“Don’t get bent over it.”
He angled his head. “Why would I?”
“She reminds me of Magdelana.”
He said nothing for a moment, just watched her face, then rising, he walked over to the murder board to study Ava’s.
“Not just the high-class blonde thing,” Eve began.
“No,” he said quietly, “not just.” He thought of Magdelana, the woman he’d once cared for. The woman who’d betrayed him, and on the return trip had done everything in her power to hurt Eve and chip away at their marriage.
“Not just,” he repeated. “They’re both users, aren’t they? Manipulators with a wholly selfish core polished over with sophistication and style. Very much the same type. You’re right about that.”
“Okay.”
Hearing the relief in her voice, he looked over at her. “Did you think I’d be annoyed or upset by the comparison?”
“Maybe some, maybe more if I’d finished it out and said that because she reminds me of Magdabitch, I’m going to experience a tingly, even orgasmic satisfaction by bringing her down.”
“I see. Revenge by proxy.”
“She deserves the cage on her own merits or lack thereof. But yeah, maybe some element of revenge by proxy.”
Walking back, he leaned down, kissed the top of Eve’s head. “Whatever works. And now that you’ve pointed it out, I’ll enjoy some of that tingly satisfaction as well. Thanks for that.”
“It’s small, petty, and probably inappropriate of us.”
“Which will make it all the more orgasmic. Send over the file. I’ll just cop some of your coffee, then get started.”
Whatever works, Eve thought again as he strolled into the kitchen. What really worked, was them.
She ordered her unit to copy and send Roarke’s unit the names on file beginning with N surnames. Then she opened the first half of the file, took a quick scan.
Plenty of little slaves and servants to pick from, she thought. A nice wide field of the vulnerable, the needy, the grateful. The bitch just had to keep circling until…
“Wait. Whoa. Wait.”
With coffee in hand, Roarke stepped back in. “That was fast.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Scooping back her hair, Eve launched to her feet. “Computer, display on screen, data for Custer, Suzanne.”
“Who might that be?” Roarke wondered.
“Wait, wait. Computer, display on second screen, data on Custer, Ned.”
Roarke did wait, studied both photos, the basic identification data. “Husband and wife, and he’s deceased. Recently.”
“He’s Baxter’s.” She dropped back down into the chair. “I didn’t keep the damn file. I need the damn case file on this guy.”
“Move,” Roarke ordered. “Get up. Give me a moment.”
“Don’t hack into Baxter’s police unit. I’ll tag him and—”
“And I’ll have it for you a great deal quicker. It’s hardly hacking, as it’s ridiculously easy. And you’re authorized in any case.” He gave her shoulder a light, but purposeful shove. “Give me the chair a minute.”
“All right, all right.” In any case, it gave her time to pace and think. She stared at the woman on screen—pretty in a toned-down, tired-eyed kind of way. Couple of kids, professional mother’s stipend, philandering, heavy-handed husband.
“Coincidence, my ass.”