Eve brought the photo on her board—the young Cobbe—into her mind.
And she could see it, see just how it had gone down.
“Cobbe stabbed him because he wanted to. All that blood, the entertainment, the high of it all. Why stop? Ivan’s a moron, a brute, you’re so much smarter. Take his wallet because he was probably stupid enough to put at least part of the payment in there. Then run,” Eve considered. “Because even with a hole in him Ivan’s strong. Run, get back to Ireland with a solid professional kill under your belt.”
Considering, Eve looked at Mira. “Does that jibe for you?”
“Right down the line. He’s not driven by ego like Tween, but ego is a factor. He found, at an early age, a profession he enjoys and has a terrible talent for. He grew up in a time and place where law and authority were largely corrupt, and violence a tool. In your report you say he believes he’s Patrick Roarke’s son.”
“Yes, and true son. Oldest son and true heir, I guess you could say. It doesn’t wash for me.”
Mira arched an eyebrow. “Because?”
“Physically, there’s no resemblance—he’s got light brown hair, hazel eyes, a heftier build, deeper coloring. The shape of his face, his features—just nothing connects.”
“I agree, but genetics can be tricky. And there’s no DNA on file for Cobbe.”
“If Patrick Roarke believed he had another son, one who admired him, who wanted to be him, he’d have acknowledged him. Ego,” Eve repeated. “But the point is Cobbe believes it, and considered Roarke an obstacle, an object he could despise. I’m guessing the fact that his father knocked the hell out of Roarke routinely was not only satisfying to Cobbe but a kind of proof Roarke wasn’t the true son. Even when Summerset took Roarke in, Patrick Roarke didn’t acknowledge Cobbe as his son, or take him under his roof.
“He had the perfect replacement,” Eve said. “And he didn’t take him.”
“Only more reason for Cobbe to focus his hate on Roarke.”
“Roarke gave him a couple more.”
She told Mira about the boy and the dog.
“I skimmed over some details in the report on a second incident. I’m keeping them out of my report.”
Not unsurprised, Mira simply nodded. “All right. We’ll consider this privileged, and I’ll keep it out of mine.”
“Years later, Roarke ran into Cobbe in a bar in France. Cobbe sat down, confronted him. Poked a knife in his ribs. He wanted money—a lot of it—but more he wanted Roarke to admit Cobbe was Patrick Roarke’s true son, and to ditch the name so Cobbe could take it.”
“Ah. The money, as I assume when this happened Roarke had begun to accumulate some wealth. But the heart of it? The acknowledgment, the name. This is a fixation.” Frowning, Mira leaned forward. “And a dangerous one.”
“Yeah. We’ve all got that.”
“How did Roarke respond?”
“He had a stunner—illegal. He already had it under the table, as he knew Cobbe. Basically, he told Cobbe to shove it, then he deployed the stunner, left Cobbe convulsing on the floor, and walked out. It’s the last time Cobbe came at him directly.”
“I see.” Digesting the information, Mira drank more coffee.
“So two instances—and I suspect there were more throughout childhood—when Roarke bested him, humiliated him. Let me add to the original profile. He’s accumulated the skill and the contacts to reach a high level of success in his profession. He kills for enjoyment and profit. He lives well, travels well and frequently. He has no friends, but contacts. No loyalty, no center but his work. In spite of his skill, his success, he has never, and will never reach the success Roarke has built. Cobbe must stay in the shadows to work and survive. Roarke lives in the light, has a family, has friendships. And is still the only son Patrick Roarke acknowledged.”
And the clear profile, one she’d already built in her own head, still caused ice to ball in her belly.
“It’s a bigger word than jealousy. It’s jealousy mixed with obsession mixed with hate and resentment. When you add in the fear, because it has to be there, it’s lethal.”
Mira nodded. “I would conclude eliminating or at least displacing Roarke has been Cobbe’s goal throughout his life. Why come back to New York? He works, successfully, throughout Europe, is suspected of murders in Australia, Tokyo, India. Yet he takes a job, one that certainly doesn’t require his level of skill, here, in New York. Where Roarke lives, where he has his headquarters.”
She hadn’t gone there, Eve admitted. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to.
“You think he took the Modesto job because it brought him to New York, to Roarke?”
“It’s possible. What’s changed for Roarke over the last three years? He married, something Cobbe may have initially seen as a clever cover, marrying a cop, and one of your level. But if he scratched even a little at the surface, he knows better. Roarke doesn’t just have a wife, a cop, but a woman he loves. Something else Cobbe will never have. He’s not only built a real family here—and I count Dennis and myself as part of that—but he found his family in Ireland.”
“Roarke put security on them.”
“I’d say that’s wise. No need for Cobbe to go in that direction, for now, but it’s a risk. Roarke’s not only built a staggeringly successful business organization, on- and off-planet, but he’s done good works. The shelter—and though by its nature you’ve kept the shelter low-key, Cobbe would know. Just as he knows Roarke is about to open a school for children in need.”
Eve set the coffee aside, pushed up to pace. “I thought of this, but I’ve tried to keep a lid on it. Just keep the lid closed and work it. Learning he’d been here twenty years ago and not since, as far as we can find, has shaken the lid off some.”
“He couldn’t have known or expected Roarke would be on the crime scene last night.”
“No, but when he saw Roarke, he couldn’t resist.”
“ ‘Here I am,’ ” Mira said, lifting a hand. “ ‘I did that, and was paid handsomely. And I’ll do that to you and everyone who matters to you for free.’ He’s killed most of his life with impunity, and for profit. Roarke’s eluded him, but he believes he’s ready to change that, to reach that goal. He’ll stay in New York until you stop him.”
“I will stop him.”
“How is Roarke?”
“He’s handling it, taking steps. He’s—” She broke off, stopped pacing, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “He’s worried. Not for himself, because ego. But for me, for the rest.”
“And you’re worried about him, not for yourself. Ego.”
Mira rose, took Eve lightly by the arms. “In both cases the ego’s well-founded. You both know there are risks, and you’re both equipped to deal with them. You have your considerable skills, Eve, and the entire NYPSD behind you. Roarke has his considerable skills and vast resources. Separately, you’re formidable. Together? I would never bet against you.”
“It shook him, seeing Cobbe last night. He’s almost never thrown off.”