He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze that sent her heart on a gallop, then turned back to Eve. "Lamont will be right up. I'd like to stay while you interview him. And," he continued holding up a hand, "before you tell me why I can't be here during an official interview, I'll remind you that I not only employ the subject, but I know him and have for a number of years. I'll know if he's lying."
Eve drummed her fingers on the table. She knew that look in his eye—cold, enigmatic, controlled. He would study and he would see, every bit as expertly as a veteran police interrogator.
"Observe only. You don't question him or comment unless I indicate otherwise."
"Agreed. Are you cleared for Maine?"
"We'll catch a shuttle as soon as we leave here."
"There's a jet at the airport. Take it."
"We'll take the shuttle," Eve repeated, even when Peabody's head came up and her eyes held all the hope of a puppy sniffing mother's milk.
"Don't be stubborn," Roarke said mildly. "The jet will get you there in half the time and with none of the frustration. You can pick us up a couple of lobsters for dinner."
The phrase fat chance trembled on her tongue, but she bit it back when the knock sounded on the door.
"Showtime," Roarke murmured, and leaned back in his chair. "Come in."
Lamont had smooth, round cheeks, lively blue eyes, and a chin tattoo of a flaming arrow that was new since his ID photo. He'd let his hair grow some as well, Eve noted, so that it swirled in deep brown waves to his chin and gave him a slightly angelic look rather than the uptight young conservative she'd viewed on-screen the night before.
He wore a white lab coat over a white shirt that was buttoned snugly to the Adam's apple, stovepipe black pants. She recognized his boots as being hand tooled and pricey, as Roarke had countless pairs in his endless closet.
He gave her a polite glance, gave Peabody's uniform a slightly longer study, then shifted his full attention to Roarke.
"You needed to see me?" His voice carried the faintest whisper of France, like a sprinkle of thyme over broth.
"This is Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD." Roarke didn't rise or gesture to a chair. It was his tacit shift of control to Eve. "She needed to see you."
"Oh?" The well-mannered smile was vaguely puzzled.
"Have a seat, Mr. Lamont. I have a few questions. You're entitled to have counsel present if you like."
He blinked twice, two slow movements. "Do I need a lawyer?"
"I don't know, Mr. Lamont. Do you?"
"I don't see why." He sat, shifted until he found comfort on the cushion. "What's this about?"
"Bombs." Eve gave him a small smile. "On record, Peabody," she added and read Lamont his rights. "What do you know about the bombing of the Plaza Hotel yesterday?"
"Just what I saw on-screen. They upped the body count this morning. It's over three hundred now."
"Have you ever worked with plaston, Mr. Lamont?"
"Yes."
"So you're aware of what it is?"
"Of course." He shifted again. "It's a light, elastic, highly unstable substance most commonly used as a detonation factor in explosives." He'd lost a little color since he'd taken his seat, but he kept his eyes on hers. They weren't quite so lively now.
"The explosives we manufacture here at Autotron for government contracts and some private concerns often employ minute amounts of plaston."
"How's your Greek mythology?"
His fingers linked together on the table, pulled apart, linked again. "Excuse me?"
"Know anyone named Cassandra?"