“Roarke Industries is green. Just our little contribution to environmental responsibility, which also earns a healthy tax break in most markets.” He ignored the server droid who came to clear the plates and bring out small dessert parfaits and coffee.
“Where’s the paper taking you?”
“I’m focusing on London outlets first, playing the Ripper angle. I’ve got a couple of celebs, a politician type, a retired financier, and the asshole lover of some actress named Pepper.”
“Pepper Franklin?”
“Yeah, she strikes me as straight up, but the guy . . .” She trailed off, narrowing her eyes as Roarke scooped up a spoonful of parfait. “You know her.”
“Mmm. This is very nice, refreshing.”
“You banged her.”
Though his lips twitched he managed to maintain a sober expression as he sampled more parfait. “That’s a very unattractive term. I prefer saying we had a brief and mature relationship, which included the occasional banging.”
“I should’ve known. She’s just your type.”
“Is she?” he queried.
“Gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated sex.”
“Darling.” He sat back to sip his coffee. “How conceited of you. Not that you aren’t all those things, and more.”
“I’m not talking about me.” She scowled at him a moment, then went to work on the parfait. “I should have figured her for one of your formers the minute I saw the portrait.”
“Ah, she still has that, does she? The Titania portrait?”
She shoveled parfait in her mouth. “You’re going to tell me you gave it to her.”
“As what you might call a parting gift.”
“What, like on a game show?”
His laughter was ric
h and full of fun. “If you like. How is she? I haven’t seen her in, Christ, seven or eight years, I suppose.”
“She’s dandy.” Watching him, she licked her spoon. “But her taste in men has seriously declined.”
“Why, thank you.” He grabbed her hand, kissed it. “While mine, in women, has seriously improved.”
She wouldn’t have minded working up a good head of jealousy steam, to see what it felt like. But it just didn’t work for her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’s hooked up with a guy named Leo Fortney. Operator. He’s got operator all over him, and a couple of pops, including sexual assault.”
“Doesn’t sound like Pepper’s usual fare. Is he your prime suspect?”
“He’s number one right now, though he was home in bed during the time involved. She’s corroborating, but since she was sleeping, I’m not putting much weight there. Plus, he lied, said they went nighty-night together, and she said different before she realized she’d be blowing it for him. Still, she struck me as a straight shooter.” She paused, waited.
“She is, yes.”
“So whether or not he was there, she thinks he was. We’ll see where it goes. Meanwhile, I’ve got informals set up tomorrow with Carmichael Smith to start.”
“Pop music king. Irritatingly saccharin lyrics, over-orchestrated melodies.”
“So I’m told.”
“You may not have been told, as I’ve been, that Smith enjoys young women, preferably more than one at a time. And makes considerable use of groupies, as well as professionals, to help him . . . relax between recording sessions and gigs.”
“Minors?”