by J. D. Robb
And she was gone.
Roarke had decided against the private dining room at the Top. He preferred the less formal atmosphere of the main restaurant. Their table was beside the glass wall that circled the room, and as the night was warm and clear, the roof had been opened to provide that alfresco feeling.
Occasionally tourist trams crept just a little closer than the city ordinances allowed. Close enough so you could see the recorders and cams busily capturing a scene of glamour and privilege. But when and if they became too much of a nuisance, air security whipped out in their one-man copters and buzzed them firmly back.
Otherwise, such matters were easily ignored.
The restaurant revolved slowly, offering panoramic views of the city from seventy stories up while a two-man orchestra played silky background music from the stationary central core.
Roarke had chosen that venue to entertain his guests because he hadn’t expected Eve to join them.
She disliked heights.
It was the same group who’d dined at his home a few nights earlier, including Mick. His friend was enjoying himself, and keeping the rest of the party lively with stories and lies. If he drank a bit more of the wine than Roarke considered wise, no one could accuse Michael Connelly of not having a good head for spirits.
“Oh, you can’t make me believe you jumped overboard and swam the rest of the way across the Channel.” Laughing, Magda shook a finger at Mick. “You said it was February. You’d have frozen.”
“It’s true as your born, darling. Fear that my associates would realize I’d jumped ship and harpoon me in the ass kept me warm so that I arrived safe, if a bit waterlogged, on the other shore. Do you remember, Roarke, when we were barely old enough to shave and we relieved that vessel on its way out of Dublin of its cargo of illegal whiskey?”
“Your memory’s considerably more flexible than mine.” Though he did remember, and well.
“Ah, I’m forgetting himself’s a solid citizen these days.” He winked across the table at Magda. “And will you look at this. Here’s one of the reasons why.”
Eve strode across the circling room—boots, leather, and badge—with the tuxedo-clad maître d’ scurrying after her and wringing his hands. “Madam,” he continued to say. “If you please, madam.”
“Lieutenant,” she snapped back, struggling to ignore both height and movement. The ground, for her peace of mind, was entirely too far away. She stopped just long enough to turn and drill her finger into the maître d’s chest. “And I do please, so go away before I arrest you for being a public nuisance.”
“Good Lord, Roarke.” Magda watched the show in awe. “She’s magnificent.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” He got to his feet. “Anton.” He spoke softly, but his voice carried and the maître d’ snapped to attention. “Would you see we have another chair and place setting for my wife?”
“Wife?” Anton nearly turned white, which wasn’t an easy process with his dark olive complexion. “Yes, sir. Immediately.”
He began snapping his fingers as Eve stepped to the table. Deliberately, she looked at faces, any faces, and ignored the view. “Sorry I’m late.”
After some necessary shuffling, and her waving away the waiter by saying she’d just have some of Roarke’s dinner, she was able to sit as far away from the glass shield as possible. This put her between Magda’s son, Vince, and Carlton Mince, so she resigned herself to being bored brainless for the rest of the evening.
“I assume you’ve been on a case.” Vince went back to his appetizer as he spoke. “I’ve always been fascinated with the criminal mind. What can you tell us about your current quarry?”
“He’s good at his work.”
“But then, so are you, or you wouldn’t be where you are. Do you have . . .” He waggled his fingers as if trying to pluck the word out of the air. “Leads?”
“Vince.” Magda smiled across the table. “I’m sure Eve doesn’t want to talk about her work over dinner.”
“Sorry. I’ve always been interested in crime, from a safe distance. Since I’ve been somewhat involved with the security arrangements for the display and auction I’ve become more curious how the whole process works.”
Eve picked up the wine one of the waiters had, with some ceremony, put in front of her. “You go after the bad guy until you catch him, then you put him in a cage and hope the courts keep him there.”
“Ah.” Carlton scooped up some creamy seafood dish and nodded. “That would be frustrating, I’d think. Having done your job, then having the next phase circumvent it. It would feel like failure, wouldn’t it?” He studied her kindly. “Does it happen often?”
“It happens.” Yet another waiter slid a plate under her nose. On it was a lovely little pinwheel of grilled prawns. One of her favorites. She glanced at Roarke, caught his smile.
He had a way of making such small miracles happen.
“You have solid security,” she said. “As tight as it gets under the circumstances. I’d prefer you’d selected a more private venue, one with less access.”
Carlton nodded enthusiastically. “I tried to argue for that, Lieutenant. And my arguments fell on deaf ears.” He sent Magda an affectionate look. “I can’t bear to think just now of the costs of security and insurance, or I’d spoil my appetite.”
“Old fogey.” Magda winked at him. “The venue is part of the package. The elegant Palace Hotel—the very fact that the display can be viewed by the public before the auction just adds to the buzz. We’ve generated invaluable media attention, not only for the auction itself but for the Foundation.”
“And an impressive display it is,” Mick commented. “I wandered over there today and had a look at it.”
“Oh, I wish you’d told me you wanted to see it. I’d have taken you through personally.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose on your time.”
“Nonsense.” Magda waved that away as the first course was cleared. “I do hope you plan to be in town for the auction.”
