by J. D. Robb
"Stealing them's okay though."
He grinned now, and took the second half of her bread stick. "If you do it right. Once—in another life, of course—I . . . relieved a London bird of a number of her sparkling feathers. She kept them locked away in a vault—in the dark—such a pity. What's the point in locking all those beauties away, after all, where they only wait to shine again? She kept a house in Mayfair, guarded like Buckingham bloody Palace. I did the job solo, just to see if I could."
She knew she shouldn't be amused, but she couldn't help it. "Bet you could."
"You win. Christ, what a rush. I think I was twenty, and still I remember—remember exactly—what it was to take those stones out of the dark and watch them come alive in my hands. They need the light to come alive."
"What did you do with them?"
"Well now, that's another story, Lieutenant." He topped off their wineglasses. "Another story entirely."
The waiter served their antipasto. On his heels the maоtre d' came hurrying back, pulling a waitress by the arm.
"Tell the signora," he ordered.
"Okay. I think that maybe I waited on her."
"She thinks maybe," Gino echoed. He almost sang it.
"She with a guy?"
"Yeah. Listen, I'm not a hundred percent."
"Is it okay if she sits down a minute?" Eve asked Gino.
"Whatever you like. Anything you like. The antipasto, it's good?"
"It's great."
"And the wine?"
Noting the flicker in Eve's eyes, Roarke shifted. "It's very nice wine. A wonderful choice. I wonder, could we have a chair for . . ."
"I'm Carmen," the waitress told him.
Fortunately there was a chair available as Eve had no doubt Gino would have personally dumped another diner out of one to accommodate Roarke's request.
Though he continued to hover, Eve ignored him and turned to Carmen. "What do you remember?"
"Well." Carmen looked hard at the photo she'd given back to Eve. "Gino said it was a first-date thing. And I think I remember waiting on her—them. She was all nervous and giddy like she didn't get out much, and she looked young enough that I had to card her. I sort of hated to do it because she got all flustered, but it was okay because she was legal. Barely. That's why I sort of remember."
"What about him. What do you remember about him?"
"Um . . . He wasn't as young as her, and he was a lot smoother. Like he'd been around some. He ordered in Italian, casual like. I remember that because some guys do and it's a real show-off deal, and others pull it off. He pulled it off. And he didn't stint on the tip."
"How'd he pay?"
"Cash. I always remember when they pay cash, especially when they don't stiff me."
"Can you describe him?"
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't pay that close. I think he had dark hair. Not too dark. I mean not . . ." She shifted her gaze to Roarke and her eyes skimmed over his hair and would have sighed if they could. "Not black."
"Uh-huh. Carmen." Eve tapped her on the hand to regain her attention. "What about skin color?"
"Oh, well, he was white. But he had a tan. I remember that now. Like he'd had a really good flash or a nice vacation. No, he had light hair! That's right. He had blondish hair because it was a real contrast with the tan. I think. Anyway. He was really attentive to her, too. Now that I'm thinking, I remember most times I went by he was listening to her, or asking her questions. A lot of guys—hell, most guys—don't listen."
"You said he was older than she was. How much older?"
"Jeez, it's hard to say. To remember. I don't think it was one of those daddy-type things."
"How about build?"
"I don't really know. He was sitting, you know. He wasn't a porker. He just looked normal."
"Piercings, tattoos?"
"Oh wow. Not that I remember. He had a really good wrist unit. I noticed it. She was in the ladies' when I brought out their coffee, and he checked the time. It was really sharp-looking, thin and silvery with a pearly face. What do they call that?"
"Mother of pearl?" Roarke suggested.
"Yeah. Yeah, mother of pearl. It was one sharp-looking piece. Expensive-looking."
"Would you be willing to work with a police artist?"
"This is a cop thing? Wow. What did they do?"
"It's him I'm interested in. I'd like to arrange for you to come down to Central tomorrow. I can have you transported."
"I guess. Sure. It'd be kind of a kick."
