“We’ve nearly got him,” she corrected. She tried to remember what was next and chose lipstick. Mavis touted the virtues of lip dye, but Eve was wary of a color commitment that could last for three weeks. “We’ve got the evidence. The sweep confirmed his prints on the souvenirs. His and the victim’s only on the umbrella. Got a few others on the shoe, but we expect salespeople or other customers. Brand-new shoes, hardly a scuff on the bot
toms, and she picked up several pairs at Saks right before she died.”
She went back to the bedroom, remembered the scented cream Roarke had brought back from Paris, and shrugged out of the robe to smear it on.
“The problem is, we don’t have him. He got tipped somehow that I was coming and skipped. Feeney’s working on his equipment now to see if we can shake loose some data that’ll lead us to him. There’s a net out, but he may have ditched the city. I wouldn’t have made it tonight, but Feeney gave me the boot. Said I was harassing his man.”
She opened the closet, pushed for revolve, and spotted the minuscule copper-colored dress. She took it out, held it in front of her. The sleeves were long and snug from a deep scooped neck. The skirt ended somewhere just south of the law.
“Am I supposed to wear anything under this?”
He reached in her top drawer, pulled out a matching colored triangle that might have laughingly been called panties. “These should do it.”
She caught them from his underhand toss, wiggled in. “Jesus,” she said after a quick look in the mirror. “Why bother?” Since it was too late to debate, she stepped into the dress and began to tug the clingy material up.
“It’s always entertaining to watch you dress, but I’m distracted at the moment.”
“I know, I know. Go on down. I’ll be right there.”
“No, Eve. Who?”
“Who?” She snapped the low shoulders into place. “Didn’t I say?”
“No,” Roarke said with admirable patience. “You didn’t.”
“Morse.” She ducked into the closet for shoes.
“You’re joking.”
“C. J. Morse.” She held the shoes as she might hold a weapon, and her eyes went dark and fixed. “And when I’m finished with the little son of a bitch, he’s going to get more airtime than he ever dreamed of.”
The in-house ’link beeped. Summerset’s disapproving voice floated out. “The first guests are arriving, sir.”
“Fine. Morse?” he said to Eve.
“That’s right. I’ll fill you in between canapés.” She scooped a hand through her hair. “Told you I’d be ready. Oh, and Roarke?” She linked fingers with him as they started from the room. “I need you to pass a last-minute guest through for me. Larinda Mars.”
chapter twenty
Eve supposed there could have been worse ways to wait through the last stages of an investigation. The atmosphere had it all over her cramped office at Cop Central, and the food was certainly a long leg up from the eatery.
Roarke had opened up his dome-ceilinged reception room with its glossy wood floors, mirrored walls, and sparkling lights. Long, curved tables followed the rounded walls and were artistically crowded with exotic finger foods.
Colorful bite-sized eggs harvested from the dwarf pigeons of the moon’s farm colony, delicate pink shrimp from the Sea of Japan, elegant cheese swirls that melted on the tongue, pastries pumped with pâtés or creams in a menagerie of shapes, the gleam of caviar heaped on shaved ice, the richness of fresh fruit with frosty sugar coating.
There was more. The hot table across the room steamed with heat and spices. One entire area was a treasure trove for those of a vegetarian persuasion, with another, at a discreet distance, decked out for carnivores.
Roarke had opted for live music rather than simulation, and the band out on the adjoining terrace played quiet conversation-enhancing tunes. They would heat up as the night went on, to seduce dancers.
Through the swirl of color, of scent, of gleam and gloss, waiters in severe black wandered with silver trays topped with crystal flutes of champagne.
“This is so decent.” Mavis popped a black button mushroom in her mouth. She’d dressed conservatively for the occasion, which meant a great deal of her skin was actually covered, and her hair was a tame medium red. Being Mavis, so were her irises. “I can’t believe Roarke actually invited me.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Yeah. Hey, you think if later on, after everybody’s imbibed freely, could I ask the band to let me do a number?”
Eve scanned the rich, privileged crowd, the glint of real gold and real stones, and smiled. “I think that would be great.”