Innocent in Death (In Death #24)(17)

He was at his desk, the suit jacket and shirt replaced by a black sweater. The furry pudge that was their cat was curled on the corner of the workstation. Galahad blinked his dual-colored eyes, then lowered them to lazy slits.

“Working?” Eve said, and felt stupid, awkward.

“A bit. You?”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t quite figure out what to do with her hands, so she hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “I figured I’d put some time in.”

He gave her his attention. He had a way of doing that even when he had a zillion things going on. “Want some help?”

“No. No, I got it. It’s just routine stuff.”

And his attention shifted away from her, back to his comp screen. “All right, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Lieutenant,” he said as she turned away. “Try not to drink more than a gallon of coffee.”

For some reason it made her feel better that he’d poked at her. She moved into the kitchen of her work space, and programmed her AutoChef for a half pot instead of the full one she’d have ordered up otherwise.

It was good he had some work to do, she thought. They’d both just do what they did for a few hours. She carried her coffee to her desk, and started to call up Peabody’s report on Craig Foster.

Cursed.

“Might as well just do it,” she muttered. “Get it off my brain.” She started the run on Percell, Magdelana, manually, ordering text only on her comp screen. It took some time to find her particular quarry, but she narrowed the search by approximate age, physical description—and unless she’d been way off on the accent—nationality. And scored.

Percell, Magdelana. DOB: March 12, 2029. Born: St. Paul, Minnesota. Parents: Percell, James and Karen. Hair: blond. Eyes: green. Weight: 115 pounds. Height: five feet, five inches.

Eve skimmed over her education, but noted that Magdelana had graduated from high school early—at fifteen. Had attended Princeton and graduated in just under three years on an accelerated program. Cum laude.

“So she’s smart.”

Married: Dupont, Andre, June 22, 2048. No offspring. Divorced: March 2051. Married: Fayette, Georges, April 5, 2055. No offspring. Divorced: October 2059.

Approximate net worth: thirteen point five million U.S. dollars.

Residences: Paris, France; Cannes, France.

No criminal.

Eve sat back.

The official data was slim, and the no criminal doubtful as Roarke had said they’d worked together. Even if she hadn’t been convicted, even if she hadn’t been arrested, there should have been some note in her file about being questioned at some point or other.

He’d cleared it for her, Eve thought, and felt something tighten in her belly. He’d hacked in and tidied up her data, the same way he’d taken care of his own once upon a time.

He’d protected her.

Because it was harder to accept than she’d imagined, Eve ended the search. She already knew more than she wanted to know.

She dove into work, reading Peabody’s report, the case notes. She started runs on staff members as she set up a murder board. And was foolishly pleased when Galahad padded in to leap up and stretch out on her sleep chair.

“What we have here,” she told him, and picked up her coffee, “is your Average Joe. No big highs, no deep lows. Cruising along with his average life without, apparently, getting in anyone’s way. Then one day he gulps down his homemade hot chocolate during his working lunch and dies a very nasty death.

“So who was that pissed off at Average Joe? What was there to gain by his death? Look at his financials. Living within his means, such as they were. Death insurance, sure, but not major. No holdings, no real estate, no fancy artwork. Financial gain is way down on our list here.”

She eased a hip on the edge of her desk, studied the data on her wall screen as she drank her coffee. “And here’s Mirri Hallywell. You could call her an Average Jane. Worked with the vic, hung out with him, had little study sessions with him, and so on. Just friends, though. Now, in your opinion: can two attractive people of the opposite sex, in the same age group, with the same interests who enjoy each other’s company, spend time together and remain only friends? Or will sex, as sex is prone to do, rear its ugly head?”

She glanced toward the adjoining office, annoyed that her line of thinking had circled back around to Roarke and his former playmate.

“It’s possible, sure it’s possible. No sexual spark, maybe. Or the platonic thing is just the level the relationship reaches. Hallywell, however, did have opportunity. As did, naturally, the vic’s wife. Could be the ugly end of an ugly triangle. Just that simple.”

But it didn’t feel like that.

“Want the guy, kill the wife. That’s what I’d do. There’s the old ‘If I can’t have you no one will’ gambit, but why now?”

She went back to her notes, to the interviews. No one she’d spoken with had mentioned any sort of upset, argument, controversy, or scandal involving the victim.

“Average Joe,” she repeated, looking back at the now snoring cat. “Mr. Clean Machine.”

“If you’re talking to Galahad, you’re wasting your time,” Roarke pointed out.

“He’s taking it into his subconscious.”