Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

Her sister, she thought. Mavis Freestone stood as her sister in everything but blood. “Mavis lives in an apartment building, and has a kid. Mira’s a looker, but she’s not his type—so far. She’s older than any of his vics thus far. I think he’ll stick to pattern.”

It wasn’t a fast job, and it was mindless, which wasn’t always an advantage. Eve worked split screen, the list on one side as she did quick runs on the names, making a note when she hit one that fit all requirements.

She slogged through a hundred, switched back to coffee.

They worked in near silence, even when Galahad gave up the sleep chair to leap into Roarke’s lap, curl there.

At the halfway point, Roarke sat back. “Let’s take that dinner break before our brains melt.”

“What?” She looked up, distracted, then realized a low-grade headache had already started to brew. A short break wouldn’t hurt as she couldn’t do anything about whatever she put together tonight anyway.

“Sure. Yeah. Good. But maybe—”

He watched her eyes shift to the table by the terrace doors. “A deal’s a deal, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah. You want to eat down in the dining room?”

“I had something else in mind.” He got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet before she found some excuse. He glanced at the cat as he drew Eve to the elevator. “It’s a table for two tonight, my friend. You’ll find your dinner down in the kitchen.”

He tugged her into the elevator, kissed her between the eyes—where he’d already diagnosed that low-grade headache. “Roof terrace,” he ordered.

“Going fancy?”

“I expect the view will be.”

As usual, he was right.

It was like being in a reverse snow globe, Eve thought. Outside the glass dome, in the streams of the exterior lights, the snow fell fast, as if shaken from the sky by an angry hand. Winter winds swirled and tossed it into dramatic sweeps, and through the sweeps, the lights of the city gleamed and sparked. The great park spread in a study of black and white. The streets rayed in stark lines, empty of traffic with only a scatter of emergency vehicles trudging through the thick carpet of snow.

He lit candles on a table already set for two with silver warmers over the plates.

“How’d you manage this?”

“I gave Summerset an ETA.” He poured rich red wine for both, took her hand so they looked out the wide glass together. “We’re lucky, you and I. To be up here, warm and safe, without the worry of keeping that way. I remember being neither as a boy in Dublin when winter hit hard.”

“I don’t think I ever actually felt the snow until I was maybe nine or ten. Even then I sort of remember thinking: It’s cold and wet. What’s everybody so excited about? But from up here it looks pretty spectacular. Nice choice for dinner, ace. Very nice.”

“Let’s see what you think of the meal.”

He lifted the warming lids. Some sort of pasta deal, she noted, which was never wrong in her book. Not spaghetti, but the tube things in sauce with cheese melted all over it.

And the smell added more w

armth and some spice to the air.

Reminded her stomach it wanted food.

“Looks great. What is it?”

“Baked penne, I believe.” No point in mentioning the spinach.

They ate it with a colorful little salad, a baguette to be torn apart and dipped into herbed oil. And more wine.

“Whatever it is,” Eve said between bites, “it’s pretty good. You snuck spinach in it.”

“I didn’t personally prepare it,” he reminded her.

“Ha. Still, it works. Will you keep your HQ shut down tomorrow?”