“And have you chosen your method, darling Eve?”
“Yeah, and it’s foolproof.” She dived onto him.
She had his robe off and her hands full when the inter-house ’link beeped.
“What the hell does he want?” she demanded. “Doesn’t he know we’re busy?”
“Don’t forget your place.” Roarke blocked video, answered. “Summerset, unless the house is on fire or under massive enemy attack, I don’t want to hear from you until morning.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but the lieutenant’s commander is here to see her. Shall I tell him she’s unavailable?”
“No. Shit.” She was already scrambling up. “I’ll be right down.”
“Have Commander Whitney wait in the main parlor,” Roarke said. “We’ll join him in a moment.”
“This isn’t good, this can’t be good.” She yanked open a drawer and grabbed the first items that came to hand. “Whitney doesn’t drop in for drinks and an after-work chat. Goddamn it.”
Without bothering with underwear, she pulled on ancient jeans, dragged a faded NYPSD T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off over her head. Still cursing, she hopped into her boots.
In the same amount of time Roarke had managed to dress in pleated black trousers and a pristine black T-shirt. He slipped into loafers while she caught her breath.
“You know, if I wasn’t in a real hurry, that would make me sick.”
“What would that be?”
“How you can put yourself together like some fashion plate in under two minutes,” she complained and hurried out of the room.
In the main parlor, amid the gleaming wood and glinting glass, Whitney and Galahad studied each other with cautious and mutual respect. When Eve strode in, Whitney looked relieved.
“Lieutenant, Roarke, I’m sorry to intrude on your evening.”
“It’s not a problem, Commander,” Eve said quickly. “Is something wrong?”
“I wanted to tell you personally, and face-to-face rather than have you hear it second-hand. Lucias Dunwood’s attorney’s asked and received an immediate bond hearing.”
Eve read the results of it on his face. “They let him out,” she said flatly. “What kind of judge sets bail for a man charged with multiple first-degrees?”
“A judge who, as a friend of the Dunwood and McNamara families, should have excused himself from the hearing. It was argued that there’s no physical evidence against Dunwood.”
“There will be in a matter of hours,” Eve began.
“And further argued,” Whitney continued, “that the heaviest weight in the charges stems from the confession of Kevin Morano, which implicates Dunwood. That Dunwood has no priors, is a member of a respected family, a man who only last night was informed of his grandfather’s tragic death.”
“Murder,” Eve snapped out. “One he committed.”
“His mother attended the hearing. Made a personal plea that bail be granted so that her only son could assist her in memorializing and burying her father. Bail was set at five million, paid, and Dunwood was released into his mother’s custody.”
“Think.” Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder before she could speak. “Will he run?”
She drew herself in, forced herself to see through the rage. “No. It’s still a contest. Just a different game. He intends to win. But he’s pissed because I changed the board on him, so he’s likely to do something rash. He’s spoiled, and he’s angry. We need to put a flag on the lab work. We need positive identification of the chemical samples taken from the townhouse.”
“Already done,” Whitney told her. “I spoke with Dickhead—Berenski,” he corrected, “on the way here. You have a positive match for the illegals found in the victims. Using that evidence and the judge’s relationship to the accused, the PA has filed for immediate revocation of bond.”
“Will he get it?”
“We’ll know within the hour. Regretfully, I’m going to have to countermand my order for you to get eight hours’ sleep, Lieutenant. Your day isn’t finished. Nor is mine,” he added. “I’ll go back to Central and stand by. With any luck, you’ll be picking Dunwood back up tonight. I intend to go with you.”
“With me? But . . .” She caught herself in time, swallowed the words back. “Yes, sir.”