“Ah.” He swirled brandy, sipped. “Vehicular troubles again, Lieutenant?”
“Is that a smirk?” The red haze was gathering again. “Is that a smirk on your face? Because if it is . . .” She shoved up her sleeves.
“Mmm, violence. You know how that arouses me.”
She managed a short scream and yanked at her own hair.
“Darling Eve, why don’t you let some of my mechanics deal with it? Or better yet, take whatever suits your needs out of the garage.”
“Because that’s like giving up. Those bastards in Maintenance aren’t going to beat me.” She huffed out a breath. “Anyway. Mavis and Trina are coming over. Probably Leonardo, too. They’re spending the night.”
“Are we having a pajama party? Will there be pillow fights?”
“You’re just a laugh a minute. You want an update or do you want to fantasize about scantily clad women bashing each other with pillows?”
His grin was quick and wicked. “Guess.”
She dropped into a chair and filled him in.
He picked up the cat as she spoke, sat stroking Galahad, watching her. He knew she was doing more than bringing him up to speed. She was refining, checking for holes, firming up the operation as she talked it through. They both knew no matter how meticulously planned the operation, it only took one variable to upset the balance.
“Some men,” he said when she’d finished, “lesser men, might object to having their wife picnic in the park with another man.”
“I’ll bring you back some potato salad.”
“That’s my girl. You said Feeney will pick his man inside the surveillance vehicle. I believe he could be persuaded to select an expert consultant, civilian.”
The circle her mind was taking came to an abrupt halt, then backtracked. “This is an NYPSD op, and there’s no need for you to be there. You’ve got your own work.”
“I do, yes, but I so enjoy watching you do yours.” He gave the cat’s ears a scratch with those long, clever fingers that had Galahad purring in pleasure. “Why don’t we let Feeney decide?”
“No bribery.”
His eyebrows shot up in amazement. “Really, Lieutenant, you wound me. If I were easily offended, I might not tell you I’ve separated, cross-filed, and indexed your data.”
“Yeah? You’re pretty handy to have around. Let’s have a look.” She got up to walk around to his side of the console. He tapped a single key, then setting the cat down, tugged her onto his lap.
“No funny stuff,” she ordered.
“Who’s laughing?” He nipped her earlobe. “You see on-screen three of those project personnel with male children who would now be between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. That gives you twenty-eight hits. Adding male siblings and grandchildren, secondary dependents in that same age bracket garners another fifteen.”
“So that’s, what, forty-three possibles. That’s workable.”
“However . . .” He kissed the nape of her neck. “Refining and recalculating using those personnel who were reprimanded, cited, terminated or named in civil suits, we decrease those possibles to eighteen. I assumed you’d want to start with them. Screen four.”
“Keep this up, the chief’s going to offer you a permanent position on the force.”
“Now you’re trying to scare me, but I’m too strong for that.”
“Knock out the overthirties. I’m betting he’s younger than that.”
He nuzzled her neck and did it manually. “Down to eight.”
“Yeah. We start with them. Computer, run background check, all data, on individuals listed on screen four.”
WORKING . . .
“It’ll take a minute,” Roarke told her and worked his way from neck to jaw.