Before Eve could think of a response, Mira walked over, carrying the now sleeping baby on her shoulder. “Did everyone get enough?”
“More than,” Gillian assured her. “Why don’t you give him to me? I’ll take him upstairs.”
“No, he’s fine. I don’t get to hold him nearly often enough.” Agilely, she sat, lightly patting the baby’s back. “Eve, I should warn you, Dennis has convinced Roarke he can’t live without a grill.”
“Well, he has everything else.” She polished off her burger. “And it works great.”
“Dennis would tell you it’s all in the cook, not the cooker. Which I’ll claim when you’ve tasted my strawberry shortcake and peach pie.”
“Pie? You made pie?” Obviously, Eve realized, there was a great deal to be said for family cookouts after all. “I could probably—”
Eve’s communicator beeped. Her face closed down; Mira’s cheerful smile vanished.
“I’m
sorry. Excuse me a minute.”
She rose, pulling it out of her pocket as she walked back inside the kitchen, back into the quiet.
“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s the matter?”
“Her work,” Mira murmured, thinking of how Eve’s eyes went cool and flat. “Death. Take the baby, Gilly.”
She was rising when Eve stepped back out. “I have to go,” Eve began, then lowered her voice as Mira walked over, took her arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Is it the same?”
“No. It’s him, but it’s not the same. I’ll get you the details as soon as I can. Damn, brain’s a little sloshy. Too many margaritas.”
“I’ll get you some Sober-Up.”
“Appreciate it.” She nodded to Roarke when he joined her. “You can stay. This is going to take awhile.”
“I’ll take you, and if need be I’ll get myself home and leave you the car. Another LC?”
She shook her head. “Later.” She took a breath, studying the patio, with its family sprawl, its flowers and food. “Life’s not always a goddamn picnic, is it?”
Chapter 7
“Drop me off on the corner. You don’t have to go down the block.”
Roarke ignored her and breezed through the light. “But your associates would miss the opportunity to witness your arrival in this particular vehicle.”
The vehicle was a shiny silver jewel with a smoked glass retractable top and a snarling panther of an engine. It mortified her, they both knew, for other cops to whistle and hoot about her connection with Roarke’s fancy toys.
She sucked it up, yanked off her sunshades. They were new, one of the items that habitually, and mysteriously, appeared among her things. She suspected they were stylish, knew they were ridiculously expensive. To save herself a little grief, she stuck them in her pocket.
“There’s no reason for you to hang. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I’ll stick around awhile and stay out of your way.” He eased in behind a black-and-white and an emergency services vehicle.
“That is some ride, Lieutenant,” one of the uniforms said even as she climbed out. “Bet it burns on a straightaway.”
“Button it, Frohickie. What’ve we got here?”
“Sweet,” he murmured, sliding a hand over the gleaming hood. “Female vic, strangled in her apartment. Lived alone. No sign of forced entry. Name’s Lois Gregg, age sixty-one. Son became concerned when she didn’t show up at a family event or answer her ’links. Came over, let himself in, found her.”
He spoke briskly, though he did shoot one more look over his shoulder at the car as they trooped into an apartment building.