Eve slipped her hands into her pockets. She was almost accustomed to the grandeur she now lived in, but she didn't know what to do with Roarke's grief, with the self contained quiet sorrow.

"Listen, Roarke – "

"I got you a hard copy." He nudged a sheet of paper across the desk. "I thought it would be easier. His wife and children are in Dublin at the moment. The children are minors, two boys and a girl. Ages nine, eight, and six."

Too restless to sit, he rose and turned to stare out at his view of New York – quiet now, the light still dull, the skies almost still. He'd brought up visuals of Brennen's family – the pretty, bright-eyed woman, the rosy-cheeked children. It had disturbed him more than he'd anticipated.

"Financially they'll be quite comfortable," he said almost to himself. "Tommy saw to that. Apparently he'd become a very good husband and father."

She crossed the room, lifted a hand to touch, then dropped it. Damn it, she was no good at this, she thought. No good at knowing if comfort would be welcomed or rejected. "I don't know what to do for you," she said at length.

When he turned, his eyes were brilliantly blue, and fury rode in them along with the grief. "Find who did this to him. I can trust you for that."

"Yeah, you can."

A smile touched his lips, curved them. "Lieutenant Dallas, standing for the dead, as always." He skimmed a hand through her hair, lifting a brow when she caught it.

"You'll leave this to me, Roarke."

"Have I said otherwise?"

"It's what you haven't said that's just beginning to get through." She knew him, knew him well enough to understand he would have his own ways, his own means, and very likely his own agenda. "If you've got any ideas about going out on your own, put them to bed now. It's my case, and I'll handle it."