"That's about it. He seemed nervous about something. Apparently he had reason to be." It wasn't a place they could go together, Roarke decided and shifted away from it. "I hope you'll take Eve up on the offer of the house in Mexico."
"I'll talk it over with my wife. I appreciate it." Then he moved his shoulders. "I guess she doesn't need me here. I should get home." But he studied the scene another minute. Behind the fatigue in his eyes lurked the cop. "Screwy business. Some guy getting stuck in here. Fancy knife took out that stiff left at your place last night, too, right?''
"The other had a black handle. Some sort of metal, I think."
"Yeah, well…" He rocked back on his heels a moment. "I'd better head home."
He crossed to Eve, careful to avoid getting too close in his untreated shoes. She looked up, distracted, wiping the blood off her sealed hands with a rag.
And she watched him walk away until he was out of sight.
She rose, raked her not quite clean hands through her hair. "Bag him," she ordered, and walked to Roarke. "I'm going to go in, do the report while it's fresh in my mind."
"All right." He took her arm.
"No, you should go home. I'll catch a ride with one of the team."
"I'll take you."
"Peabody – "
"Peabody can catch a ride with one of the team." She needed a few minutes, he knew, to decompress. He touched a button on his wrist unit to signal his driver.
"I feel stupid going into Central in a limo," she muttered.
"Really? I don't." He walked her out of the garage, then around to the front of the funeral parlor. The limo streamed up to the curb. "You can catch your breath," he suggested as he slid in behind her. "And I can have a brandy." He poured one from a crystal decanter, and knowing Eve, programmed her coffee.
"Well, since we're going it this way, you can tell me what you know about Wineburg."
"One of the irritating rich and pampered."
She took the hot, rich coffee served in a thin, classy cup of bone china, and gave Roarke – his plush limo, his pricey brandy – a long, cool look. "You're rich."
"Yes." He smiled. "But pampered? Certainly not." He swirled his brandy, kept smiling. "That's what stops me from being irritating."
"You think so?" The coffee helped, got her circuits running. "So he was a banker. He ran Wineburg Financial."
"Hardly. His father's still hale and hearty. This little fish would have been more of a minion. The type given busy-work and a useless title and a big office. He'd gobble up his expense account, shuffle forms, and have his cosmetician in for weekly sessions."
"Okay, you didn't like him."
"I didn't know him, actually." He gave the brandy a lazy swirl and sip. "Just the type. I don't have any business dealings with Wineburg. In the dawn of my… career, I needed some backing for a couple of projects. Legal projects," he added at Eve's speculative look. "They wouldn't let me in the door. I wasn't up to their level of client. So I went elsewhere, got the backing, and made a killing. Figuratively speaking. The Wineburg organization took it poorly."
"So they're a conservative, established, family-run institution."
"Exactly."
"It would be embarrassing to have the scion… Would he be like the scion?''
"If there's such a thing as a minor scion, I suppose."
"Okay if he was into Satanism, it probably wouldn't go down well at the company picnic."
"It would turn the board of directors white with shock – and, family or not, this little Wineburg would have been out on his ass."
"He didn't look like the type to risk it, but you never know. Sex, he said. Just for the sex. He could have been one of the ones who had at Alice. Then he's guilty or cunous and comes by the viewing. The one thing he was, was scared. He saw something, Roarke. He saw someone murdered. I know it. If I'd gotten him in, I'd have pulled it out of him. I could have broken him in ten minutes."
"Apparently, someone else thought so, too."
"Someone who was right there. On the spot. Watching him. Watching the viewing."
"Or watching you," Roarke finished. "Which is more likely."
"I hope they keep watching, because before long, I'm going to turn around and bite them on the throat." She glanced up as the limo pulled up to the front of Cop Central. Vaguely embarrassed, she peered out, hoping no cops were loitering nearby. She'd be ragged on for days. "I'll see you at home. Couple hours."
"I'll wait."
"Don't be ridiculous. Go home."
He simply leaned back, ordered the screen to engage and list the latest stock information. "I'll wait," he repeated and poured another brandy.
"Hardhead," she muttered as she got out, then winced when someone called her name.
"Woowee, Dallas, going to slum with us working poor for awhile?"
"Bite me, Carter," she muttered, and rushed inside before the delighted laughter forced her to break someone's face.
– =O=-***-=O=-
An hour later, she-was back, bone weary and sparking mad. "Carter just had it announced over the main that my carriage awaited anon. What an idiot. I don't know whether to kick his ass or yours."
"Kick his," Roarke suggested and draped an arm around her. He'd switched from work to pleasure mode and had an old video on screen.
She caught the scent of expensive tobacco clinging to the air and wished she could claim it irritated her. But it soothed, along with his arm and the ancient black-and-white video.
"What is this?"
"Bogart and Bacall. First film together. She was nineteen, I think. Here's the line."
Eve stretched out her legs and listened to Bacall ask Bogie if he knew how to whistle. Her lips twitched. "Clever."
"It's a good film. We'll have to watch it all the way through sometime. You're tense, Lieutenant."
"Maybe."
"We'll have to fix that." He shifted, poured a stemmed glass full of straw-colored liquid. "Drink."
"What is it?"
"Wine, just wine."
She sniffed it suspiciously. He wasn't above doctoring it, she knew. "I was going to work a little when we get home. I need my head clear."
"You have to shut down sometime. Relax. Your head can be clear in the morning."
He had a point. She had too much data in her head, and none of it was helping. Four deaths now, and she was no closer. Maybe if she backed off for a few hours, she'd see better.
"Whoever did Wineburg was quick and quiet. And smart, going for the heart. Hit the throat like Lobar, and you get blood all over you. Hit the heart, it's over fast and with minimal mess."
"Umm-hmm." He began to knead the back of her neck. It was always a magnet for her stress.
"What were we, thirty, forty seconds behind? Fast, really fast. If Wineburg cracked, there could be another. I've got to get the membership list. There has to be a way." She sipped at the wine. "What were you and Feeney talking about?"
"Mexico. Stop worrying."
"Okay, okay." She leaned her head back, closed her eyes for what seemed like three seconds. But when she opened them again, they were through the gates and pulling up in front of the house. "Did I fall asleep?''
"For about five minutes."
"That was just wine, right?"
"Absolutely. The next part of our program is a hot bath."
"A bath isn't…" She reconsidered as they stepped inside. "Actually, that sounds pretty good."
Ten minutes later, while water gushed into the tub and swirled in the power of jets, it began to sound better. But she arched a brow when she saw Roarke begin to undress. "Who's the bath for, me or you?"
"Us." He gave her a tap on the butt, nudging her forward.
"That's fine then. It'll give you a chance to tell me all about saving the life of a beautiful woman."
"Hmm." He slipped into the frothy water, facing her. "Oh. I can't be held responsible for actions that took place in a former life." He passed her another glass of wine he'd had the foresight to pour. "Now, can I?"
"I don't know. Isn't the theory something like you repeat things, or learn from them, or don't?" She held the glass aloft and dunked herself down, resurfacing with a sigh. "You figure you were lovers, or what?"