Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“And he got one. You and Roarke made it so he got one. I’d’ve been okay if he’d slept the entire time we were there, but the twelve solid really helped. So we had lots of sex.”

“This is how you say thank you?”

“We had lots and lots of sex,” Peabody said, unabashed. “Lots of drinks, lots of sitting around doing nothing, lots of everything that wasn’t work. And it’s stuck. He’s got his bounce back.”

“McNab always bounces.”

“But it’s the real deal again. The natural bounce. It’s a load off, Dallas. I just wanted to say.”

“Good. Good,” she repeated when she reached for the door of the restaurant.

She opened it to a blast of voices raised in song, and the smell of Italian cooking that made her stomach yearn.

Eve stepped to the hostess podium, where the woman behind it beamed a smile, held up a finger, then joined her rather stupendous soprano on the chorus.

People at tables, in booths stopped twirling pasta, stabbing meatballs, forking up chicken piccata to applaud.

The music dropped away into the clatter of dishes, the hum and buzz of conversation. And the waitstaff, all clad in sleek black, continued to serve and clear as if belting out some Broadway standard just came with the field greens salad.

“Welcome to Broadway Babies. Do you have a reservation?”

“I have this.” Eve palmed her badge, tipped it up.

“Oh! Oh dear, is there a problem, Officer?”

“Lieutenant. I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“Of course. That would be Annalisa. If you’d wait here, I’ll get her.”

As she scurried away, the party at a long table in the center of the room burst into mad laughter all at once. As if taking his cue, one of the bartenders began to sing as he poured wine.

Across the room, a waitress did a hands-on-hips dance toward him, made it a duet.

“I love this place! It’s just so much fun.”

Fun, Eve thought, if your idea of same equaled waitstaff singing and dancing around your table while you were trying to eat. Or, Jesus, actually pulling you up from your seat, spinning you around while singing in your face.

Then again, the man currently being spun and sung to and, good God, the woman the bartender grabbed up—after actually leaping over the damn bar—both appeared to enjoy it all just fine.

It took all kinds.

The hostess hurried back, accompanied by a woman with whipped-cream-white hair, tiger-gold eyes, and a statuesque body tucked into a bold blue dress.

“Good evening, I’m Annalisa Bacardo,” she said, with the faintest accent that went with the scents of Italian food. “How can I help?”

“Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”

“Of course.” The polite smile never wavered. “I would like to ask what we might be discussing.”

“Chanel Rylan.”

“Chanel?” The smile only widened. “Surely Chanel couldn’t be in any trouble with the police. She’s …” Something in Eve’s flat, direct gaze caused the smile to fade. “Yes, of course. If you’ll come with me.”

Annalisa led them back, through the swinging kitchen doors, into the heat and chaos of the heart of a busy restaurant.

“My office is through here—I need to be close. Giavanni!” She called out, then rattled off a spate of Italian before she opened a door, waved Eve and Peabody through.

The office largely consisted of a desk, a couple of chairs, and walls covered with photos.