"Sure. But it's not like the Bransons are suspects. We've got the killer."
"Right. Let's just be cautious. Go play tour guide. I'll see you tomorrow."
Coincidence, Eve mused as she drove out of the garage. She really hated coincidence. But no matter how she played the information through her mind, she couldn't come up with anything off about the family of her murder victim hiring Peabody's brother to do carpentry work.
J. Clarence had been alive when Zeke had been hired. Neither of the Bransons were involved in his death. There was no way to stretch it into anything shaky.
Sometimes coincidence was just coincidence. But she pushed the information into a corner of her mind and let it stew there.
• • •
There was music playing softly when Eve walked in the house. Summerset entertaining himself, she decided as she stripped off her jacket, while he went about doing whatever the hell it was he did all day.
She tossed the jacket over the newel post as she started upstairs. He would know she was home, she thought. The man knew every damn thing. He also hated to have his routine, whatever it was, disturbed. It was unlikely he would bother her.
She turned, walked down the corridor to the tall double doors of Roarke's weapon room. Frowning a little, she hitched her bag on her shoulder more securely. She was aware that only Roarke, Summerset, and she could gain access to this room.
Roarke's collection was legal—at least it was legal now. She had no idea if every piece had been obtained by legal means. She doubted that sincerely.
Eve laid her hand flat on the palm plate, waited while the cool green light shimmered on to take her print, then stated her name, and finally used the key code.
The security computer verified her identification, and the locks snicked open.
She stepped inside, closed the door behin
d her, and let out a long breath.
Weapons of violence through the ages were displayed, somehow elegantly, in the great room. Encased in glass, showcased in beautiful cabinets, gleaming on the walls were guns, knives, lasers, swords, pikes, maces. All testaments, she thought, to man's continued ambition to destroy man.
And yet, she knew the weapon strapped to her side was as much a part of her as her arm.
She remembered the first time Roarke had showed her this room, when her instinct and her intellect had been waging a battle. One telling her he could be the killer she sought, the other insisting it wasn't possible.
The first time he'd kissed her had been here, in this private museum of war. And another element had been added to her personal battle: her emotions. She'd never quite gotten her emotions back on track when it came to Roarke.
Her gaze skimmed over a case of handguns, all illegal but for collections like this since the Gun Ban implemented decades before. Clumsy, she thought, with their bulk and their weight. Lethal with their propulsion of hot steel into flesh.
Taking such impulsive killing devices off the street saved lives, she was sure. But as Lisbeth Cook had proved, there were always new ways to kill. The human mind never tired of dreaming them up.
She took the rack out of her bag, then studied her choices to find one that would fit.
She'd narrowed it down to three side arm types when the door behind her opened. She turned, intending to scald Summerset for interrupting, and Roarke strolled in.
"I didn't know you were here."
"I'm working at home today," he told her and lifted a brow. She looked a little frazzled, he noted, a bit distracted. And alluring.
"Do I assume the same for you, or are you just playing with guns?"
"I've got a case, sort of." She set the rack down, gestured to it. "Since you're here, you'd be better at this. I need an army-issue blaster, Urban War style, that would fit into this rack."
"U.S. Army?"
"Yeah."
"European style's a bit different," he commented as he walked to a display cabinet. "The U.S. had two hand blasters during that period, the second—toward the end of the war—was lighter, more accurate."
He chose a piece with a long double over-and-under barrel and molded grip in a dull gray. "Infrared sight, heat-seeking directional. The blast can be toned down to stun—which would drop a two-hundred-pound man to his knees and have him drooling for twenty minutes—or tuned up to shoot a fist-sized hole in a charging rhino. It can be pinpointed or scattered to wide range."