"Um-hmm." Eve studied the couple: young, attractive. The woman was of slight build with golden hair, like her mother. The unrelieved black she wore swept down from a high neck, covered her arms to the wrists, and skimmed her ankles. She wore no veil or shaded glasses to shield her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Grief, simple, basic, and undiluted, seemed to shimmer around her.
Beside her, Randall Slade stood tall, one long arm supporting her shoulders. He had a striking, almost brutally handsome face, which Eve remembered well from the image she'd generated on her computer screen: large jaw, long nose, hooded eyes. He looked big and tough, but the arm around the woman lay gently.
Flanking Angelini's other side was his son. David stood just a space apart. That sort of body language hinted at friction. He stared straight ahead, his face a blank. He stood slightly shorter than his father, as dark as his sister was fair. And he was alone, Eve thought. Very much alone.
The family pew was completed by George Hammett.
Directly behind were the commander, his wife, and his family.
She knew Roarke was there. She had already glimpsed him once at the end of an aisle beside a teary-eyed blond. Now, when Eve skimmed a glance his way, she saw him lean down to the woman and murmur something that had her turning her face into his shoulder.
Furious at the quick pang of jealousy, Eve scanned the crowd again. Her eyes met C. J. Morse's.
"How'd that little bastard manage to get in?"
Feeney, a good Catholic, winced at the use of profanity in church. "Who?"
"Morse – at eight o'clock."
Shifting his eyes, Feeney spotted the reporter. "A crowd like this, I guess some of the slippery ones could slide through security."
Eve debated hauling him out just for the satisfaction of it, then decided the scuffle would give him just the kind of attention he craved.
"Fuck him."
Feeney made a sound like a man who'd been pinched. "Christ Jesus, Dallas, you're in St. Pat's."
"If God's going to make little weasels like him, she's going to have to listen to complaints."
"Have some respect."
Eve looked back to Mirina, who lifted a hand to her face. "I've got plenty of respect," she murmured. "Plenty." With this she stepped around Feeney and strode down the side to the exit.
By the time he caught up with her, she was just finishing issuing instructions to one of the uniforms.
"What's the problem?"
"I needed some air." Churches always smelled like the dying or the dead to her. "And I wanted to get a jump on the weasel." Smiling now, she turned to Feeney. "I've got the uniforms looking out for him. They'll confiscate any communication or recording devices he's got on him. Privacy law."
"You're just going to steam him."
"Good. He steams me." She let out a long breath, studying the media horde across the avenue. "I'll be damned if the public has a right to know everything. But at least those reporters are playing by the rules and showing some of that respect you were talking about for the family. "
"I take it you're done in there."
"There's nothing I can do in there."
"I figured you'd be sitting with Roarke."
"No."
Feeney nodded slowly and nearly dug into his pocket for his bag of nuts before he remembered the occasion. "Is that the burr up your butt, kid?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." She started to walk without any destination in mind, stopped, and turned around. "Who the hell was that blonde he was wrapped around?"
"I couldn't say." He sucked air through his teeth. "She was a looker though. Want me to rough him up for you?"
"Just shut up." She jammed her hands in her pockets. "The commander's wife said they were having a small, private memorial at their home. How long do you figure this sideshow will take?"
"Another hour, minimum."
"I'm heading back to Cop Central. I'll meet you at the commander's in two hours."
"You're the boss."
Small and private meant there were more than a hundred people packed into the commander's suburban home. There was food to comfort the living, liquor to dull the grieving. The perfect hostess, Anna Whitney hurried over the moment she spotted Eve. She kept her voice down and a carefully pleasant expression on her face.
"Lieutenant, must you do this now, here and now?"
"Mrs. Whitney, I'll be as discreet as I possibly can. The sooner I complete the interview stage, the sooner we'll find Prosecutor Towers's killer."
"Her children are devastated. Poor Mirina can barely function. It would be more appropriate if you'd – "
"Anna." Commander Whitney laid a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Let Lieutenant Dallas do her job."
Anna said nothing, merely turned and walked stiffly away.
"We said good-bye to a very dear friend today."
"I understand, Commander. I'll finish here as quickly as I can."
"Be careful with Mirina, Dallas. She's very fragile at the moment."
"Yes, sir. Perhaps I could speak to her first, privately."
"I'll see to it."
When he left her alone, Eve backed up toward the foyer and turned directly into Roarke.
"Lieutenant."
"Roarke." She glanced at the glass of wine in his hand. "I'm on duty."
"So I see. This wasn't for you."
Eve followed his gaze to the blonde sitting in the corner. "Right." She could all but feel the marrow of her bones turn green. "You move fast."
Before she could step aside, he put a hand on her arm. His voice, like his eyes, was carefully neutral. "Suzanna is a mutual friend of mine and Cicely's. The widow of a cop, killed in the line of duty. Cicely put his murderer away."
"Suzanna Kimball," Eve said, battling back shame. "Her husband was a good cop."
"So I'm told." With the faintest trace of amusement shadowing his mouth, he skimmed a glance down her suit. "I'd hoped you'd burned that thing. Gray's not your color, Lieutenant."
"I'm not making a fashion statement. Now, if you'll excuse me – "
The fingers on her arm tightened. "You might look into Randall Slade's gambling problem. He owes considerable sums to several people. As does David Angelini."
"Is that right?"
"That's quite right. I'm one of the several."
Her eyes hardened. "And you've just decided I might be interested."
"I've just discovered my own interest. He's worked up a rather impressive debt at one of my casinos on Vegas II. Then there's a matter of a little scandal some years back involving roulette, a redhead, and a fatality on an obscure gaming satellite in Sector 38."
"What scandal?"
"You're the cop," he said and smiled. "Find out."
He left Eve to go to the cop's widow and hold her hand.
"I have Mirina in my office," Whitney murmured at Eve's ear. "I promised you wouldn't keep her long."
"I won't." Struggling to smooth the feathers Roarke had ruffled, she followed the commander's broad back down the hall.
Though his home office wasn't quite as spartan as the one at Cop Central, it was obvious that Whitney kept his wife's lush feminine taste at bay here. The walls were a plain beige, the carpet a deeper tone, and the chairs were wide and a practical brown.
His work counter and console were in the center of the room. In the corner by the window, Mirina Angelini waited in her long sweep of mourning black. Whitney went to her first, spoke quietly, and squeezed her hand. With one warning glance at Eve, he left them alone.
"Ms. Angelini," Eve began. "I knew your mother, worked with her, admired her. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Everyone is," Mirina responded in a voice as fragile and pale as her white cheeks. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and glassy. "Except the person who killed her, I suppose. I'll apologize ahead of time if I'm of little help to you, Lieutenant Dallas. I bowed to pressure and let myself be tranq'ed. I am, as anyone will tell you, taking this rather hard."
"You and your mother were close."
"She was the most wonderful woman I've ever known. Why should I have to be calm and composed when I've lost her like this?"