She nodded. "Well, then, perhaps I'll only miss the cocktail hour and not dinner." She smiled stiffly and Conor caught a whiff of her perfume as she made her way past him to a wet bar on the far side of the room. "Won't you join me in a drink, Mr. O'Neil?"
His first instinct was to decline her offer. He never drank when he was on the job and even though he wasn't on the job, not officially, this visit wasn't a social one. Besides, his particular passion was for ale, something he'd long ago figured was about the only thing he'd inherited from his old man, and he was pretty damn certain the Winthrops weren't given to stocking ale in the refrigerator. But Eva was looking at him as if her life hung on his answer and he realized suddenly that she wasn't just being polite. She needed that drink.
"Thank you," he said, "a drink would be perfect."
She let out an audible breath. "What would you like?"
Conor hesitated. If he couldn't get ale, he'd settle for Irish whiskey, straight up. But Irish whiskey, no matter how fine the label, was hardly what Eva Winthrop would be pouring for herself.
"Whatever you're having."
She nodded, dumped ice into two glasses, then poured a generous amount of vodka into each. She handed him a glass, drank down half of her own, and looked at him.
"Miranda lives in Paris," she said. "She's a model, sought after by all the couturiers and by the top fashion magazines."
"You must be very proud of her," Conor said politely.
The ice cubes in Eva's glass clinked together as she raised the glass to her lips.
"Any mother is pleased by her child's success."
"Of course," he said, even more politely, but what he thought was that Eva might just as easily been talking about the daughter of an acquaintance. "When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Mrs. Winthrop?"
"I fail to see the relevancy of—" Eva took a deep breath. "On her birthday, I think."
"And that was...?"
"Last March."
Conor struggled to keep his surprise from showing. He wasn't particularly proud of his own record for keeping in touch with his old man but ten months without so much as a phone call seemed a bit excessive.
"We are not close, Miranda and I," Eva said stiffly.
The understatement of the year, Conor thought. He smiled politely.
r /> "And when did you last see her?"
"Eight years ago this past April."
"I see," he said, struggling to keep his face a mask.
"You don't see, but that's quite all right. It would be difficult to explain—and I've no intention of doing so." She turned and looked him squarely in the eye. "My relationship with my daughter is a private matter."
"Nothing is a private matter," Conor said bluntly, "not when your husband is a presidential appointee."
Eva looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned away, picked up the bottle of Absolut and refilled her glass.
"You're right, of course. And if I'm honest, I suppose I must admit that the note might very well be connected to my daughter."
"Connected? In what way? Perhaps you'd better tell me what you know, Mrs. Winthrop."
Eva hesitated. Then she sighed, sat down in a silk-covered armchair and motioned Conor into the matching chair opposite hers.
"Yes, I might as well. You can find out easily enough." She put down her glass, crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knees. The action brought her forward in the chair so that she seemed to be leaning towards him. "This isn't easy for me, Mr. O'Neil."
"I'm sure it isn't," Conor said in a soothing tone.
"Eight years ago, Miranda was in her junior year at a boarding school in Connecticut. Miss Cooper's. Perhaps you've heard of it?"