Truly stunned, Eve turned back around. “Jesus, Peabody, sports. Mets. Third baseman. King of the double play.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. He’s the one with the really cute butt. Well, a lot of them have cute butts. It’s the uniforms, maybe.”
“I die a little,” Eve grumbled, starting to unseal the door again.
“Hold on. Mitch L. Day’s heading this way.”
Eve glanced over. He rang a bell now—she’d seen that classic golden-boy face with its dazzling smile splashed across maxibuses.
He shot her one now, then toned it down—as efficiently as a dimmer switch—as he stepped up to her and Peabody.
“Ladies, I’m sorry, but if you had an appointment with Larinda…”
Eve simply took out her badge.
The dimmed smile vanished. Lights out.
“I see. I’ll leave you to your business.”
“You’re part of that business. We have some questions for you.”
“I’m afraid I’m very busy.”
“Wow, me, too.” Eve added a smile of her own—on the feral side. “We can always coordinate our busy schedules and arrange for you to come down to Central to answer those questions.”
“I simply don’t see the need—”
“I do, and I’ve got the badge. We can talk right here about your adulterous, sexual relationship with the deceased, or we could discuss it in your office.”
His eyes, a smoky blue-gray, hardened, and the faintest flush—anger or embarrassment—rose to his cheeks. “If you insist.”
“It happens I do.”
He turned and walked into the office opposite.
Eve supposed he fit the physical mode for screen personalities. He hit about six feet with a trim build that showed off well in the upscale casual look of a dark gray leather jacket over a silky T-shirt a few shades bluer than his eyes.
His hair, a wavy golden mane, flowed around a sharply chiseled face with the added charm of dimples that dipped into his cheeks when he flashed the megawatt smile.
A build that hit in the parameters of the third man leaving the bar, Eve calculated. And a dark watch cap would cover that gilded mane.
He shut the door to his office—though the term didn’t really fit, as the room lacked a desk. Instead it held an expansive black leather sofa, a long table in zebra stripes, a massive entertainment screen, a full bar, and an alcove holding rolling racks of clothes and a triple full-length mirror.
“I’ve just finished shooting bumpers for today’s show,” he began, “and have to be on set in thirty, so I hope this won’t take long. We’re all having a difficult day around here, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’m sure you are. Larinda Mars had a difficult day yesterday.”
He looked away, seeming to study a large framed poster of himself that showcased his chiseled looks and dazzling smile. “I still can’t comprehend it, but that’s no excuse for my lack of manners. Please, sit. How can I help?”
He arranged himself—really, Eve could think of no other term for the way he sat, crossed one foot over his knee, leaned forward.
“How long had you and Ms. Mars been sexually involved?”
“That sounds so … clinical, so careless.” His face seemed to open—a little distress, a dash of sorrow, a whole boatload of earnest.
Eve didn’t trust any of it.
“Larinda and I have been—were—friends for a long time.” He used his hands for emphasis, lifting well-manicured fingers off his thighs, spreading them, palms outstretched. “We had so much in common, enjoyed each other’s company. The friendship grew into more, a gradual thing neither of us anticipated. From there, we slipped into a romance.”