“Loose chatter. Bragging or complaining.”
“Often both. All this person has to tell me is there’s a big meeting on this particular date, and I can take it from there. Or I nudge for a little more, just conversation, just a couple of people blowing off steam after work.
“If I knew enough,” he continued, “I’d know Pearson’s heirs are safely away, as are Karson’s. Only some of the BODs from each company were to be at that nine o’clock. This is a presentation, a formal introduction. The official signing will come after. So you’d need the names of who’d be at the presentation, as that’s your optimum.
“Hit later, you take out too many of the bigwigs.”
“Both the biggest wigs were there,” Eve pointed out.
“From my standpoint? You’re not worried about cutting off the head of both companies, as they have more limbs to pick up the pieces. But too much damage, that dive will hold longer, and recovery might not come for weeks, if then.”
She nodded. “The explosion was bad, but it was contained. One room, and the people in it. And those on the other side of the room—for the most part cuts and burns, broken bones but nothing really life threatening.”
“The smallest impact for the biggest, if you follow. As I’m going to kill Rogan anyway, I might make contact with him. Friendly or businesslike. We jog in the park, frequent the same deli. Nothing that connects me to him particularly. Or, if not that close, the wife, the daughter, the assistant, a coworker.”
He sipped more brandy. “If it’s me, I’d cultivate more than one source. Casual—that afterwork bar, a steam at the gym, a flirtation at a club. Bits and pieces add up if you know how to work it. When I have enough, I study Paul Rogan and his family.”
“Rogan’s the key,” she agreed. “If you’re with Econo, why don’t you pick somebody from Econo? Too close? Still, you have to know Rogan. You have to be sure of him, or gambling sure. Who’s your partner?”
“Ah well, that’s a tricky one, isn’t it?” Roarke studied the brandy he swirled. “I preferred to work alone, but you can’t always pull a job on your own. You’d best be damn sure of any along with you. And this one’s bloody, so all the more sure. If it’s my job, my plan, I select someone who brings a skill to the table I need or want, and I know them. Personally and well. If I’m tapped for someone else’s plan, the same applies.”
“Did you ever work with explosives?”
“Hmm.” He sipped some brandy. “I preferred finesse, but when finesse isn’t an option . . .”
“Did you build them yourself?”
He toed off his shoes, put his feet on the coffee table, and settled into the interrogation. “It’s wise to learn all aspects of a particular vocation, don’t you think, Lieutenant? Blasting holes in things always seemed . . . crude, but there were times for crude, and needs must. For a big hole now, I value my skin as much as any shiny object I might have coveted, so there’s where a partner or an expert might come to play. Still, what you’re dealing with here’s a different thing. A bomb’s a bomb in its results, but it comes in forms. And the building of a wearable one, that I’ve never done or had part in. It would take some study.”
“I’ve got Salazar for that. It’s the broad strokes I’m after from you. And I’ve got a picture. The inside information’s vital. You can’t go forward without it. Inside information and the viable mark in Rogan, knowledge of the market, and the means to play it. Add to that the explosives—and most thieves, most market guys don’t just have that at their fingertips—and you get a picture.”
She frowned over at the board. “Okay.”
Roarke hefted the cat, dumped him on the other side of the sofa, shifted and nudged Eve back and under him, all as smooth as a dance.
She said, “Hey. I’m working.”
“You’re circling,” he corrected. “And my consultant fee’s due.”
“Put in the chit.”
He grinned. “I intend to.”
It made her laugh even as his mouth came down to hers with a quick nip of teeth. So she gave in to the moment, the mood, wrapped arms and legs around him.
“How fast can you get it done?”
He slid a hand up her side, down again. “Are you after fast or effective?”
“I know you, ace.” She arched up against him. “You can handle both.”
“A challenge then?”
She arched again, heat to heat. “You’re up for it.”
He laughed as well even as he captured her mouth again.
Quick, quick, and oh yes, efficient, those hands skimming, those clever fingers tugging and pressing. A thief’s steady hands, a pickpocket’s nimble fingers, they stole her breath. And had her disarmed, naked to the waist before she caught it again.
“So far, so good,” she managed.
