Witness in Death (In Death #10)(71)

Ninety seconds, he calculated, watching her eyes. He'd figured she'd drop off at sixty. "Then, I bought you a candy bar."

"I liked that part."

He broke off a chunk of his roll, buttered it. "Eve, did you marry me for my money?"

"You bet your ass. And you'd better hold on to it, or I'm history."

"It's very sweet of you to say so."

That made her grin. "I guess we're finished talking about your day."

"I thought we were. What's your lead?"

"Love. At least that's where all the arrows are pointing right now." She filled him in while she polished off her meal.

"Kenneth Stiles attacked Draco and beat him badly enough for medical intervention." Roarke cocked his head. "Interesting, isn't it, when you compare the two men. Draco was taller, considerably heftier, and certainly, on the surface, a great deal tougher. No indication that Stiles was injured?"

"None. I thought about that, too. It comes down to the pu**y and the pissed. Draco being the pu**y, Stiles the pissed."

"And being the pissed cost Stiles several million dollars."

"And he didn't even end up with the girl."

"Anja."

"Peabody found a handful of Carvells in the city. Wrong age span, so we're widening the scan. My gut tells me she has some of the answers."

"Cherchez la femme."

"What?"

"Find the woman," he translated.

She lifted her glass in a quick toast. "You can count on it."

"Anja." He said the name softly, a bare whisper of sound. And heard the gasp of surprise and recognition that followed it. "Don't say anything. Please. Just listen. I have to speak with you. It's important. Not over the 'link. Will you meet me?"

"This is about Richard."

"It's about everything."

It took time. He was certain he was being watched and feared his own shadow. Stiles sat at the mirror in his dressing area and skillfully, painstakingly altered his appearance. He changed the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his jaw, the color of his skin. He covered his hair with a wig, a thick mane of deep brown. He supposed it was vanity that prevented him from using the more ordinary gray one.

He couldn't bear to look old in her eyes.

He added a slim mustache, a slender brush of beard in the center of his chin.

All of this came naturally, despite the anxiety. He had donned a hundred characters in his life, sliding into them as smoothly as a man slips into favorite slippers after a long day.

He added girth to his small frame -- shoulders, chest, then covered the padding with a simple dark suit. The lifts in his shoes would give him another inch of height.

He took his time, studying the results in the long triple mirror, searching for any sign of Kenneth Stiles. For the first time in over an hour he allowed himself a small smile.

He could walk right up to Lieutenant Eve Dallas and kiss her on the mouth. He'd be damned if she'd recognize him.

Empowered, as he always was by a new role, Stiles swirled on a cape and went out to meet the woman he'd loved all his life.

She kept him waiting. She always had. He'd chosen a small nostalgia club that had fallen out of fashion. But the music was low and bluesy, the patrons minded their own, and the drinks came quickly.

He sipped at gin and paged through the battered volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. It was their signal.

She had given him the book all those years ago. He had taken it for a token of love instead of the friendship she'd intended. Even when he'd realized his mistake, he'd treasured it. As much as he'd treasured her.

He'd lied to the police, of course. He'd never broken contact with her, had known where she was, what she was doing. He had simply assumed another role with her, that of confidant and friend.

And after a time, living the part for so many years, he grew comfortable with it.

Yet, when she slid into the booth across from him, held out a hand for his, his heart leapt.

She'd changed her hair. It was a glorious tangle of smoky red. Her skin was a pale, pale gold. He knew it was soft to the touch. Her eyes were deep, tawny, and concerned. But she smiled at him, a hesitant curve of a lush mouth.

"So, you still read it?" Her voice was soft and lightly French.

"Yes, often. Anja." His fingers flexed on hers, then deliberately relaxed. "Let me order you a drink."

She sat back, watching him, waiting, as he signaled a waiter and ordered her a glass of sauvignon blanc.

"You never forget."

"Why would I?"

"Oh, Kenneth." She closed her eyes a moment. "I wish things had been different. Could have been."

"Don't." He spoke more sharply than he'd intended. It could still sting. "We're beyond regrets."

"I don't think we ever get beyond them." She let out a small sigh. "I've spent more than half my life regretting Richard."

He said nothing until her drink was served and she'd taken the first sip. "The police think I killed him."

Her eyes went wide, and wine sloshed toward the rim of her glass as her hand jerked. "But no! No, that's impossible. Ridiculous."

"They know what happened twenty-four years ago."