Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(32)

“It’s unseemly to flirt with suspects, Officer Peabody.”

“He’s not really a suspect.” Peabody glanced over her shoulder. “And he was really cute.”

“He’s a suspect until we confirm his alibi. And he’s a pig.”

“But a really cute pig. Sir.”

“We’ve got two more interviews to conduct, Peabody. Try to control your hormones.”

“I do, Dallas, I do.” She sighed as she climbed back into the car. “But it’s so nice when they control me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Spending most of the day doing interviews without making a crack in a case didn’t put Eve in the best of moods. Finding McNab packed and gone when she returned to her home office darkened her mood a bit more.

She considered it fortunate for his future well-being that he’d left her a memo, and a nibble.

“Lieutenant. Logged off at sixteen forty-five. List of names and products under case file, subhead E for Evidence Two-A. Couple of pops might interest you. I got hits on both Piper and Rudy on the smudger, another on Piper for the lip dye. By the way, the two of them are rolling in credits. Not that they’d give Roarke a run, but they aren’t hurting. Interesting, too, all their assets are held jointly, down to the last penny. Report also in file.”

All their assets held jointly, Eve mused. Her impression had been that Rudy manned the business end of things. It had always been Rudy who’d made the decisions, gone to the console when she’d been there.

It followed that he handled the money, too.

He had the control, Eve decided. He had the power.

And the opportunity, the access.

“One other hit on smudger,” McNab’s voice continued. “Two on lip dye, with Charles Monroe popping on both. Missed him first pass because he put another name on the credit slip for the mailing list of new products and specials. Profile on Monroe included.”

Eve frowned as the memo ended. Her instincts might have been steering her toward Rudy, but it looked as though she was going to pay Charles Monroe a visit.

Glancing over, she saw the light over the door that adjoined Roarke’s office was on. If he was busy, it was as good a time as any to check on a more personal matter.

She moved quietly, using the stairs rather than the elevator, keeping an eye out for Summerset as she lengthened her strides toward the library.

The walls of the two-level room were lined with books. It always baffled her that a man who could buy a small planet at the snap of a finger preferred the weight and bulk of a book rather than the convenience of reading on screen.

One of his quirks, she supposed, though she could appreciate the rich smell of leather from the bindings, the glossy look of the spines as they marched along the dark mahogany shelves.

There were two generous seating areas, more leather in the wood-trimmed deep burgundy sofas and chairs, jewels of colors on glass lamp shades, the sheen of brass, the shine of old wood in cabinets deeply carved by craftsmen from another century.

Drapes were open to the night around a wide window seat dressed with thick pillows in tones that picked up the multi-hues of the lamps. Enormous and ancient rugs with intricate patterns over a red-wine background stretched over the wide and polished chestnut planks of the floor.

She knew a full-range multitask computer system was hidden behind the antique cabinet. But everything in view in the room spoke of age and wealth and a taste for both.

She didn’t come here often, but she knew Roarke did. She might find him sitting in one of the leather chairs in the evening, his long legs stretched out, a brandy by his elbow and a book in his hands. Reading relaxed him, he’d told her. And she knew it was a skill he’d taught himself as a boy in the slums of Dublin when he’d found a tattered copy of Yeats in an alley.

She crossed to the cabinet and opened the doors rich with inlays of lapis and malachite. “Engage,” she ordered and cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. “Search library, all sections, for Yeats.”

Yeats, Elizabeth; Yeats, William Butler?

Her brows came together, her hand scooped through her hair. “How the hell do I know? It’s some Irish poet.”

Yeats, William Butler, confirmed. Searching stacks… The Wanderings Of Oisin, Section D, shelf five. The Countess of Cathleen, Section D —

“Wait.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shift search. Tell me what books by this guy aren’t in the library.”

Adjusting… Searching…

He probably had every damn thing anyway. Stupid idea, she decided, and jammed her hands in her pockets.

“Lieutenant.”

And nearly jumped out of her boots. She whirled around and stared at Summerset. “What? Damn it, I hate when you do that.”

He merely continued to eye her blandly. He knew she hated when he came up on her unawares. It was one of the reasons he so enjoyed doing it. “May I help you find a book — though I didn’t realize you read anything but reports and the occasional disc on aberrant behavior.”

“Look, pal, I’ve got a perfect right to be in here.” Which didn’t explain why being found in the library made her feel like a sneak. “And I don’t need your help.”

All works by subject author, Yeats, William Butler, are included in library. Do you require locations and titles?

“No, damn it. I knew it.”