"But gambling was important enough?"
"Gambling was like a beautiful woman. Desirable, exciting, capricious. I had a choice between her and Mirina. There was nothing I wouldn't do to keep Mirina."
"Nothing?"
He understood, and inclined his head. "Nothing at all."
"Does she know about the scandal in Sector 38?"
His amused, faintly smug expression froze, and he paled. "That was nearly ten years ago. That has nothing to do with Mirina. Nothing to do with anything."
"You haven't told her."
"I didn't know her. I was young, foolish, and I paid for my mistake."
"Why don't you explain to me, Mr. Slade, how you came to make that mistake?"
"It has nothing to do with this."
"Indulge me."
"Damn it, it was one night out of my life. One night. I'd had too much to drink, was stupid enough to mix the liquor with chemicals. The woman killed herself. It was proven the overdose was self-inflicted."
Interesting, Eve thought. "But you were there," she hazarded.
"I was zoned. I'd lost more heavily than I could afford at roulette, and between us we made a scene. I told you I was young. I blamed my bad luck on her. Maybe I did threaten her. I just don't remember. Yes, we argued publicly, she struck me, and I struck her back. I'm not proud of it. Then I just don't remember."
"Don't remember, Mr. Slade?"
"As I testified, the next thing I remember is waking up in some filthy little room. We were in bed, naked. And she was dead. I was still groggy. Security came in. I must have called them. They took pictures. I was assured the pictures were destroyed after the case was closed and I was exonerated. I barely knew the woman," he continued, heating up. "I'd picked her up in the bar – or thought I had. My attorney discovered she was a professional companion, unlicensed, working the casinos."
He closed his eyes. "Do you think I want Mirina to know that I was, however briefly, accused of murdering an unlicensed whore?"
"No," Eve said quietly. "I don't imagine you do. And as you said, Mr. Slade, you'd do anything to keep her. Anything at all."
Hammett was waiting for her the moment she stepped out of the commander's office. The hollows in his cheeks seemed deeper, his skin grayer. "I'd hoped to have a moment, Lieutenant – Eve."
She gestured behind her, let him slip into the room first, then closed the door on the murmurs of conversation.
"This is a difficult day for you, George."
"Yes, very difficult. I wanted to ask, needed to know… Is there anything more? Anything at all?"
"The investigation's proceeding. There's nothing I can tell you that you wouldn't have heard through the media."
"There must be more." His voice rose before he could control it. "Something."
She could feel pity, even when there was suspicion. "Everything that can be done is being done."
"You've interviewed Marco, her children, even Randy. If there is anything they knew, anything they told you that might help, I have a right to be told."
Nerves? she wondered. Or grief? "No," she said quietly, "you don't. I can't give you any information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure."
"We're talking about the murder of the woman I loved!" He exploded with it, his pale face flushing dark. "We might have been married."
"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."