The creases in his cheeks deepening, Jake grinned down at Nadine. “Maybe. More or less. Anyway, you got another wave coming in, Lois. How does anybody know so many people?”
Now Roarke laughed, took Eve’s hand. “I’m beginning to think it’s a good thing I saw her first.”
“Lots of cops,” Jake said as they started out. “Other than that trip to Central, I haven’t seen so many cops since . . .” He looked at Eve. “I probably shouldn’t mention the time I was sixteen and used fake ID to get a gig in this club that got raided.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
“Nope.”
“We’ll let it pass.”
“Speaking of cops, did you know Santiago can rock a keyboard?”
“Ah . . . he plays piano?”
“Wicked,” Jake confirmed. “Renn brought his keys—the whole band’s here—and the chick cop pushed Santiago into getting down. Chick cop’s got pipes.”
“She can sing,” Nadine interpreted for Eve. “And that’s Detective Carmichael, Jake. I asked Morris to bring his sax,” Nadine added.
“Let me tell you, the dead doc can smoke that sax. Hey, there’s one of my breed.”
Looking down as Jake did, Eve saw Mavis, a fountain of pale, pale blue hair, a frothy pink dress with a short, flippy skirt, blue shoes with towering heels fashioned out of a trio of shining silver balls.
Beside her, Leonardo resembled some sort of ancient pagan priest in a flowing vest shades deeper than his copper skin. His hair showered down to his shoulders in what looked like hundreds of thin braids. At the moment, Mavis talked to—bubbled over more like—a tight little group.
Feeney—the captain of the Electronic Detectives Division wore the same rumpled, shit-brown suit he’d worn to work. Beside him stood Bebe Hewitt, Nadine’s big boss, in shimmery silver pants and a long red jacket, looking fascinated. Then big-eyed teenage Quilla was towered over by Crack. The sex club owner also wore a vest. His stopped at his waist with lethal-looking studs on the shoulders, leaving his chest and torso bare except for muscles and tattoos.
Beside him, a woman—unknown—smiled easily. She wore classic New York black and had a face made exotic by knife-edged cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes.
“The kid’s a little young for a cocktail party,” Eve commented.
“You’re never too young to learn how to host an event, or how to behave at one,” Nadine countered. She glided down the rest of the steps and over to greet Mavis.
“The kid’s all right,” Jake said to Eve. “Giving Nadine a run.”
“Is she?”
He grinned with it. “Big time. Campaigned to come tonight, and tossed out how she could do a three-minute vid report on the party—soft-news clip. The Quill’s got it going.” He tapped his temple. “I got a couple earsful of your An Didean project, Roarke. She’s keeping her own ear to the ground there. I’d like to talk to you about that sometime.”
“Any time at all.”
“Hey, Dallas.” Mavis did a little dance on her silver balls, grabbed Eve in a hug. “This party is whipping it.” She added a squeeze for Roarke, for Jake. “All my fave people, add food and adult beverage, and it’s going on. I heard there’s jamming on the terrace. Am I going to get in on that?”
“Counting on it,” Jake told her. “How about we check out the venue?”
“I’m in.”
“I’ll get the drinks,” Leonardo said.
After Leonardo kissed the top of her fountain of hair, Mavis beamed up at him. “Thanks, Honey Bear. Check you all later.”
“I’m heading to the music.” Feeney shot a finger at Eve. “Did you know Santiago can burn up the keys?”
“I heard that.”
“Light under a bushel.” With a shake of his head, Feeney took his rumpled suit out to the terrace.
“Bushel of what?” Eve wondered.
“I’ll explain later. It’s lovely to see you, Bebe.”
“And both of you. I’m grateful, Lieutenant, for the work you and your detectives did in the Larinda Mars investigation.”
“That’s the job.”
Bebe nodded, looked down into her drink. “We all have one. Excuse me.”
“She’s taking on too much of the blame.” Nadine looked after her as Bebe slipped away.
“It wasn’t on her.”
“No.” Nadine nodded at Eve. “But she’s the boss. I’m just going to smooth that out. And send somebody with another round of drinks.”
Crack shot his eyebrows up. “Cops do bring a party down.”
The woman beside him gave him a sharp elbow. “Wilson!”
He only laughed. “You looking fine for a skinny white girl cop.”
“You don’t look half bad for a big black man dive owner.”
“Down and Dirty ain’t no dive. It’s a joint. Yo, Roarke. I want you to meet my beautiful lady. This is Rochelle Pickering.”
