“Not nearly, but—I get to look at it every freaking day. So.” Turning, she reached out a hand for Roarke’s. “Let’s go down and drink lots of champagne.”
Jake Kincade stepped into the doorway. The rock star, and Nadine’s heartthrob, said, “Hey.”
His dark hair spilled and swept around a strong face currently sporting a three-day scruff. He wore black—not a suit, but black jeans with a studded belt, black shirt, and black boots Eve admired because they looked sturdy and comfortable.
How come, she wondered, he got to dress like a real person?
“How’s it going?” he said to Roarke as they shook hands. “Looking prime, Dallas. Got to gander the gold guy? He’s shiny, but you gotta wonder. If they weren’t going to suit him up, why not give him his works? One or the other.”
“Good God,” Roarke murmured.
Jake flicked him a glance. “Sorry.”
“No, not at all. It’s only, I know my wife and have no doubt she thought exactly the same.”
“Maybe. More or less. It’s a reasonable question.”
“At least Jake didn’t look at it and see a murder weapon.”
The creases in his cheeks deepening, Jake grinned down at Nadine. “Maybe. More or less. Anyway, you got another wave coming in, Lois. How does anybody know so many people?”
Now Roarke laughed, took Eve’s hand. “I’m beginning to think it’s a good thing I saw her first.”
“Lots of cops,” Jake said as they started out. “Other than that trip to Central, I haven’t seen so many cops since…” He looked at Eve. “I probably shouldn’t mention the time I was sixteen and used fake ID to get a gig in this club that got raided.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
“Nope.”
“We’ll let it pass.”
“Speaking of cops, did you know Santiago can rock a keyboard?”
“Ah … he plays piano?”
“Wicked,” Jake confirmed. “Renn brought his keys—the whole band’s here—and the chick cop pushed Santiago into getting down. Chick cop’s got pipes.”
“She can sing,” Nadine interpreted for Eve. “And that’s Detective Carmichael, Jake. I asked Morris to bring his sax,” Nadine added.
“Let me tell you, the dead doc can smoke that sax. Hey, there’s one of my breed.”
Looking down as Jake did, Eve saw Mavis, a fountain of pale, pale blue hair, a frothy pink dress with a short, flippy skirt, blue shoes with towering heels fashioned out of a trio of shining silver balls.
Beside her, Leonardo resembled some sort of ancient pagan priest in a flowing vest shades deeper than his copper skin. His hair showered down to his shoulders in what looked like hundreds of thin braids. At the moment, Mavis talked to—bubbled over, more like—a tight little group.
Feeney—the captain of the Electronic Detectives Division—wore the same rumpled, shit-brown suit he’d worn to work. Beside him stood Bebe Hewitt, Nadine’s big boss, in shimmery silver pants and a long red jacket, looking fascinated. Then big-eyed teenage Quilla, towered over by Crack. The sex-club owner also wore a vest. His stopped at his waist with lethal-looking studs on the shoulders, leaving his chest and torso bare except for muscles and tattoos.
Beside him, a woman—unknown—smiled easily. She wore classic New York black and had a face made exotic by knife-edged cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes.
“The kid’s a little young for a cocktail party,” Eve commented.
“You’re never too young to learn how to host an event, or how to behave at one,” Nadine countered. She glided down the rest of the steps and over to greet Mavis.
“The kid’s all right,” Jake said to Eve. “Giving Nadine a run.”
“Is she?”
He grinned with it. “Big-time. Campaigned to come tonight, and tossed out how she could do a three-minute vid report on the party—soft-news clip. The Quill’s got it going.” He tapped his temple. “I got a couple earsful of your An Didean project, Roarke. She’s keeping her own ear to the ground there. I’d like to talk to you about that sometime.”