"Were you planning to be married, George?"
"We'd discussed it." He passed a hand over his face, a hand that shook slightly. "We'd discussed it," he repeated, and the flush washed away from his skin. "There was always another case, another summation to prepare. There was supposed to be plenty of time."
With his hands balled into fists, he turned away from her. "I apologize for shouting at you. I'm not myself."
"It's all right, George. I'm very sorry."
"She's gone." He said it quietly, brokenly. "She's gone."
There was nothing left for her to do but give him privacy. She closed the door behind her, then rubbed a hand at the back of her neck where tension was lodged.
On her way out, Eve signaled to Feeney. "Need you to do some digging," she told him as they headed outside. "Old case, about ten years past, on one of the gambling hells in Sector 38."
"What you got, Dallas?"
"Sex, scandal, and probable suicide. Accidental."
"Hot damn," Feeney said mournfully. "And I was hoping to catch a ball game on the screen tonight."
"This should be just as entertaining." She spied Roarke helping the blonde into his car, hesitated, then detoured past him. "Thanks for the tip, Roarke."
"Any time, Lieutenant. Feeney," he added with a brief nod before he slipped into the car.
"Hey," Feeney said when the car glided away. "He's really pissed at you."
"He seemed fine to me," Eve muttered and wrenched open her car door.
Feeney snorted. "Some detective you are, pal."
"Just dig up the case, Feeney. Randall Slade's the accused." She slammed her door and sulked.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Feeney knew Eve wasn't going to like the data he'd unearthed. Anticipating her reaction, and being a wise man, he sent it through computer rather than delivering it in person.
"I've got the goods on the Slade incident," he said when his droopy face blipped onto her monitor. "I'm going to send it through. I'm – ah – going to be stuck here for awhile. I've got about twenty percent of Tower's conviction list eliminated. It's slow going."
"Try to speed it up, Feeney. We've got to narrow the field."
"Right. Ready for transmission." His face blinked off. In its place was the police report from Sector 38.
Eve frowned over it as the data scrolled. There was little more information above what Randall Slade had already told her. Suspicious death, overdose. The victim's name was Carolle Lee, age 24, birthplace New Chicago Colony, unemployed. The image showed a young, black-haired woman of mixed heritage with exotic eyes and coffee-toned skin. Randall looked pale, his eyes glazed, in his mug shot.
She skimmed through, searching for any detail Randall might have left out. It was bad enough as it was, Eve mused. The murder charges had been dropped, but he'd copped to soliciting an unlicensed companion, possession of illegal chemicals, and contributing to a fatality.
He'd been lucky, she decided, very lucky that the incident had occurred on such an obscure sector, in a hellhole that didn't garner much attention. But if someone – anyone – had come across the details, had threatened to take them to his pretty, fragile fiancee, it would have been a real mess.
Had Towers known? Eve wondered. That was the big question. And if she had, how would she have handled it? The attorney might have looked at the facts, weighed them, and dismissed the case as resolved.
But the mother? Would the loving mother who chatted about fashion for an hour with her daughter, the devoted parent who carved out time to help plan the perfect wedding, have accepted the scandal as the wild oats of a young, foolish man? Or would she have stood like a barricade between the older, less foolish man and what he wanted most?
Eve narrowed her eyes and continued to scan the documents. Then she stopped cold when Roarke's name jumped out at her.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered, slamming a fist on the desk. "Son of a bitch."
Within fifteen minutes, she was striding across the glossy tiles of the lobby of Roarke's building in midtown. Her jaw was set as she accessed the code, then slapped her palm onto the handplate of his private elevator. She hadn't bothered to call, but let righteous fury zip her up to the top floor.
The receptionist in his elegant outer office started to smile in greeting. One look at Eve's face had her blinking. "Lieutenant Dallas."
"Tell him I'm here, and that I see him now, or down at Cop Central."
"He's – he's in a meeting."
"Now."
"I'll call through." She swiveled and punched a button for private communication. She murmured the message and apologies while Eve stood fuming.
"If you would wait in his office for a moment, Lieutenant – " the receptionist began and rose.
"I know the way," Eve snapped, striding across the plush carpet through the towering double doors and into Roarke's New York sanctum.
There had been a time when she would have helped herself to a cup of coffee or wandered over to admire his view from a hundred fifty stories up. Today she stood, every nerve quivering with temper. And beneath that was fear.
The panel on the east wall slid open silently, and he walked through. He still wore the dark suit he'd chosen for the memorial service. As the panel closed behind him, he fingered the button in his pocket that belonged on Eve's gray jacket.
"You were quick," he said easily. "I thought I would finish my board meeting before you came by."
"You think you're clever," she shot back. "Giving me just enough to start digging with. Damn it, Roarke, you're right in the middle of this. "
"Am I?" Unconcerned, he walked to a chair, sat, stretched out his legs. "And how is that, Lieutenant?"
"You owned the damn casino where Slade was gambling. You owned the fucking fleabag hotel where the woman died. You had an unlicensed hooker working your hellhole."
"Unlicensed companions in Sector 38?" He smiled a little. "Why, I'm shocked."
"Don't get cute with me. It connects you. Mercury was bad enough, but this is deeper. Your statement's on record."
"Naturally."
"Why are you making it so hard for me to keep your name out of this?"
"I'm not interested in making it hard or easy for you, Lieutenant."
"Fine, then. Just fine." If he could be cold, so could she. "Then we'll just get the questions and answers out of the way and move on. You knew Slade."
"Actually, I didn't. Not personally. Actually, I'd forgotten all about it, and him, until I did some research of my own. Wouldn't you like some coffee?"
"You forgot you were involved in a murder investigation?"
"Yes." Idly, he steepled his hands. "It wasn't the first brush I'd had with the police, nor apparently, is it the last. In the grand scheme of things, Lieutenant, it really didn't concern me."
"Didn't concern you," she repeated. "You had Slade tossed out of your casino."
"I believe the manager of the casino handled that."
"You were there."
"Yes, I was there, somewhere on the premises, in any case. Dissatisfied clients often become rowdy. I didn't pay much attention at that time."
She took a deep breath. "If it meant so little, and the entire matter slipped your mind, why did you sell the casino, the hotel, everything you owned in Sector 38 within forty-eight hours of Cicely Towers's murder?"
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes on hers. "For personal reasons."
"Roarke, just tell me so I can put this whole connection to bed. I know the sale didn't have anything to do with Towers's murder, but it looks dicey. 'For personal reasons' isn't good enough."
"It was for me. At the time. Tell me, Lieutenant Dallas, are you thinking I decided to blackmail Cicely over her future son-in-law's youthful indiscretion, had some henchman in my employ lure her to the West End, and when she didn't cooperate, slit her throat?"
She wanted to hate him for putting her in the position of having to answer. "I told you I didn't believe you had anything to do with her death, and I meant it. You've put me in a position where it's a scenario we'll have to work with. One that will take time and manpower away from finding the killer."