Her stomach shuddered, but she kept her voice bland. “Watch your step there, C. J., Roarke’s not nearly as nice as I am. Keep your crew off scene,” she warned. “Put one toe on, and I confiscate your equipment.”
She turned, and when she was far enough away, pulled out her communicator. She was going outside of procedure, risking a reprimand or worse. But it had to be done.
She could tell when Roarke answered that he hadn’t yet been to bed.
“Well, Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”
“I’ve only got a minute. Tell me what your relationship was with Yvonne Metcalf.”
He lifted a brow. “We’re friends, were close at one time.”
“You were lovers.”
“Yes, briefly. Why?”
“Because she’s dead, Roarke.”
His faint smile faded. “Oh Christ, how?”
“She had her throat cut. Stay available.”
“Is that an official request, Lieutenant?” he asked, and his voice was hard as rock.
“It has to be. Roarke . . .” She hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He ended the transmission.
chapter eight
Eve had no problem listing several connections between Cicely Towers and Yvonne Metcalf. Number one was murder. The method and the perpetrator. They had both been women in the public eye, well respected, and held in great affection. They were successful in their chosen fields and were dedicated to that field. They both had families who loved and who mourned.
Yet they had worked and played in dramatically different social and professional circles. Yvonne’s friends had been artists, actors, and musicians, while Cicely had socialized with law enforcers, businesspeople, and politicians.
Cicely had been an organized career woman of impeccable taste who had guarded her privacy fiercely.
Yvonne had been a cheerfully disorganized, borderline messy actor who courted the public eye.
But someone had known them both well enough and felt strongly enough about both to kill them.
The only name Eve found in Cicely’s tidy address book and Yvonne’s disordered one that matched was Roarke.
For the third time in an hour, Eve ran the lists through her computer, pushing for a connection. A name that clicked with another name, an address, a profession, a personal interest. The few connections that came through were so loosely linked she could barely justify taking the next step toward the interview.
But she would do it, because the alternative was Roarke.
While the computer handled the short list, she took another pass through Yvonne’s electronic diary.
“Why the hell didn’t the woman put in names?” Eve muttered. There were times, dates, occasionally initials, often little side notes or symbols of Yvonne’s mood.
1:00—lunch at the Crown Room with B. C. Yippee! Don’t be late, Yvonne, and wear the green number with the short skirt. He likes prompt women with legs.
Beauty day at Paradise. Thank God. 10:00. Should try to hit Fitness Palace at 8 for workout. Ugh.
Fancy lunches, Eve mused. Pampering in the top salon in the city. Sweating a little in a luxury gym. Not a bad life, all in all. Who had wanted to end it?
She flipped through to the day of the murder.
8:00—Power breakfast—little blue suit with matching shoes. LOOK PROFESSIONAL FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, YVONNE!!