by J. D. Robb
“Anything else going on up there but loud music and stomping?”
“Newlyweds.” His mouth twisted. “Deduce. What the hell do you care?”
“I care since Craig Foster’s in the morgue.”
“That kid’s dead?” Kowoski took a step back, sat on a ratty arm chair. “Fucked-up world. It was fucked up when I picked up my shield, and it was fucked up when I turned it in. How’d he buy it?”
“That’s under investigation. Any trouble between them? Upstairs?”
“With dove and coo?” He snorted. “Not likely. Sooner lock lips than eat, from what I’ve seen. If there was yelling, it wasn’t a fight—if you get me. The girl’s a noisy lay.” Then he puffed out his cheeks, blew out air. “I’m sorry about this. They pissed me off, I won’t say different, with the noise up there. But I hate hearing he’s dead. Young guy. Teacher. Had a smile on his face every time I saw him. Course if you’ve got yourself a woman looks like her who’s ready to bang you every five minutes, you’ve got a lot to smile about.”
“How about visitors?”
“Her mother was here a couple days ’round Christmas. Got some other young people who came in and out now and then. And a couple of loud parties. Both of them came home stumbling drunk New Year’s Eve, giggling like a couple of kids, shushing each other.”
He shook his head slowly. “Fucked-up world. You’re wondering about criminal activity? You got yourself a couple of straight arrows with these two, you want my take. Up every morning, off to work, back every evening. Socializing now and again, sure, but these were homebodies. Shoulda stayed home more, I guess, and out of that fucked-up world.”
They spoke with the handful of neighbors who were home, and the rhythm remained stable. The Fosters were a happy and newly married couple, young urban professionals who enjoyed each other.
“We work three angles,” Eve decided as they headed back downtown. “The vic, the school, the poison. They’re going to intersect somewhere.”
“Maybe through the science department. We can find out if they were studying poisons, or ricin in particular.”
“Dawson’s a science teacher,” Eve considered. “Let’s do a deeper run on him. You tag him meanwhile, ask about what gets mixed up in their lab.”
“Got it. And if we’re leaning toward somebody in the school, or affiliated with it, we should check the students’ records. See if Foster had any go-round with one of them, or the parents of same.”
Eve nodded. “Good. Let’s look at the staff members we’ve verified were in the building before classes started. If I were going to slip something in somebody’s go-cup, I’d want to get it in before the place got crowded. We’ll write this up, then start digging.”
“Hate to dig on an empty stomach. Not to be a whiner, but we haven’t had a dinner break, and it’s nearly eight. Maybe we could—”
“Eight? Dinner?”
“Jeez, Dallas, just a hoagie.”
“Shit, shit. Shit! Dinner. Eight. French place. Fuck, fuck. Why is it nearly eight?”
“Well, because the Earth rotates on its axis while it orbits around the sun. You’re supposed to be somewhere.”
“Roarke. Corporate wife duty.” Eve wanted to pull at her hair. “I missed the last two, and I can’t do the no-show again. Le Printemps. That’s it.”
“Le Printemps? Ooh-la-la! That’s megachic. Totally. And it’s Upper East Side. Hate to point this out, but we’re low on the Lower West Side.”
“I know where the hell we are.” She batted her fist on the wheel as she spun into the garage at Cop Central. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’m already late. Goddamn it.”
“The case is going to hold for the night,” Peabody pointed out. “We’ve got nothing but paperwork now anyway. I can write the report, and we’ll do the runs and the digging in the morning.”
“Copy the report, my home and office units. Anything else in your notes that strikes you. Get out, get out! I gotta get to this stupid French place.”
“Aren’t you going to go home and change first?”
“Into what? I don’t have time.” Then she grabbed Peabody by a fistful of puffy coat. “Do this one thing for me. Tag Roarke, tell him I’m on my way. Caught a case, running late, but I’m heading there now.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t do it. He’ll see I’m in regular clothes, and he told me I should take a change into work, but I nixed it. Like I want to go prancing out of Central in some fancy dress.” Aggravation all but streamed out of Eve’s pores. “Do you know the grief that causes me?”
