Chapter Ten

Eve expected Summerset to have retired to his rooms for the evening, but he loomed.

She started to make a crack about vampires rising at sunset, but the cat padded over. Then stopped an inch from her boots.

Galahad hissed, arched his back, then on a throaty growl, sent Eve a hard, feline stare out of his bicolored eyes.

"What's your problem? The rat dog? Are you kidding me? Jesus, I never even touched that little rat dog."

In response, Galahad turned his back on her, stuck up his tail like an exclamation point, then stalked back to Summerset.

"I can't control every freaking dog in the city. Get over it, tubby."

Because she felt guilty, and that made her feel ridiculous, she stalked up the stairs without another word.

"He's a very proprietary cat," Summerset commented to Roarke.

"So it seems. I expect they'll both get over it. Go, relax. Enjoy your evening."

As Roarke started up, Summerset glanced down at the cat. "Now, now, the children are home safe, and all's well. No little rat dog could hold a candle to you."

Apparently mollified, Galahad trotted up the stairs.

"What an interesting family we make," Summerset murmured, and went back to his quarters to enjoy his evening.

In her office, stewing, Eve began to set up her board.

"The stripper's grandmother had one of those yappy dogs that looks like an overgrown rat."

"A Chihuahua?"

"Maybe. Whatever. It sniffed at my boots. I mean, for Christ's sake, a boot-sniffing rat dog is the least of my problems out in the field. For all I know at this point, the woman with the boot-sniffing rat dog may have a murderer for a granddaughter. But he doesn't think of that."

"I'm quite sure he doesn't, possibly due to the fact he's a cat."

Roarke watched the cat in question saunter in, ignore Eve, then take sprawling possession of her sleep chair.

He decided it was wiser not to mention it.

"I'll just start on those financials." And, he thought, retire from this particular field.

Eve finished the board, programmed coffee, sat at her desk to open her murder book.

The cat wasn't the only one capable of ignoring, with attitude.

Because she knew there was something there, she started a deeper run on ChiChi Lopez.

Her great-grandparents had crossed the border into the States—documentation vague on exactly when and where. But all four of their children had been born in the U.S. The younger two, including Anna Maria Lopez, née Delgato, had been born in New York.

The restaurant had started as a food truck, then two food trucks. Anna Maria Delgato married Juan Lopez, and they had four kids while helping run the food trucks—now numbering three.

And their four kids had kids—a hell of a lot of kids, Eve noted. Among them, ChiChi, age twenty-nine.

Along the way, five years before ChiChi came along, they opened Abuela's. Six years later, they bought the building.

Nothing she found indicated anything but a large, hardworking, savvy family. No doubt if she dug into each one, she'd find some bumps, some issues, some problems, but unless she hit on something that applied to her investigation, she'd stay out of that rabbit hole.

She zeroed in on ChiChi.

Private school education, dance lessons. She unearthed several articles giving her raves for school musicals. Which explained the major in theater, at least at the start of her college career.

That switched to business major third year in.

Two dings for assault, charges dropped. Anger management required.

Worked as a server, then a line chef at the restaurant. And at twenty-one started as a dancer at the club. Worked her way up to headliner within a year.

And it paid, Eve noted. It paid damn well. From what she could see, Lopez reported her tips. Probably not all of them, but enough to keep the tax man from knocking on her door.

No cohabs, no marriages, no civil unions.

Picking through the finances, Eve noted she continued to take dance classes, spent a hell of a lot on clothes—most custom tailored—more on salons and spas.

She had weekly payments to a Dr. Rene Koons—a shrink on the Lower West Side. Another weekly to a Stefan Michael, a masseur.

And several payments over the last eight years to the gallery where Erin sold her work.

She glanced up when Roarke walked in.

"Lopez has two dings for assault—mandatory anger management fulfilled. She sees a shrink every week. Might still have those anger issues. Started off as a theater major in college, switched to business major halfway through. Kind of a star in school musicals prior, so maybe she couldn't cut it in a bigger pool of talent. And maybe some of the anger issues come from there. She's spent a good chunk of change at the gallery where Erin has some of her work."

"She invests well—smart investments. It's easy enough to find—through her insurance—how much of that chunk of change went for Erin's art. I'll look at it. For now, I can tell you she invests well, has no hidden accounts, is very careful with her accounting. She's in excellent financial shape."

Walking to her workstation, he programmed coffee for himself. "As are her siblings and parents. I can go back further if you like, but there's a pattern. Work hard, invest wisely, live within your means, but live well."

"The money—from the increase in art value—that would be a bonus, not the main driver. Feelings, passions, anger, sex—that would drive this. I keep coming back to that. What does a woman with a solid family, solid financials, living how she appears to want to live need weekly shrink sessions for? And why is she so pissed off?"