Then lost her breath again as his mouth ravished her breast. With her heart hammering under the assault, she fought her way under his shirt to flesh.
The fire smoldered, rolled out heat and light. The cat, displaced and annoyed, plopped off the couch, stalked out of the room.
Roarke moved over her, savoring those long lines, subtle curves. He could make her tremble, always a thrill. And she could make him ache. Every gasp, every sigh he drew from her beat in his blood, tribal drums. Her hands, long and narrow like the rest of her, rushed over him, reached for him, unleashed him.
He drove into her, buried himself, filled her.
They held, breath ragged, eyes locked.
Her hands lifted to his face—one tender beat—then her fingers shot back into his hair, gripped, dragged his mouth back to hers for the hunger, mad and avid.
Then the movement, the hard and fast taking each of each, eclipsed all. The madness of need overtook with her arms chained around him, her hips flashing beat for beat.
When she cried out, flung herself off that whippy edge, he held on, held on, then fell with her.
9
Eve woke in the gray limbo before dawn, alone, naked, and to the alarm of her communicator beeping.
She fumbled for it.
“Block video. Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to officer, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, Eighty-Sixth Street. Possible homicide. Victim identified as Banks, Jordan.
“Crap,” she breathed it out. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. Dallas out.”
She rolled over. “Lights on, twenty percent.” Headed for the shower.
“Who did you talk to, you asshole? Who did you talk to?” she muttered while the hot pulse of jets pounded her. She jumped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Closed her eyes while warm air swirled.
Jumped out, grabbed a robe, and strode into the bedroom just as Roarke came in the door with the cat at his heels.
“You’re up early,” he commented.
“Banks is dead.”
“Ah, well. I’ll get the coffee.”
Grateful, she dived into her closet. “What the hell was he doing in Central Park?” She grabbed black pants, a shirt, a jacket. “What was he doing at the JKO?”
“The reservoir?”
“All I know until I get there. Except this is damn well connected. No way in hell this bomb goes off yesterday, I talk to him, and he’s dead by morning.”
She came out in the shirt—white—the pants—black—tossed a black jacket on the sofa in the sitting area, and grabbed the coffee Roarke held out to her.
“Thanks.”
“Should I go with you?” he asked as he wandered into her closet.
“No need.” She grabbed her pocket debris from the dresser as he walked out with a pale gray V-neck sweater and a pair of black knee boots with gray laces. “Come on.”
“Not so much for fashion—though they work—but for practicality. The temperature dropped overnight, and it’s sleeting, with some wind along with it.”
“Will winter never end?” She took the sweater, tugged it on, sat to pull on the boots.
Already dressed for the business day in one of his perfect suits, Roarke walked back to the AutoChef.
“I don’t have time for breakfast,” she said, rising to strap on her weapon harness.
“For this you do.” He handed her a fat, toasted bread pocket.
“What is it?”
He smiled. “Quick and effective.”
That got a smirk before she bit in. Eggs, creamy, bits of crispy bacon—and something sneaky like spinach.
“Tag me, will you, when you know something? After all, I talked with him as well.”
“Sure.” She downed the pocket, the rest of the coffee. After scooping a hand through her hair, she pulled on the jacket.
And Roarke pulled her to him, kissed her. “Take care of my cop.”
“Got it.” She bent to give the cat a quick scratch before heading to the door. Stopped. “Waffles or oatmeal?”
“Sorry?”
“When I’m not here is it waffles or oatmeal?”
“I like oatmeal.”
She could only shake her head as she jogged downstairs, bundled in the damn winter gear, and headed out to meet death.
Sleet blew, wet and unpleasant, splattering her windshield. The sun had yet to make an appearance so the wet white streaks streamed in the nasty March wind as her headlights beamed. The streets gleamed black.
She passed a single maxibus, lumbering alone with its load of sleepy passengers fresh off the graveyard shift. She swung onto Eighty-Sixth until she pulled up behind a black-and-white.
A uniform started toward her, nodding when she held up her badge.
“What do you have?”
“Well, we got a couple of college types in the back. They were out for a drunken stroll, saw the floater. The pair of them climbed over the fence, jumped in to pull him out. Beat droids called us in. We got them in the back keeping warm.”
“I’ll take them first.”