“Is that so?”
“Hmm.” Roarke slipped a hand into his pocket, tapped his PPC, which boasted a number of off-the-market modifications. “In fact, it might be more to the point of the exercise to do just that. The game itself, David, will be mostly on you, but I’ll put myself into it with more . . . interest from this point.”
Su’s smile spread sharp and fierce. “Let’s bury the bastards.”
Eve turned toward the bullpen a
t Homicide as Baxter and Trueheart walked out.
“You’ve got a Patrice Delaughter looking for you,” Baxter told her. “We put her in the Lounge.”
“Huh. Word spreads fast.”
“It does. Such as looking forward to Saturday.”
“Appreciate the invitation, Lieutenant,” Trueheart added.
“Right. Good. Peabody—”
“Listen, Trueheart’s too shy to ask, but I’m not. Can the boy bring a date?”
“I don’t care,” Eve said as Trueheart turned light pink and hunched his broad shoulders. “I guess that means you want to bring one, too.”
“Actually no.” Baxter grinned. “A date means I’d have to pay attention to somebody, and it’s going to be all about me, brew, and cow meat. We’re due in court.” Baxter tapped a finger to his temple and strode toward the glide.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Casey’s going to be really excited about Saturday. Um, can we bring something?”
“Like what?”
“A dish?”
“We have dishes. We have lots of dishes.”
“He means food,” Peabody interpreted. “Don’t worry about it, Trueheart. They’ve got plenty of that, too.”
“Why would somebody bring food when they’re coming to your place to eat?” Eve wondered when Trueheart hurried after Baxter.
“It’s a social nicety.”
“There are too many of those, and who started them? It’s like dresses and suits.”
“It is?”
“Never mind. I’ll take Delaughter. Write up the interview with VanWitt, and start digging into the travel.”
“All over it.”
Eve headed into the Lounge with its simple, sturdy tables, vending offerings, and smell of bad coffee and meat substitute. A scatter of cops took a short break there, or conducted informal interviews.
No one would mistake the woman at the corner table for a cop. A mass of wavy red hair with golden highlights spilled past her shoulders in a fiery waterfall. It tumbled around a porcelain face dominated by bold green eyes, such was the family resemblance to her cousin.
It ended there.
She wore a snug, low-cut tank over very impressive breasts and a snug, short skirt over fairly stupendous legs. A multitude of thin chains of varying lengths sparkled around her neck, over the impressive breasts, and to the waist of that snug, short skirt.
She looked . . . indolent, Eve thought, as if she had all the time in the world to sit there—all sparkle and flame in the dull room—and was mildly amused at where she found herself to be.
“Ms. Delaughter?”