Connections in Death (In Death #48)(4)

“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.

The music blasted over New York. Eve decided if anyone called a cop over noise violations, they’d find a whole bunch of them busting that reg, including her entire squad, a chunk of EDD—and the commander.

At the moment, Commander Whitney was dancing with Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Cher Reo. A lot of shoulder shaking and hip rocking was involved. Her partner, Detective Delia Peabody, executed some sort of wild swing and hop in time with her main man and EDD ace McNab.

Baxter, slick suit, no tie, flirted with the terrifying Trina, which was no problem as Detective Horndog flirted with any and all females. Reineke and Jenkinson clicked glasses as they joined in on the chorus of whatever girl duet Detective Carmichael and Mavis belted out.

It seemed Carmichael did indeed have pipes. And Jenkinson’s tie glowed like the moons that covered it.

Standing spread-legged, Santiago ran his fingers over a keyboard. What came out was definitely music. Who knew? Trueheart, Baxter’s earnest young partner, sat with his girlfriend and Feeney. Eve swore Feeney’s eyes shone—or glowed like Jenkinson’s tie—as he watched the Avenue A drummer bang and crash the drums.