"If you'd give me your information, someone will contact you."
Eve plucked an olive from the plate as Carmen carried her chair away. "I love when long shots pay off." She saw the plates of pasta heading in their direction and struggled not to salivate. "Just give me one minute to set this up."
She pulled out her 'link to call Central and arrange for an artist session. While she listened to the desk sergeant, asked a couple of pithy questions, she twirled pasta on her fork.
She ended the call, stuffed the pasta in her mouth. "Nadine broadcast the connection."
"What?"
"Sorry." She swallowed and repeated the statement more coherently. "Figured she'd make it after talking to Gannon, and that she'd go on air."
"Problem?"
"If it was dicey I'd've stopped her. And to give her credit, she'd have let me. No, it's no problem. He'll catch a broadcast and he'll know we've got lines to tug. Make him think, make him wonder."
She stabbed a meatball, broke off a forkful, wrapped pasta around it. "Bobby Smith, whoever the hell he is, should be doing a lot of thinking tonight."
***
And he was. He'd come home early from a cocktail party that had bored him to death. The same people, the same conversations, the same ennui. There was never anything new.
Of course, he had a great deal new to talk about. But he hardly thought his recent activities were cocktail conversation.
He'd switched on the screen. Before he'd gone out he'd programmed his entertainment unit to record any mention of various key words: Gannon, Jacobs—as that had turned out to be her name—Cobb. Sweet little Tina. And sure enough, there'd been an extended report by the delicious Nadine Furst on 75 that had combined all of those key words.
So, they'd made the connection. He hadn't expected the police to make it quite that quickly. Not that it mattered.
He changed into lounging pants, a silk robe. He poured himself a brandy and fixed a small plate of fruit and cheese, so that he could be comfortable while he viewed the report again.
Settled on the sofa in the media room of his two-level apartment on Park Avenue, he nibbled on Brie and tart green grapes while Nadine relayed the story again.
Nothing to link him to the naive little maid, he concluded. He'd been careful. There'd been a few transmissions, true, but all to the account he'd created for that purpose, and sent or received from a public unit. He'd always taken her places where they were absorbed by a crowd. And when he'd decided he needed to kill her, he'd taken her to the building on Avenue B.
His father's company was renovating that property. It was untenanted, and though there had been some blood—actually considerable blood—he'd tidied up. Even if he'd missed a spot or two, crews of carpenters and plumbers would hardly notice a new stain or two among the old.
No, there was nothing to connect a silly maid from the projects to the well-educated, socially advanced and cultured son of one of the city's top businessmen.
Nothing to connect him to the earnest and struggling young artist Bobby Smith.
The artist angle had been brilliant—naturally. He could draw competently enough, and he'd charmed the naive and foolish Tina with a little sketch of her face.
Of course he'd had to ride a bus to create the "chance" meeting. Hideous ordeal. He had no idea how people tolerated such experiences, but imagined those who did neither knew nor deserved any better.
After that, it was all so simple. She'd fallen in love with him. He'd hardly
had to expend any effort there. A few cheap dates, a few kisses and soulful looks, and he'd had his entree into Gannon's house.
He'd had only to moon around her, to go with her one morning—claiming as he met her at the bus stop near the town house that he hadn't been able to sleep thinking of her.
Oh, how she'd blushed and fluttered and strolled with him right to Gannon's front door.
He'd watched her code in—memorized the sequence, then, ignoring her halfhearted and whispered protests, had nipped in behind her, stealing another kiss.
Oh Bobby, you can't. If Miz Gannon comes down, I could get in trouble. I could get fired. You have to go.
But she'd giggled, as if they were children pulling a prank, as she shooed at him.
So simple then to watch her quickly code into the alarm. So simple.
Not as simple, he admitted now, not nearly as simple for him to walk out again and leave her waving after him. For a moment, just one hot moment, he'd considered killing her then. Just bashing in that smiling, ordinary face and being done with it. Imagined going upstairs, rooting Gannon out and beating the location of the diamonds out of her.
