They discussed lunch. Should they do this, do that?
“Jesus, do something! Tourists,” she said. “They kill me.”
More giggles, she thought, more excitement over soy dogs. Over a tube of fake meat, Eve thought in disgust, then straightened in her chair.
“Wait, stop. Run that back. The bit she just said.”
“If we must, but rhapsodizing about the menu of a glide-cart is a bit much, even for me.”
“No listen, listen to what she says. How she says it.”
“What makes a soy dog taste so good when it’s cooked outside on a cart in New York? I swear you can’t get a real grilled dog anywhere on the planet outside of New York”
“Stop record. How does she know that?” Eve demanded. “She doesn’t say, ‘I bet there’s no place.’ Or, ‘I’ve never tasted a damn dog that tastes like…’ whatever. She makes a statement: ‘You can’t get.’” Nostalgic, knowing. Not the statement, not the tone of a woman having her first corner dog in Manhattan—which is what she said it was, what decided them on the cart. Oh, gee, I’ve never had one before, it’d be fun. Bitch is lying.“
“I won’t argue, but it could easily have been a slip of the tongue.”
“Could, but isn’t. Resume play.”
She listened, talk of hats, scarves, of just a little longer. Have to cross the street. Spilled coffee. Concern, just a hint of fear in his voice, the relief.
Now screams, shouts, horns, brakes. Sobbing.
Jesus, Jesus, somebody call an ambulance. Lady, don’t move him, don’t try to move him.
Now Baxter moving in, moving fast, identifying himself, dealing with the mess.
“Okay, what I want is just the two of them. No background noises, from the time they get the dogs until Baxter’s on-scene.”
Roarke set it up, hit play.
Conversation again, easy, breezy. Indulgent on his part, Eve thought. Then the little gasp, his immediate response. Irritation in her voice. Then the screams.
“His,” Eve ordered, from the coffee spill on.
She watched the graphic readout as well—breathing, volume, tone. “There, there, did you hear it?”
“Breath sucked in. Expected as he’s falling into the street.”
“A second before. An instant. Maybe a slip, sure, but maybe a push, too. Now hers. Same sequence.”
She leaned forward, and she saw it, heard it. “Deep breath in. Quick, fast. Just a second before the record shows his. Then that little hesitation before she squeaks his name, starts screaming.”
Eve’s gaze was flat and hard. “She helped him into the street. I’d bet on it. Opportunity. Of the moment again. Let’s go through the background voices, the noises, individually—that same sequence. See if anything else pops out.”
It was tedious, but she listened to every variant before she was satisfied.
“It’s building up,” she stated coldly. “Building for me. Can’t charge her. The PA’d laugh me out of his office, if I got this past Whitney. But I know what I know. Now it’s how to make it stick to her.”
“He loves her.”
“What?”
“He loves her,” Roarke repeated. “You can hear it in his voice. It’s going to level him, Eve. This on top of his mother. If you’re right, and I have to believe you are, it’s going to take him out at the knees.”
“I’m sorry. But better he take a shot than be duped every day by a murderer.”
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—think how this would hurt him. Not now, not yet.