“Honestly? I don’t know how you suffer through it. I’d crack like an egg in your place.”
“Oh, bite me and tag Roarke.”
She all but shoved Peabody from the vehicle, and was whipping the wheel and speeding out.
She couldn’t remember what she’d tossed on that morning, and since she was driving like a maniac, couldn’t afford the time to check herself out. The traffic, the stupid snow, the need to weave and dodge made switching to autopilot an impossibility.
She probably smelled of death.
Well, it was his own fault, she decided. He’d married her, hadn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t made full disclosure on what a crappy wife she’d make for a man like him.
She’d had to go and fall for a man who owned the lion’s share of the known universe, and had to—on occasion—trot out his wife for that odd and awkward mix of social business.
He wouldn’t complain that she was late. In fact, he wouldn’t even be annoyed with her. If a cop had to get married—and God knew they were better solo—she couldn’t do better than hooking up with a man who understood that the job messed with personal plans. Constantly.
And because he wouldn’t complain or be annoyed, she felt even more guilty for forgetting the dinner, and more determined to beat the hellacious traffic.
She broke one of her own rules, hit the sirens, and used the cop for personal gain.
After barely avoiding clipping bumpers with a Rapid Cab, she went vertical, then hung a screaming right on Fiftieth, zigging, zagging her way over to Third before heading uptown again.
She should’ve told Peabody to tell Roarke to have everyone order without her. Not to wait. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Now they’d probably be sitting there, starving, while she killed herself and many innocent bystanders trying to get to a restaurant where she wouldn’t even be able to read the damn menu.
“Guidance System on!” she ordered. “Where the hell is this place. Restaurant, New York City, Le Printemps.”
One moment, please, while your request is programmed. Le Printemps is located at 212 East Ninety-third, between Second and Third Avenues. Would you care to make a reservation?
“I’ve got a damn reservation. Guidance off.”
Even with the kamikaze driving tactics, she was thirty minutes late. And by the time she managed to double park, which would bring the wrath of thousands and possibly cause an intercity riot, she was later still.
She flipped on her On Duty light, then sprinted the last half-block.
She paused outside to scoop her fingers through her hair a couple of times, then looked down at her dark brown trousers. She saw no overt signs of blood or other bodily fluid staining them or the navy V-neck, and considered the lack a big plus in her favor.
Horns were already blasting in protest of her parking arrangement as she stepped out of the blowing snow, and into the fragrant and muted music of five-star French.
The maître d’ swooped down on her like a vulture on roadkill. “Mademoiselle. I regret, we cannot seat walk-ins.”
“How do you seat anyone if they don’t walk in?” She shrugged out of her coat. Peabody had the megachic right, Eve noted. Every woman in the place sparkled and gleamed. “Check the coat, Pierre. And it’s your ass if it’s not here when I leave.”
“Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave quietly.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, after I eat.” She smoo
thed down the brown jacket, to be sure her weapon was concealed. Though she was tempted to flash it, just to watch the tight-assed maître d’ crack his head on the floor as he passed out.
“Now we can go a round right here,” she suggested, “and give your diners a show along with dinner, or you can tell me where my party is. Reservation Roarke.”
He lost color, shade by shade, until he’d gone from ruddy to pasty. Apparently the name of Roarke carried as much power and threat as a police issue. “I beg your pardon, Madame Roarke.”
“Dallas, Lieutenant. Where’s the table?”
“If you would please follow me.”
“My coat. I like that coat.”
“Of course. It’s a beautiful garment.” He snapped his fingers. “See to Madame…to the lieutenant’s coat. If you will? Your party is already seated. It would be my pleasure to bring you a cocktail.”
“Whatever they’ve got’s fine.” She scanned the room with all its gilt and glory, then followed the chastened maître d’.
He saw her coming. Knowing she’d be late, he’d chosen the table with that in mind. He loved watching her walk into a room, carelessly long strides, those cop’s eyes seeing every detail.