"I couldn't say, but I can see you have a thought on it."

"Because at the end of the day, she's alone. She comes from a family where people end up married and popping out more family, and she's alone. She's got an older brother, age thirty-one, married two years ago, already has a kid. Younger sister got married last May. She has no cohab on record. She may have wanted Erin Albright to fill that spot."

Pushing up, Eve paced. "She's got that nice house, nice neighborhood, and she lives alone in it. She clicks with Albright, the struggling artist. She could make life easier for her. Move in with me, don't worry about rent, concentrate on your art. Your art and me."

Pausing, she studied the board. "Lopez's family knew Albright, so Lopez brought her around."

"You're thinking for approval."

As usual, he followed her line of thinking.

"It's possible, more probable. I'd bet she didn't bring all her bed partners around to meet her abuela . She didn't like Hunnicut, and most of that, it strikes me, comes from jealousy. They both wanted Erin Albright, but Shauna Hunnicut got her."

"You sound half-convinced. Not all the way convinced."

"Half's about right. If she did it, what did she do with the murder weapon, the jewelry she took off the body, the 'link?"

"Little time to dispose of it all."

And that was the sticker, Eve admitted.

"Little, but not no time. Maybe fifteen minutes. But nobody noticed her missing for that long. So it's a stretch."

"An accomplice," Roarke suggested. "A family member or lover—or someone she promised sex to. Take the things to the back door, pass them off."

"Not impossible, so that makes it possible."

But, Eve wondered, could the person Erin trusted trust someone else that much?

"Yeah, possible. You could check the insurance, see how much she invested in the art. That could play in. She spent her hard-earned money to support the woman she wanted, and the woman didn't want her back. ‘Let's just be friends' is the world's worst insult."

"And here I thought it was: ‘It's not you, it's me.'"

"They're the same thing." She turned to him. "If I ever dumped you, it would totally be you and not me."

"I appreciate that, darling, and the same goes." Amused, he pulled her in for a quick kiss. "I'll go see about the art."

"Good. I'm going to take another look at Shauna's exes. Stillwater's out of it. His alibi's concrete, plus they didn't have the feelings, the passion. That was affection and convenience."

When she turned back to her command center, Galahad sat next to her comp. Looking, she realized, weirdly like the stuffed cat Roarke had once given her.

Walking back, she sat, gave him as hard a stare as he did her. "You know, you never freak when I come home with blood on my boots, with boots smelling like death."

He blinked his bicolored eyes once.

"Because that's the job. Well, when I'm investigating, I sometimes run into somebody's pet rat dog. And that's the job, too. Found you on the job, didn't I?"

She reached out, scratched him lightly between the ears. "The difference is, I brought you home."

He nuzzled his head under her hand, purred.

Feelings, she thought when he curled up on her command center as if to keep an eye on her.

Passions, anger, jealousy.

It fit here, and it fit in the murder of Erin Albright.

She opened the file on Rierdon. As she read, as she dug, she checked the time.

Not too late—though Roarke would probably disagree.

She contacted the mutual friend, Jodi, who'd been at the party, who threw her own parties. To remain a suspect, Rierdon had to have known about the bride party—the when and where.

But the conversation with Jodi, and the three-way conversation with her and her cohab, ended inconclusively.

Didn't recall mentioning it, but maybe.

So maybe, Eve thought. It didn't explain the swipes, the case, and those remained major sticking points. No reason she could come up with for Erin to have trusted him, asked him to do the favor.

More the opposite, she admitted.

Back to high school, she decided, and took a deeper dive on Greg Barney.

Nothing, she thought, just nothing popped. An ordinary guy, a regular guy. And sure, they killed, but nothing in his background, in his current living situation stood out.

Financially… Roarke would make sure, but financially, he looked clean. Ordinary again. No gallery purchases she found. Maybe he'd bought some of her sidewalk art, paid cash.

Maybe he had some through gifts, or through Becca DiNuzio. Would they bother with insurance for that?

Doubtful.

Still, she rose to pace and play with the angle.

Say they had a couple of pieces. And he could ask Shauna for another, in memory. Cash in when the value went up.

It had to be more than that, she decided. But didn't she have more? Sweethearts, parted by college, then reunited.

But one sweetheart is seeing someone else.

Let's just be friends.

So he turns to—settles for?—the other high school girl. That keeps him close to the tribe, close to Shauna.

But wouldn't tribes have their own rules, and wouldn't not screwing around with the person a tribe member is screwing around with be at the top?

How do you make a move on the old girlfriend when she's pals with your new girlfriend?

Very sticky ground, she concluded.

And how, she asked herself, would navigating that ground include murder?