Beating her until she told him everything, everything she hadn't put in her ridiculous book.
But that hadn't been the plan. The very careful plan.
Then again, he thought with a shrug, plans changed. And so he'd gotten away with murder. Twice.
After toasting himself, he sipped brandy.
The police could speculate all they liked, they'd never connect him, a man like him, with someone as common as Tina Cobb. And Bobby Smith? A figment, a ghost, a puff of smoke.
He wasn't any closer to the diamonds, but he would be. Oh, he would be. And at least he wasn't, by God, bored.
Samantha Gannon was the key. He'd read her book countless times after the first shocked reading, when he'd found so many of his own family secrets spread out on the page. It amazed him, astounded him, infuriated him.
Why hadn't he been told there were millions of dollars—millions —tucked away somewhere? Diamonds that belonged, by right, to him.
Dear old Dad had left that little detail out of the telling.
He wanted them. He would have them. It really was that simple.
With them he could, he would, break away from his father and his tedious work ethic. Away from the boredom, the sameness of his circle of friends.
He would be, as his grandfather had been, unique.
Stretching out, he called up another program and watched the series of interviews he'd recorded. In each, Samantha was articulate, bright, attractive. For that precise reason he hadn't attempted to contact her directly.
No, the dim-witted, stars-in-her-eyes Tina had been a much safer, much smarter move.
Still, he was really looking forward to getting to know Samantha better. Much more intimately.
23.
Eve woke, as usual, to find Roarke up before her, already dressed and settled into the sitting area of the bedroom with coffee, the cat and the morning stock reports on screen.
He was, she saw through one bleary eye, eating what looked like fresh melon and manually keying in codes, figures or state secrets for all she knew on a 'link pad.
She gave a grunt as way of good morning and stumbled off to the bathroom.
As she closed the door, she heard Roarke address the cat. "Not at her best before coffee, is she?"
By the time she came out, he'd switched the screen to news, added the audio and was doctoring up a bagel. She nipped it out of his hand, stole his coffee and carried them both to her closet.
"You're as bad as the cat," he complained.
"But faster. I've got a morning briefing. Did you catch a weather report?"
"Hot."
"Bitching hot or just regular hot?"
"It's September in New York, Eve. Guess."
Resigned, she pulled out whatever looked less likely to plaster itself against her skin after five minutes outside.
"Oh, I've a bit of information on the diamonds for you. I did some poking around yesterday."
"You did?" She glanced around, half expecting him to tell her the shirt didn't go with the pants, or the jacket didn't suit the shirt. But it seemed she'd lucked out and grabbed pieces that met his standards. "I didn't think you'd have time with all that ass-kicking."
"That did eat up considerable time and effort. But I carved out a little time between bloodbaths. I've just put it together for you this morning, while you were getting a little more beauty sleep."
"Is that a dig?"
"Darling, how is telling you you're beautiful a dig?"
Her answer was a snort as she strapped on her weapon.
"That jacket looks well on you."
She eyed him warily as she adjusted her weapon harness under the shoulder. "But?"
"No buts."
It was tan, though she imagined he'd call it something else. Like pumpernickel. She never understood why people had to assign strange names to colors.
"My lovely urban warrior."
"Cut it out. What did you get?"
"Precious little, really." He tapped the disk he'd set on the table. "The insurance company paid out for the quarter of them and the investigator's fee of five percent on the rest. So it was a heavy loss. Could've been considerably worse, but insurance companies tend to take a dim view on multimillion-dollar payouts."
"It's their gamble," she said with a shrug. "Don't play if you don't wanna pay."
"Indeed. They did a hard press on O'Hara's daughter, but couldn't squeeze anything out. Added to that, she was the one to find or help the investigator find what there was to recover, and she was instrumental in nailing Crew for the police."
"Yeah, I got that far. Tell me what I don't know."
