‘I sent her home.’
‘And the inestimable Casto?’
Recognizing the trap, but not the escape route, Eve shrugged. ‘I think he went with her.’
‘Your suspects?’
‘They’ve got a minimum break coming.’
‘And so,’ he said, taking her arm, ‘do you.’ She started to tug away, but he continued to march her out into the hall. ‘I’m sure everyone appreciates your new interview look, but I imagine you’d do a better job of it after a nap, a shower, and a change of clothes.’
She looked down at the black satin gown. She’d completely forgotten she had it on. ‘I’ve probably got a pair of jeans in my locker.’ When he was able to bundle her into the elevator with little effort, she realized she was flagging. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll go home and catch a shower, maybe some breakfast.’
And, Roarke thought, at least five hours’ sleep.
‘How’d it go in there?’
‘Hmm?’ She blinked, shook herself alert. ‘Not too much progress. Didn’t expect it on the first round. They’re sticking tight to their original story and claiming the drug was planted. We’ve got enough for an enforced drug test on Fitzgerald. Her lawyers are making a lot of noise over it, but we’ll get it.’
She yawned hugely. ‘We’ll use that to finesse data out of her, if not an outright confession. We’ll triple team them on the next round.’
Roarke led her out the breezeway to the visitors’ lot where he’d parked. She was walking, he noted, with the intense care of a woman deeply drunk. ‘They won’t stand a chance,’ he said as they approached his car. ‘Roarke, disengage locks.’
He opened the door, all but folded her into the passenger seat.
‘We’ll shift off. Casto’s a good interviewer.’ Her head lolled back on the seat. ‘Gotta give him that. Peabody’s got potential. She’s tenacious. We’ll keep the three of them in separate rooms, keep changing interviewers on them. I’m betting on Young to fall first.’
Roarke eased out of the lot, headed for home. ‘Why?’
‘The bastard loves her. Love messes you up. You make mistakes ’cause you’re worried, protective. Stupid.’
He smiled a little, brushed her hair back from her face, and she dropped steeply into sleep. ‘Tell me about it.’
Chapter Eighteen
If recent behavior was any example of what it was like to have a husband, Eve told herself it couldn’t be half bad. She’d been coddled into bed, which she was forced to admit had been for the best, and had been awakened five unremembered hours later by the scent of hot coffee and fresh waffles.
Roarke had already been up, dressed, and poring over some vital business transmission.
It did irk her from time to time that he seemed to get by on less sleep than a normal human, but she didn’t mention it. That sort of comment would only gain her a smirk.
It was to his benefit that he didn’t point out that he was taking care of her. Knowing it was weird enough without having him crow over it.
So she headed toward Cop Central, rested, well fed, and in her newly repaired vehicle, which in under five blocks decided to surprise her with a new foible. Her speed indicator shot straight into red, though she was sitting dead still in a traffic snarl.
WARNING, she was told pleasantly. ENGINE OVERLOAD IN FIVE MINUTES AT CURRENT SPEED. PLEASE REDUCE VELOCITY OR SWITCH TO AUTO OVER.
‘Bite me,’ she suggested, not so pleasantly, and drove the rest of the way with the constant cheerful advice to reduce velocity or blow up.
She wasn’t going to let it affect her mood. The nasty black-hearted thunderclouds rolling in and sending air traffic scrambling didn’t bother her. The fact that it was Saturday, a week before her wedding, and she was in for a long, hard, potentially brutal day at work didn’t diminish her pleasure.
She strode into Cop Central, her smile fixed and grim.
‘You look ready to gnaw raw meat,’ Feeney commented.
‘The way I like it best. Any additional data?’
‘Let’s take the long way. I’ll fill you in.’