On the other side of the scale, the victim would have trusted him. One of Shauna's oldest friends, someone not invited to the party. He lived and worked close. And would she believe as one of Shauna's oldest friends, he'd be happy with the surprise, happy to help pull it off?

Add no alibi. Just an ordinary guy, hanging out at home waiting for his girlfriend to come back from a girl party.

And see the flowers he picked up for her on his way home.

A non-alibi alibi, Eve considered. He'd been able to walk her through his steps—closing the shop, walking to the bar, having drinks with a pal, and so on.

She studied his photo on the board as Roarke came back in.

"He was pretty specific," Eve muttered. "I'm going to think about that. You could do that."

"I'm sure I could. Do what exactly?"

"Walk me through your day, times, people, meetings, meals. You keep a log in your head. Does he?"

"Who would that be?"

"Greg Barney, Shauna's high school guy, and her best friend's current cohab. He was pretty specific. Not like at nineteen-zero-two, I paused at the crosswalk. But close enough. But he didn't mention the flowers. DiNuzio reminded him about the flowers. An oversight, or a ploy? An oh yeah, right, I stopped for flowers. That way you're not absolutely specific."

She started pacing again. "Like you don't exactly remember the vid you were watching on-screen when you fell asleep on the sofa. Just some alien invasion thing. And that checks. Duplicates . Alien invasion deal available on the night in question. I bet if we checked that screen, that would've been playing at the time he said."

"You're looking at him now because he was able to walk you through his evening?"

"It's one factor. They were the big-deal couple—what did he say… Shaunbar. Some people never get over high school. Maybe he's one of them. Peabody was running through it today, mostly for the bullshit factor, but you know, it could play."

She paced some more. "But the thing is, Shauna's just not the type who'd jump back to him if he broke up with her best friend. That doesn't play for me. But would he know that? He should, but… Ego's blind."

"That's generally love."

"Works with ego, too. She'll be grieving, so she'll be vulnerable. He's right there to pick up deli meat and make her a sandwich."

"Is that a new euphemism?"

"No, that's literal. He was hovering—that's what Becca called it, and it's accurate. But shit, they all were in their way."

She shook her head. "I have to let this cook awhile. What did you find out about Lopez and the art?"

"That she has a considerable collection. Again, a wise investment. In that collection are fourteen Erin Albrights, currently insured for fifty-eight thousand."

"That's a lot by one artist, isn't it?"

"It is, but you have friendship, and you have, very likely, a taste for a certain style of art."

"I think it's a lot. I think it shows a focus on one artist, and one woman."

"The last she purchased, again through the gallery, about two weeks ago, for a bit over five thousand."

"She bought one of the paintings that paid for the Maui trip? Oh boy, that's just got to piss you off, doesn't it? You buy the painting, and she blows the money on somebody else's dream? You're partially paying for their honeymoon? And now she wants you not only to stand there and watch her big surprise, but help her with it? Fuck that."

Eve smiled. "Oh, that's a good one. That's very close to ‘come into the box and let's chat' good."

"Meanwhile I took a good look at the victim's financials, and the fiancée's. As clean as it gets, and I hate to say boring. They had a joint account, which they both contributed to, and split the household expenses. They each had their own account, for personal expenses. Clothes, gifts, I suppose, salons, and so on. They both lived carefully.

"The victim opened a separate account three weeks ago."

"Yeah, the honeymoon fund," Eve confirmed. "McNab found that."

"And she used that fund to buy the tickets, for the deposit to book the room. There's enough left to cover the rest of the lodging, plus all the food, entertainment, souvenirs, etc."

He looked at the board, at the victim. "It was a lovely thing to do. To try to do."

"Did they insure the art in the apartment?"

"They carry the bare minimum renter's insurance."

"All right. I need to think about all this. The victim would have trusted both Lopez and Barney. I can stretch a motive on either of them. Still need to talk to the gallery manager."

"You'll think better on a decent night's sleep. You didn't get one last night."

"Give me another hour. I want to write this up, see if it makes any sense when I do. There was a meanness to this, Roarke, with the time and place. A meanness that says personal."

She pointed to the board. "It's going to be someone already on there, and so far, Lopez and Barney are who's standing out. But I don't want to miss someone else because I'm looking too hard at them."

"An hour," he said. "I'll play with more of the financials. It's not nearly as entertaining when it's all aboveboard."

"Yeah, the job's just made of fun."

"My part of it often is." He kissed her, then tapped the dent in her chin. "An hour."

She used every minute of it, but had to admit fatigue, both physical and mental, set in by the end.

So she didn't argue when Roarke, on the dot of the sixty-minute mark, stepped back in.