And in the simple jacket and pants she, in his eyes, outshone every woman in the room. When their eyes met, he got to his feet.
“Good evening, Lieutenant.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Champagne for my wife,” he said without taking his eyes off her. He drew her chair back himself. “Let me introduce you to Natalie and Sam Derrick.”
“So this is Eve! I’m just thrilled to meet you.” Natalie flashed a mile-wide grin, even as her gaze tracked over Eve’s clothes.
“Glad you could join us.” Sam held out a hand the size of a rump roast, pumped Eve’s twice. “Roarke’s told us it’s hard for you to get away from work.”
“I just can’t think how you investigate murders.”
Eve glanced back at Natalie. “First I need a body.” She felt Roarke’s hand pat her thigh twice. “It’s a lot of details,” she continued. “And not nearly as interesting as it comes across in a vid or on screen.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. But I don’t suppose we want to talk of unpleasant things.” Natalie beamed again. “Sam was just about to tell the story of how he caught the biggest bass in Jasper County.”
“Wow.” It was all Eve could think to say, and she was grateful for the glass of champagne now in her hand. And the fact that Roarke had given her free one a squeeze under the table.
Just look at him, she thought, sitting there as though he couldn’t be more interested or enthralled to hear about some stupid fish. And of course, he’d know that every eye in the place would be turned on him at some point during the evening.
She couldn’t blame them. He sat, at ease, the half-smile on his gorgeous face, the light of interest in those laser-blue eyes. Candle-and lamplight gleamed in his hair, that thick mane of black.
When his lips curved more fully, her heart actually bumped her ribs. He could still do that to her, chase her heart to a gallop, stop her breath, melt her bones. And do all of that just with a look.
At some point she was given a menu, and on a quick scan saw that it was, indeed, the sort of fare that caused mild fear in her rather than hunger.
Sam and Natalie weren’t as terminally boring as she’d imagined they would be. Though there was a lot of talk about the sort of outdoorsy activities that caused more discomfort in her than fancy French food.
Hunting, fishing, hiking, riding in boats on rivers, sleeping in tents.
Maybe it was a kind of cult Roarke wanted to infiltrate.
But there was some humor in them, and an obvious enjoyment of the moment.
“This is just wonderful. Sam, this lobster puts your big bass to shame. You have to have a taste. We don’t spruce up very often,” she continued as she held her fork up for her husband. “We’re country people, and that’s how we like it. But it sure is fun to do the big city in a big way. I guess you’re used to it,” she said to Eve.
“I don’t spruce up very often either. Obviously.”
This time when Natalie smiled, there was more warmth to it. “Honey, if I looked like you in pants and a sweater, I wouldn’t wear anything else. Next time, you’ll have to come out and see us, and we’ll throw you a real Montana feed. Roarke, you’re just going to have to bring Eve out to see us.”
“I’ll have to do that.” He lifted his glass, smiled over the rim at Eve. And when someone said his name, and he glanced toward them, Eve saw something come into his eyes, just a flash of it. A something she’d only seen when he looked at her.
It was gone, shuttered down into polite pleasure. But it had been there. Very slowly, Eve tracked her gaze over, and saw her.
She was stunning, in a bold red dress that managed to be both elegant and sexy. Long legs ended in the glitter of paper-thin silver heels. Her hair was a long, waving stream of delicate blond, clipped at the sides with something small and sparkling. Her eyes were brilliantly green, full of life and excitement that translated to sexual power. Her lips were full, very red and lush against luminous skin.
“Roarke.”
She said it again in a kind of throaty purr that brought up the hackles on Eve’s back. And she glided as such women do, to the table, holding out her hands for his.
“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,’” she murmured as he rose, and lifted her face for a kiss.
“Magdelana,” he said with the Irish in his voice cruising through the name, and he brushed her lips very lightly with his. “What a surprise.”
“I can’t believe it’s you!” Magdelana laid her hands on his cheeks, stroked. “And as handsome as ever. More. The years agreed with you, lover.”
