“On his ’link,” Eve began as Peabody came back with the water.
Luca took the tube, cracked it. “Can I have a minute?”
“Go ahead.”
He sat, drank, sat, drank again, then shot straight up in his chair. “The lady. Mrs. Strazza. God, is she…”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, Jesus, Jesus. Is she going to die?”
“She’s stable. She’ll be all right. Did he say anything to you, this man who came in? Did you hear him talking on his ’link?”
“He didn’t even look at me, just breezed right on by. I let him breeze right on by. He was talking on the ’link, kind of pissy, you know? Like he was half pissed at who he was talking to. Said, like … ‘I’m here now, okay? They’re still eating.’ Like that. He just came in, like he belonged, like he was supposed to be there. I never thought to try to stop him.”
“How tall was he?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. Truth? I was wondering if I’d have a couple minutes to hit on Xena. Can’t get her to go out with me, and I wasn’t paying attention. Not as tall as me,” Luca said suddenly. “Shorter. Yeah. I’m six foot—or, okay, five-eleven and a half. He was shorter. Like a couple inches shorter, I think.”
“Build?”
“Hard to say. It was a lot of coat. It had flounces! Like—”
He made wavy gestures with his hands.
“Theatrical, right? A big black coat with flounces or whatever they are, and a black hat with a big brim he had pulled down, maybe a scarf? I didn’t pay attention. The shades, because I thought: Asshole.”
“Race, age, anything?”
“His voice didn’t sound old. I didn’t really see his skin color—I think he had gloves. It was really cold. I didn’t … You know, I think his face was kind of red. I didn’t really see, it was like two seconds, but maybe red. That’s weird.”
Luca blew out a breath. “I just got an impression, that’s all. I just figured they’d hired somebody to do a gig, put on an act. He walked in like he was expected, and I let him. Is it my fault?”
Eve met his eyes. “Do you think I’d soft-pedal it for you?”
“No.” His voice wavered like a man on the edge of being sick. “No. God.”
“I’m telling you it’s not your fault.”
Luca closed his eyes. Eve saw him press his lips together when they trembled. “It feels like it is.”
“It’s not. And what you’re telling us may help us catch him, so take that away. Now let’s go over it again. Did anyone else see him?”
“Ollie said something. And, yeah, Stizzle. They were heading my way, toward the door, as he went up the stairs.”
“Peabody, bring Stizzle in.” Eve looked back at Luca. “We’re going to see if he can add any details.”
6
It turned out Luca had gotten the best look, but his roommate confirmed the coat, hat, shades, and the height as shorter than Luca. And since Stizzle had noticed the UNSUB’s boots—shiny black with short, stubby heels—they estimated five-eight.
Eve arranged for them both to work with a police artist the next day. If anyone could draw more details out, it would be Yancy.
With the rental crew interviewed, and cleared to her satisfaction, she headed back to her office to—finally—put up her murder board, start her book.
She found Roarke in her office, his boots (no short, stubby heels required) up on her desk—as she was wont to do—working on his PPC.
He wore black trousers, a black jacket, a steel-gray sweater. Roarke’s version, she supposed, of casual office wear.
“Comfy?” she asked him.
“It’ll do. I’ve been up in EDD with McNab, and wish there was better news on that front.”
“I had a feeling.”
He slipped his PPC into his jacket pocket. “You won’t get a handy image of your suspect coming or going from the crime scene. He gutted, quite professionally, the security, and took the essentials with him. We can tell you the alarm wasn’t compromised. It was shut down from inside, as were the locks.”
“So you’d think an inside job. But it’s not.” Since it was there, she took the coffee he had set on her desk, drank it.
“Isn’t it?”
“No, because we have three—potentially more when I speak to the valets—who saw the suspect walk right into the house at approximately eight-forty last night.”
“Eyewitnesses? So your news is better. You’ll tell me about that while we have lunch.”
“I haven’t had time to put my board and book together,” she began when he swung his feet off her desk and rose.
“There’s pizza in the AutoChef.”
She stopped dead. “There is?”
“There is today.”
“I’d have sex with you for that alone,” she told him and smiled.
“I can lock the door.”
“Later.”
She started on her board as he programmed the pizza. The seductive scent of it struck her dead center when he pulled it out. That bubbling cheese, the spice of pepperoni.
She could have wept.
She ate one-handed—only one of the many advantages of pizza—while she arranged her board and filled him in.
“He’s got big brass ones, doesn’t he?”