He had a fondness for this room, the rich colors, the gleam of antiques, the art he’d chosen. He settled into it while the wind rattled the bare branches of the trees outside the windows.
Summerset—his father in all but name, and the person who ran the house as efficiently as Caro ran his office—sat across from him.
He had thick hair the color of good pewter; dark, canny eyes; a thin, angular face of deep hollows Eve liked to call ghoulish. And had, once upon a time, saved a ragged Dublin street rat from a life of misery, and worse.
Roarke lifted his whiskey in a toast. “Sláinte. And how was your day?”
“Wet this morning for the marketing. But that afforded me and our friend there,” he added as Galahad leaped onto Roarke’s lap, and sprawled—belly up—over it, “an enjoyable afternoon in the kitchen. I had a yen to make fresh pasta, which I haven’t done in some time.”
At Roarke’s puzzled look, Summerset sighed. “The noodles themselves, boy. Fresh. I’ve made up some capellini in a sauce with some bite. I think the lieutenant might enjoy it.”
“We’ll try it tonight.”
“Speaking of the lieutenant, I did a bit of laundry as well. The sweatshirt, or what’s left of it, from the Academy—”
“Isn’t worth your life,” Roarke interrupted.
“It’s a rag.”
“A sentimental one.” He sipped his whiskey, lazily scratched the cat’s belly with his other hand. And thought of the gray button he kept in his pocket. “We all need our talismans, don’t we? On another front, I met with Dr. Pickering this morning, and gave her a tour of An Didean. She’s taking the position.”
“I’ll make a note of it. She strikes me, from the reports I’ve read, as very suitable. And the progress on An Didean?”
“On schedule. They’ve finished the main kitchen, nearly completed all the bathrooms and the training kitchen. Most of the work’s down to cosmetics now. We should have the Use and Occupancy in about a month, time enough for the staff to set up, for us to load in furniture, supplies and so on.”
“It’ll be a fine thing for the children who’ll make their home there.”
“It will.” Roarke set his glass aside, nudged the cat. “I’ve some work to finish up before Eve gets home.”
“Whenever that might be.”
“Whenever. Finish your whiskey, and thanks in advance for the pasta.”
When Roarke went out, the cat obviously considered his options, then decided on Summerset’s lap.
As Roarke had done, Summerset sipped his whiskey and scratched Galahad’s belly.
“Will she have made it through the day without getting bloodied, do you think? Well, we’ll hope for it.”
3
She came home unbloodied, but with her brain scorched. Why, why had she opted to end her day as she’d started it? With paperwork, with numbers, percentages, reports?
Whatever smug satisfaction she gained from being completely caught up would die within twenty-four hours when it piled up again.
She stepped in out of the whoosh of wind to face the looming presence of Summerset.
“Neither late nor bleeding.” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “One expects a tympany.”
She didn’t know what the hell a tympany was, but knew damn well he’d had that one ready. Two could play. She studied him as she shrugged out of her coat and the cat did his greeting wind and rub.
“Did you go out in this today?”
“I had marketing.”
“That explains the reports of a flying skeleton.” She tossed her outdoor gear on the newel post and, considering it a draw, headed upstairs with Galahad trotting behind her.
She considered going straight to the bedroom, ditching the work clothes, but habit sent her to her home office. She heard Roarke’s voice from his adjoining office. Something about numbers, why was it always numbers? At least she didn’t have to decipher these.
He’d turned on the fire, and that made a nice welcome home. She decided the next step of welcome equaled a really big glass of wine.
As she chose one, opened it, it occurred to her she hadn’t had much taste for wine pre-Roarke. Could be, she thought, due to the fact that the wine she could afford in those days had been one dubious step up from horse piss.
She poured two glasses—Roarke’s Italian label because she had a yen for spaghetti and meatballs—and wandered into his office. She’d intended to simply set his glass on his desk and leave him to finish up the ’link meeting, but he signaled her to wait.
She noted the two people—one male, one female—on-screen. Everybody talked about those numbers, and margins and whatever the fuck. So she sipped her wine—definitely not horse piss—and walked over to his windows.
A fresh gust had the trees, right now still as bony as Summerset, bowing and swaying. She could see the lights of the city beyond the gates. Right then, from that vantage, it seemed more fanciful than the house she lived in.
