“What’s her name?”
Eve swung back to her list. “Gloria Grecian. Do you know her?”
“Of. I’ve seen her perform. Musical comedy.”
“Makes sense. She’s been married to Maurice Cartier, a choreographer, for twelve years. We’ll start making contact with the thirty-odd couples on the list tomorrow.”
She looked toward the window. Had the snow thinned or was that just her own version of cheery optimism? “Nothing much we can do tonight.”
“Are you still in the mood for a vid?”
“Yeah.” She looked at the list, her board, accepted she’d just be turning in circles to keep at it now. “Yeah, I am. What’s it again?”
“I thought we’d dive right in to The Avengers rather than take you through the individual vids establishing the characters.”
“Superheroes.”
“Exactly.” He went to her, took her hand. “Ironman, for instance.”
“Like Cal Ripken, Jr.?”
“Sorry?”
“Ha—got you on one. Cal Ripken, Iron Man Ripken—late-twentieth-century baseball player, Baltimore. Third base, shortstop. Still holds the record for most consecutive games played.”
“You often amaze me,” he said as they started out.
“Well, it’s baseball. Ironman, but not like Ripken.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this porn?”
He laughed. “It isn’t, no.”
“Ironman sounds suspicious to me. What are the others?”
“There’s Thor, the Hulk,” he began.
“Sounds like porn.”
“You’ll see for yourself.”
“I want popcorn,” she decided. “It’ll probably make me sick, but I want it.”
“The way you saturate it with butter and salt, there’s no doubt you’ll be sick.”
“I still want it,” she said, also wanting to find out who the hell Ironman was if it didn’t apply to sports or porn.
* * *
While she stretched out with Roarke—eating popcorn, watching the Hulk smash—a solitary figure walked the snow-covered sidewalks.
He was nearly as entertained at that moment as the woman hunting him.
No one would anticipate he’d perform again so soon, and he loved the idea of surprising the public. It was a perfect night for this opening. The blanketing snowfall, the whizzing wind, the empty streets while the city hunkered down inside their cozy mansions, their chilly cold-water flats, their flops, their gleaming towers.
He did love the city, and in these moments it felt as if it was his alone.
He wore a long black coat with a deep hood, for warmth and protection, and to conceal his face. No point in scaring any innocent bystander he might happen upon.
But the night and the city were his—the blizzard a kind of bonus, providing a wonderful atmosphere—and he saw not another soul.
He’d done his research, of course. He was a professional. He drew out his jammer as he approached the lovely old brownstone. He’d admired it numerous times, its classic lines, its stately veneer.
Naturally he’d been inside as well. He always took a tour of the theater, planned his staging.
The house sat dark, his audience tucked into bed by now.
The five minutes it took him to bypass the alarms and the locks only added to the anticipation.
He opened the door. Death walked into the house, and chuckled softly in its throat.
14
Eve woke with a start, sat straight up, stared blankly at the simmering fire.
“All right?”
She turned her head to where Roarke sat with his coffee and his stock reports.
“Yeah. Just a weird dream.”
“About?”
“The Avengers and that jerk Loki and his weird-ass army, and I’m trying to help them. Then I see this devil grab this bystander. Why are bystanders always standing by when they should be running and hiding somewhere?”
“A question for the ages.”
“Right. So the devil—and I know in the dream it’s the killer—is dragging the woman off, and she’s screaming and crying instead of trying to kick his ass and get away. So I have to leave the aliens and gods and whatever to the Avengers and pursue. I’m chasing him, and buildings are toppling, debris is falling like an avalanche. New York’s a frigging mess with more idiot bystanders running around screaming and waiting to get pancaked. And the devil, he jumps into this pit, just jumps right in. I put on the brakes, because it burps out some fire—the pit—and I’m trying to decide, do I go in after him, try to save the woman, catch the killer, or try to keep New York from becoming a big pile of rubble.
“And I woke up.”
“They could make an excellent vid if they could record your subconscious.”
“They had shawarma—the Avengers—after the whole battle of New York. I did an interview yesterday in an apartment over a shawarma place. It’s just weird. I need coffee.”
She rolled out of bed, walked over to get her first cup, looked out the window. “It’s going to take a couple days to dig out from under this.”
“Better snow than avaricious gods and aliens.”
“Yeah.”
She grabbed a shower, came back to find breakfast. Not oatmeal but scrambled eggs, some bacon, toast with jam, and the berries she thought nearly as good as candy.
“I’d figured on stopping by to see Daphne, but I’m going straight into Central,” she told him as they ate. “Not only to see who I can pull in for these interviews, but some people consider a blizzard a fine time to bludgeon, knife, or strangle somebody. Add in your accidentals and unattendeds, we could be busy.”