Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(67)

“That was more than a minute.”

“Time well spent. I adore you beyond reason, Eve.”

“Who needs reason? But I guess we’ll remember at some point to get naked first.”

She eased back, laid a hand on his cheek. “I have to get back to it.”

“So we will.”

“I think I’m going to stop off, change clothes. Might as well get the comfort on.”

“Another fine idea.”

She swung off him, hitched up her trousers. “Was it hard? Not that,” she said when he laughed, “because, obviously. I mean adjusting to me. The cop thing.”

“Shockingly easy.”

She shook her head as he rose, took her hand. “I never can figure it.”

“Who needs reason?” he reminded her.

She changed into flannel pants, an ancient hooded sweatshirt, and thick socks. She noted Roarke’s choice wasn’t so different from hers, but he somehow looked stylishly casual while she knew she just looked sloppy.

In her office she programmed coffee while Roarke strolled into the kitchen. He came out with two slabs of chocolate cake.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I just popped off to the cake factory.” He set the dessert plates down on her command center. “Your AutoChef, Lieutenant.”

“I had chocolate cake?” She took a bite, made a sound not dissimilar from one she’d made during sex. “I had really amazing chocolate cake?”

“Apparently. Now we both do.”

“Excellent.” And stuffing in a second bite, got back to work.

*

It took a couple hours, and more complications than she’d expected. What about the couple who’d been married in April but were divorced as of September? Or the couple who hadn’t been married, but were now, like the Patricks?

She opted for different columns, and quashed the automatic annoyance when Roarke completed his half before she did.

He didn’t interrupt her, simply got himself a brandy, then sat in front of her office fireplace, swirling and sipping and toying with his PPC.

She only had ten left, considered asking him to take half. Found the idea even more annoying, so slogged through on her own.

She swung around. “I’ve got nine more,” she told him. “That includes a married couple who attended, divorced shortly thereafter, and the male’s already remarried. And two couples who weren’t yet married, but now are married. According to the guest list, one of those couples attended with people who were set to but didn’t end up getting married.”

“I had eight, and that included a couple now newly married. It would fit, wouldn’t it, as the Patricks were newly married at the time of the attack?”

“Exactly. So we’ll assume he keeps up. Either because he’s in that circle, or he uses the society and gossip media. Maybe all of that. One on my list is on the edge, age wise, as they’re both into their fifties, and he’s gone younger on the females. But, and this could be a connect, she’s an actress. Mostly theater, but some screen, too. Nothing with On Screen that’s listed.”

“What’s her name?”

Eve swung back to her list. “Gloria Grecian. Do you know her?”

“Of. I’ve seen her perform. Musical comedy.”

“Makes sense. She’s been married to Maurice Cartier, a choreographer, for twelve years. We’ll start making contact with the thirty-odd couples on the list tomorrow.”

She looked toward the window. Had the snow thinned or was that just her own version of cheery optimism? “Nothing much we can do tonight.”

“Are you still in the mood for a vid?”

“Yeah.” She looked at the list, her board, accepted she’d just be turning in circles to keep at it now. “Yeah, I am. What’s it again?”

“I thought we’d dive right in to The Avengers rather than take you through the individual vids establishing the characters.”

“Superheroes.”

“Exactly.” He went to her, took her hand. “Ironman, for instance.”

“Like Cal Ripken, Jr.?”

“Sorry?”

“Ha—got you on one. Cal Ripken, Iron Man Ripken—late-twentieth-century baseball player, Baltimore. Third base, shortstop. Still holds the record for most consecutive games played.”

“You often amaze me,” he said as they started out.

“Well, it’s baseball. Ironman, but not like Ripken.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this porn?”

He laughed. “It isn’t, no.”

“Ironman sounds suspicious to me. What are the others?”

“There’s Thor, the Hulk,” he began.

“Sounds like porn.”

“You’ll see for yourself.”

“I want popcorn,” she decided. “It’ll probably make me sick, but I want it.”

“The way you saturate it with butter and salt, there’s no doubt you’ll be sick.”

“I still want it,” she said, also wanting to find out who the hell Ironman was if it didn’t apply to sports or porn.

*

While she stretched out with Roarke—eating popcorn, watching the Hulk smash—a solitary figure walked the snow-covered sidewalks.