She pressed her lips together and turned back. "I want to know if you can bury this for a while. I don't want a report going into Central on this data until I can…until I pursue another avenue of the investigation. Are you able to comply with that?"
Watching her, McNab sat back. "You're the primary, Dallas. I figure it's your call. This kind of data's tricky, gets lost really easily. Takes some time to uncover it again."
"I appreciate it."
"I appreciate the burger. I'll go back over the steps, see what pops. Feeney says you're the best, and he ought to know. You figure there's something off, maybe there is. And if there is, I'm good enough to find it."
"I'll count on that. Peabody?"
"Sir, just coming." Loaded with a plate, Peabody started out.
"Bag that if you're hungry and saddle up. We're back on the clock."
"Just give me a—" But since she was already talking to Eve's back, Peabody dropped the plate in front of McNab. "Enjoy."
"I will. See you, She-Body." He wiggled his eyebrows when she turned and glared at him. And let out a little sigh when she stalked out. "Sure is built," he murmured, then pushed up his sleeves and got back to work.
*** CHAPTER TEN ***
"Recorder on, Peabody."
Eve signaled the uniform to step away from the door, then used the master code to access the locks. She entered a parlor, lush and spacious, with a bank of fresh flowers in brilliant whites and blues sweeping beneath a waist-high wall of windows.
The spires and spears of New York rose beyond it, with the air traffic light and meandering. The blasting billboards that populated the West Side were banned here in the more exclusive Upper East.
Typical of most things Roarke owned, the hotel suite was beautifully appointed—thick cushions covered with jewel-toned silks and brocades, highly polished woods, carpet deep enough to wade in. An enormous basket of fruit and a bottle of sauvignon blanc, likely a welcome-to-the-Palace staple, sat on the pond sized coffee table.
The fruit had been riffled through, the wine opened. Jennie had had a few moments to enjoy the luxury, Eve thought, before she'd been lured away to death.
As far as Eve could see, nothing else had been disturbed. The entertainment and communication center was still discreetly tucked behind a silk screen of tropical birds, and the mood screen covering most of one wall was blank.
"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve and Peabody, Officer Delia commencing search of victim O'Leary's suite in Palace Hotel. We'll start in the bedroom, Peabody."
Eve crossed over and entered a room where the sunlight filled a trio of windows and the peacock blue spread on a huge platform bed was neatly turned down for the night. Gold-foiled mints rested on plump pillows.
"Make a note to track do
wn the maid who was on duty last night for this room. See what she touched, what she noticed." As she spoke, Eve moved to the closet. Inside were three blouses, two pair of slacks, one day dress in plain blue cotton, and a cocktail suit in cream of an inexpensive fabric blend. Two pair of shoes were neatly lined beneath.
Routinely Eve checked the pockets, the inside of the shoes, ran a hand over the top shelf. "Nothing here. Dresser drawers?''
"Underwear, hose, a cotton nightgown, and a small black evening bag, beaded."
"She brought her best party dress." Eve brushed her hand over the flounced hem of the cocktail suit. "And never got the chance to wear it. She took the time to unpack—single suitcase in closet—brought enough clothes for three or four days. Jewelry?"
"I haven't found any so far."
"She might have carried it with her. She'd have had something special for her evening wear. Run her 'link for incoming and outgoing. I'll check the bath."
The bath offered a jet tub big enough to party in. A bottle of the hotel's complimentary bath foam sat on the lip. So she'd used the tub, Eve mused. It would have been hard to resist, she imagined, and Jennie had been waiting for contact.
Nervous? Eve wondered. Yes, she'd have been a little nervous. She hadn't seen Roarke for some time. She'd have worried about how she'd changed, aged, what he would see when they met again.
A woman would always worry about what a man like Roarke saw when he looked at her. They'd been lovers, she mused, studying the tidily arranged toiletries and cosmetics on the shell pink counter. Jennie would remember the way he'd touched her, the way he'd tasted. A woman wouldn't forget the power of a lover like Roarke.
And if she'd been human she would have wondered—hoped that he would touch her again. Had she submerged herself in that fragrant, frothy water imagining that?
Of course she had.