“It’s not a crime.”
“Well now I’m not altogether sure, as you’d see it as a bribe, wouldn’t you, to lure him into one of my companies?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Damn right, and a fine one, too. But the boy’s determined to be a cop. If he’s still of that mind when he’s finished at university, your gain is my loss. He’s bloody brilliant.”
“As good as you?”
Those wild blue eyes sparkled. “No, but a good deal more honest. I’ll see you at Central.”
“Don’t take Fifth. Jesus! I wish you could see this. There’s some asshole dressed like a peace sign. He’s a big yellow circle, with naked limbs. People are so damn weird. I’ll see you later.”
She’d known he’d come, just as she’d come to know how useful it was to have a thief—former—help analyze the bypassing of locks and codes.
Deena might have given her killer the passcode for the control room, if she’d had it. But if he’d shut down the cameras, wiped the hard drive, accessed the discs, he’d needed more than the code. He’d needed excellent e-skills.
And there her thief—former—was unsurpassed.
“Bloody brilliant,” she muttered, using Roarke’s own term.
A skeletal holiday shift manned the morgue, and those who remained behind to deal with the dead wore colorful shorts under lab coats. Music danced jauntily out of offices and cutting rooms.
She doubted the residents cared overmuch one way or the other.
She paused long enough to scowl at Vending. She wanted a tube of Pepsi, and didn’t want any bullshit from the damn machine.
“You!” She jabbed a finger at a passing tech, and the gesture had his face going as white as his bony legs. “Two tubes of Pepsi.” She pushed credits at him.
“Sure, okay.” Dutifully, he plugged them in, made her request. Even as the tubes plopped into the slot, and the machine began the soft drink’s current jingle, Eve snatched them out.
“Thanks.” She strode away.
The first sip was shockingly cold, and exactly what she was after. She continued down the white tunnel, chased by the echo of her own boots and the sticky hints of death that clung to the air under the blasts of citrus and disinfectant wafting out of the vents.
She paused outside the double doors of the autopsy suite not to brace herself to face that death, but the man who studied it.
She drew a breath, pushed through the doors.
There he was, looking the same.
He wore a clear protective coat over a suit of moonless night black. He’d paired it with a shirt of rich gold, and a needle-thin tie where both colors wove together. She frowned at the silver peace sign pinned to his lapel, but had to admit on Morris it worked.
His ink-black hair drew back from his exotic face in a single, gleaming braid.
He stood over the dead girl he’d already opened with his precise, almost artistic Y cut.
When his dark eyes lifted to Eve’s, she felt her belly tighten.
He looked the same, but was he?
“I guess this is a crappy welcome back.” She crossed over, offered the second tube. “Sorry I had to pull you in early, and on a holiday.”
“Thank you.” He took the drink, but didn’t crack the tube.
Her tightened belly began to jump. “Morris—”
“I have some things to say to you.”