"He was happy," Sherilyn said quietly. "He was a happy man."
"A happy man," Eve stated after she released the family, "loved by one and all doesn't get poisoned on his birthday. There's something under this pretty picture, Peabody."
"Yes, sir. The officers who went to Dockport's address report that she's not there. Her across-the-hall neighbor told them she moved out that morning. Claimed she was moving to Philly."
"I want sweepers over there, now. I want that place combed. They won't find anything, but I want it done."
"Sir?"
"Looks like we've got ourselves a pro."
CHAPTER FOUR
Though it was after one in the morning when she got home, Eve wasn't surprised to find Roarke in his office. It was rare for him to sleep more than five hours a night. Rarer still for him not to wait up until she was home.
The work fueled him, she knew. More than the obscene amounts of money he made every time he wheeled a deal, it was the deal itself—the planning, the strategizing, the negotiating, that engaged his interests and energies.
He bought because things were there to be bought. Though she often thought of the companies, the real estate, the factories, the hotels he acquired as his toys, she knew he was a man who took his toys very, very seriously.
He'd broadened her focus considerably since they'd been together. Travel, culture, society. Somehow he managed to carve out time for everything and more. The money was nothing to him, she thought, unless it was enjoyed.
The man who ruled a business empire with a scope beyond reason sat at a desk at one-fifteen in the morning with a brandy at his elbow, a fat, purring cat on his lap, and his sleeves rolled up while he worked at his computer like any lowly office drone.
And, she thought, he was enjoying it.
"Are you in the middle of something or are you playing?"
He glanced up. "A bit of both. Save data and file," he ordered the computer, then sat back. "The media's already got your homicide. I was sorry to hear about Walter Pettibone."
"You knew him?"
"Not well. But enough to appreciate his business sense and to know he was a pleasant sort of man."
"Yeah, everybody loved good old Walt."
"The media report said he'd collapsed at his home during a party to celebrate his sixtieth birthday; one we were invited to," he added. "But as I wasn't sure precisely when we'd be back or what mood we'd be in, I declined. Murder wasn't mentioned, just that the police were investigating."
"Media vultures wouldn't have the official ME's report yet. I just got it myself. It's homicide. Somebody slipped some cyanide in his drink. What do you know about the ex-wife?"
"Not a great deal. I believe they were married for a number of years, divorced without any scandal. He married some pretty young thing sometime after. There was some head shaking over that, but the gossip died down quickly enough. Walter wasn't the sort of man who made a target for gossip. Just not enough juice."
Eve sat, stretched out her legs. When she reached down to pet Galahad, the cat growled low in his throat. With a feline glare for Eve, he flicked his tail, leaped down, and stalked away.
"He's annoyed we didn't take him on vacation." Roarke smothered a grin as Eve scowled after the cat. "He and I have made up, but it appears he's still holding a grudge where you're concerned."
"Little prick."
"Name calling is no way to mend fences. Try fresh tuna. It works wonders."
"I'm not bribing a damn cat." She lifted her voice, certain the party in question was still within earshot. "He doesn't want me touching him, fine and dandy. He wants to be pissed off because ..." She trailed off as she heard herself. "Jesus. Where was I? Pettibone. Juice. Well, he had enough juice for somebody to want him dead. And the way it's shaping up, to pay for a pro."
"A professional hit on Walter Pettibone?" Roarke lifted a brow. "That doesn't feel like a good fit."
"Woman gets a job at the caterers just about the time the current Mrs. Pettibone is planning the big surprise party. The same woman works the Pettibone affair, and brings the birthday boy the fatal glass of champagne. Hands it to him personally, wishes him happy birthday. Hangs back, but stays in the room while he makes his mushy toast, and drinks. When he's spazzing on the floor, she walks out of the apartment and poof! Vanishes."
She frowned a little as Roarke rose, poured her a glass of wine, then sat on the arm of her chair.
"Thanks. I had sweepers go over her place—a place she rented two days before she took the catering job, and one she moved out of this morning. One, according to her neighbors, she spent little time in. No prints, no trace evidence. Not a fucking stray hair. She sanitized it. I went by there myself. Little one-room place, low rent, low security. But she had police locks installed to keep the riffraff out."