“I don’t think we’ll ever come back here.” Zana looked out the side window. “Too much has happened. Too many bad memories. I guess I’ll probably never see you again either, after we go.”
She was silent a moment. “If you find out who killed Mama Tru, will Bobby have to come back?”
“I’d say that depends.”
Eve went into the hotel, up to the room to satisfy herself nothing had been disturbed. She asked for and received a copy of lobby security, posted her man, and escaped.
She went back to Central and found two gaily wrapped boxes on her desk. A glance at the cards told her they were from Peabody and Mc-Nab. One for her, one for Roarke.
Unable to drum up enough Christmas spirit to open hers, she set them aside to work. She wrote her report, read Peabody’s, and signed off on it.
For the next half hour, she sat in the relative quiet, studied her murder board, her notes, and let it all circle.
Before she left, she hung the prism Mira had given her.
Maybe it would help.
She left it shimmering dully against the dark window as she pulled out her ‘link, tucked the presents under her arm, and left the office. “I’m clear.”
“What are you hungry for?” Roarke asked her.
“That’s a loaded question.” She held up a hand, acknowledging Baxter, and stopped. “Let’s keep it simple.”
“Just as I thought. Sophia’s,” he told her, and rattled off an address. “Thirty minutes.”
“That’ll work. If you get there first, order a really, really big bottle of wine. Big. Pour me a tumbler full.”
“Should be an interesting evening. I’ll see you soon, Lieutenant.”
She pocketed her ‘link, turned to Baxter.
“Don’t suppose I could tag along, share that really, really big bottle.”
“I’m not sharing.”
“In that case, can I have a minute? Private?”
“All right.” She walked back to her office, called for lights. “I’ll spring for coffee if you want it, but that’s my best offer.”
“I’ll take it.” He went to the AutoChef himself. He was still wearing his soft clothes, Eve noted. Light gray sweater, dark gray pants. He’d gotten some blood—Bobby’s blood, she imagined—on the pants.
“I don’t know what to think,” he told her. “Maybe I was too loose. Maybe I’m just fucking losing it. I’ve gone over it in my head. I wrote it up. I still don’t know.”
He took out the coffee, turned. “I let the kid take point. Not blaming him, it was my call. I sent him down for dogs, for Christ’s sake. Figured they were just getting theirs, and it put him in a decent position. And screw it, Dallas, I was hungry.”
She knew guilt when she saw it, and at the moment, it was like looking in a mirror. “You want me to ream you for it? I’ve got some left.”
“Maybe.” He scowled into the coffee, then downed some. “I’m listening to them, and there’s nothing. Just chatter. Can’t get a full visual, but he’s tall enough I can see the back of his head, his profile when he turns to her. I moved forward when she spilled the coffee, then I relaxed again. If they’re at noon, Trueheart’s at ten o’clock. I’m at three. Then she’s screaming in my ear.”
Eve sat on the edge of her desk. “No vibe?”
“None. Blimps are blasting overhead. One of those street-corner Santas ringing his damn bell. People are streaming by, or crowding in to get the light.”
He drank more coffee. “I pushed in, soon as she screamed. I didn’t see anybody take off. Bastard could’ve stood there. Could be one of the wits, far as I know. Or he could’ve just melted back. It was a freaking parade on Fifth today. And some people slipped, tumbled.”
Her head came up, lips pursed. “Before or after?”
“Before, during, after. Putting it back, I see this woman—red coat, big blonde ‘do. She slips a little. Right in back of where Zana was standing. That’d be the initial bump. Spilled coffee. I can see the male sub turn. I hear him ask her what happened. Anxious. Then he relaxes when she says she got coffee on her coat. So do I. Then he pitches forward. Chaos ensues.”