She shut down, stood up.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Financials are rarely so boring," he told her, and taking her hand, led her from the room. "Is Greg Barney still one of your top suspects?"

She shrugged. "He and Lopez are who I've got at this point."

"Which gives you two in under twenty-four hours," he reminded her. "In any case, financially, he's clean. Pays his taxes, his bills. Other than rent, his major outlay is clothing, with the bulk from the shop he manages, and dining. No investments, which is shortsighted of him, but he saves a bit.

"No art purchases," he added as they walked into the bedroom where the cat already claimed the bed. "No art insured. As he cohabs with Becca DiNuzio, I looked there."

"She was onstage dancing her half-naked ass off at TOD. But a cynical cop could theorize she and Barney were in on it together."

"I happen to know a cynical cop. Her financials, also clean and tidy, though she has some small investments—an also clean-and-tidy portfolio."

"Younger brother's a Wall Street guy."

"Who advises her wisely. She does have a gallery purchase. One Erin Albright, valued at twenty-five hundred, purchased about six months ago, and has insured a second—no purchase—for twelve hundred. Insured since the first week in January."

"Christmas gift, I bet."

"I'd agree."

"Not enough," Eve concluded. "Not enough for the dead-artist angle."

Stripped down to her underwear, she tried to think it through. Then just shook her head.

"Even the cynical cop has a hard time tying her into it. Why would she want Erin dead? I can't see it."

"Consider it time to turn it off, and see what comes to you in the morning."

She knew he had that right, but her mind wanted to circle. She considered him, standing there all lean and gorgeous in his boxers.

"Hard to turn it off. I need a distraction." She took three running steps and launched herself at him. Hooked her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. "And here you are."

"Your distraction, is it?"

"You're so good at it." She captured his mouth with hers until her humming system smothered the fatigue. "See? I'm already distracted."

"I suppose I'd best finish the job then."

"Well, obviously."

All but nose-to-nose, she laughed as he carried her to the bed and dumped her on it.

With a low growl, Galahad rolled away and jumped down.

"Serves him right for getting pissy with me." Rearing up, she nipped at Roarke's chin. "All right, ace, you've got a job to do."

"And I do love my work."

Now he took her mouth in a slow, deep, dreamy kiss that not only sent her system humming but clouded her too-busy brain. She sighed into it. As his hands ran down her sides, her skin tingled.

"See, really good at it."

Everything in her went soft, and all the sharp edges of the day smoothed into quiet pleasure. As the half-moon peeked through the sky window over the bed, she combed her fingers through his hair, the thick mass of it, and down the firm muscles of his back.

She sighed again, lifting her arms as he drew her support tank up and over her head. His hands—they had magic in them—glided up her ribs, over her breasts, up to cup her face before gliding down again.

A gentle passion, lulling her into a dream state.

He loved seeing her like this, utterly relaxed, utterly open. All that fierce energy quelled into surrender, not just to him but to self.

He could give, and she could take, then give back in return.

It never ceased to enthrall him, this meeting of bodies, minds, hearts. No matter what troubled him, troubled her, no matter what horrors crept through the shadows of the world, they had this gift, this love, this passion. And the union it forged between them.

He rolled, reversing positions, and she came with him, her body fluid as wine. Her mouth sought his, and clung there while he peeled the simple white briefs down her narrow hips.

He rolled again, bodies tangling over the big bed, the smooth sheets. As warm skin edged toward hot, he closed his mouth over her breast, slid his hand between her legs.

When she cried out in release, he felt the orgasm rocket through that long, strong body. Even as she shuddered with it, he drove himself into her so dark delight layered over dark delight.

Not a distraction, an eruption with a change of tone both abrupt and glorious. She flew on it, stormed with it when he shoved her knees up to take more, give more.

And desperate for the more, she matched his speed, his urgency until everything went bright and hot and beautiful. Until more was impossible.

Until he said her name and emptied into her.

She lay under the weight of him, dazed and drowsy. She felt his heart pounding against hers, or hers pounded against his. She couldn't quite tell the difference.

The moon held a new place in the sky window, white and clear against the dark.

Her lips curved when he pressed his to the side of her neck.

"I believe I did my job."

"Damn good job. Kudos. Where does that come from? Kudos? What language is that?"

"Don't make me have to distract you again." He shifted her, nestled her in. "Give that mind of yours a rest."

"You don't have another distraction in you?"

"Well now, if that's a challenge—"

"No." She managed a sleepy laugh. "I'm tapped out." But she laid a hand on his cheek. "And the cat's back," she added when Galahad jumped on the bed again.

As she began to drift off, it occurred to her they had a really big bed, and she ended up sleeping in it night after night, wedged between Roarke and the cat.

And she liked it.