“I don’t know what to think,” he told her. “Maybe I was too loose. Maybe I’m just fucking losing it. I’ve gone over it in my head. I wrote it up. I still don’t know.”
He took out the coffee, turned. “I let the kid take point. Not blaming him, it was my call. I sent him down for dogs, for Christ’s sake. Figured they were just getting theirs, and it put him in a decent position. And screw it, Dallas, I was hungry.”
She knew guilt when she saw it, and at the moment, it was like looking in a mirror. “You want me to ream you for it? I’ve got some left.”
“Maybe.” He scowled into the coffee, then downed some. “I’m listening to them, and there’s nothing. Just chatter. Can’t get a full visual, but he’s tall enough I can see the back of his head, his profile when he turns to her. I moved forward when she spilled the coffee, then I relaxed again. If they’re at noon, Trueheart’s at ten o’clock. I’m at three. Then she’s screaming in my ear.”
Eve sat on the edge of her desk. “No vibe?”
“None. Blimps are blasting overhead. One of those street-corner Santas ringing his damn bell. People are streaming by, or crowding in to get the light.”
He drank more coffee. “I pushed in, soon as she screamed. I didn’t see anybody take off. Bastard could’ve stood there. Could be one of the wits, far as I know. Or he could’ve just melted back. It was a freaking parade on Fifth today. And some people slipped, tumbled.”
Her head came up, lips pursed. “Before or after?”
“Before, during, after. Putting it back, I see this woman—red coat, big blonde ‘do. She slips a little. Right in back of where Zana was standing. That’d be the initial bump. Spilled coffee. I can see the male sub turn. I hear him ask her what happened. Anxious. Then he relaxes when she says she got coffee on her coat. So do I. Then he pitches forward. Chaos ensues.”
“So maybe we’re both beating ourselves up because the guy lost his footing.”
“Coincidences are hooey.”
“Hooey.” At least she got a short laugh out of it. “Yeah, they are. So we’ll run the record backward and forward. He’s tucked up. Nobody’s getting near him. So’s she. We’ll run it when the damn lab stops playing Christmas carols. No point slapping ourselves, or me slapping you, until we know if this is the one in a million that actually is coincidence.”
“If I screwed this up, I need to know.”
She smiled thinly. “On that, Baxter, I can promise you. I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 16
ROARKE WATCHED HER COME IN, HIS TALL, lanky cop in the rather spectacular black leather coat. Her eyes were tired, the stress showing in them even as he noted the way she scoped the room.
Cops were cops, he knew, 24/7. She’d be able to tell him, should he ask, how many were in the booth at the opposite corner, what they were wearing, possibly what they were eating. And she’d be able to do so with her back to them.
Fascinating.
She checked her coat, brushed off the waiter who must have offered to escort her to their table. And crossed the restaurant alone, in that long, loose stride he loved.
“Lieutenant,” he said, rising to greet her, “you make a picture.”
“A picture of what?”
“Confidence and authority. Very sexy.” He kissed her lightly, then gestured to the wine he’d poured when he’d seen her come in. “It’s not a tumbler, but you can consider it a bottomless glass.”
“Appreciate it.” She took a good slug. “Crappy day.”
“So I gathered. Why don’t we order, then you can tell me about it?”
She glanced up at the waiter who materialized at her side. “I want spaghetti and meatballs, with the red sauce. You got that here?”
“Of course, madam. And to start?”
She lifted her wine. “I’ve started.”
“Insalada mista,” Roarke told him. “Two. And I’ll have the chicken Parmesan.” He dipped some bread in the herbed oil already on the table, handed it to her. “Sop some of that wine up, why don’t you?”
She stuffed the bread in her mouth.
“Describe the waiter for me.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s entertaining. Go ahead.” And it would settle her down, he thought.
She shrugged, took another good swallow of wine. “Caucasian male, mid-thirties. Wearing black pants, white shirt, black loafer-style shoes. Five eight, a hundred and fifty. Brown and brown. Smooth complexion. Full bottom lip, long nose with a good-sized hook to it. Crooked eye-tooth on the left. Straight, thick eyebrows. Bronx accent, but he’s working on losing it. Small stud, right earlobe—some kind of blue stone. Thick silver band, ring finger, left hand. Gay. He’s probably got a spouse.”
“Gay?”
“Yeah, he checked you out, not me. So?”
“So. As I said, entertaining. What went wrong today?”
“What didn’t?” she answered, and told him.
The salads arrived before she’d finished, so she stabbed at hers.
“So, that’s where I’m at. Can’t beat up Baxter or Trueheart, because— as far as I can see—they did the job. Wouldn’t have been a job if I hadn’t worked it.”
“Which means you beat up on yourself. What’s the point, Eve? If he was pushed, where does it come from? Where’s the gain?”
“You can go back to money. Trudy was pretty well set, and he’s doing okay. Or you go back to revenge. He was there, living in the house, her blood relation, when she was fostering.”
“He brought you food,” Roarke reminded her. “You wouldn’t have been the only one he’d done that for.”
“Probably not. But he didn’t stand up. Maybe somebody figures he should have.” Do you?
She stabbed more salad, drank more wine. “No. Blood’s thicker, and so’s self-preservation. I don’t blame him for anything. But he was a kid when I was there, just another kid. He was older before she gave up fostering. Someone could figure he should pay, too.”
“His silence makes him an accessory?”
“Something like that. And damn it, it would be easier to erase them at home, wouldn’t it? Yeah, you got a strange city, more people, so that’s a plus. But you’d be able to scope their routines more back in Texas. Which takes me back, at least part of the way, to impulse.”
“Have you considered Bobby’s pretty new wife?”
“Yeah, and still am. Maybe she wasn’t as tolerant of her mother-in-law as she claims. From my side, it would take a hell of a lot of tolerance. So she sees an opportunity, takes it. Get rid of Mama Tru, and put the money in Bobby’s pocket. Then, hey, why not ditch the middle man? He’s out, I’m in. Could she be stupid enough to think I wouldn’t look at her for it?”
“When you look, what do you see?”
“Nothing that pops up and screams ‘I’m a murderer,’ not on evidence, not on her record. But she’s a little too sweet and sissy for me.”
He smiled a little. “Can girls be sissies?”
“In my world. All that pink and pastel and ‘Mama Tru.’” Eve stuffed more bread in her mouth. “Cries if you look at her.”
“Well now, you’ve a dead mother-in-law, an abduction, and a husband in the hospital. Seems a few tears are justified.”
Eve just drummed her fingers. “There’s nothing in her record that leans toward this. I don’t see anyone marrying Bobby for money— just not enough of it, even if she’d known about Trudy’s dirty little nest egg.”
“A million or so makes a comfortable life in some circles,” he reminded her.
“Now you sound like Peabody. I’m not jaded about money,” she muttered. “But marrying somebody to get your hands on it, when you’re going to have to off him, and his mother. It’s a big stretch. And I don’t see how she could have known, beforehand, that Trudy had dough stashed here and there.”
“A connection to one of the women who’d been blackmailed?” he suggested.
She had to give him credit. He thought like a cop, something he’d wince over if she mentioned it. “Yeah, that was a thought. I did some digging, trying to see if I could find something there. Nothing, so far anyway. I read the witness reports, and two say she grabbed for him, tried to grab his arm as he went into the street. Just like she said.”