“I hadn’t been, to tell you the truth, but after meeting you and seeing it all myself, I’m determined to go and to bid.”
While his guests chatted, Roarke signaled to the sommelier. As he shifted to order another bottle of wine, he felt a bare foot—a small, narrow bare foot—slide suggestively up his calf. Without a flicker, he finished his request, shifted back.
He knew Eve’s foot, it was narrow but long, and she was just a bit too far away to be able to play with him under the table. One casual glance gave him the angle, and his lifted eyebrow was his only reaction as he noted the secret, catlike smile on Liza Trent’s face as she began to nibble on her second course.
He debated ignoring the overture or being amused by it. Before he could decide, she looked up. The gleam in her gaze wasn’t for him, but for Mick. She had, Roarke realized, simply missed her mark.
Interesting, he thought, as those bare toes tried to work their way under his cuff. And complicated.
“Liza,” he said and had the pleasure of feeling her foot jerk like a spring. When he looked at her, coolly, he could see understanding and a faint embarrassment cross her features. Her foot slid away. “How is everything?” he asked pleasantly.
“Lovely, thanks.”
Roarke waited until the meal was done, the dessert champagne consumed, and he was driving home with Mick.
He took out a cigarette, offered the case. For a moment, they smoked in companionable silence.
“Do you remember when we boosted that lorryload of smokes? Christ, what were we, ten?” Pleased with the memory, Mick stretched out his legs. “We went through near a carton between us that same afternoon—you, me, Brian Kelly, and Jack Bodine, and Jack, bless him, got sick as six dogs from it. And the rest we sold to Six-Fingers Logan for the prettiest of profits.”
“I remember it. And that a few years later Logan was found floating in the Liffey missing all his digits, including the extra one.”
“Ah well.”
�
�Mick, what are you thinking of, fucking Vince Lane’s woman?”
Mick acted shocked. “What are you talking about? Why I barely know . . .” He trailed off, shook his head, and laughed. “Christ, trying to lie to you’s a waste of energy. You never bought a con in your bloody life. How’d you figure it?”
“She gave me a lovely little leg massage on her way to you. She has good feet, but poor aim.”
“Women, not a discretionary bone in their beautiful little bodies. Well now, the fact of it is, I bumped into her today in your palatial hotel when I went to see the display. One thing led to another, and the another eventually led up to her suite. What’s a man to do, after all?”
“You’re poaching.”
Mick only grinned. “And your point would be, lad?”
“Try to keep it inbounds until my business with them is finished.”
“First time I’ve ever heard you make a fuss about a little side of sex. But I’ll do that for you, for old time’s sake.”
“I’m grateful.”
“It’s not so much of a thing. A woman’s just a woman, after all. Surprises me you haven’t taken a nibble of Liza yourself. She’s a tasty one.”
“I have a woman. A wife.”
Mick gave a careless burst of laughter. “Well, when has that ever stopped a man from taking a sample here and there. Hurts no one, does it?”
Roarke watched the gates of his home open, a graceful, silent motion. “Once, I recall the lot of us, you and Bri and Jack, Tommy, and Shawn as well—got half-pissed on home brew. And as we sat around the question came up as to what the one thing in the world would be we’d want and need most. The one thing we would give up anything else to keep. Do you remember that, Mick?”
“Aye. The brew put us in a philosophical state of mind on that occasion. I said I’d be more than satisfied by a great sea of money. For then I could buy all the rest, couldn’t I? It seems to me Shawn, being Shawn, wanted a dick big as an elephant’s, but he was more pissed than the rest of us, and wasn’t considering the logistics of it.”
He turned his head, studied his friend. “Now that I’m thinking of it, I don’t recall you said anything, made that selection of the one thing.”
“I didn’t, no. Because I couldn’t see what it might be. Freedom, money, power, going one bloody week without having the old man pound on me. I couldn’t decide, so I didn’t say. But I know it now. Eve. She’s my one thing.”
chapter seventeen
Since Eve arrived home first, she made up what she could of lost time by heading straight to her office and sending the transmission to Mavis.
Her incoming data light was on. She booted it up, and began to scan the files, standing behind her desk with her palms pressed on its top.
Stowe matched her profile, Eve mused. The woman was thorough and she was efficient. The official data was less than she’d hoped for, but the agent’s side notations were illuminating.
Been copying the files for personal use all along, haven’t you? Eve decided. I’d have done the same.
It appeared that Stowe had begun to take Feeney’s tact of cross-referencing the victims by friends, family, business associates. All of those individuals had been questioned, a select few had been taken into an official interview as suspects.
Nobody played out.
Eve shifted documents, read on, then smiled thinly. It looked as though the FBI had run into some of the same tangled tape with Interpol as she had with the Bureau. Nobody wanted to share.
“One of the many reasons he keeps sliding through.”
She sat back, considered. He knows something about law enforcement, she thought. Knows about the bumps and the ruts and the paperwork, the politics and the grandstanding.
He counted on it.
Do a job in one place, bounce to another, and work there or take a nice holiday until things chilled out again. Hit Paris, zip back to New York, take in the opera, do some shopping, contemplate the view from your penthouse terrace while the French cops are chasing their own tails.
