside. It wouldn’t help for him to watch the body bagged and readied for transport. “There’s nothing for you to do here. I have to go in, file the report, do some work. I’ll be home in a few hours.”
    “I want to talk to his family.”
    “I can’t let you do that. Not yet. Not yet,” she repeated when his eyes went narrow and cold. “Give me a few hours. Roarke…” Helplessly she fell back on the standard line. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    He surprised her by grabbing her close, pressing his face into her hair and just holding on. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands over his back, patted his rigid shoulders.
    “For the first time since I met you,” he murmured so she could barely hear, “I wish you weren’t a cop.”
    Then he let her go and walked away.
    She stood out in the freshening wind, smelled hints of the winter to come, and bore the miserable weight of guilt and inadequacy.
    Roarke was closed in his office when she arrived home. Only the cat greeted her.