Only minutes before she’d been in the thick of it, pushing and shoving her way through traffic, watching the sea of pedestrians surge through intersections. Every one of them, she thought, in a desperate rush to get somewhere.
Now she was out of it, and somewhere—exactly where—she wanted to be. Added to it, an evening without murder clawing at her brain.
Maybe she should pull out a cold case at random, see if fresh eyes and new angles could heat it up.
“All right then,” Roarke concluded. “I’ll have a look at the revised proposal tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.” He ended transmission. “Though you’ll be working through the evening if you want this to fly.” He waited for Eve to turn, then lifted his wine. “Thanks. You read my mind.”
“I wanted wine because my brain’s fried from spending two big hunks of my day with numbers and reports. You’re drinking it because you’re half celebrating dealing with them.”
“Isn’t it lovely wine covers both? Since you had two hunks of your day free to deal with numbers and reports, I assume you’ve no new case.”
“Caught one, closed it.”
“There’s my clever cop.” He swiveled his chair, patted his knee in invitation. “Let’s hear about it.”
She gave him a stony look, then opted to ease a hip onto the side of his workstation as he often did on hers. “Drunk tripped going down the stairs in his apartment building while peeling an apple with his pocketknife. Broke his neck and stabbed himself in the gut. Pretty much simultaneously according to the ME. Tox came back with a .20 BAC. Rotgut brew on top of it. He took the spill before nine this morning.”
“There’s a sorry end. My own morning held what I believe will be a happy beginning. I met with Rochelle Pickering, offered her the position and a tour of An Didean. She accepted.”
“That’s really quick. Are you sure—”
“I am, yes,” he said. “But I have her file right here. Why don’t you look it over before dinner? If we’re agreed, I’ll send her copy of the signed contract.”
Really damn quick, she thought. “You signed it?”
“Signed by her, and witnessed, late this afternoon after she had it looked over. Signed by me, and witnessed, before I left for home. But not yet sent, so not yet official.”
He studied her, his cynical cop, over another sip of wine. Behind her hung a portrait she’d given him of the two of them on their wedding day.
“This is your place as much as it’s mine, so I waited until you could weigh in.”
“I’m not going to . . .” She searched for a word, fell back on one of his. “Bollocks this up. You’ve vetted her.”
“Read the file.” He patted his lap again.
“That’s a sneaky way of getting me to sit on your lap.”
“If I didn’t have sneaky ways neither of us would be in this very pleasant office space.”
He had her there. Hell, he had her everywhere anyway. She sat on his lap. And when he brought up his reports on Rochelle, she began to read.
It took less than fifteen minutes for her to admit she was being a hard-ass. “Okay, okay.” She waved at the report on-screen. “She bangs the drum. You need a top shrink, and the kids deserve one not only with the chops, but who cares.”
“They do. I’ll add I liked her quite a lot. As did Caro.”
Two people, Eve admitted, who read people well and didn’t fall for bullshit easily.
“I’d still like to know where some seriously educated kid shrink met the bust-your-balls owner of a sex club.”
“I asked her about that today. Interestingly, at a memorial service, as you and I met as well.”
“One of her patients?”
“No, a friend of one of her patients. The girl, not yet sixteen, took her own life. Rochelle went to the service with her patient. Crack knew the girl and her family, as well as Rochelle’s patient and his family. This was Christmas week.”
“Suicide Central,” Eve murmured.
“Sadly enough. Rochelle saw how the boy related to Crack, and asked if he’d consider training as a mentor for disadvantaged and/or troubled youths.”
“Huh. He’d be good at it.”
“So she thought. He thought not, then later reconsidered, and they met to talk about it. They clicked on several levels. She was very open about her middle brother, and believes that while Crack isn’t his mentor, he’s been another steadying influence. So?”
“Send the contract. She’s probably pacing the floor waiting for it. Send it, and let’s go eat spaghetti and drink more wine.”
He kissed the back of her neck, sent the contract. “As it happens, pasta’s just what I’d planned for tonight. Summerset made fresh.”
“Meatballs?”
“The pasta—the actual noodles.”
“You can do that? Why do that?”
“I can’t tell you, but it apparently pleases him. It’s capellini—spicy.”