“And with you. Eve, this is an old friend of mine, Magdelana Percell. Magdelana, my wife, Eve Dallas, and our friends, Sam and Natalie Derrick.”
“Wife? Oh, of course, of course. I heard. One does. I’m delighted to meet you. And you,” she said to the Derricks. “You’ll have to excuse me for breaking into your meal. All I saw was Roarke.” She smiled down at Eve, that glitter in her eyes. “You understand.”
“Oh, yeah.”
With another full-wattage smile, Magdelana dismissed Eve, then all but melted into Roarke. “I’ve only been in town a few days. I was going to contact you, see if we could make a date to catch up. It’s been, my goodness, ten years?”
“Nearer to twelve, I’d think.”
“Twelve!” She rolled her exquisite eyes. “Oh, Franklin, forgive me! My escort, Franklin James. This is Roarke, his wife, and the Derricks.”
“We know each other.” Roarke held out a hand. “Hello, Frank.”
He was thirty years her senior, by Eve’s gauge, looked prosperous and hale. And, she thought, slightly besotted.
“We’ll let you get back to your dinner.” Magdelana ran a hand down Roarke’s arm—a light, somehow intimate gesture. “I’m just thrilled to see you again.” And this time she brushed her lips against Roarke’s cheek. “We’ll have lunch, won’t we, and take a walk down Memory Lane. You won’t mind, will you, Eve?”
“The lunch or the walk?”
Magdelana laughed, a frothy gurgle. “We’ll have to have lunch ourselves, us girls. And tell secrets about Roarke. I’ll be in touch. So nice to meet you.”
Conversation picked up again, over food, and fishing. Though Roarke’s face betrayed nothing but interest in his companions, Eve knew him. So she knew while he ate, he drank, he spoke, his mind was across the elegant room where the stunning Magdelana sipped wine in her bold red dress.
When the evening was done, they put the Derricks in one of Roarke’s limos for the drive back to their hotel, then got into Eve’s vehicle.
“There have probably been a dozen murders committed due to the way you parked this thing.”
“Who is she?”
“I told you, she and Sam own not only a
very large portion of Montana, but one of the most successful resorts in the state.”
“Don’t play me that way. Lover.”
“An old friend.” He shifted, his eyes meeting Eve’s. “And yes, we were lovers. It was a long time ago.”
“That much I already know.”
He sighed. “She was in the game. We…competed for a while, then we worked together on a couple of jobs. Then we parted ways.”
“She’s a thief.”
“She was.” He said it with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know if she continues in that profession.” He reached out, and since Eve had gotten behind the wheel, flicked at her hair as she drove. “What does it matter to you?”
I saw something in your eyes, she wanted to say. “Curiosity,” she said instead. “She’s a looker.”
“She certainly is. Do you know what I thought when you walked into the restaurant?”
“Thank God she doesn’t have blood all over her shoes?”
“No, but good point. I thought, there is the most compelling woman in the room. And she belongs to me.” He laid a hand briefly over hers. “Thanks for tonight.”
“I was late.”
“I noticed. New case?”
“Yeah. Caught it this afternoon.”
“Tell me about it.”
She ordered herself to put old lovers out of her head, and gave him the basics.
4
SHE GRABBED A SHOWER TO WASH AWAY THE LONG day, and tried not to obsess when Roarke didn’t make his usual play to join her under the hot jets. A woman who got herself twisted up because her man—who’d led a very full and…adventurous life before they’d met—ran into a former lover was just asking for stomach spasms.
And she didn’t get herself twisted up, Eve reminded herself as she stepped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Or she never had before this.
She was making too much of a…of a glint, she decided. Of a fraction of a second. Whoever Roarke had bounced on more than a freaking decade before had nothing to do with now.
Nothing at all.
He wasn’t in the bedroom when she went back in. But that meant nothing either. She dragged on some sweats, hunted up some socks that turned out to be cashmere, then headed toward her home office.