Betrayal in Death (In Death #12)(64)

"Maybe you weren't looking so hard at him then," Roarke murmured. "But at the victim. Computer, search for personal data on victim, Cates, Winifred C."

working...

He sipped his coffee, listened to the machine hum.

Gates, Winifred Carole, female, mixed race, DOB February 5, 2029, Savannah, Georgia. Parents Marlo Barrons and John Cates, divorced. No siblings. Visual on-screen. Is physical description desired?

"No, move on."

Affirmative. Educational background is follows. Elementary education: home study program. Full scholarship to Moss-Riley Secondary Education Facility, honors program in language and in political science. Full scholarship to Amican University --

"Hold. Cross-reference files, Gates and Stowe, educational data. Any and all matches on screen."

Working... Shifting task function... Subjects Gates and Stowe attended American University same dates. Gates graduated magna cum laude, Stowe summa cum laude, same graduating class. ranked first and second respectively.

"Hold. Knew her, didn't you?" Roarke murmured. "This isn't just a case. It's personal."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Peabody hustled off the glide, rounded the corner toward her squad room, and ran straight into McNab.

"There you are." He beamed at her like a boy who'd just found his lost puppy after a long, whistling search.

"No, there you are. I was looking for you. I just got word the FBI's going to hold a media conference. They're pushing to have Dallas attend and fall into the spin."

"Oh, yeah, that'll happen. Have you heard the one about the Easter Bunny, too?" There was a door beside him. Never one to miss an opportunity, McNab bumped the handle.

"So far I haven't heard if Whitney's going to toss her in, but if he does, I think we should all be there. The one our guys had on for this afternoon's on hold."

As he nudged her into the narrow empty maintenance room he nodded. "Just tag me and let me know when and where if it comes down. Meanwhile..." He already had her up against the wall so he could chew on her neck.

"Jeez, McNab." But she wasn't putting up much of a struggle. "Get a grip."

"Gonna." With one hand he fumbled down, engaged the lock. With the other, he began disengaging the buttons on her uniform jacket. "Mmm, She-Body, you are so female. What's a guy supposed to do?"

His teeth were nibbling their way down... over... Oh yeah. "I think you're doing it."

She flipped open the hook of his trousers. After all, if she couldn't spare a few minutes for a fellow officer, what kind of cop was she?

He was hard as rock.

"How do you guys walk around with this thing kicking between your thighs?"

"Practice." The smell of her, the feel of her was driving him crazy. When her firm, capable hand wrapped around him, he decided he was the happiest madman on or off planet. "Jesus, Peabody." His mouth found hers, all but gulped her down. "I need -- "

Her pocket-link rang, shrill and insistent.

"Don't answer it." He tugged at her trousers, in a rage to get inside her. "Don't."

"Have to." She couldn't breathe, and her knees were trembling, but duty was duty. "Just... wait." She wiggled away, sucked in air then blew it out explosively. Her cheeks were flushed, her br**sts achy and exposed. She had the wit to block video as she opened transmission.

"Peabody."

"Delia. You sound so official and out of breath. Very sexy."

"Charles." She willed away the fog over her brain and didn't notice McNab go rigid and slit-eyed beside her. "Thanks for getting back to me."

"One of my favorite things to do is getting back to you."

That made her smile, a little foolishly. He always said the sweetest things. "I know you're busy, but I thought you might be able to help me out on a detail in an investigation."

"Never too busy for you. What can I do?"

Furious, McNab turned to stare at a line of industrial-sized cleaners and disinfectants. Couldn't she hear the snake oil in his voice? Didn't she know if he'd been busy it was because he'd been collecting a fat fee after doing the naked tango with some rich and bored society chick?

"I'm trying to confirm an identification," Peabody went on. "A man, mixed race, middle fifties. Opera buff. He takes the front box seat, stage right, at the Met."

"Front box, stage right... Sure, I know who you mean. Never misses an opening performance, comes alone."

"That's him. Can you describe him?"

"Other than what you've already said, he's big. More like an Arena Ball tackle than an opera fan. Clean-shaven, head and face. Designer black-tie. Always perfectly groomed. Doesn't mingle during intermission. I had a client recognize him once."

"Recognize him?"

"Yeah. She pointed him out, mentioned that he was an entrepreneur, which could mean anything."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"Probably. Give me a second. Roles. Martin K. Roles. I'm nearly positive."

"Can I have her name?"

"Delia." His voice was pained now. "You know how awkward that is for me."

"Okay, how about this. Could you contact her, casually ask how she knows this man? That might be enough."