Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“Not you. The lock. I thought I had it. He’s got a second layer on it.”

Curious, Peabody moved over to watch. “A second layer on a desk drawer? Must be some goodies inside.”

“I’ve already deduced.” And she already felt the first trickles of sweat forming at the base of her spine. “Go take a look at Po’s stuff instead of breathing down my neck.”

“Sure, but McNab’s on his way, and he could …”

The low growl had Peabody moving quickly to the next office.

Eve felt more sweat pop out on the back of her neck—which only pissed her off. She could open a damn drawer. She would open the damn drawer.

Kept shit here, she calculated as she struggled, because his wife would never fiddle around in his office. Because his admin was as trustworthy as they came. Because he was the boss and assumed—very likely correctly—no one would dare try to compromise anything he’d locked away.

Now being dead, all bets were off.

“Son of a bitching bitch.”

“That bad, is it now?”

She looked up, and there he was.

She should’ve figured.

Roarke stood in the doorway, tall and lean in the ruler-of-the-business-world suit—the darkest of charcoals without being black—a shirt so sharp it could have sliced bread in a palest of pale gray hue, with a craftily knotted tie that added thin hits of burgundy to a medium gray field.

His black hair swept thick and silky around a face that might have been formed with angel kisses—with a few taps of devil to add to the appeal. And those impossibly blue eyes smiled, just for her.

The whisper of Ireland in his voice just capped the package.

She shot a finger at him, said, “No,” very decisively.

So he leaned on the jamb, a man at his ease, waited.

Having him show up—and knowing how easily he could show her up with a lock—had her doubling down. Maybe some of that sweat slid down the back of her spine, but she finally opened the stupid lock.

“Done.”

“And good for you, Lieutenant.”

“He had two layers on it.”

“Is that a fact?” Brows lifted, he wandered in. “And what is it the head of headhunting kept so secret?”

“Police business.”

He only smiled, then bent down to brush those perfectly carved lips over the top of her head.

“That police business might include my data if you want it. The media hasn’t yet released any salient information on his death, but as you’re here, it’s murder.”

“It’s murder, and it’s nasty.” She took two ’links, a memo book, and a few discs out of the drawer. “Close the door, ace.”

He walked back, did so, and paused in the adjoining doorway. “Good morning, Peabody.”

“Hey, Roarke!”

He moved back to Eve, leaned a hip on the desk. “Caro will send you a copy of the data,” he began, speaking of his own efficient and trustworthy admin. “In the meantime, I can tell you McEnroy and his company have had their New York headquarters here for about six years. They’re in the first year of their second five-year lease, and have routinely paid the rent and fees in a timely manner. They have opted for the building cleaning service—nightly—as well as our IT services and maintenance. They brought in their own decorators, but employ our live plant care service and often use our floral company, bakery, and other craft services.”

“Did you know him?”