“So maybe we’re both beating ourselves up because the guy lost his footing.”
“Coincidences are hooey.”
“Hooey.” At least she got a short laugh out of it. “Yeah, they are. So we’ll run the record backward and forward. He’s tucked up. Nobody’s getting near him. So’s she. We’ll run it when the damn lab stops playing Christmas carols. No point slapping ourselves, or me slapping you, until we know if this is the one in a million that actually is coincidence.”
“If I screwed this up, I need to know.”
She smiled thinly. “On that, Baxter, I can promise you. I’ll let you know.”
* * *
Chapter 16
Contents - Prev | Next
ROARKE WATCHED HER COME IN, HIS TALL, lanky cop in the rather spectacular black leather coat. Her eyes were tired, the stress showing in them even as he noted the way she scoped the room.
Cops were cops, he knew, 24/7. She’d be able to tell him, should he ask, how many were in the booth at the opposite corner, what they were wearing, possibly what they were eating. And she’d be able to do so with her back to them.
Fascinating.
She checked her coat, brushed off the waiter who must have offered to escort her to their table. And crossed the restaurant alone, in that long, loose stride he loved.
“Lieutenant,” he said, rising to greet her, “you make a picture.”
“A picture of what?”
“Confidence and authority. Very sexy.” He kissed her lightly, then gestured to the wine he’d poured when he’d seen her come in. “It’s not a tumbler, but you can consider it a bottomless glass.”
“Appreciate it.” She took a good slug. “Crappy day.”
“So I gathered. Why don’t we order, then you can tell me about it?”
She glanced up at the waiter who materialized at her side. “I want spaghetti and meatballs, with the red sauce. You got that here?”
“Of course, madam. And to start?”
She lifted her wine. “I’ve started.”
“Insalada mista,” Roarke told him. “Two. And I’ll have the chicken Parmesan.” He dipped some bread in the herbed oil already on the table, handed it to her. “Sop some of that wine up, why don’t you?”
She stuffed the bread in her mouth.
“Describe the waiter for me.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s entertaining. Go ahead.” And it would settle her down, he thought.
She shrugged, took another good swallow of wine. “Caucasian male, mid-thirties. Wearing black pants, white shirt, black loafer-style shoes. Five eight, a hundred and fifty. Brown and brown. Smooth complexion. Full bottom lip, long nose with a good-sized hook to it. Crooked eye-tooth on the left. Straight, thick eyebrows. Bronx accent, but he’s working on losing it. Small stud, right earlobe—some kind of blue stone. Thick silver band, ring finger, left hand. Gay. He’s probably got a spouse.”
“Gay?”
“Yeah, he checked you out, not me. So?”
“So. As I said, entertaining. What went wrong today?”
“What didn’t?” she answered, and told him.