“Of course.” He swung an arm around her shoulders.
“I need to contact Daphne Strazza’s foster family. She’s indicated she doesn’t want anyone contacted, but I want a better sense of who she is, and what they—the family—might know about her relationship with Strazza.”
“How will that help you?”
“Details.” She shrugged. “It could give me—or Mira—a clearer sense of how to help her to remember the attack.”
“I’ll leave you to that, and give myself the entertaining time of digging into Strazza’s finances.”
“Speaking of.” It didn’t apply, Eve thought, but … “The first wife probably got a financial settlement. See if you can find that.”
“The fun never ends.”
“Glad you see it that way. Catch you later.”
She went into her office, Roarke into his. The cat debated, then opted for her sleep chair.
Eve nearly headed into the kitchen, then remembered she had the ability to program coffee from her magalicious command center. Then remembered she now had the addition of a fireplace.
Why not use it?
She ordered it on, stood studying the simmer of flames, wondering why the hell she’d ever bucked Roarke on his idea of updating her office.
She sat, programmed coffee while watching the snow fall outside the window, fast and steady.
Getting to Central in the morning would be a bitch. But that was tomorrow.
Now she opened the file with Daphne’s data, and contacted the number for the couple who’d been her guardians.
The woman who answered, bouncily, was far too young to be Daphne’s guardian. Mid-twenties, Eve judged, hair an improbable shade of red streaked with an improbable shade of blue. A line of multicolored hoops—à la McNab—ran down the lobe of her left ear while a single red stud punctured her right. She looked almost fiercely bright and happy.
“I’m trying to reach Mr. or Mrs. DeSilva.”
“Sorry, they’re not available. Can I take a message?”
“It’s important I reach them.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
“New York.” That bright and happy froze, turned to fear. “Daphne? Something happened to Daphne? Tell me! I’m her sister. I’m Tish DeSilva. What happened to Daphne? Is she— Oh my God, oh God, is she—”
“She’s all right. How can I reach your parents?”
“They’re in Fiji—vacation of a lifetime. Please, tell me. I’m staying here while they’re gone, watching the house, the dog. Please. I’ll give you their contact information, but please.”
No need to keep the woman tied in knots, Eve thought. And Minnesota was closer than Fiji. Pretty much.
“First, I’m telling you Daphne’s all right. She’s in the hospital, but—”
“Was there an accident? It’s snowing something fierce out east, right? I saw the reports.”
“No, she wasn’t in an accident.”
“Then what— Did he—” She broke off again, held up a hand studded with rings. “Wait, just give me a second to settle down. I won’t interrupt again.”
“Late Saturday night Daphne and Anthony Strazza were assaulted in their home.”
“Both of them?” Tish’s eyes narrowed. “Both of them were hurt? Sorry, I said I wouldn’t interrupt again.”
“Daphne was seriously injured but her condition has been upgraded, and, in fact, she could be released tomorrow or the day after. Anthony Strazza was killed during the attack.”