Golden in Death(93)

“Probably. Sure. It’s big.”

“It’s got some weight.” He planted his feet, poured water around the tree. “We put in underground irrigation, but I’m told we water it well at planting.”

She sat back on her heels a moment, then pushed up herself. “I’ll do this side.”

Into it now, she thought as she let the water flow. Christ, next thing she’d want to name the damn tree.

“Is that it? Did we do it?”

“Mulch,” he said, jerked a thumb toward the wheelbarrow.

She traded the watering can for the shovel. “How much?”

“A good couple inches all around, I’m told.”

So they dumped mulch, smoothed, dumped and smoothed.

Then they stepped back, studied.

“We planted a tree.”

“And a lovely one at that. Wait.” He dug out his ’link, shifted her, slid an arm around her. “We’ll document it.”

“You never do that. You don’t take ’link shots.”

“How often do we plant a tree in the yard?”

“That would be … once.”

“There you have it. Smile.”

How could she help it?

He took the shot, pocketed the ’link. “We’ve earned that wine.” He unfolded one of his tools, used the corkscrew to open the bottle. Eve held the glasses while he poured.

Then they sat hip-to-hip on the bench with the young tree beside them and looked over the pond.

“So.” He kissed the top of her head. “Tell me what I can do to make the evening productive.”

“Not yet,” she decided. She put murder aside, tipped her head to his shoulder. “Let’s just be here for a few minutes.”

So they sat, drank wine while the water spilled, the lilies floated, and the shadows lengthened toward dusk.

By the time they went back inside, her mind felt sharp and clear and ready to reengage. Plus, she realized she wanted food.

“I’ll get dinner,” she began, but he trailed a finger down the dent in her chin.

“Update your board, as your mind’s back on it. I’ll get the meal.”

Well, the man knew her. Even though it meant pizza was off the menu, she did want to update her board, and have her thoughts lined up for when they sat down together.

Not pizza, but whatever he brought out as she worked smelled really good.

“How was your meeting with Grange?”

“I’ll start there, work my way through.” She walked to the table. Some sort of chicken with the herby rice she preferred to the white stuff, and a pile of mixed-up veggies. She could live with it.

“Grange,” she said, and began.

At one point, Roarke had to stop her. “Peabody? Our Peabody went at her?”

“Like a jungle cat on a snake. I had to stop her because I really think she was just getting started. Clearly, Grange isn’t used to someone saying fuck you. Or if they do, she’s used to crushing them like a bug.”

Enjoying the replay, Eve scooped up some of the herby stuff. “She also, clearly, expected me to take the polite and apologetic route, since I told Peabody to take a walk. Oh, and the suit, the outfit.” Eve ate more chicken, enjoyed the subtle bite of whatever it had been cooked in. “You were right about that.”

“Good.”

“So she wasn’t prepared for me to go at her—or to point out the photo of Whitt’s daddy and her on her wall. They’ve definitely tangoed.”

“Is that right?”

“Bank on it. From there we got a completely different vibe from Kendel Hayward.”

Roarke listened, shared bread with her, filled her water glass, as she’d go back to work.

“So the bad girl from high school found her way,” he concluded. “Most do.”

“She credits her parents for stepping in—stepping on her, and hard. They’re divorced, and he’s running some tropical dive shop, but she spoke of them as a unit.”

“To her, they are. Her parents.”

“Yeah, it seemed … healthy. Of everyone we talked to today, there are two I felt were honest, didn’t hold back. That would be Hayward, and your Rodriges.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Move to Marshall Cosner and Stephen Whitt? Good thing they can afford lots of pants because the ones they had on were on fire before we were done.”

As she ran through the interviews, Roarke thought it a kind of expert play-by-play, the sort that put the listener into the game so clearly he could hear the tones, see the movements.

He nodded, and sat back with his wine.

“So Whitt’s your man.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I could hear it. How much of a dupe do you figure Cosner is?”

“I figure he looks to Whitt—and has for years—to lead the way. He gets off on the violence, no question, but he’s no planner. Miguel said he thought they’d kill him, and I think, even then, if Whitt had said to Cosner, ‘Hey, pal, pick up that rock over there and bash this asshole’s head in with it,’ that’s just what Cosner would have done.”

She nudged her plate aside. “He’d have felt a little queasy about it when the high wore off, when he was alone, but he’d have justified it. Guy deserved it; besides, Steve told me to. Miguel also said he thought Grange knew. She knew who’d tuned him up, and she covered. It’s how she operates.”