Rochelle extended a hand to Eve, then to Roarke. “I’m so happy to meet both of you. I’ve followed your work, Lieutenant, and yours, Roarke. Especially in regard to Dochas and An Didean.”
“She’s a shrink,” Quilla announced, and Crack grinned at her.
“Kid shrink. Watch those steps, shortie, or she could come for you.”
“As if,” Quilla muttered, but melted away into the crowd.
“Wilson.” Rochelle rolled her eyes. “I’m a psychologist, specializing in children. I’ve actually consulted at Dochas.”
“I’m aware,” Roarke told her, which had her blinking at him.
“That’s . . . unexpected.”
“Our head counselor speaks highly of you.”
“She’s a marvel.”
As promised, another tray of drinks arrived.
“I just have to take a moment,” Rochelle continued. “It hardly seems real I’m standing in this amazing space. That I’m meeting both of you. I met Nadine Furst and Jake Kincade, God, Mavis Freestone—who’s exactly, just exactly, as delightful as I’d hoped she would be. And Leonardo, someone whose work I drool over. And I’m drinking champagne.”
“Stick with me,” Crack told her. “The sky’s got no limits.”
Eve had questions, a lot of questions. Such as, she’d never known anyone to call Crack by his given name. What made this woman different? And how did a kid shrink hook up with the streetwise owner of the D&D? And when did Crack go all—what was the word? Smitten, she decided, the word was smitten. When did he go all smitten?
She could see the appeal. The woman was built and beautiful, but . . . just who was she anyway?
Thinking, she made her way to Mira. It took a shrink, she considered, to shrink a shrink. And nobody beat the NYPSD’s top profiler.
Mira rose from the arm of a sofa where she’d perched, kissed Eve’s cheek. As usual, she looked perfect. The dress, the color of the deep red wine being passed around, floated down to her knees and ended in a thin border of some fancy lacework that matched the elbow-length sleeves. She’d swept back her mink-colored hair—now highlighted with subtle copper streaks courtesy of Trina (whom Eve, so far, had managed to avoid).
“Nadine’s really made this place her own. Stylish, yes, but eclectic and comfortable. She looks happy.”
“The gold dude upstairs and the rock star out on the terrace play in.”
“They certainly do. I like him—the Oscar, of course, but Jake. I like him.”
Eve glanced toward the terrace. Through the glass she saw Jake and Mavis, nearly nose to nose as they sang while Jake’s fingers flew over the guitar.
“Yeah, he works. Sort of speaking of that. Do you know anything about this Rochelle Pickering who’s glued to Crack?”
Mira’s eyebrows lifted. “A little. Problem?”
“You tell me.”
“None I’m aware of. I volunteer at Dochas a few times a year. I met her briefly when we were both there some months back. She struck me as very stable and dedicated. A serious woman.”
“Yeah, so what’s she doing with Crack?”
Mira looked over to where Crack and Rochelle swayed to the music on the terrace. “Apparently enjoying herself. It’s a party, Eve. It’s what people do at parties. And here’s Dennis to prove it.”
Dennis Mira walked toward them with a plate of finger food. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and striped tie. His tie was crooked, and his gray hair windblown. His eyes, the softest, sweetest green smiled at Eve.
Her heart went into meltdown.
“You have to try one of these.”
He took something off the plate, held it up to Eve’s lips. She saw what looked like a heap of little chopped up vegetables, all glossy with something and piled on a thick slice of zucchini. Something she’d have avoided putting anywhere near her mouth much less in it at all costs.
But those soft, sweet green eyes had her opening her mouth, letting him feed it to her.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
She managed an, “Mmm,” as the meltdown completed.
She thought if everyone had a Dennis Mira in their lives, she’d be out of work. No one would have another violent thought.
“Let me get you a plate.”
“No.” She swallowed, decided her veg quota was complete for a month. “I’m good.” And found herself just a little disappointed when Mira straightened his tie.
“Such a happy party, isn’t it?” he continued. “So many interesting and diverse people in one space. I always think the same when you and Roarke have a party. It takes interesting people to gather so many of the same together.” He gave her that smile. “You look very pretty. Doesn’t she, Charlie?”
If Eve had owned a blush, she’d have used it.
Roarke slipped up beside her—more chat, chat—then the four of them wandered out to the terrace. She’d avoided the terrace, because that way lay Trina. But she couldn’t be a coward all evening.