Strangers in Death (In Death #26)(25)

“There’s a way to make money, people find it. I’m going to go over her financials and have Roarke comb them. But so far, nothing’s popped there either. No suspicious withdrawals, no payments that don’t jibe.” She paced. “Good-looking woman. She’s got style, power. The sort that could talk a lover, if he’s stupid enough, into doing her dirty work for her.”

“But then if she had a lover,” Peabody pointed out, “why is she paying Charles five thousand a bang, twice a month?”

“Exactly, so…” Eve turned back. “How do you know what Charles charges a bang?”

“Ah.” Peabody fussed with her hair, pulled at the silver buttons on her suit jacket. “Maybe, being curious, I looked up his rates when we were sort of dating.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I can agree that if a woman’s getting strange for free, she’s unlikely to pay ten grand a month for a couple thrills. See what you can find.”

Moving away again, Eve pulled out her ’link to schedule an appointment with Mira, and to put a hold on an interview room.

“Ladies.” Roarke spoke from the doorway of their adjoining offices. “Peabody, you look ravishing.”

“I do?” She nearly squealed it. “But in a screen-friendly, trustworthy, public servant kind of way?”

“Yes, indeed. The color’s wonderful on you.”

“Jesus,” Eve said under her breath, and earned a mild stare from her husband.

“Breakfast?” he said.

Peabody watched as Eve scowled, shrugged. Then Roarke lifted his brows with those dreamy eyes steady. Her lieutenant rolled hers, but stomped off to the kitchen.

“You guys don’t even have to talk.” Resting her chin on her fist, Peabody sighed. “You just know.”

“It does come in handy from time to time. How was your date night?”

“It was mag. Really. Mostly because we both agreed we like noisy, crowded clubs better than grown-up, sophisticated ones. But it’s good to try something new.”

“Stop socializing with my partner,” Eve called out from the kitchen.

“Financials,” Peabody mouthed.

“Ah, yes.” Casually, Roarke strolled over, gave a quick glance at the data on screen. He winked at Peabody and sent her pulse scrambling, then continued on to the kitchen where his wife was taking an annoyed bite out of a bagel.

“Breakfast,” she muttered at him.

“Such as it is. Why don’t I go over the financials? I can do it in considerably less time than you or Peabody, which frees you up to go out and browbeat suspects.”

She frowned, chewed. “You’d have to do it straight. No unregistered, no illegal hacking.”

“You underestimate the skill of an honest man.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking to you.” She grinned over another bite of bagel. “I could use the help, if you’ve got the time between schemes of universal financial domination.”

“I’ll work it in. Now.” He brushed a crumb away from the side of her mouth, kissed her. “Go protect and serve.”

“Good idea. Peabody,” she said as she headed out, “with me.”

“I haven’t really started on—”

“The civilian’s got it. Let’s go take a few kicks at the grieving widow.”

“That’s lots more fun.” Peabody jumped up, grabbed her garment bag. And because Eve was already out of earshot, turned back as Roarke came out of the kitchen. “Do you like the earrings?”

He stepped closer to give them a good study. “They’re charming.”

“But in a—”

“In a professional and intuitive police detective sort of way. You’ll be wonderful and look the same.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed her coat, scarf, hat. “I—”

“Peabody! Move your damn ass!”

“Gotta go,” Peabody finished on the heels of Eve’s shout. And fled.

With his fresh cup of coffee, Roarke sat behind Eve’s desk. He could spare twenty minutes now, he mused. “So, let’s see what we have here.”

6

AN ELEGANT, OLD, LOVINGLY RESTORED BUILDING on the Upper East Side housed the Plowder’s apartment. The quiet, rosy brick boasted a portico entrance with wide, beveled glass doors granting passersby a peek at the polished marble lobby. A doorman, in blue and silver livery, stood guard should any of those passersby need a little move-along.

Eve noted he gave her police issue the beady eye when she pulled up to park at the carpeted curb. She didn’t mind a bit. She didn’t just eat bagels for breakfast, but enjoyed a good bite of doorman.

He strode across the swatch of red carpet, shook his head.

“Cop rides never get any prettier,” he commented. “What house are you out of?”

She shifted her feet, and her prepared tone. “You on the job?”

“Was. Put in my papers after I did my thirty. My brother-in-law manages the place.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “Tried golf, tried fishing, tried driving the wife crazy.” He flashed a smile. “Better pay, better hours on this door than doing the security guard thing. Dallas,” he said, shooting a finger at her. “Lieutenant Eve.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”