A quick trip to Vegas II, a little gambling to amuse yourself, hit your target, and take a luxury shuttle back home before Interplanetary gets the data up.
She glanced up as Roarke walked in. “Maybe he can pilot.”
“Hmmm?”
“You can’t always depend on public transpo, even premier class. You got delays, equipment failures, cancellations, rerouting. Why risk it? Private plane or private shuttle. Maybe both. Yeah, I can put McNab on that. Be like picking a needle out of a . . . a hill of needles, but we could get lucky. How come the cat didn’t follow you in?”
“Deserted me for Mick. They’re fast mates now.”
He wrapped his arm around her from behind, nuzzled her neck. “Shall I tell you how you looked striding across that restaurant tonight?”
“Like a cop. Sorry. I didn’t have time to change.”
“A very sexy cop. Long legs and lots of attitude. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Yeah?” She turned. “I guess you owe me one.”
“At the very least.”
“I might have a way for you to pay up.”
“Darling.” His hands began to roam. “Happy to.”
“Not that way. You’re always good for sex.”
“Why . . . thank you.”
“So . . .” She nudged him back before his hands got too busy, then sat on the desk. “I had a couple of meets after the briefing. First was with Peabody.”
“That was good of you.”
“No, it wasn’t. I can’t count on her to focus if she’s moping around, can I? Don’t grin at me. It’ll piss me off.” She blew out a breath. “McNab gave her a hard shot by talking about his hot date tonight.”
“A standard and unimaginative ploy.”
“I don’t know anything about ploys. It hit the mark. Left her all sad and shaky. So I fed her ice cream, and let her dump on me. Now you get to hear it.”
“Do I get ice cream?”
“I don’t want to see anything from the ice-cream food group for at least two weeks.”
She filled him in, mostly because she wanted assurance she’d made the right moves, said the right things. He knew more about the lending a shoulder deal than she did.
“He’s jealous of Monroe. Understandably.”
“Jealousy is a small, ugly emotion.”
“And a human one. At this point, I’d say that his feelings for her are stronger, or at least clearer, than hers for him. It would be frustrating. Is frustrating,” he corrected, skimming his fingers along her jaw. “As I remember very well.”
“You got your way, didn’t you? Anyway, I’m hoping it blows over and they go back to sniping at each other like they used to, instead of groping in maintenance closets.”
“You really should try to rein in that wild romantic streak.”
“I’m not going to say I told you so.”
He laughed at her, at both of them. “Yes, you are.”
“Okay, I did tell you. We’re in the middle of a messy investigation and they’re trying to score off each other, and sulking. They’re cops, damn it.”
“That’s right. But they’re not droids.”
“Okay, okay.” She threw up her hands. “But they better table it until we close this. Moving on, Whitney used his arm and got me some additional data on Mollie Newman.”
“Ah, the justice’s minor entertainment.”
“Entertainment for him maybe. Upshot is she was his niece through marriage. A nice, impressionable kid who did well in her classes and wanted to be a lawyer. The justice was going to help her out there, and apparently just helped himself. I’m leaving her out of it, at least for now.”
“You might get closer after a little chat with her.”
“I might, but it’s not worth it.” She’d worked those angles everywhere they would fit and had decided they simply didn’t fit at all. “Yost doesn’t worry about ID, so her seeing him means nothing. I don’t think he touched her, no
t his style.”
“He wasn’t being paid to.”
“Exactly. And her medical indicates illegals and sexual molestation. I’d hang Exotica and the molestation on the judge, the Zoner on Yost to put her down while he did the job. I don’t need her to build a case, so unless it looks like there was some connection through her or her mother to Yost, I’m leaving her alone. She’s got enough to get over.”
No one would understand better, Roarke thought. “Then we’ll leave her be.”
“Meanwhile, Feeney popped into the briefing with some very interesting data, right out of Jacoby’s and Stowe’s sealed profiles.”
If they’d been playing poker, his mildly interested expression would have pulled in the pot with a hand full of trash. “Is that so?”
“Don’t give me that. It had your fingerprints all over it.”
“Lieutenant. I’ve told you before, I never leave fingerprints.”
“I told you before I didn’t want you veering off the regulations to get me information.”
“And I haven’t.”
“No, you just used Feeney as a bridge.”
“Did he say that?” When she hissed, he smiled. “Apparently not. I can only assume this data received from some unidentified source proved useful.”
She scowled at him, pushed off the desk to pace away. Paced back. Then gave up and told him about her meeting with Karen Stowe.
“Losing a friend is never easy,” he murmured. “Losing one when you feel you might have done something to stop it leaves a hole.”
Because she knew he lived with that, she laid her hands on his shoulders. “And going back to what you might have done helps no one.”
“But you’re helping her close it, just as you helped me close mine. What do you want me to do?”
“She gave me the names of three men. I want to know about these men, without sending up flags. It’s not illegal to look at them. Looking from an angle that won’t alert their personal security is a trickier area. But it’s not against the law unless you break sealeds. I don’t want that. I just want a discreet search. If you generate it, the Feebs aren’t likely to hit on it. If I do, they will.”
