Forgotten in Death(42)

“Who else?”

Harmony glanced back over her shoulder. “You should take a closer look at the Bardov organization. I can’t, or not too close, but I can say a lot of those shortfalls happened on jobs where they were connected.”

“Your father continues the business relationship.”

Annoyance flickered over Harmony’s face. “The entanglement began before my father. Different times, different hands on the wheel.”

“I appreciate the information.”

Eve stepped out as Harmony opened the door. And Roarke turned back.

“Someone has killed twice. Be careful, won’t you?”

“Believe me, I will. And I have to say it. I loved the Icove book, I loved the vid. I’m already halfway through Furst’s Red Horse Legacy, and I think it may top it. It’s got me by the throat. I’m not the risk taker either of you are. Have a good rest of your evening.”

“It’s never going to end,” Eve muttered as they walked to the car. “The books, the vids. You know Nadine’s going to write one about the Natural Order crap.”

“I do, yes, and expect she’ll do a fine job of it.”

“That’s the damn problem.” Eve glanced back at the house. “She knows something or thinks she does. Bardov, her family history.”

“They’re a lovely, tight-knit family. And when her time comes ’round, she’ll run that company with a great deal more passion, more vision than her father.”

“And fear will play a role?”

“As it should,” Roarke said as he got into the car. “I wonder if we have pie at home. Pie would be a nice complement to some fine dining and a good bottle of red.” He took out his PPC. “I’ll just push a bit more on Alva Quirk while you get us there.”

“If it’s not Tovinski who caved her head in and put that noose around Delgato’s neck, it’s someone like him.” While he pushed on his PPC, she pushed through traffic.

She thought of murder and corruption and double-dealing.

And of cherry pie à la mode.





9





By the time Eve drove through the gates of home, her mind had circled from murder to pie and back to murder.

The house rose up, stone towers and turrets etched against a sky bright and blue with summer. Well, not quite summer, she thought, but nearly. Close enough.

Warm and bright enough.

Somebody—Summerset or some landscape guy—had set big stone urns to flank the front door. Flowers in bold reds and purples, flashes of bright yellow with trailing greens speared and spilled out of them.

They made her think of the pots of flowers on the Delgato stoop, so her mind tracked right back to murder.

“Morris should get me at least a prelim tonight on the body. Harvo will work that fiber in tomorrow. But I have to push on DeWinter if she doesn’t come through by morning.”

She pulled up, tapped her fingers briefly on the wheel. “And I have to write all this up, send Peabody a copy. She’ll whine I didn’t pull her in when we found Delgato.”

He got out as she did, but she noted he still studied his PPC. “You’ve got something?”

“Maybe. Not quite there as yet, but maybe.”

“We could just have pizza and—”

“No.” He slid the PPC back into his pocket and took her hand. “A long, hard day deserves a meal.”

“Pizza is a meal.”

“Not tonight it isn’t.”

They walked in—more flowers, something as wildly blue as Roarke’s eyes, speared out of a copper vase and sweetened the air.

And Summerset, the living cadaver in a perfect black suit, stood in the foyer with the pudge of a cat at his feet.

“You’re quite late, but I detect no blood or bruising. What have you done to your boots, Lieutenant?”

Baffled, she looked down. Then remembered. Dumpster, remains in a rubble-filled cellar. “My job.”

“Off with them,” he ordered as Galahad strolled over to sniff at them.

“What?”

“No point in tracking whatever you’ve done all over the house. Take them off, and I’ll see what I can do to salvage them.”

She started to ignore him, but rethought because they were really comfortable boots, and simple ones. Just simple black boots—that had probably cost as much as six months’ rent on a one-room apartment in Queens.

“I had to examine a body in a dumpster.” She yanked one off.

“That would explain it.”

“And remains in a busted-up cellar.”

“Just your average day then.” Summerset took the boots—delicately, with the tips of his fingers.

“I don’t suppose we have pie.”

Summerset smiled at Roarke. “As it happens, we do. I baked a cherry pie this afternoon.”

Three steps up the stairs with the cat streaking ahead of her, Eve stopped. “You tagged him.”

“I didn’t, no.”

“How’d he know to bake cherry pie?”

“The open market had some lovely cooking cherries today. I’ve had a slice, after my meal, and can attest the pie came out very well.”

“Looking forward to it, thanks,” Roarke told him as he started upstairs.