"They pushed at the inside man's family, associates, at his coworkers. Came up empty there, but watched them for years. Any one of them had upped their lifestyle without having, say, won the lottery, they'd have been hauled in. But they could never find Crew's ex-wife or his son."
"He had a kid?" And she kicked herself for not going back in and checking the runs after they'd returned home the night before.
"He did, apparently. Though it's not in Gannon's book. He was married, divorced and had a son who'd have been just shy of seven when the heist went down. I couldn't find anything on her with a standard starting six months after the divorce."
Interest piqued, she walked back to the sitting area. "She went under?"
"She went under, the way it looks, and stayed there."
He'd gotten another bagel while he spoke, and more coffee. Now he sat again. "I could track her, if you like. It'd take a bit more than a standard, and some time as we're going back half a century. I wouldn't mind it. It's the sort of thing I find entertaining."
"Why isn't it in the book?"
"I imagine you'll ask Samantha just that."
"Damn right. It's a thread." She considered it as she disbursed her equipment in various pockets: communicator, memo book, 'link, restraints. "If you've got time, great. I'll pass it to Feeney. EDD ought to be able to sniff out a woman and a kid. We've got better toys for that than they did fifty years ago."
She thought of the Electronic Detective Division's captain, her former partner. "I bet it's the sort of thing that gets him off, too. Peabody's picking me up." She checked her wrist unit. "Pretty much now. I'll tag Feeney, see if he's got some time."
She scooped up the disk. "The ex-Mrs. Crew's data on here?"
"Naturally." He heard the signal from the gate and, after a quick check, cleared Peabody through. "I'll walk you down."
"You going to be in the city today?"
"That's my plan." He skimmed a hand over her hair as they started down the steps, then stopped when she turned her head and smiled at him. "What's that about?"
"Maybe I just think you're pretty. Or it could be I'm remembering other uses for stairs. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I know there's no bony-assed, droid-brained puss face wai
ting down there to curl his lip at me on my way out."
"You miss him."
The sound she made was the vocal equivalent of a sneer. "Please. You must need a pill."
"You do. You miss the little routine, the dance of it."
"Oh ick. Now you've got this picture in my head of Summerset dancing. It's horrible. He's wearing one of those . . ." She made brushing motions at her hips.
"Tutus?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Thanks very much for putting that in my head."
"Love to share. Know what? You really are pretty." She stopped at the bottom of the steps, grabbed two handfuls of his hair and jerked his head toward hers for a long, smoldering kiss.
"Well, that put other images entirely in my head," he managed when she released him.
"Me too. Good for us." Satisfied, she strode to the door, pulled it open.
Her brow knit when she saw Peabody along with the young EDD ace McNab climbing out of opposite sides of her pea-green police unit. They looked like . . . She didn't know what the hell they looked like.
She was used to seeing McNab, Central's top fashion plate, in something eye-searing and strange, so the shiny chili-pepper pants with their dozen pockets and the electric-blue tank shirt covered with—ha ha—pictures of chili peppers didn't give her more than a moment's pause. Neither did the hip-length vest in hot red, or the blue air boots that climbed up to his knobby knees.
That was just McNab, with his shiny gold hair slicked back in a long, sleek tail, his narrow and oddly attractive face half covered by red sunshades with mirrored blue lenses and a dozen or so silver spikes glinting at his ears.
But her aide—no, partner now, she had to remember that—was a different story. She wore skinpants that stopped abruptly mid-calf and were the color of . . . mold, Eve decided. The mold that grew on cheese you'd forgotten you stuck in the back of the fridge. She wore some sort of drapey, blousy number of the same color that looked like it had been slept in for a couple of weeks, and a shit-colored jacket that hung to her knees. Rather than the fancy shoes she'd suffered through the day before, she'd opted for some sort of sandal deal that seemed to be made of rope tied into knots by a crazed Youth Scout. There were a lot of chains and pendants and strange-colored stones hanging around her neck and from her ears.
