So she said nothing more, just sat.
“Has Whitney seen this?”
“Sure. I went straight to him with it.”
“And Mira?”
“And to her. The media liaison’s handling the media liaisoning. You’ll need to alert your people on that. Once this leaks, reporters are going to go batshit.”
Hating that, just hating it, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“That’s a simple matter to deal with.”
“There has to be a solid wall of—”
“We’ll deal with it,” he snapped. “Have you had any other communication from this person?”
“No. I don’t know,” she corrected. “Mira’s looking over correspondence, looking for tells. If she finds anything, we’ll follow up. We’re looking at her law partner, other people in the firm, personal acquaintances, lovers, family. Nothing’s shaken loose there yet, but—”
“And is unlikely to. Has anyone sent you gifts, tokens, made any sort of advances?”
“No, Jesus.” Rather than embarrass, as it had coming from Feeney, the question irked coming from Roarke. “Who’s the cop here?”
“You are. You’re my cop. You’re standing for her, that’s your job. But I stand for you, and you’re the target here. The murder was a gift to you. As brutal and bloody as a cat dropping a dead mouse at your feet.”
Scowling, Eve looked down at Galahad.
“Not this cat,” Roarke said. “It’s that feral, Eve. You’re the target,” he repeated, “and sooner or later the feral will turn on you. I’ll change, and you’ll bring me up to date.”
“I’m not going to turn down the help, you’re too good at it. And I could use another set of eyes, another viewpoint. But if you’re going to be pissed about it—”
“Pissed?”
Rising, he pulled off the tie, the jacket. She felt another quick pang when she watched him carefully remove the little lapel pin she’d had made for him for Christmas.
Her wedding flowers—white petunias in mother-of-pearl.
“Why would I be pissed just because some murderous bastard’s got a crush on my wife?”
“Could be a murderous bitch,” Eve said evenly. “And your wife’s a murder cop.”
“Doesn’t make her less mine, does it? The bastard—or bitch, if you prefer—claims to have given you justice. Now tell me how you spent your day.”
“How I—” She got to her feet. “How the hell do you think I spent my day? Doing interviews, following leads, consulting, writing reports. Doing my damn job.”
“Exactly.” He sat on the side of the bed, removed his shoes, his socks—as outwardly cool as she was hot. “But to the killer’s mind, he did the job for you. Justice was served. You’re demeaning the gift, Lieutenant, and no one enjoys having their gift go unappreciated.”
“So, what, I should’ve said thanks?”
“You could have passed the investigation on—of course you didn’t, and couldn’t, being you.” He walked into his enormous closet as he spoke. “I imagine the killer’s quite torn. On one hand, you’re doing exactly what he purports to admire about you, and on the other, he wants your gratitude for the gift.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s torn. I’m doing my job.”
“And by doing it, you’ll eventually twist the crush into rage or despair. I’d think either could be deadly.” Roarke stepped back out wearing jeans and a black sweater. “On some level you know that, and you’re already wondering how you can turn it quicker. Because until you do, and the rage or despair turns on you alone, someone else stands to be the next gift.”
“How
the hell do you know what he thinks, feels, wants?” she demanded.