Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“To help you find your way.”

“It’s nice,” she murmured, and slipped into sleep.

The cat, concluding his spot was once again clear, leaped onto the bed to settle in the small of Eve’s back.

Yes, Roarke thought, it was very nice.

* * *

She woke alone and early, considered trying for another ten, then gave it up. Too much to do, she reminded herself, and stumbled across the room to program coffee.

The first life-giving gulp got her system going. She gulped more as she headed for the shower.

Between the coffee, hot jets on full, a quick spin in the drying tube, she felt not only human again but ready to deal with the day. The robe on the back of the door—thin, soft cotton the color of apricots—had to be yet another new one. When she shrugged it on, it felt like she was wrapped up in a cloud.

The man never missed.

And there he was, back from whatever predawn meeting he’d scheduled, sitting on the sofa in a perfectly tailored suit the color of moonless midnight offset by a shirt nearly as magical a blue as his eyes. His tie married that blue with paler tones in thin stripes.

The cat sat with him, content to have his head scratched by those clever fingers while Roarke drank coffee and watched the morning stock reports scroll by on-screen.

“I thought to wake you, but you got an early start.”

“A lot going on.” Since he’d programmed a pot, she poured coffee from the table into her mug. “And I may have to browbeat Dickhead for results.”

Dick Berenski, chief lab tech, had skills—and a thirst for a good bribe.

“What’ll it be this time?” Roarke wondered as she moved by him into her closet. “Single malt scotch, box seats?”

“Browbeat,” she repeated from the depths of her closet. “No bribe. If he even hints at one over this, I may have to arrest myself for felony assault.”

“I’ll stand your bail.”

In the closet, she thought of the interviews, the morgue, the lab, and all that might ray out from them. Too many clothes, too many choices.

Why couldn’t everything just be black or brown?

“If I were interviewing grieving employees and likely family as well,” Roarke said conversationally from the bedroom, “I’d go with somber. But not full black,” he added even as Eve reached for black pants. “I’d leave black to those in mourning.”

Brown, she thought. Brown was somber. She started to reach for brown pants, pulled back again. Thought, Shit.

Gray, maybe gray because it was almost black. But not black.

And she didn’t want to think about it anymore.

It took longer than it should have, an

d she dressed in the closet to avoid having Roarke exchange one or all of her choices for something else.

Something, no doubt, better. But still.

When she stepped out—gray pants, darker gray boots, a thin navy sweater, holding a gray jacket (she’d spotted the navy buttons, the navy leather cuffs on the sleeves, trim on the pockets), he already had breakfast under warming trays.

“A very somber and dignified choice,” he told her. “And still authoritative and fashionable. Well done.”

“Bite me.” She tossed the jacket over a chair, strapped on her weapon harness. “It took twice as long as black. You’re wearing a black suit,” she pointed out.

“Indigo, actually, but close enough. It suits, we’ll say, my day’s agenda.”