“I’ve got a date with him tomorrow afternoon,” Stefanie said, and hugged her arms as if chilled. “When my runs were cancelled, I did some e-mail from the pilot’s lounge at Heathrow. He suggested we get together tomorrow for a picnic in Greenpeace Park.”
“What time?”
“One o’clock.”
He’s breaking pattern, Eve thoug
ht. Upping the stakes again. “Sit down, Stefanie.”
“You’re sure about this.” Stefanie sat, stared up at Eve. “Yeah, you’re sure. I bet that’s your dead-certain face. Well, I’m embarrassed and I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.”
“And you’re alive,” Eve told her. “I’m going to keep you that way. Describe Wordsworth for me.”
“Physically, I don’t have a clue. He’s an art dealer. International. Digs opera, ballet, poetry. I was looking for some class. My ex was an amoeba. If it wasn’t Arena Ball it wasn’t worth talking about. I supported the worthless bastard the last six months we were together. Bailed him out twice on drunk and disorderlies, then he . . .”
She trailed off. “Apparently, I still have issues. Point is, I was looking for his opposite. Somebody with some polish who could do more than grunt when he wanted another beer. I guess I was looking for a little romance.”
“And he said all the right things.”
“Bingo. If it’s too good to be true, it’s probably a big, fat lie. Looks like I forgot that motto. But a picnic in the park, middle of the damn day, you’d think that would be safe. I can handle myself,” she added. “I bench-press one twenty. I’m a fifth degree black belt. I’m nobody’s victim. No way he’d take me down.”
Eve sized her up and agreed. Under most conditions, the woman could probably handle herself just fine. “He plans to drug you, with a very potent sexual illegal. You’d bring him back here because you’d think it’s your call. He’d light candles, put on music, give you more laced wine. He’d sprinkle pink rose petals on the bed.”
“Bullshit.” But she’d gone white. “That’s bullshit.”
“You wouldn’t think of it as rape while it happened. You’d do everything he told you to do. When he gave you the second drug, you’d lap it right up for him. While your system overloaded, your heart would give out; you wouldn’t even know you’re dead.”
“You want to scare me?” Stefanie got to her feet, paced. “You’re doing a damn good job.”
“That’s right. I want to scare you. That’s what he plans, that’s what might have happened tomorrow afternoon. But it’s not going to happen because you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
Stefanie lowered into a chair again. “He doesn’t know where I live. Tell me he doesn’t know where I live.”
“He probably does. He’s spent some time watching you. Get any flowers lately?”
“Oh Jesus. Pink roses. The son of a bitch sent me pink roses yesterday. In my quarters in London. I hauled them home with me. They’re in the bedroom.”
“Would you like me to dispose of them for you, Pilot Finch?” Peabody asked.
“Dump them in the recycler.” Stefanie rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m shaking. I piloted that death trap across the Atlantic, and I’m sitting here shaking. I was feeling pretty pumped about meeting him. Imagined I’d start this really nice, satisfying relationship. The bastard ex is looking better all the time.”
“You’re not going to speak or contact anyone about this. As far as Wordsworth is concerned, you’re meeting him tomorrow. Were there any plans to confirm the date?”
“Only to cancel. I was to let him know by noon if I had to cancel.”
“Stand up a minute.”
When Stefanie obeyed, Eve rose as well, circled her, judged build, height. “Yeah, two can play the disguise game. When we’re done here, you can play it two ways. You can pack what you need and I’ll arrange to have you put in a safe house tonight. Or if you want to stay here, I’ll have a couple of cops stay over with you. Either way, you’ll sleep better.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”
Eve wasn’t the only one putting in overtime. McNab was on a mission of his own. He’d fueled himself up for it with two bottles of home brew, which were currently burning at his stomach lining. He wasn’t drunk. He’d stopped short of getting drunk. Because he wanted to be clear-headed when he kicked Charles Monroe’s pansy ass.
Unaware he’d become the target of a jealous and slightly queasy e-detective, Charles nibbled on Louise’s fingers. They were sharing a late supper in his apartment.
“I appreciate you agreeing to start the evening so late.”
“We both have odd schedules. It’s wonderful wine.” She sipped. “Wonderful food. And I like your home very much. More than a restaurant.”