“And that makes you think?”
“Somebody knows how to plan, how to refine the small details while envisioning the big picture. Plus, you’d have to know the individuals—strengths, weaknesses. You know movement.”
“So you could say the party was a big stage.”
She swallowed a bite of waffle, stabbed another. “Damn right. She’d know the bulk of the people, too—the cast and crew. She can’t control the movements, but she can follow them, anticipate. It’s an angle to push when we talk to her this morning.”
“Your dreams never fail to fascinate.”
“Might as well use them. I want to get her in the box, but we’ll start on her turf, throw her off with the dead sister connection, see how she handles it.”
She snagged some bacon and noticed his tablet.
“You weren’t working on buying Canada.”
“Sadly, no. Actually, I was reviewing some progress on the house project.”
He was into it, she knew. Deeply. She doubted he’d be more into it if it were his own. But then, considering who’d live there, it sort of was his own.
Sort of hers, too, really.
“I gave Peabody a couple minutes to bubble away on her kitchen yesterday on the way to Queens.”
“It’s lovely. Would you like to see?”
“I guess. Sure.”
He picked up the tablet, scrolled, then turned the screen toward Eve.
“Oh.”
She’d known it would be ace work, because Roarke, and Peabody had already practically drawn her a picture. But … nice.
She saw soft, warm colors, what looked like miles of counter space, some glass doors on cabinets, some open shelves, shiny appliances that looked like they meant business.
When he scrolled through from different angles, she saw a breakfast nook deal with bench seating and a view of the gardens, a big sink, a gleaming wood floor.
“It looks good. Just a little girly, but really, really efficient. Bigger than it looked before. What’s that?”
“Her living wall.”
“The wall’s alive?”
“She’s doing herbs and other plants in those pots you see. She worked with one of her grandmothers on the design, and her sister made the pots.”
“Her sister made the pots.”
“They just arrived yesterday. Peabody hasn’t seen them up yet, as Mavis asked one of the crew to put them up last night. Mavis sent that picture.”
“So I shouldn’t mention the wall being alive.”
“It’ll be a surprise.”
“She’ll go batshit over it. How come that counter there’s shorter than the others?”
“There’s that sharp eye. It’s for rolling pie dough, kneading bread dough, that sort of thing. It’s custom to her height. McNab’s idea.”
“So he pays attention, doesn’t just stuff his face with the pies.” Major points for him, she decided. Paying attention mattered. “It looks like her. Soft but not bland, girlie but not frilly, efficient but not cold.”
“We’ll make time to go by together before we leave for Europe. It matters to them.”
“I got that. Hell, it matters to me. Just not every detail about doorknobs, but it matters.”
He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I know.”
“You like details like doorknobs.” She kissed him back. “I’ve got to get moving.” She polished off the waffles. “Need to talk to a suspect about ball changes.”
13
In her closet, she steered away from the knee-jerk black only because she figured Roarke would say something about going with it two days running.
She grabbed brown trousers—not Feeney-dung brown but a color that made her think of the candy bar hidden in her office.
Which made her think of the Candy Thief, and that put a scowl on her face as she pulled out a white T-shirt, nearly pulled out a brown jacket before she settled on khaki. She dressed in the closet to avoid comments.
And should’ve known better.
“A navy belt’s a better choice,” he said as she reached for a black one.
In his perfect pin-striped suit, he leaned against the doorjamb. “You look altogether fresh and professional, Lieutenant.”
“Whatever.” She grabbed a navy blue belt.
“I’ll send you the results of the overnight runs. You can access them from your car if you need to.”
“I appreciate it.”
“If you have a minute, let me know if you arrest the choreographer. I’m curious.”
“I can do that.” After she’d looped on the belt, she scooped a hand through her hair and deemed grooming done.
She moved past him to the bedroom, where the cat shoved a paw against the domes Roarke had replaced on the plates.
“You’re just asking for it,” she commented.
“But won’t get it,” Roarke said with a single hard stare.
The cat sat, shot up a leg, and began an intense grooming of his own.
Eve put on her weapon harness, filled her pockets. “Either way, I just know they’re going to drag me in front of a bunch of reporters again.”
“You’ll handle them, as you always do.” After she’d shrugged on her jacket, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “And look fresh and professional while you grind them up.”
He kissed her. “I’ll watch if I can manage it, as it never fails to entertain. Kick the asses you need to kick, and take care of my cop.”
“Doing the first hooks right into the second. I’ll let you know if we dance Novak into a cell. He’s at it again,” she added as over Roarke’s shoulder she watched Galahad stretch up on his hind legs to nudge at a dome.
“I know. I’ll deal with him.”
As she walked out, she heard Roarke.
“It appears you and I have to have another serious conversation.”
She wondered how many of the scores Roarke could intimidate with a flick of the eye knew he talked to his cat.
The car waited, and as she got behind the wheel, Eve considered her route and texted Peabody.
Leaving now. Will pick you up, then head to Novak’s. Read the updates and the auto-runs from overnight.
As she drove through the gates, Peabody’s response came through.
Copy that. Will dig for any comment or statement from Novak re Rose Bernstein’s death.
Good, Eve thought, and pushed her way downtown. The snarling traffic gave her time to review Roarke’s runs.
She had a passing thought about why so many people who lived in New Jersey insisted on commuting to New York, and why so many who lived in New York decided to clog up the tunnels inching their way to New Jersey.
Then the ad blimps came out to play, and she wondered how people who worked the night shifts and were just trying to get some damn sleep felt about that.
People hustled down the sidewalk—too early for shuffling tourists—with their go-cups and earbuds. And most, she noted, made better time on foot than those on wheels.
A few skimmed along in their business suits on airboards, urban surfers bobbing and weaving through human waves.
She saw a couple of funky-junkies in their thick black sunshades, half-blind from their addiction, shambling home to sleep off the night.